And the Dark Sacred Night (47 page)

Walter, however, was no stranger to the process (yet another well-minted term of the era). He began their second meeting with Julian by reflecting broadly on how his having been raised by a grandmother, in the wake of his parents’ reckless death in a drunken car wreck, meant that at times he couldn’t help resenting how Fenno took for granted the “full monty of a nuclear family,” the cozy constellation in which
he
had been raised: mother and father contentedly married, living to ripe old ages, dying of natural causes; two sane, liberal-minded brothers who grew up to form their own happy families. (Walter was anything but close to his one sibling, a sultan of finance who lived in Marin County and deified Ronald Reagan. At least, Fenno liked to point out, his brother had been decent enough to vote against Proposition 8.)

Fenno knew the full history of Walter’s signal traumas, and he admired Walter for the ways in which he had struggled to achieve independence, prosperity, and joy. But he knew it all by heart. So in the midst of Walter’s narrative, nestled helplessly in Julian’s bottom-numbing couch, Fenno found himself examining the various Asian artifacts fastidiously arrayed on every surface and wall of the therapist’s office, wondering if the ulterior motive behind the display was to prove to his patients that he had rubbed shoulders with enough Buddhists to claim enlightenment—or that he was good enough at his job to pay for numerous trips halfway around the world, with money to burn on buying art. One man’s midlife crisis was another man’s Hiroshige block print.

Suddenly Fenno realized that here was Walter, describing
Fenno’s
family in detail—loving yet irritatingly all-knowing detail—not only as if Fenno were mute but as if Walter were on intimate terms with every skeleton in every musty cupboard of the rambling house in which Fenno had been raised.

“I was pretty nervous the first time I met them,” Walter said. “It’s our second Christmas together, and we fly to Scotland. A holiday, a foreign country, staying in the family manse with the in-laws: recipe for disaster soufflé. Or at least a Lawrence Kasdan film. But you know what? It’s fabulous. His brothers are like the brothers I
wish
I had: one’s a country vet, surrounded by a squadron of dogs, the smart pretty wife, the well-mannered kids. That’s David. And the other one’s a
chef
—he has a restaurant in
France
and this stylish French wife and these four beautiful bilingual daughters! I’m an instant uncle—‘Oncle Vol-taire’ in French. And we have this perfect week. Perfect.

“Until I’m in the kitchen with Frère Chef and he asks me if I knew Mal. And I say, ‘Not really; did you?’ And on he goes about what a ‘super chap’ Malachy Burns was, how tragic his death, what a
shattering loss
for Fenno. And it turns out Mal
visited
there—at the manor house—at least twice.”

Julian raised his hand. “Hang on a sec, Walter. Fenno, let’s hear from you. I feel at times as if we’re losing you.”

“You are,” Fenno said tartly. “Because yes, Mal did visit Scotland with me. Twice, yes. One time he was in London for Christmas and simply came north to join me.”

“ ‘Simply came north’?” repeated Walter, mimicking the burr. Then, seeing the expression on Julian’s face: “Sorry. I just hate how a disclosure like that—which seems to me major—is like some … passing tumbleweed to him.”

“Mal was my
friend
. And more than that, all right, when he was in very bad shape, I felt I needed to keep an eye on him.”

“Dragging him overseas?”

“I didn’t ‘drag’ him anywhere.”

“This Mal,” said Julian. “I take it he was a figure of extraordinary color and intelligence.”

“And style. And worldliness. And superiority to the rest of mankind. Oh, and did I forget
sexiness
?” Walter glared at Fenno. “So it bothered me—okay, it hurt me—that after all your protests, I get to find out from your brother how important he really was to you.”

Fenno said quietly, “You knew he was important. You know that. You also know he’s been dead for decades. Decades.” Fenno looked at Julian, as if to a court of appeal. (Bugger, was he beginning to care what this stranger thought?)

Walter sighed. “The bottom line is this: spouses have no secrets from each other. I have no secrets from you!”

“Mal’s having met my family wasn’t a secret.”

“Walter,” said Julian, “just what is a secret to you?”

Walter paused. “Anything Fenno knows I’d want to know.”

The three of them were quiet.

“Sometimes I have this feeling,” Walter said, “that he operates on the philosophy that ‘what Walter doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’ And he knows how I feel about Malachy Burns.

