Random Hearts (7 page)

"I'm terribly sorry to call you at this hour, Mrs.
Halpern." He tried to be soothing.

"Who is this?"

"Edward Davis, Lily Davis's husband..."

"You call me at this hour? Are you crazy?"

He let her agitation recede. "I'm so sorry, Mrs.
Halpern. Really I am. Scaring you like this."

"My God, it's one-thirty."

"I hadn't realized," he lied, pausing. In the
silence she had obviously regained her composure.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he said soothingly. "I
seem to have forgotten what day Lily's slated to come home."

"Come home?" He caught a note of caution in the
woman's tone.

"From L.A.," he added to prompt her.

"L.A.?"

"The L.A. fashion design festival. That's where she
went."

"The L.A. fashion festival?" The woman was
exasperating him, answering a question with a question. There was a long pause.

"Please, Mrs. Halpern," he pressed into the
silence.

"I didn't think they had that until March. But I could
be wrong," she added quickly.

"Do you know who would know?"

"Maybe Mr. Parks?" she said.

That would be Howard Parks, the vice-president in charge of
her division. He had another vague recollection. It amazed him how little he
knew of her business life. Had she simply not told him, or had he not been
listening?

"It must be me, Mrs. Halpern," he said
apologetically, trying to appear calm, although his palm was sweaty holding the
phone.

"I'm sure there's no problem, Mr. Davis. Lily is a
very responsible woman. Perhaps she—"

"I'm sure," he interrupted, offering a quick,
pleasant good-bye. He didn't, after all, want to subject Lily to questions
about her crazy husband. Nor did he want to hear any of Mrs. Halpern's possible
scenarios. He had concocted enough of his own by then.

He began to search for Howard Parks's name in the telephone
directory. Finding it, he started to dial, then hung up the phone. He was sure
to sound paranoid, maybe even hurt Lily's chances for future advancement.
Besides, he might have gotten it all wrong. L.A., the fashion festival, the
times and dates. He cursed his indifference and lack of attention. Maybe he was
suffering from information overrun, when the mind can't take any more input.

Calm down, he told himself. She might have taken a plane to
visit people in San Francisco. Perhaps she had mentioned it. He tried to
remember. I'm being ridiculous, he decided. He went to the bedroom and lay
down, still dressed in his clothes. His heart was pounding, and he felt his
pulse throb in his head. Please, Lily, he begged in his heart, come home.

On Thursday, Vivien decided to have lunch with her friend
Margo Teeters at the Windjammer Club on top of the Rosslyn Marriott. The main
roads had been cleared, and the temperature had climbed. There were even
patches of sun and blue sky, which was the reason for her choosing the
Windjammer since it provided a spectacular view of the river and of Washington from the Virginia side.

Alice had finally been able to get
to her house without trouble. The day-school buses were back on their regular
routine, and Ben was able to get to school.

By then she had reached the child saturation stage and was
getting decidedly claustrophobic. She had spent the morning preparing a
welcome-home meal for Orson, something he really adored, paella, which required
some preparation but could be left on low heat for the rest of the day. She had
decided to surprise Orson by picking him up at Dulles. The Concorde sailed in
at 3:00 P.M. She figured he would pass through customs by 3:30 at the latest,
giving her time for a leisurely two-hour lunch with Margo.

Vivien had met Margo when their husbands were up-and-coming
government lawyers. Although they didn't see each other as often since Ben was
born, they somehow managed to retain an intimacy which revived mysteriously
each time they saw each other. With full-time live-in help and two children
already attending elementary school, Margo had considerably more freedom than
Vivien allowed herself. More importantly, Margo was Vivien's window to the
outside world and all its titillating gossip and activity.

A Southern girl with a Junior League wave that fell softly
over one side of her face, Margo drawled out gossip and personal confessions
and dispensed Washington wisdom with remarkable authority. She usually got
bombed on her first martini, with often shocking results. Vivien liked her, as
long as she was able to properly space the visits. Being with Margo sometimes
made Vivien feel tacky and dull. It was, she supposed, the price one paid, for
the entertainment value.

"You look lovely, darlin'," Margo said, lifting
her face to receive Vivien's kiss. She had already completed one-half of her
martini and played with the olive on its toothpick.

"I hope so. I'm picking Orson up at Dulles. He's
coming in on the Concorde."

"Lucky him," Margo said, motioning to the waiter.
He came over, and Vivien frowned with indecision. She never could make up her
mind about drinks. Margo's eyes drifted toward the window.

