Nora and Liz (26 page)

“
He’s quieting down,” Liz said, coming back in.

Hastily, Nora tore off the page on which she’d been writing and stuffed it into her pocket.

“Dr. Cantor said it’s the shock,” Liz went on. “He doesn’t think he’s cracked completely. But he’s arranged for a psychiatrist to come and see him this afternoon. Dr. Cantor actually came right out and said that. I don’t think he dared say the word to me before. It’s as if it’s hard for him to admit your father’s mentally ill. Funny, elegant, sad-looking man. Nora? Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want that coffee now? I think the water’s ready.”

“No. Yes. All right. I don’t care. I don’t know what I want.”

“For it all to be over, I imagine.” Liz bustled around, filling the coffee pot, finding the cups. “I’ll make some for Dr. Cantor, too, shall I?”

“Yes. That would be nice.” Nora tipped Thomas off her lap and got stiffly to her feet. “I’ll just feed him,” she said, opening a cupboard. “I don’t think I fed him last night.”

“No,” said Liz, tending the pot. “I don’t think you did. He hid under the back stoop, I think, during all the—commotion.” She bent, running her hand along the cat’s sleek body. “Poor kitty.”

The telephone rang.

Nora stared at it while it went on ringing.

“Shall I answer it?” Liz asked.

“No. Well. Yes, I guess so. It might be for Dr. Cantor.” But it wasn’t. It was, Liz explained to Nora reluctantly after she’d hung up, a newspaper reporter.

The psychiatrist, a Dr.
Herschwell
, who was unexpectedly, to Liz anyway, round and florid, spent more than an hour closeted with Ralph in his room, while Nora and Liz cleaned all of the house that they could clean quietly, both for something to do and in expectation of funeral guests. When Dr.
Herschwell
emerged, he took Nora’s hand gravely, saying, “I think your father is seriously ill, Miss
Tillot
. I leave you with these tablets”—he handed her a sample packet—“which will calm him somewhat until we can do a more careful evaluation. Give him one twice a day, morning and evening, starting this evening. I shall make a full report to Dr. Cantor and, after your poor mother’s service, I’ll arrange for a thorough evaluation. We’ll see then what is to be done. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.” Then he added, twisting his spherical body awkwardly toward Liz, “And for the accusation made against you. I think you have nothing to fear on that score.”

Early that evening, while Nora and Ralph were both napping, Liz drove back to the cabin to shower and get a change of clothes. She managed to keep her mind blank while she drove, but standing under the shower in Mom’s Hippo, letting the warm water sluice over her sticky body (for the weather was still hot), a sense of unreality again suffused her. It’s as if I’m acting in a play, she thought, tipping her face up to the showerhead, letting water pound onto her skin, or in a soap opera. That’s more like it, a soap opera; it’s melodrama, not drama; it can’t be happening this way.

But of course it is.

Eventually she switched off the water and dried herself, reveling in the scratchiness of the towel, the tingling sensation it left on her damp, now-pink skin.

Pink except for the purple bruise Ralph had left on her arm.

I could leave, she thought again. I could still leave. Wouldn’t that be the sensible thing to do? I could still go back to New York, close up the cabin, tell Jeff and Susan not to come. I could get out of this nightmare.

And, she thought, reluctantly remembering Roy’s words, I could try to sell the cabin after all. If people really are talking, if they think I’m a murderer…

But Nora’s face kept swimming before her eyes, making Liz’s throat catch with the pain in her deep blue eyes, the pain, the courage, and, lately, the mute appeal.

No, she admitted silently, realizing she’d known it anyway. I can’t. I can’t possibly leave her.

She shrugged into a clean white shirt and clean khaki shorts, then packed her overnight bag with a dressy shirt and pants for the funeral, which she assumed would be soon, plus jeans, a sweater, a few changes of underwear, and a couple of t-shirts. After she threw the bag into the car she went down to the dock and sat there as the sun slowly dipped behind the opposite shore.

I should bring her here, she thought. She could heal here. She can’t even begin to heal in that house with that awful man.

Maybe Dr.
Herschwell
will say he’s crazy enough to be put away.

Would Nora leave then?

Would Nora sell the farm? She thought of Roy again. And then would she…

Liz shook herself. Stop it, kiddo. Stop it! She’s too vulnerable, too needy, right now.

As the sunset darkened into twilight, Liz walked back to the car, stopping at the garden, admiring, briefly, Nora’s unfinished handiwork. There were no weeds to speak of, and neat clumps of newly planted perennials, most of them divisions from Nora’s own garden, dotted the cleanly mulched surface. “They’ll grow,” Nora had said when Liz complained that they seemed too far apart and that her mother’s garden had been so full of flowers there’d been little room for weeds. “They’ll fill in. It takes about three years for a perennial garden to establish itself. This may take less time, though, since there are some things already here.”

Three years. Or less. Where would Nora be in three years? Where would she want to be?

Where do I want to be in three years, Liz mused, climbing into the car. They used to ask us that in college, to help us decide what we wanted to do.

Three years.

I’d like to be…

But I don’t know. Not
any more
. One year ago I’d have said I wanted to be right there in New York, teaching at Holden Academy, maybe moving up to department head, becoming an expert, maybe publishing something impressive, thinking about working toward a PhD—for she had considered that, dreamed of a university position, long ago.

One year ago I’d have imagined Megan by my side, she thought so unexpectedly that she pulled the car onto the road’s grassy shoulder and sat there, staring blindly into the woods.

I’d have assumed she’d be there, that I’d want her there.

