Girl in the Moonlight (26 page)

My mother, predictably, was thrilled. “Oh, darling, I’m so happy for you both,” she trilled over the phone when I called her with the news. She was living in Richmond now, remarried to her second husband, a lean, handsome widower named Bill, who had retired as an Air Force general. “He was the one I should have married in the first place, darling,” she had said. I had brought Kate down to meet her, and the two women had hit it off at once.

Those months were happy ones. Kate and I grew closer. I gave up the lease on my apartment and moved in with her. Work was going well. I still had to travel often, but we knew that merely indicated that I was moving ahead in the firm. Occasionally, Kate would join me. There were trips to London, one to Tokyo, where she met some old friends of mine. Everywhere we went, people were charmed by her. I knew how lucky I was to be marrying such a beautiful, warmhearted girl.

It was at a party in New York where I saw someone who looked familiar. We were in an apartment on Park Avenue with parquet floors and Chinese wallpaper. It was the birthday of a friend of Kate’s whose husband worked at a large investment bank. It took me a few moments to place the face. The red
hair. The pale skin. I remembered a summer day years before. Mutual dislike. Caro.

“I know that woman,” I whispered to Kate.

By then Caro had caught my eye. Through the crowd, she came up to me. “Wylie, right?” she said. She was dressed in the theatrical way affected by many overweight women, the attempt to simultaneously deflect and conceal.

“Right,” I replied, giving her a kiss on either cheek. “Gosh, Caro. Great to see you again.” I introduced her to Kate and told her we were engaged.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I haven’t seen you in years,” she said. “Isn’t it awful about Cesca?”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard?” Then slyly, “I always thought you two were so chummy.”

“I, um, we haven’t been in touch lately. What happened? Is she all right?”

“Hardly. I mean, I think she’s all right now. But she tried to kill herself.”

C
ARO CLAIMED NOT TO KNOW ALL THE DETAILS. WHAT SHE
did know was that Cesca appeared to be especially upset by her brother’s death. She drank more than ever. Where she had once been careless, she now became reckless, bordering on self-destructive. She ignored her family’s pleas to stop. Then one night a suicide attempt. Fortunately the police had been called in time. It might have been pills. Possibly a razor blade. Caro wasn’t sure. She had heard everything thirdhand. It had occurred several weeks before. Now Cesca was recuperating at a special hospital upstate. Caro didn’t know where.

I had tried to conceal my shock from Kate, but she could tell I had been affected by Caro’s news. “What a sad story about your friend,” said Kate, as we were in a taxi heading home. “Are you all right? You’ve barely said a word since you heard about her.”

“Sorry. Yes, I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

And of course I wasn’t. I pretended that my reactions were
simply the natural ones you experience when you hear something sad about a mutual friend. Pity. Concern for them and their families. To a certain extent, curiosity and, most important, relief that the outcome was not worse.

But deep down I was also feeling guilt. I couldn’t help but think I might have contributed to Cesca’s behavior, and the idea pained me. That maybe if I had stayed that night, none of this would have happened. Part of me chided myself for being conceited enough to think that Cesca could be hurt enough by me to slip into a spiral of self-destruction. The other part assigned myself a lesser role: that I was merely a single straw out of the many straws that had broken her back. Regardless of the degree of my culpability, there was no denying that she had reached out to me, and I wasn’t there for her.

Of course, I didn’t know all the facts. I didn’t know what other troubles might have been plaguing her. In hindsight it was possible to see that her wild behavior had always been erratic, manic, heedless, and a symptom of mental unrest. Yet it was these very qualities that seemed most to define her. Her boldness, her passions, her self-sufficiency, her unwillingness to be tied down to any one man or thing. In what had been a life spent desperately pursuing pleasure and avoiding pain, it was obvious that at some point something inside her would break. It was an impossible way to live. Such expectations are unrealistic, and eventually they reveal themselves to be false. The truth can be shattering. It would have only been a matter of time. Even if I had chosen her over Kate, even if she had by some miracle stayed with me, like that of an object thrown into the air, her fall was inevitable.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” asked Kate when we were getting ready for bed.

I had still never told Kate, or anyone else for that matter, the truth about my relationship with Cesca. At first, I had refrained
from doing so because I was unsure of my commitment to Kate and wanted to keep Cesca a secret, aware of the power she held over me and not yet ready to forsake it. Then, after our engagement, feeling secure in our bond, I didn’t feel the need to bring it up. It seemed extraneous, pointless, like paying in Confederate money. At times Cesca’s image would come into my head, particularly when I passed by a place I had been with her. But these images rarely lingered. Not for a moment did I regret the choice I had made.

I sighed as I hung up my trousers. “I was disturbed by what that woman Caro told me about Cesca Bonet. How she had tried to kill herself.”

