Random Hearts (17 page)

Still in her coat, Vivien sat on a chair in the kitchen and
watched Hamster sniff at the foot of the snowman, which had been yellowed by
his incessant piddle. Dark patches emerged where the snow had disappeared, and
the large lawn had a scraggly, unhealthy look.

When Hamster began scratching at the door again, her
resolve hardened. Hamster was Orson's gift, his choice, and he and Ben had
nursed him through puppyhood, which provided absolution for what she was about
to do. Opening the door, she let him in. He shot straight to his dish, sniffed,
licked the residue from the plastic, then turned to her, tail wagging, his
round brown eyes moist with expectation.

"Sorry, pal," she whispered, bending and scooping
him up with one hand.

With a firm hand, she had drawn this line in her mind. She
hadn't been conscious of any pattern at first. Now it was clearly evident, and
she relished the discovery. It wasn't simply a question of justice or even
punishment. It was more like an exorcism. What had belonged to Orson, what
reflected his point of view, his tastes, his alleged affections, his personal
choices and effects, would be trashed. And the line had been advancing with
each additional revelation. The Salvation Army had already carted away much of
the physical evidence of his life in this house.

Returning home, she had noted immediately that the removal
diminished the feeling of his presence. She could, of course, have burned these
things. She regarded her decision not to as proof that she had not lost her
sense of compassion or humanity. It was, after all, a bonanza for the Salvation
Army: a Washington lawyer's smart preppy wardrobe, complete with more than a
dozen pairs of shoes; his sports equipment—tennis racket, golf clubs; law
journals, random files; writing materials; paper-weights. She had stripped the
walls of his study of prints, three carved duck decoys that had come down from
some hunting relative, old pipes, his rack, even his coffee mug, the one that
literally said His. Everything!

There were other things of his still remaining in the
master bedroom: his jewelry (studs, cufflinks), shaving tools, cologne, and
aftershave. Not another night must go by with such things in the house.

Now it was Hamster's turn, and she considered the act of
disposal a true test of her resolve. She carried him out to the car and put him
in the seat beside her. He liked to ride in cars, propped up on his haunches;
his eyes roved the passing streets for fellow dogs at whom to bark a greeting.

When she and Orson went out of town in the past, they would
send Ben to her parents' and board Hamster at a nearby farm. Often the people
who ran the place would take "orphaned" dogs and try to find them
compatible homes. It was not, she assured herself, like putting him to sleep.

As she drove into the dirt road that led to the farm,
Hamster's body grew tense. His body shivered with fear as he huddled close to
her.

"I'll try," the woman who ran the farm said.
"But it's not as easy as you think."

"I'll pay for his board for as long as it takes."

"All right. But I can't give you any guarantees."

"I understand perfectly," Vivien said, writing
out a check for a month's board.

Exile or death, she thought, experiencing the gnawing
malice of her intent. She had deliberately kept the animal from going with Ben
and her parents to Vermont. Perhaps later, if he could not be placed, she would
develop the courage to put him to sleep, an idea that, despite all the
ferocious intensity of her resolve, frightened her.

The telephone was ringing when she got home. She answered
it, breathless from running, hoping it would be Edward. It was Dale Martin.

"We've been going over Orson's policies," he
began after the amenities. "You'll be quite comfortable. Then there's the
suit against the airline...."

She listened with disinterest. Dale was also beyond the
line.

"Are you there, Vivien?" Dale asked, after he had
droned on without a response from her.

She felt compelled to grunt an acknowledgment.

"You'll be a very comfortable widow, I'm happy to say.
The policies alone, including the firm's key man insurance, comes to a tidy
seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and you'll undoubtedly get double
that when the airlines pay off." He paused. "I know it won't bring
Orson back, but it will ease your personal situation, financially
speaking."

He seemed to be winding up the conversation, the part that
she had been waiting for.

"I want none of it," she said firmly. "Put
it all in trust for Ben."

"Will you say that again?"

She did.