"What the hell," she said. "Bring me
another." Darker clouds had closed in, muting the promise of a sunnier
day. She turned her gaze to Vivien. "You should, too. Warm you up for
Orson."

Vivien nodded assent and followed Margo's gaze out the
window.

"You can see the crane from here," Margo said.

"What crane?"

"From the crash."

"Wasn't that awful?" Vivien said. On television
the crash provided a drumbeat of horror. She had watched the reports for the
first two days, then finally shut it out of her life.

"Hard to believe," Margo continued. "All
those bodies still under the river—right there—while we sit comfortably
watching."

"It's so morbid," Vivien said. "Let's talk
about happy things."

"My golf handicap is down to eight."

"Now that's boring."

Margo looked up at Vivien, sipped the dregs of her first
martini, and smiled, flashing an envied dimple and good white teeth.

"Most things are boring, Viv."

"Not my life."

"Yours especially."

"I can see that this is not going to be upbeat,"
Vivien said, laughing and lifting her glass for the first sip.

"You don't play golf, you don't play tennis, you don't
play cards, you don't even play around."

Vivien blushed crimson.

"It's a sport, kid. I'm not talking about anything
heavy." Margo sighed. "You'd be surprised how soothing it can be. You
should try it sometime."

"Don't be ridiculous," Vivien said.

Margo clucked her tongue.

"You are a phenomenon, Viv. The whole scene just
passed you by. I'm not talking about breaking up your marriage. Just a little
fun, a little romance, a little sex."

"I couldn't," Vivien said with embarrassment.

"Faithful Viv," Margo said. "The good sister."
It had happened only once before Orson. Tom Perkins, when she was a junior in
college. As in most first times, she supposed, it was a disappointment. But at
least it had taken her out of the category of "hopeless virgin."

"Not my style, that's all," Vivien said.
"People are different."

"Do you good," Margo said, taking a deep sip of
her martini.

"I doubt that."

"Does wonders for sheer boredom."

"But I'm not bored."

"I am. I wish I weren't bored, but I can't help it.
Unlike you, I have a very exciting husband. At least everybody tells me he is
exciting. Sometimes he really is, but rarely. Lately he has been so damned
critical." Again her eyes turned toward the window.

"It's not going to be one of those, is it?"
Vivien asked.

Margo shook her head vigorously. The alcohol had already
begun to do its work.

"I wish something different would happen in my
life," Margo said.

"I don't."

"No, I guess you wouldn't."

"There you go, making me sound boring."

"You're so damned contented. Like a cow."

"I have put on a little weight," Vivien said.

"I didn't mean that. You've got a great figure, Viv. I
hope Orson takes full advantage of it."

Vivien blushed again.

Margo shook her head and smiled. "Actually, I
shouldn't be bored. Allen will make more and more money. We'll take more
elaborate vacations, meet more and more important people. Allen is very into
powerful people. He collects them. The kids will grow up and leave school. My
golf handicap will improve. I'll go every day to exercise class. Probably drink
a bit more. And if I'm lucky, really lucky, I'll find an occasional golf or
tennis pro to service the needs of my aging libido."

Vivien looked around to see if someone had heard.

"My God, Margo."

"Well, the fact is that Allen is so damned tired at
night. Washington priorities. Ambition before sex. What's a girl to do?"
Margo mused.

The waiter came and handed the menus. Margo opened hers and
seemed to be reading it.

"Sometimes I think he's got some little chippie
stashed away. That's where it must all go. Not much left for us." She
winked at Vivien.

"I don't worry about that," Vivien said.

"No, you wouldn't."

Margo pursed her lips and smiled tightly.

"Dammit, Viv. Wouldn't it be great to fall in love
with some delicious man? Some uninhibited Adonis? And he with you? All that
wonderful anguish, the danger of it."

"Fantasies," Vivien said primly.

"Tell me," Margo exulted. "If I told you
what I was thinking, you'd want to wash my mouth out with hard soap. I mean a
mad passion where you do everything—everything. Something that takes control of
you, something so overpowering that it changes everything inside you."

"I think you're reading too much romance
fiction."

"I'm not reading it. I'm longing for it to happen to
me."

"Danger stalks," Vivien said. "Better get
some food inside."

"It won't happen. You can't will it to happen. It's
just that ... nature is so unfair. Like"—she bent down very low next to
Vivien's ear—"every time I think of things like this, I get horny.
Sometimes when I feel like that I call Allen and tell him to rush right over.
He always refuses."