“Yes, it’s awful. The poor thing.”

“Her uncle is my godfather, Roger. Remember? You met him at Aurelio’s opening.”

“Yes. He was charming. Very grabby.”

I smiled. “That’s him. I’m going to give him a call and see if I can find out what happened. It’s just so hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, you met her just that one time, at Lio’s opening as well.”

Kate nodded. “She was very beautiful. You told me you had a crush on her when you were younger.”

“That’s right. I did.” It would have been madness for me to confess everything. I had never cheated on Kate. That was the point. No woman wants to know she has a rival. Nor did I think she needed to know I had faced an agonized decision in the kitchen that night in Amagansett. How close it could have gone either way. “The family has always been so good to me. First Lio and now this. They must be going through hell. I feel terribly that I didn’t know.”

“So give Roger a call in the morning,” she said. “But I’m really not sure what you can do. I mean, wouldn’t it just be nicer
to write a letter? Sometimes people don’t want to be bothered—although it can be nice to know that other people care. I mean, unless it was a very close friend, that’s what I’d do.”

I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a genius,” I said. I was continually impressed by her clear-eyed approach to life. Few problems were so big they couldn’t be dealt with. Quite often the solutions were surprisingly easy. Like a sailor, she had developed her emotional sea legs early living with such a turbulent father. This bill has to be paid now, that one can wait. Don’t answer the phone. Call the doctor. Make sure there’s food in the fridge. Keep hidden when he’s lost too much at the track.

“I think I’m going to stay up for a bit,” I said. “You go on to sleep.”

Kate lay there, her cheek on the pillow, her blue eyes watching me. Was she suspicious of something? Did she know somehow that I was leaving out the most important part of the story? “All right,” she said, turning onto her other side. “Good night. Try to be quiet when you come to bed.”

I poured myself a whisky and sat for a long time staring out of the window. Trying to imagine what had driven Cesca to such a desperate act. Wondering what, if anything, I should do—or could have done.

My first instinct was to see her. To reassure myself that she was all right and, most important, that she did not hold me to blame. I was aware of the vanity of this presumption, though, and suspected that she might not want to see me. That having let her down once, there would be no second chances. This was all assuming that I would even be allowed to see her. I had no idea where she was or what condition she was in or what constraints had been placed upon her. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t a husband. I had no legal connection to her. And what would I say to her? What would she want to hear? But selfishly, I knew I
needed absolution. I couldn’t imagine what she would want. But I knew I had to try to find out.

The next morning, after a fitful night, I called Roger from my office.

“Wylie?” he said, answering. “How are you, young man? To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” He sounded as chipper and full of bonhomie as ever, even if the voice was a bit reedier than it had once been.

“Good morning, Uncle Roger. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was at a cocktail party last night, and I saw someone who told me that Cesca had tried to kill herself. Is that true?”

“Ah, yes. Terrible, terrible. She’s all right now, thank God.”

“Have you seen her?”

“I? No, no. But her mother tells me she is being well looked after.”

“Do you happen to know where Cesca is? I wanted to write her a letter.”

“That would be very kind. I am sure she’d appreciate hearing from you.” He then gave me the name of a private institution upstate. “It’s a lovely place, apparently. Caters to a select clientele. Rock stars, actors. That sort of thing. I don’t have the address, but I am sure you can look it up.”

I thanked Roger, asked him to give my regards to Diana, and hung up the phone. I then removed a box of personal stationery from my desk and wrote a short, cautious note to Cesca:

Dear Cesca,

I saw your friend Caro last night at a party and she told me what had happened. I hope you are feeling better now and getting some rest. Today I spoke to your uncle Roger and he told me where to write to you. I hope that’s all right. I feel terribly that the last time we saw each other you were angry at me. I know I let you down and I wish I hadn’t. It is the last thing I
would ever want to do. I don’t know if you still are angry, but if you aren’t please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. For that matter, let me know if there’s anything I can do even if you still are angry with me
.

Wylie

The next week, I received a letter in reply, written in Cesca’s schoolgirlish hand. I had put my office as my return address.

Dear Tricky Wylie,

Thank you for your letter. It really cheered me up. Yes, it’s been a rough couple of months since Lio died. I’m in here because they say I tried to kill myself, but it’s really not true. I
did
think about it, though, but that was only as far as I got. I mean, doesn’t everyone think about it at one point or another? But it’s something else entirely to act on it. Anyway, I’ll tell you the whole story sometime. The point is that everyone seems to
think
I was and, to be honest, I had been behaving pretty badly so I suppose, deep down, they were right in a way. That I was trying to kill the pain by being self-destructive. And that if I had kept up the way I was living I could have very easily killed myself one way or another. My doctor says it was a cry for help. Isn’t that what they always say? How corny. My God, you’d think I could show a little more originality than that. Anyway, I was being incredibly stupid. I have no intention of doing that sort of thing again. In fact, I haven’t had a drink in three weeks and obviously no drugs either. They let us smoke cigarettes here and I still haven’t been able to kick them yet but then again I am not really sure I want to. How are you, Wylie? Are you still with that pretty girl? If not, you should tell Cosmo because I could tell he really fancied her
.