"That's nonsense," Dale exploded, then softened
quickly. "You're still overwrought, Vivien. You're not thinking
rationally. We're talking big bucks."

"I want only the house and my own savings
account." They're the only things that are really mine, she thought. It
was she who had chosen the house, decorated it, lavished it with her care.
"I'm going to sell it." It was impossible to remove Orson's aura
completely. With everything else, the house, too, had to go.

"The market is lousy, Vivien. You won't get what it's
worth."

"We'll see."

"Look, Vivien, I'm your lawyer—"

"I know. Just set up the trusts. I don't even have to
be a trustee."

"You can't be serious. In the will, you are the sole
inheritor. Orson set it up to protect you."

Against what, she wondered. Betrayal is not protection.
Remain cool, she told herself. Remembering Orson's year of lies buttressed her
decision. To take any money from him or his planning would insult her
integrity, her self-respect. Accepting his money was like—she groped for the
correct words—like validating evil.

"It's not a rational decision, Vivien."

"The client is always the boss." Those were
Orson's words, which further inflamed her. She wanted to expunge that, too.
"Just do it my way," she said, and hung up. No debate was necessary.
To placate her anger, she went upstairs and confronted the master bedroom. She
threw everything that remained of his, willy-nilly, into compacter bags. Despite
the denuding of his possessions, the room still reeked of him. She saw his
indentation in the mattress. On the night table next to his side of the bed was
a row of books he had liked to read to lull him to sleep. Men's books. Seeing
them, she recalled how many of his books and records were still in the house.
Some of them seemed even more personally his than his clothes. They would be
the next to go.

She slid the bags into the compacter and listened to the
crushing sounds, to bottles breaking, releasing the mingled scents of cologne
and aftershave. Jewelry flattened. He had a little reading lamp for his special
use, and she heard the bulb making a popping sound as the compacter's anvil
came down. Finally, it was all in one solid rectangle, which she carried out
and put in a garbage can. This done, she attacked the books and records,
stuffing them into old cartons. She separated the books carefully. Most were
his, but the records were mostly hers. It did not amaze her in the least how
few of these items were really shared possessions. They had been two strangers
living side by side, she thought bitterly as she carried the cartons to the
driveway—another bonanza for the Salvation Army.

Yet, despite the fury and thoroughness of her efforts,
Orson's presence was still tangible in the house. It was as if his persona
permeated the air, like the lingering stench of smoke after a household fire.

By the time she had dragged the last carton outside, it was
dark. Still, she was vaguely dissatisfied, and the tension, instead of
dissipating, was accelerating. To calm herself, she poured out half a tumbler
of whiskey and drank it down in a few quick swallows. It didn't calm her;
instead, she began to sob uncontrollably, overcome with an emotion resembling
grief. She knew it was not for Orson. Perhaps it was for the old lost life,
which had been just fine with her. If it had been without the shattering
complexities of love or passion or whatever emotional earthquakes could occur
in this life, it was at least serene, calm, tranquil, safe. That was it.
Recovering somewhat, she bent low over the sink and washed her face in the
water. She felt unsafe, drifting. Who could possibly understand her state of
mind? Only Edward.

Reaching for the phone, she dialed his home number. It rang
into eternity. Then she hung up in despair. The population of her world was
reduced to two. Two survivors. She felt some vague anxiety about his absence.
He should have made himself available when she needed him, she thought
petulantly. Then she remembered the question she had asked him earlier:

"If she had lived, confessed all, would you have
forgiven her?"

"She didn't," he had answered, stating a truth
which testified that all transpired events were inexorable and unchanging.

The telephone's ring stabbed into the darkening silence.
Edward! No. It was her mother, and she felt a twinge of guilt at her
disappointment. She had promised Ben that she would call. Where was Ben? she
wondered. On which side of the imaginary line? It was painful to contemplate. Flesh
of her flesh. Blood of her blood. If only he were not the image of Orson. A
living reminder. Surely such feelings were unnatural. They made her feel very
guilty. Yet, she could not deny them. Not to herself.