“Whether it’s rational or not, okay?” he said when he saw Fenno’s expression. “That man’s gloomy shadow hangs over us at times, and I’m sorry, but it gives me the creeps. So now this business with his secret kid? The fact that it’s suddenly Fenno’s deal, too? Talk about a bombshell.”

“The ‘bombshell’ you refer to is not falling on us,” Fenno said.

“Well, we are in the path of some major shrapnel,” Walter retorted. “And that’s why we are here.”

Fenno glanced at Julian and saw a spark of amusement before he said, “Then that’s our work. But I’m afraid our time is up.”

In the dead of night, Fenno and Walter are awakened simultaneously by the sound of the first raindrops striking the roof, less than two feet above their heads. Fenno hears Walter sigh, then whisper, “Here we go. Bring on—what’s the silly name they’ve given her? Honoria? Hepsebah? Though I think she’s been downgraded. I think we’re due for an anonymous hissy fit.”

“How worried do we have to be?” asks Fenno, knowing that Walter will have consulted every online weather maven, every satellite photo of the aerial maelstrom approaching.

“The backshore will get the worst of it, but first thing tomorrow we should close the shutters up here.”

They listen for a few seconds. The wind is competing with the rain.

“How are you weathering the human storm?” whispers Fenno.

“I’m an oak tree,” says Walter. “Creaky, but standing. Or maybe the eye is passing over. Maybe I should be bracing myself.”

Something metallic careens loudly down the street: the lid to a dustbin; a hubcap. Once it’s passed, Fenno can discern the sound of waves breaking at the rim of the bay, behind the houses on the water side of Commercial.

“I’m having a hard time keeping track of who’s related to whom and how,” says Walter.

“Five people, four generations. Not easy.”

“Insane.”

“I’ll be relieved when they’re gone,” says Fenno.

Walter shifts onto his side, facing Fenno on the snug mattress. “Och, ye’re not keen on the instant rellies, lad?” Apparently he can whisper even with a burr.

Fenno suppresses a laugh.

“Or maybe you’d prefer them à la carte,” Walter says.

“The notion was bringing them together.”

“A good pair of kids. You’re the surrogate grandfather, aren’t you?”

“I’d say you’ve poached that role, and please run with it,” says Fenno, “but I don’t think we should be discussing this, even in a whisper, even in the middle of the night. This house is all ears.”

“All cracks and crevices, you mean.”

The same thought occurs to both of them.

“Have you spotted buckets anywhere?” says Walter.

“If nothing else, we have a multitude of beach towels.”

“And a dryer.”

“If the power holds.”

Walter rests a hand on Fenno’s chest. “Well, at least it’s not our house, if it blows away.”

When Fenno wakes again, he can hear at once that everybody else is up. Walter must have closed and latched all the inside shutters on the second story; this is why Fenno slept late. The bedroom, lit only by chinks of light between the slats, is gloomy. Trees groan, the rain sounds as if it’s roaring through a sluice rather than falling from the sky, and thunder resounds in the distance.

Downstairs, Daphne calls out, “Right foot, red! … Left hand, blue! … Right foot, red—no, a different red!” The children hoot and giggle.

Fenno sits on the edge of the bed, bending forward so as not to strike his head on the dormered ceiling. He snaps on a lamp. It’s half nine, and they are, without a doubt, being pounded by a tempest. Whether or not it merits a given name hardly seems germane.

Walter comes into the room. “Don’t scold me. I let you sleep in.
Those children—did I call them charming? They were bouncing around at six o’clock, so I made French toast. Rain blew under the back door, but I have it dammed, and Felicity was singing her scales like we’re looking at the End of Days. I think she sang herself hoarse.”

“Walter, don’t make me give you a medal.”

“Oh, sweetheart, the chits are piling up, believe you me.”

Now the children are calling Walter.

“Save me. They want me to play Twister.” But he calls out that he’s coming and hastens back downstairs.

Fenno dresses quickly; it must be thirty degrees cooler than yesterday. Maybe they’ll use the hearth, though they haven’t tried it yet, and the last thing he wants to do is burn the place down.

In the living room, Kit and Lucinda are reading yesterday’s
New York Times
. When they look up and smile, he has a glimpse of their literal kinship.

“Quite a stooshie out there,” says Fenno.

“At least we know this house has stood for a couple hundred years,” says Kit. “That’s reassuring.”