"Then call one of your—" Vivien could not bring
herself to finish the sentence, as if it were an obscenity.

Margo chuckled.

"You don't do that with a stranger. What if he rejects
your offer? No. That kind of a suggestion is only for long-term husbands."
She lifted her glass.

"It never occurs to me," Vivien said. In
admitting it she felt no sense of inadequacy or moral superiority. Her
orientation, she assured herself, was tolerance. Also, it was obvious that all
of Margo's sexual angst wasn't contributing to her happiness.

"So I'm forced to find another outlet," Margo
said, giggling suddenly.

Vivien's laugh reaction did not satisfy Margo's
expectation.

"You're definitely not the person to discuss this
with," she said, winking as if to take the sting out of her tremor of
testiness.

"Once you stop reading
Cosmopolitan
, it all
goes away," Vivien said.

"I know you think this is all trivial."

"Not trivial," Vivien said pleasantly.
"Irrelevant to me. I've put my faith and hope in one man, body and
soul."

"Is that meant to be insulting or to be wise
advice?"

"I'm not one to give advice." Vivien paused and
laughed. "And I don't insult people I care about."

"That's you. Typical. Goody two-shoes. The great earth
mother."

"I've been feeling like that. You should see the
snowman I made with Ben."

They ordered. Margo had quiche Lorraine and a salad. Vivien
had eggs Benedict and declined a second martini. Margo openly debated but
finally declined a third. Would she become, Vivien speculated, one of those sad
Washington types, the women who lingered too long over lunch, got sloshed,
left only when it became too obvious that they were the last customers in the
restaurant? She listened as Margo prattled on. The food seemed to perk up her
spirits.

"You must think I'm awful, Viv."

"Maybe you just have too much time on your hands,
Margo. Maybe you should get a job."

"Someday," Margo sighed. But her life seemed cast
in cement: country clubs, tennis, golf, long lunches, lots of drinks, a roll in
the hay with a nubile pro. And under it all, general malaise and vague
unhappiness.

To be Margo's friend on any permanent basis required more
intimacy than Vivien was willing to give. For some reason, Margo had dampened
her spirits today. Perhaps it was the grizzly view. Or the expressed
dissatisfactions. Sometimes Vivien thought that the world deliberately
conspired to make many women dissatisfied, and she was determined to resist
that conspiracy. Margo had been right. She was content. Margo had made the condition
seem like a disease.

Over coffee her gaze drifted again to the river. She saw
the crane and turned her eyes away. Considering the pain that life could hand
out, Margo and she were quite lucky people.

"You shouldn't let yourself get so down, Margo,"
Vivien said.

"Well, then, give me the secret of your ups."

"I wish I had an answer."

Margo did not smile, leaving her with the distinct feeling
that she had utterly failed as a confidante. They split the check, kissed each
other good-bye in the parking lot, and Vivien headed for Dulles. The
expectation of surprising Orson restored her cheerfulness.

When she arrived at Dulles, the Concorde from Paris had just landed, and she stood patiently in the waiting room, straining her neck to
catch the view of the customs area each time the automatic doors slid open.
Orson would be totally flabbergasted. She delighted in her little
mischievousness, thinking suddenly of what Margo had said: I wish something
different would happen in my life. She snickered to herself. It didn't have to
be on a grand scale, something dangerous or cataclysmic. What she was doing had
its own secret thrill, and Orson would be delighted. Wasn't it always wonderful
to see a familiar loving face when one arrived at a destination?

Travelers began to come through the automatic doors,
rolling their carts of luggage. The usual ceremony of greeting ensued, and
slowly the waiting semicircle around the door thinned. She did not become
apprehensive until someone asked a departing passenger whether he was coming
from the TWA flight from London. The passenger nodded.

"Has the Concorde from Paris been fully
unloaded?" she asked one of the porters, who shrugged.

"Might be some left. They're slow today."

She looked at her watch. It was nearly four. She wondered
if she had missed him. Maybe he took an earlier, conventional flight. She
waited another twenty minutes, then went to the Pan American counter and asked
the agent about the Concorde.

"I'm sure everyone's gone by now," the agent
replied.

"My husband must have taken another flight."

"What is his name?" Vivien told her, and she
punched the computer keys. "Simpson?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. Are you sure he was on that flight?"