"Are you all right, darling?" her mother asked.

"Fine. Just getting things settled."

"You must be strong, Vivien."

"I am, Mother."

"Ben is fine," her mother said.

She listened as Ben's day was minutely described, as if
each moment of his five-year-old life were precious and eventful. He would be
in good hands, she knew. As her mother talked, her mind swirled with images of
the clear, sweet winter air, the mountains majestic in their coats of snow,
frosty windows, rosy cheeks, her father's pharmacy, where she had spent happy
teenage afternoons dispensing malts and exchanging the kind of information that
needed no computers to store or impart. Ben would surely thrive in that
atmosphere. The image assuaged her guilt.

"Mommy!" It was Ben's voice suddenly intruding.
She had hoped to avoid that. A lump sprang into her throat, preventing her from
responding.

"Mommy?"

"I'm here, darling," she said, clearing her
throat. "Isn't it wonderful up there with Grandma and Grandpa?"

"Will I go home soon?" The words wrenched at her
heart. She heard an echo of Orson's voice, and it jolted her.

"You just be a good boy, Ben," she said, shocked
at her own reaction.

"But when will I go home, Mommy?" Ben said.
"I want to be with you and Hamster."

It was too awful to put into words, she knew. Too awful to
confront. Too illogical and unnatural and hateful and obscene. I can't help
myself, she wanted to cry out. When she spoke again, her voice was tremulous.

"Mommy has some things she must do"—she
hesitated—"first." The extent of her hypocrisy and evasion startled
her. Orson's legacy, she told herself. He had crushed her instincts, tangled
her emotions. She heard Ben's voice, but she could not find the courage to
respond.

"Are you all right, dear?" her mother asked in
that gentle, concerned tone that had nursed her through childhood sicknesses
and the routine traumas of a young girl's life, always a sure-fire remedy. But
not now. With Ben off the phone, she regained her composure.

"A little strained, Mother."

"You shouldn't be there alone."

"I need this time, Mother." She caught the
insistence in her tone.

"I'm not pressing you, dear. We'll keep Ben for as
long as you like." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's fine. Really
he is." She paused, faltered, cleared her throat. Vivien felt the psychic
inspection. The woman could always sense danger. Hadn't she called immediately
after the plane crash? The thought brought back the full impact of the
betrayal, inflaming her again with a monstrous anger. The fury of it roared
back on the winds of recent memory.

They had just been up for the Christmas holidays. Was it
only a few weeks ago? It seemed like eons. The holidays? The joyous reminder
retreated in her mind, stoking the ashes of the smoldering anger.

He had left the day after Christmas and had returned the
day before New Year's Eve. Searching the pattern of past Christmas holidays, in
which he stayed the entire time, she remembered that he had done this for the
past two Christmases. Busy stuff at the office, he had told her, and it had
meant nothing to her, hardly a blip on the screen of her security. He had been
so devilishly clever, so devious. The full fury of her humiliation roared back
at her. Orson had trampled on her most highly prized virtue: her sense of
trust. He had had to deceive not only her and Ben but her parents, abusing
their admiration and pride in Orson as a son-in-law. In a way, the deception
had even encapsulated their town, Vermont, and New England, defaming the images
and memories that she held so dear. And the Christmas spirit as well, its
goodness and innocence.

"I think maybe you should register Ben in day school,
Mother."

"Day school?"

"I think that would be best." She waited as the
implication settled in her mother's mind.

"You don't think that would be disruptive?" Her
mother's tone brightened. "Unless you're planning to come up and be with
us?"

"I've made no plans," she said, conscious of her
coldness.

"He's your child," her mother said with a sigh.
"Please remember that." Vivien remained deliberately silent, waiting
for her mother to continue, certain of her reaction. "Of course, I'll do
whatever you say. I suppose it will be the best thing for him under the
circumstances."

"Yes, it will, Mother." She drew a deep breath.
Before she said good-bye, she said, "And kiss Ben for me." How often
would she be saying that? she wondered.