Mortal Memory (26 page)

“Listen, Wally,” I said as we headed through the last stretch of road that led into the city, “if Marie ever mentions anything about my getting a call from you late last night, I …”

Wally's eyes shot over to me. “You need an alibi, Steve? Someone to cover for you?”

“Well, it's just that last night …”

“She called, right?” Wally said with a slow smile. “She always does, in the end.”

“Who does?”

“The other woman,” Wally said flatly. “She always says she'll never call you at home, but she always does.”

“This was a little different,” I said quickly.

Wally looked at me pointedly. “It couldn't have been too different,” he said, “or you wouldn't have had to lie about it, would you, old buddy?”

He was right, of course. But only partly right. For though Rebecca was not my lover in any technical sense, she had come to represent one: the flight from life's heaviness, the possibility of escape.

“So is it love?” Wally asked lightly.

I didn't answer.

Wally's smile broadened. He didn't press the question, but settled instead for a different one. “It's the woman who came to see you in the office that day, am I right?”

I nodded faintly, reluctantly.

“Whew!” Wally said, pretending to wipe a line of sweat from his forehead. “Hot, hot, hot.”

I watched the road, adding nothing, feeling neither shame nor the absence of shame, but only the disquieting sense that I had cheapened the nature of my own feeling for Rebecca by being unable to explain it.

“Does she live in Old Salsbury?” Wally asked.

“A little ways outside it.”

“Do you see her a lot?”

“Not too often.”

Wally shrugged. “Well, just tell her to ease up on the old home phone, you know?” he said. Then he grinned impishly, one worldly man to another. “Either that, or keep me well-informed in case …” He stopped. “What's your wife's name?”

“Marie,” I said.

Wally nodded briskly, then finished his sentence. “In case Marie calls me up sometime to find out where the hell you are.”

“She'd never do that,” I assured him. “She'd never try to track me down.”

“Don't kid yourself, buddy,” Wally said. “If she starts really chewing at it, she'll track you down all right.”

I shook my head. “No, she wouldn't,” I told him. “She'd rather die first.”

Suddenly I felt my eyes grow cool and vacant, and there must have been something in my voice, because I felt the car veer to the right, then come to a noisy halt along the bank of the road. I turned toward Wally. He was staring at me worriedly.

“Whoa, now, buddy,” he said.

I glanced at him quickly, defensively, as if some part of a secret plot had been uncovered.

“You look a little weird, Steve,” Wally added. He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “You don't want to let things get out of hand, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“With this woman,” Wally said, “the one's who's fucking your mind.” He looked at me pointedly, giving me his best advice. “You don't want to burn the house down, you know?”

“Burn the house down?”

He smiled indulgently. “The first time a woman comes flying into things, it really jerks your tail into a knot, I know,” he said. “But then, when that one's gone, another one comes along, and after two or three times like that, you realize that it's all just fun and games, that there's no need to get all knotted up about it.”

I shook my head. “It's not like that with me,” I told him. “It's not just fun and games.”

He laughed at my boyish innocence. “So, I guess you're one of these men that has to take it seriously, right?” he asked.

I didn't answer. I had no answer.

Wally watched me soberly. “Listen, Steve, you can play around with this woman, have your fun and all that, but when it's all over, you need to go home and warm your feet at the same old fire.” He waited for me to answer. “I'm talking about your wife, Steve.”

“Marie,” I said, but my voice was little above a whisper.

Wally gave me a penetrating look. “You have to be careful and not get things mixed up, that's what I'm saying.” He paused a moment, his eyes watching me closely. “When they get mixed up, bad things can happen,” he added darkly. “Remember Marty Harmon?”

I nodded silently.

“He was one of these men that couldn't keep things straight,” Wally told me firmly, “and look what happened to him.”

Suicide, of course, had “happened” to Marty, but it had never occurred to me that I was in the least like him, or that I might ever reach such a state of physical and spiritual exhaustion. It wasn't death I wanted, it was a different life.

The realization that swept over me at that instant was as close as I had ever come to a full understanding of how far I had been swept out to sea, of how deep my discontent actually was.

“I can't go back,” I muttered weakly.

“To wherever you were before this woman, you mean?” Wally asked. “Of course you can.”

I shook my head slowly.

Wally leaned toward me, his eyes intent, troubled. “Listen, I'm trying to give you some advice, Steve,” he said sharply. “I gave Marty the same advice, and he didn't take it either.” He stopped, looked at me very severely for a moment, then added, “I mean, you don't want to end up like …” He stopped again. “I mean, when your father …”

I stared at Wally, stunned not so much that he would make a connection between me and my father, as that he would actually say it to my face.

“I don't even remember who told me about it,” Wally said, his voice softer now, conciliatory, “and, believe me, I don't mean …”

“That I could murder my family?” I asked harshly.

“No, no, no, no. I would never have said that, Steve,” Wally answered. “It's just that when you see a man hurting, well, you see a man who might lose control.” He shrugged. “I just keep remembering Marty, you know? He wasn't a bad guy. He was just a guy that got it all screwed up.”

“I'm not Marty Harmon,” I said firmly. “And I'm not my father either.”

Wally looked at me quietly, resigned that there would be no point in continuing the conversation. “Okay, Steve,” he said at last, “we'll just drop it, okay?”

“Yeah, let's do.”