She felt a bit embarrassed. "I could have
misunderstood."

"Would you like me to check tomorrow's passenger
list?"

"No," Vivien said quickly, not knowing why.
Perhaps she did not wish to raise the level of her anxiety. She was certain
there was a perfectly logical explanation. After all, she hadn't told him she
would be there. She slid into a telephone booth and dialed home. "Has Mr.
Simpson arrived?" she asked Alice.

"Not yet, Mrs. Simpson. Was he supposed to come
straight home?"

It seemed an odd question, but she ignored it, inquired
about Ben, and then hung up. She felt disoriented. Surely she had gotten it all
wrong. Or his plans had changed. There were any number of possibilities. If she
had not come to meet him, she might have been spared the bother. A call or
telegram would soon come, announcing a later flight. Finally, she called Orson's
office and spoke to his secretary, Jane Sparks.

"What plane was Orson coming in on?" she asked
casually. "I must have forgotten." Her relationship with Miss Sparks
was strictly business. Secretly, though, she resented her and often felt
patronized.

"I assume the Concorde," Miss Sparks said
crisply.

"I'm here at Dulles. He's not on it."

"That's strange..." There was a long pause.
"But then I didn't make the arrangements, so he could be on another
flight."

"That's a relief," Vivien said, taking a deep breath.
Then she asked pleasantly, "He hasn't called?"

"No. I haven't heard from him since early Monday
morning." Vivien remembered that he had called the office before he left.

"He hasn't called any of the other partners?"

"I'm not sure about that. I'll be glad to ask
around."

"Thank you." But she didn't hang up. Something
nagged at her. Miss Sparks made all his arrangements, especially for travel.
"Isn't it unusual that you didn't make the arrangements, Miss
Sparks?" That sounded accusatory. She tempered it with a nervous giggle.

"It was unusual, Mrs. Simpson, but..." Her
hesitation was odd, longer than expected. "Sometimes he does things like
that. I might have been busy on a brief or something. Apparently it was a new
client. I really don't know much about it."

"A new client?"

"A possible new client, I think."

She had always assumed that Miss Sparks knew everything
about Orson's life. It was the very reason she felt patronized.

Her continued hesitation was disturbing.

"Would you switch me to Mr. Martin?" she asked
politely.

"Of course," Miss Sparks said crisply.

Dale Martin was one of the partners. Orson and he had both
come to the firm together. Surely Dale would know.

"What is it, Viv?"

"I thought maybe you knew what plane Orson was coming
in on."

There was another long pause. She felt the backwash of the
eggs Benedict in her throat and behind it the sour aftertaste of the martini.

"Gee, I don't know. He said something about a new
client in Paris."

"Yes. Miss Sparks said that."

"Well, what hotel was he booked into?" The
question seemed directed at someone other than herself, probably Miss Sparks.
She heard him say: "You don't know? He made it himself? Now that's
strange." The words were spoken away from the mouthpiece, with an odd
hesitancy. When he spoke directly into the mouthpiece, his voice was firm.
"I'm sure it's no problem. We'll ask around the office. Where will you
be?"

The question hung in the air. She was still disoriented,
and it took her a few moments to gather her wits.

"Vivien?"

"Home, I guess," she said finally.

It was when she was heading toward McLean on the Dulles Access Highway that she came to grips with her anxiety. Admonishing herself for
overreacting, she felt foolish. Nothing more gauche than a hysterical wife,
especially one who seemed to be checking up on her husband. Credibility was
always an important consideration for Orson, especially in terms of herself.
What she had done was embarrass herself before her husband's partner and his
secretary; she had made herself less than credible. Any wife worth her salt
would know her husband's itinerary, if only to reach him in case of
emergencies.

By the time she reached home, she was calmer and her
agitation was directed at herself. "Anyone call?" she asked Alice.

"Not Mr. Simpson."

Vivien felt the woman's eyes inspecting her. She felt
miserable and foolish. Inadequate. She went through the motions of normality
for the rest of the evening, fielding questions from Ben about Orson's coming
home. She had told him that Orson would be home by the time he returned from
school.

"Will Daddy be home tonight?"

"I'm not sure."

"If he comes home late, will you wake me?"

"Yes, if he comes home late."

"Did he buy me a toy?"

"I'm sure he did."

"Do you know what kind?"