Pictures of Megan flashed before her eyes: Megan, in her yellow polo shirt and green jeans, laughing while they were hiking in New Hampshire a year ago—was it only a year ago?—when they’d come upon two squirrels arguing over a pile of acorns.

Megan, lying naked on cool white sheets, her body golden in sunlight, reaching up to Liz, pulling her down to her.

Megan, crying over the death of a dog in a movie, gripping Liz’s arm when the truck struck it, shaking her head inconsolably when Liz whispered, “It’s only a story; they didn’t kill a real dog, honey.”

But
Janey
was consoling Megan now, was caressing her golden body, loving her delicious laugh.

Liz thought then of Ralph, of his gentleness with Corinne, of the apparent depth or at least the violence of his grief, and she was momentarily filled with compassion for him, and unexpected respect despite his tragic—the word came unbidden to her—his tragic madness.

And she thought of Nora as she’d first seen her, and Nora learning to swim and to drive, and Nora teaching her how to garden, and Nora patting Thomas, and stoking the stove and bathing and feeding and tending her parents, and listening to Liz talk about her own parents, understanding Liz’s long pent-up pain, accepting it—and Nora early that morning, lying in Liz’s arms, her face relaxed for a time while she slept.

After the shaking had stopped and she’d slept for a while, Liz had awakened and leaned over, watching Nora’s eyes move under their lids, listening to her breathe, and her throat caught now, remembering a wave of tenderness stronger than anything she’d felt for Megan.

Megan had been sentimental but not truly vulnerable or open to Liz, and Liz had not let herself show Megan her own vulnerability. They had been brittle together, laughing and making love and playing.

When Liz’s mother died, Megan had done all the right things, helped Liz with the announcements and the arrangements, cleared out the hospital room, held Liz and soothed her, said “It’s all right to cry” (but Liz had not cried), sat next to her in the family pew at the funeral, accompanied her to the graveyard, greeted the relatives.

Remotely.

She’d also rummaged in her pocketbook while the minister prayed, and she’d whistled and giggled while clearing out the hospital room, changed the radio station to the news while holding Liz and urging her to cry.

Withheld herself from me, Liz realized, as I withheld myself from her.

Skimming the surface; skimming the surface of love.

But it’s so much easier that way! So very much easier. So very much safer.

Making love with Megan…

It was good, good enough, anyway; they knew each other’s bodies well, knew what worked and what didn’t.

“But there was no connection,” Liz whispered out loud. “No connection. The deepest part of me and the deepest part of you; we never met. Never, Megan. Never.”

“And that,” she realized with an unexpected and tremendous sense of relief, “is why I left you.”

And that also—God help me; it’s so much harder!—because we
do
meet, is why I love Nora.

***

The
Hastingses
’ car was in front of the farmhouse when Liz drove up, and Charles and Marie were in the kitchen with Nora and Ralph. Nora, Liz saw, had put on a fresh dress and brushed her hair; Ralph, too, was in fresh clothes and looked sleepy rather than belligerent, even when he turned around and obviously saw her. The pills, Liz thought, thank you, Dr.
Herschwell
!

“We were just making a list,” Nora said, smiling bravely when Liz walked in, “of people to notify. And working out funeral plans.”

Liz nodded. “I’ll just…” she began awkwardly, but she wasn’t sure where she could go in order to leave them alone.

Nora interrupted quickly. “No, please stay. It’s all right.” She patted the chair next to her and introduced Liz.

“How do you do?” Liz said formally, sitting down, ignoring Ralph, who was beginning to glower after all.

Charles Hastings nodded and said, “Good to meet you.”

“Nora was telling us about her cousins,” said Marie, “and we called information and actually found a number for one of them.”

“For Andrew,” Nora explained to Liz. “The one I told you about.”

Ralph grunted. “Little limb of Satan, that boy,” he growled.

“Yes, but Father, he’s grown up now. They all are.”

“We don’t have room to have them all here. Too much noise and fuss anyway. Too expensive, too. All that food.”

“Now, Ralph,” said Marie, patting his arm, “you want to do things right, don’t you? For Corinne’s sake.”

“Corinne,” said Ralph, his eyes filling with tears. “I saw her last night, you know. Standing right by my bed. She was beckoning to me.”

Liz saw Nora shiver; she touched Nora’s foot with her own under the table.

“Maybe she was waving, Ralph,” said Charles calmly. “To tell you she’s all right. She’s with God now, Ralph. No more pain or suffering for her.”

“But plenty for me.” Ralph stared at Liz, as if pretending he’d just noticed her. “Why is she here? This is just for family, Nora.” His voice was rising dangerously. “She shouldn’t be here. She should be in jail, she…”

“She’s my close friend, Father,” Nora said, keeping Liz, who had started to get up, from standing. “I want her here. I need her here.”

“But she killed my Corinne!” he shouted, shaking off Charles’s hand. “She’s a murderer! Murderer!” he shouted, his eyes snapping.

“I’ll go outside,” Liz said quickly to Nora. “There’s no point in upsetting him. I’ll be out by the garden.”

It was another hour or more before Nora joined her. Clouds had covered the moon, and Liz had moved to the stoop, half dozing, half listening to the drone of voices from the kitchen. Thomas had rubbed against her legs when she’d first sat and she’d picked him up, rubbing her face against his soft hair. “We’re exiles, Tom,” she’d said to him. “Exiles.”

When Nora came out, Thomas jumped off Liz’s lap and mewed; Nora gave him an absent-minded pat and then sat next to Liz. “Hi,” she said, leaning her head on Liz’s shoulder.