You know what I’d like more than anything? For you to come up for a visit. Except for Mare, and Carmen and Cosmo
when they can make it because they’re both frightfully busy, I’ve had no visitors. I’ve alienated so many people in my life that there really aren’t all that many I’d actually want to see—or who would want to see me. Ironic, isn’t it? I’d like to think that even after everything maybe you’d be one of those people who would want to see me. I know I’d like to see you
.

They’d prefer it if I didn’t leave the grounds yet but maybe we could have a picnic or something if the weather isn’t too foul. As you can imagine, the food here is pretty ghastly. Nothing like Paris, that’s for sure. You remember Paris, Tricky Wylie? We had fun there, didn’t we? I’d love a fresh baguette and maybe some lovely cheeses and a cold chicken. Yum. No wine though, alas
.

Come whenever you can. I’m not going anywhere. Ha ha
.

T’estimo. Adéu
.

C

P.S
.

Saturdays are best
.

P.P.S
.

Bring cigarettes. They cost a fortune here
.

P.P.P.S
.

Marlboro reds. X

I reread the letter several times. Cesca’s personality crackled off the page. It was more than I had hoped for. Much more, too much. I had sought absolution and reassurance, but what I got was open, friendly, exculpating. But she was also vulnerable, a side of Cesca I had rarely seen.

There was no question that I would go and see her. I felt I owed her that much. But I told Kate, although I did not show her the letter.

“I’m not sure why you need to go up and see her,” she said.
She was in the kitchen, chopping onions and garlic. On the stove was a large copper pot. “How close were you?”

Avoiding the question, I poured us each a glass of white wine and placed one next to her on the counter. “From what I understand, she hasn’t had many visitors. She’s probably lonely. It must be depressing being in one of those places. I can only imagine how important it would be to see a familiar face, to be reminded of the world outside.”

“Yes, very sad. But why you?”

“It’s a favor to the family. I’ve known them . . .”

“Yes, I know. You’ve known them your whole life. They’re lovely people, et cetera, et cetera.”

“There’s no need to talk like that.”

“Isn’t there? I don’t know. It just strikes me as strange that you’d be doing this.”

“But you won’t stop me?”

“Stop you?” she said, putting down her knife. “Of course I won’t stop you. You’ll do what you think best.”

“Thank you,” I said, walking over to her and kissing her. “I love you, you know that? No one else. If you had an old friend who was shut up in a loony bin and you wanted to go see him, I wouldn’t mind one bit.”

“Not even if he was really sexy?” She smiled.

“Not even if he was really sexy.”

That Saturday I was driving up the Taconic in a light drizzle. Shortly after noon, I exited near Claverack and headed east down a succession of country roads. Eventually I spotted a small, discreet sign with the name of the clinic on it. I turned up the driveway and after several moments driving through dense woodland saw ahead of me a large, pleasant-looking, white, Federal-style clapboard house with a gambreled roof surrounded by deciduous and evergreen trees and a smooth expanse of lawn. Another sign read,
VISITOR PARKING
, and I pulled into the lot.

Most of the cars were late-model imports, primarily BMWs and Mercedes with New York and Connecticut plates. From the passenger seat, I removed a canvas bag that contained the lunch Kate had helped me make that morning and followed the path to the main building. Still more signs pointed the way to the theater, ceramics studio, community center, gym, and something called Potter Hall. I passed several people, who all greeted me and smiled. By now, the rain had stopped, and the earth had the rich, fecund smell of early spring.

I walked up the front steps, crossed a long porch with white rocking chairs scattered on it, and entered an airy lobby. To my surprise, it seemed more like a country inn than a psychiatric clinic. There were Oriental rugs on the floors, plants, chintz-covered window seats, and a fire in the hearth. On the walls were landscapes and portraits, I presumed, of the clinic’s founders and former administrators; men with mustaches, earnest-looking women with strands of pearls. I hadn’t been sure what to expect. There were no security doors, no large men in white uniforms. The air smelled vaguely of potpourri and woodsmoke. In the corner a couple sat on a love seat drinking coffee. A man in his forties or so—I couldn’t tell if he was a patient or a visitor—was reading the
New York Times
. Behind the reception counter stood a short, round, middle-aged woman wearing a blue cardigan. Reading glasses hung from a thin chain over her ample bosom. She smiled and said, “Good morning. How may I help you?”