The Witch (22 page)

Edie shut her computer off and went out into the hallway. The weather had turned hot and the building's air conditioner was on, though it labored and fretted and didn't quite keep up with the heat. It made her feel headachy, out of sorts. Milo had left for the afternoon. He was taping an interview for National Public Radio about the cultural history of leprosy. Some of the things he knew about, the things he wrote about, simply confounded her. The distant mutter of the vacuum cleaner told her that Amparo was busy elsewhere in the apartment.

Edie stood at the door of Milo's study and tested the doorknob. It was locked, as she expected, but it had a little bit of give in it. She'd locked herself out of enough apartments to know a trick or two. She went back to her study and extracted a credit card from her wallet. She worked the card between the latch and the door frame until the latch slipped and the door nudged open. If Milo already thought of her as someone who pried, well, what did she have to lose?

Nothing in the room looked that remarkable to her, nothing out of the ordinary, certainly nothing worth locking up. Only Milo's usual mess of books and papers, as if genius and creativity required disorder. Edie took a few steps inside, careful not to touch anything. On the desk's surface was a yellow pad scribbled with Milo's notes, his thicket of pen marks. She bent over it and read what seemed to be a denunciation of someone Milo took issue with: “absolutely puerile thought process,” “pitiful need for validation,” “lack of any real rigor or discipline.” Edie was familiar with this sort of diatribe. Intellectuals of Milo's caliber seemed to engage in regular public blood feuds, defending and attacking, choosing words as if they were pins in a voodoo doll.

Edie made a slow circuit around the room. Books and more books, like every room in the apartment. Many of the ones here were copies of books Milo had written himself. Edie felt her headache tighten. What a strange sort of life it was, this production of ideas, this herd of words. You respected it, of course, as you respected any sort of accomplishment, but there was something wearying in it also, something deadening and futile.

With great caution and delicacy, she teased open the drawers of Milo's desk and found nothing more interesting than bundles of old canceled checks. All this while she tried to avoid the computer's black and silent screen, but finally she pressed one finger to the on button, and it chimed and glowed.

Of course he used a password. The screen presented her with the blank window and waited, with mechanical patience, for her to type it in. She had no idea what it might be. She realized that she no longer heard the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Hastily, she shut the computer off and left the room, pulling the door shut, the lock tight, behind her.

The next day, Milo announced he had to make an
unexpected trip to Australia, a last-minute opportunity to speak at a seminar on the workings of the International Criminal Court. Unfortunately, they were only able to extend the invitation to Milo. He'd inquired, of course, but the cost of airfare, of the accommodations . . .

Edie said she understood, although she didn't entirely. She thought that Milo might have paid for her airfare himself. Milo was excited at the prospect of the trip, and Edie told herself not to make such a big deal of it. This was what Milo did, after all, travel from one plummy opportunity to another, arranged by people who paid him to lend star power to their enterprises. She'd go with him next time. Milo said, “It's only for a week. Amparo will take care of the house, no worries. And we can talk on the phone, just like old times!”

There was a great deal of dry cleaning and packing and arranging of itineraries, and Edie was “invaluable,” Milo said, in helping him. They were especially fond with each other, as if the idea of separation was restoring some of the energy of their original courtship. And maybe, although you might not want to think it, there were people who managed better if they did not contend with the daily fact of each other at close quarters.

On the morning he left, Edie went downstairs with him, helped supervise the loading of his carefully prepared suitcases, kissed Milo goodbye, waved until he was out of sight, then went back to the huge, empty apartment. There was really nothing here for her to do. Although she had reminded him of it a time or two, Milo had not yet called any of his notable friends who might have provided her with employment. She took inventory of how she felt. Forlorn. Restless. The life she'd imagined for herself had not yet begun. She was at low tide.

Milo would be on a plane for hours and hours. Edie went
out for a walk to try to lift herself out of her discontented state. When she came back, Amparo was waiting for her just inside the apartment door—she had never done such a thing before—her face knotted and furrowed even more than usual. She plucked at Edie's sleeve. “Missy, Missy!”