"For God's sake, Ben..." She had to get herself
under control. No sense going to pieces. She looked out the window and saw the
outline of the large snowman that she and Ben had built. It reminded her of the
day Orson had left, and she tried to remember all he had said. Had she missed
something? She tried to reconstruct the conversation. Paris? The Concorde?
Thursday? She hadn't used much of the three hundred dollars he had given her.
"It's only for four days," she had told him. Well, the four days were
past.

After dinner she planted Ben in front of the television set
and went into Orson's study to search through papers for clues as to his
whereabouts. Nothing seemed related to the trip. She felt utterly baffled and
dialed Margo's number.

"He wasn't on the flight." These were the first
words she blurted out.

"Probably stayed in Paris," Margo said lightly.
"A casual affair."

"I'm serious, Margo, and a little frightened. Orson's
not a person who wouldn't call if his plans changed."

Margo became instantly serious.

"What about his hotel?"

"I don't know it."

"Well, then, call the office, Viv. It slays me. You
seem to get more helpless every time I see you. Surely his secretary knows.
They always know everything."

"She doesn't."

"That's impossible."

"She just doesn't, and neither does his partner,"
Vivien said, her heart sinking. She was simply ashamed that she hadn't the
faintest idea about what to do.

"Maybe he just missed the flight. Simple as
that."

"Then why hasn't he called?" Vivien cried,
pausing to resist the oncoming waves of hysteria. "I'm sorry to have upset
you," Vivien said, detesting the apology. She heard a sudden click. She
had one of those phones that signaled when an incoming call was coming in.
"I'll call you later. That may be Orson."

The brief burst of relief quickly dissipated. It was Miss
Sparks. "Any word from Mr. Simpson?" she asked.

"Not yet." Vivien tried to say it calmly. From
her tone, it seemed that Miss Sparks had anticipated the answer.

"I did check the Concorde flights for tomorrow. Also
the regular jets..."

It annoyed Vivien at first that Miss Sparks had duplicated
the effort with the Concorde people. She herself had forgotten, or been too
timid, to check the regular jets. She could tell from Miss Sparks's tone that
she had met with little success.

"...and a number of likely hotels in Paris."

She heard the emission of a strange sigh. So Miss Sparks,
too, was becoming anxious, she thought, not at all heartened by the knowledge.
"I'm sure I'll hear from him before the night is over," Vivien said
as if she were trying to soothe Miss Sparks.

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Miss Sparks responded with
an optimistic lilt that seemed forced and artificial. "I know your
husband. I'm sure there is a logical explanation."

"I just don't understand why you didn't make the
arrangements," Vivien said. It was a compulsive reaction, so out of
character that it left a long pause on the line.

"It's a mystery to me," Miss Sparks said.
"But I'm sure everything is all right," she added quickly.

"I just don't understand it," she said.
"It's just not like him."

"No, it isn't, Mrs. Simpson," Miss Sparks said.
She could no longer hide her deep concern behind the crisp facade. For a moment
Vivien felt as though she were a genuine ally.

"If I hear tonight, I'll call," Vivien said.

"Will you? I'd appreciate that."

After hanging up, she paced the study. Mostly she hated the
feeling of total helplessness. Her emotions drifted from fear to panic to
anger. Anger seemed the most productive, holding at bay any debilitating
anxiety. How dare he do this to her! It was callous, unthinking. Then she
directed her anger against herself. She had been stupid, a typical brainless
do-nothing wife who left everything to her husband. She was a dimwit, the
ultimate traditional woman, the quintessential nonassertive wife. She deserved
to be in this state. She should have known where he was going, how and when,
instead of expecting others to know for her. That would change, she vowed.
Maybe she
had
become too contented. Bovine.

She put Ben to bed, after enduring another bout of
questioning about Daddy, which only unnerved her further. To take her mind off
her fear, she turned on the television set to the news, and the first image
that assailed her was the crash, evoking the immediate horror of accident. She
quickly turned off the television set and thought about that. If he
was
in an accident, he carried identification. Shuddering, she pushed that thought
from her mind and debated whether or not to call her parents in Vermont. She rejected that idea. No sense in getting others upset.

For a long time she sat in the silence of the hushed house
and looked out into the backyard at the stoic visage of their snowman, calm and
serene in the chill night, staring out at the alien world with his cookie eyes.
Then she opened a bottle of brandy, poured a glass, and sipped it slowly. The
warmth felt good as it trailed through her chest, soothing her.

Soon, she was certain, she would discover a perfectly
logical explanation. That thought reassured her, but only for a little while.