With that, Wally edged the car back onto the road and drove on silently. We never spoke seriously again, nor did he ever mention my father, my family, or even the unknown woman he has no doubt come to blame for their destruction.

Now, when I remember that afternoon, I think of it as the last chance I had to save us all. I knew that Rebecca was leaving, that her study was very nearly done, that very, very soon my life would go “back to normal,” with nights at home with Peter and Marie, days at work, summer visits to that very lake along whose bank Rebecca's cottage still rested in a grove of trees.

So what would have been missing in a life lived like that? Certainly not love, as Marie was soon to tell me. Certainly not comfort. There would have been no ignominy in my return to normal.

What would have been missing? The mythical dream house without walls or firm foundation. The thrill of awakening in an unknown country, the exhilaration of an endless setting forth. Surprise. The allure of the unexplored. And finally, love, at its sharpest instant, the moment when it fuses with desire.

Much would have been missing.

But not everything.

THIRTEEN

R
EBECCA RETURNED
to Old Salsbury the following day just as she'd said she would. It was a Saturday, but I wasn't at home when she called. Neither was Marie. It was Peter who answered, then later gave me the message.

“A woman called,” he said. “She asked for you. She left her name and number.”

He'd written it down on a small square of white paper, which he handed to me dutifully.

I glanced at the paper, pretending that I didn't recognize the name he'd written in large block letters beside the number: REBECCA.

“Did she say what she wanted?” I asked casually.

Peter shook his head. “She just wanted you to call her back, I guess.” He shrugged and darted away.

A few seconds later, as I sat at my desk, dialing Rebecca's number, I saw his lean body as it darted across the backyard and disappeared around a tall, nearly leafless tree.

She answered immediately.

“It's me,” I said.

“Yes, hi,” Rebecca said. “I just wanted to let you know that I'd gotten back to town.”

“Was it a worthwhile trip?”

“Yes.” Her voice seemed to tighten somewhat. “There were some new developments.”

“I'm surprised to hear that. I thought you already knew everything.”

“Sometimes it's just a question of one thing leading to another.”

“Well, what did you …”

“Not now,” Rebecca interrupted quickly. “We'd planned to meet today. Can you make it in the evening? Say, around seven?”

“All right.”

“Okay, see you then,” Rebecca said as she hung up.

I held the receiver for a moment, almost as if it were her hand. I felt it cool, then let it go, and walked out into the backyard and stood beside the covered pool.

Peter was poised on the other side. He smiled a moment, then lifted his arms until his fingers touched. He held himself suspended in that position for a moment, pretending he was about to dive onto the broad black tarpaulin that stretched across the now empty pool.

“Good form,” I said. “You look like a real pro.”

He seemed pleased by my attention. “They're teaching us at school,” he said. Then he ran over to me, his blond head bobbing left and right.

“What if there were water in the pool,” he said, “and one time I started to drown?”

“I'd come in after you.”

“What if there were sharks in the water?”

“I'd come in after you,” I repeated.

He smiled broadly, then dashed away again, this time around the far corner of the house.

Marie returned an hour later. She looked tired as she got out of the car and headed toward the house. From my place in the den, I could see her move wearily up the stairs that led to the kitchen and disappear inside the house. I expected her to join me, but she never did, and so, after a time, I went to look for her. She was not in her office, so I went upstairs.

I found her in our bedroom, lying faceup on her side of the bed, her arms folded neatly over her chest. She'd kicked off her shoes, but otherwise she remained in the same formal business clothes she'd worn to New Haven earlier in the day. A bright shaft of light fell over her from the parted curtains, and I could see small bits of dust floating weightlessly in the flooding light.

“How'd it go?” I asked.

She did not open her eyes. “Not great. They didn't like some of the designs.”

“They never like them in the beginning,” I told her. “They have to be critical at the first presentation; otherwise they feel like they're being led by the nose.”

Marie took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I'm tired,” she said.

“It was a long day,” I said, “the drive alone, you know?”

She opened her eyes and gazed at me softly. “Let's go out to dinner tonight, Steve,” she said, almost plaintively, as if asking a favor, “just you and me.” She smiled. “We could use a night out, don't you think?”

It was a simple request, not much asked nor expected, and yet I couldn't grant it. Rebecca would be waiting for me at her cottage. It was to her that I had to go.

I shook my head. “I can't, Marie,” I said. “I have to go into the office.”

Her eyes narrowed. “On a Saturday night?”

“It's the final meeting on that library,” I said. “I have to finish the designs.”

She looked at me doubtfully. “On a Saturday night?” she said again.

“I'm supposed to be at the office by seven,” I told her. “Wally's coming in, along with a few guys from the drafting department. We're going to work through the night if we have to.”

Her eyes lingered on me a moment, then she turned away and closed them again. “You'd better start getting ready then,” she said. “It's almost six.”

I walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. “I have a little time,” I said.

She didn't answer, but only continued to lie stiffly beside me.

I touched her cheek with the side of my hand.

She drew her face away instantly. “No, no,” she said, a little brusquely, “I want to rest.”

I stood up and walked into the adjoining bathroom. Once there, I showered and dressed myself. Marie was still lying on the bed when I came back into the bedroom. She didn't stir as I left her, didn't so much as open her eyes.

Peter was in the family room when I got downstairs.