“What? What's the matter?” Edie pushed past her. A man stood in the main room, hands behind his back, examining the bookshelves. He was wearing a blue military uniform, his hat on a chair. His dark hair was cut short. He turned toward Edie and she had the sensation of recognizing him without knowing him. Surely this was one of Milo's sons.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I wasn't expecting anyone.”

“And who are you?” He had Milo's voice, but a couple of tones lighter. Milo's big forehead and dark eyebrows, but with everything smoothed and straightened.

“I live here. You don't. I'm Edie Baranoff.”

He looked her up and down. “You're kidding.”

Amparo was still crouched in a corner of the hallway, ready to flee or sound the alarm. “I didn't catch the name,” Edie said.

He pointed to the name patch on his chest. “Bialosky, United States Army.”

Edie frowned. “I'm sorry, I thought you were . . . Isn't Milo your father?”

“Legally. Biologically. Occasionally.” Edie shook her head, not getting it. “Obviously, there's some information he hasn't shared with you.”

Edie ignored this. “Well he's out of town. He just left.”

“How disappointing,” he said, not sounding particularly disappointed. “So, what happened to the big tall goonybird girl? The previous Mrs. Baranoff?”

“I'm sure I don't know. How did you get in here, anyway?”

“People tend to trust a man in uniform.”

“They shouldn't. I don't.”

“But you're curious. Did you say Edie? Jake.”

She didn't offer to shake hands with him. They stared at each other. Edie said, “Why do you have a different last name?”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

Edie turned to Amparo, and, pantomiming and nodding, tried to convey that things were all right, all right, and that she should bring them some coffee. Amparo wailed and fled. They watched her go. Jake Bialosky raised an eyebrow, inquiring. “We don't have much company,” Edie explained.

“Good thing, that.”

“Why don't you sit down. Are you a sergeant or a captain or something?”

“Lieutenant. Or something.”

Edie waited until he chose a seat, then took one opposite him. There was a space of silence that felt like a competition. Then Edie said, “I'm afraid that Milo hasn't told me much about you.”

“A shocking oversight.” He was enjoying himself, all jaunty hostility.

“How long has it been since you've seen him?”

“How long have the two of you been married?”

“Never mind that. Why did you want to see Milo, anyway?”

“I need a reason to see my own dear pappy?” It was the strangest thing, looking at him. Like viewing Milo's baby pictures. “I was in New Jersey, visiting my mother. This is a side trip. A whim.”

“Your mother. I'm sorry, I thought . . . I thought she had cancer.” And died. Milo had said so.

“That was a long time ago, when I was a kid.”

“So . . . she's all right?”

“Any reason she shouldn't be? No thanks to Milo. He bailed on us. Of course, he wasn't Milo back then. He was Myron Bialosky. You didn't know? Just one more thing, I guess.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“He underwent a convenient transformation.”

“Prove it.”

“I didn't bring documentation.” He shrugged, Milo's habit of moving one shoulder, then the other.

“Uh-huh.”

“It drives my mom crazy. ‘Milo? Why Milo? He wants to be classy? Why not Maurice?' She took to calling him ‘Milo the Magnificent.' The name kind of stuck. I think he actually likes it.”

“That's some story,” Edie said. People could say anything.

“You don't believe me. Okay. Here's the rest of it anyway. We lived in Bayonne, my mom's still there. Just your ordinary, one-generation-up-from-the-ghetto immigrant life. Myron was working for his father-in-law, my grandfather, painting houses. Can you imagine that? But Myron's an ambitious guy. Smart too. You may have noticed, we are never allowed to forget how smart he is.”

He was watching her for some reaction. Edie wondered if he was here for money, if he'd get around to asking about money. “Go on.”

“I guess he wanted a brand-new shiny life, not a sick wife and two little kids. He started spending time in the city, he said he was working there and taking night school courses. And maybe he was. Along with making sure he met some useful people who could help him out. We saw him less and less. He sent money for a while. He talked my mother into a divorce and married
this rich Canadian woman. Oh come on. You didn't think he earned all this by the sweat of his brow.” Bialosky nodded to the room's compass points.

Edie heard a faint rattling that meant Amparo had delivered the coffee cart to the next room. Edie got up and wheeled it in to them. “A Canadian. That's a nice touch. I'll make sure to ask Milo about her.”

“You do that. Cream, please. No sugar.”

“So where is she?” Edie asked, pouring his coffee. “This Canadian?”

“She died.”

“Oh come on,” Edie said, scornful now.

“You're very loyal. I'm sure he likes that.”

“It's in really bad taste, having her die. It's piling on.”

“Rather unexpectedly, I believe.”

“So now he's a murderer.”

“I didn't say that. But there are different ways of killing somebody,” Bialosky said. “I see that your ring doesn't quite fit.”

Her left hand curled into itself, a reflex. The emerald slid around to her palm. “It needs to be adjusted. I haven't taken it in yet.”

“I expect it's recycled.”

“You hate him and you want me to hate him too.”

“I wouldn't say it rises to the level of hatred. More like, loathing.”

“Maybe you're just some kind of con man.”

“Maybe Milo's the con man.” He drank some of the coffee and set the cup down, reached into his jacket pocket, took out a card, and scribbled on it. “Here. Call me, we can keep up with the family news.” Edie didn't reach for it, so he put it on the table.

“Shouldn't you be overseas somewhere? Shouldn't you be off fighting a war?” She thought that anybody could go out and rent a uniform, anybody could pretend to be anybody.

“I'm stateside now. Fort Drum. Milo will be so pleased to hear it. Where did he find you, anyway? You look, I don't know, more wholesome than his usual.”

“Perhaps,” Edie said, “you wouldn't mind seeing yourself out.”

Bialosky stood, tucked his hat under his arm, and left the room. The front door closed behind him. Edie's nerves jingled and jangled. At that moment what seemed important was not even the truth of the matter, but what she chose to believe. Was she really loyal? Did she want to be? It seemed as if she had been given a choice as to exactly which of two ways she wished to be stupid.

That evening, after Amparo left to go home, Edie stood again in front of Milo's study door. Once more, she used a credit card to ease the latch open, and sat down at his computer. When the password window appeared, she typed in,
MilotheMagnificent
.

The screen changed to its home page, open for business. Edie tried his e-mail account. His mailboxes were tidy and disappointing, as if he'd cleaned them out before he left town. A couple of messages had come in, one from a charity foundation and one from someone hoping that Milo would blurb a book about the coming environmental apocalypse. And a one-line message sent just last night from someone with a screen name of remarkablelady:
Have you forgotten?

Before she could talk herself out of it, Edie typed in a reply:
Remind me.
And sent it off.

She closed the computer and left the room. Oh goddamn
Lieutenant Something, scratching the itch of her neglected-wife grievance, sending her peeping and prying in what was certainly a bad idea.

But there was also something thrilling about it.

Milo called from Australia in the middle of her sleep. The connection was tinny and his voice had a filtered quality. Still, he sounded in excellent spirits. Everything was going very well, very well indeed, and he hoped Edie was getting by all right, and wasn't it funny to think that here, Down Under, it was already tomorrow!

Edie sat up in bed, listening to him. She said she was fine, and she was glad to hear that he was enjoying himself, and he said he would let her get back to sleep now. “Goodbye, Myron,” she said, and there was an especially long, filtered pause before he said goodbye to her.

In the morning she called her sister Anne. “What if it turns out that somebody might have told a few fibs about their past? Would that be a big deal? A mortal sin?”

“Somebody like a spouse? I don't know, I guess it would depend on if the person married to them felt like they were being played. What's going on?”

“I'm not sure.” She didn't want to tell Anne about Jake Bialosky, if only because it would make everything seem more real. “I guess I'm having trust issues.”