“Well, until the day it doesn’t.” Daphne’s come into the room, holding the cardboard spinner against her chest. “The children need more players.”

“Tell you what, Mom. You play, I’ll spin.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kit. Have a little respect for your elders and their joints.”

“Can we talk them into a word game?” says Lucinda.

“Fanny packed Bananagrams,” Kit says. He goes in search of his daughter, leaving Fenno with the two women.

“Do you fancy a fire?” he asks, regretting the offer at once. He will have to decipher the elaborate note describing how to work the antique damper. Before anyone can answer, he is saved by Walter, who calls his name from the back of the house. His voice sounds quietly urgent.

In the kitchen, the radio is tuned to WOMR, the announcer listing flooded roads and the locations of emergency shelters for the Outer Cape. Walter has already begun to assemble lunch makings on the counter. But now he stands at the entrance to the screened porch, looking out. “Get over here,” he whispers.

Fenno joins him. A towering tree in the neighbor’s backyard has
bowed to a forty-five-degree angle, quite possibly aimed at the front corner of the house in which Fenno and Walter are standing. It might miss the house, but it will not miss a power line that runs from the street to the house. The tree remains poised at that angle, as if time has stalled—though the wind continues to gust, flailing sheets of rain every which way. The porch furniture is soaked.

“Holy moly,” says Walter. “What if it goes?”

“Oh, ’twill go,” Fenno says. “Its path is the only thing in question.”

“Terrific!” says Walter. “Four generations of one family crushed by tree of terror! Two middle-aged queens smooshed as well!”

“I’d say we’re fine if we stay at the back of the house,” says Fenno.

“Oh my God, are we going to end up sleeping on the floor of some high-school gym? ‘Refugee’ is not in my repertoire.”

“Anyone up for Bananagrams?” Fanny’s come into the kitchen carrying a small yellow sack shaped like a floppy banana. “Dad’s going to teach Mrs. Burns. Didi’s reading. She says her book’s too good to put down.”

Walter goes into the living room and declares that everyone needs to gather in the kitchen. “I’m baking brownies,” he says, “so it’s going to be the warmest place to hang—and the place to lick the beaters and bowl.”

The game is an each-to-his-own variation on Scrabble, and the kitchen grows quiet as the five players begin. Walter studies the box of brownie mix. Daphne sits at the far end of the window seat and resumes reading her novel.

Fenno asked Walter to turn the radio off, so as not to alarm the children. From what he heard, no one’s been killed, and nothing major’s been swept out to sea—not yet—but the storm sounds almost worse as background to the newscasters than it does beyond the confines of the house. The dune shacks have been evacuated, and “advisory warnings”—quaint redundancy—to stay off the roads and bridges are broadcast repeatedly for the benefit of citizens too daft to reach this obvious conclusion on their own. Otherwise (but for the threatening tree) it might as well be just another rained-out Saturday in Ptown.

Briefly, Fenno imagines cliques of men dressed as princes, dwarves,
and wicked queens stewing in their motel rooms along Route 6. What games will they be playing? Walter would find a good vulgar joke alluding to Bananagrams. In the midst of pottering about with his assigned letters, Fenno stops to watch Walter at the counter as he stirs together the brownie batter. Fenno knows that he will endure their meetings with Julian made indefinitely if that’s what it takes to make himself show this man how flat life would feel without him.

The storm remains fierce through the afternoon. Walter and Fenno take turns glancing, furtively, at the neighbor’s tree. Miraculously, it remains in its death-defying stance, apparently reluctant to complete its fall. Also miraculously, they have not lost power. Yet looking out the window so often, Fenno has the ominous feeling that they are the only inhabitants within shouting range. The four houses he can see from this one show no signs of activity.

Felicity, who has a habit of singing scales when it rains (sounding like one of those trannies on Commercial trying desperately to channel Barbra Streisand), has mercifully quit. The children have lost interest in the bird, largely because she does not speak, so she sulks on her cage, plumage fluffed, uttering the occasional halfhearted squawk. Fenno puts her on his shoulder when they sit at the table to play games.

They play SpongeBob Uno, gin rummy, and the amusingly antiquated Careers. At Walter’s instigation, they attempt a round of Fictionary; Will complains that he does not enjoy the game or consider it “fair,” because it favors his sister’s talents. They eat countless sandwiches and a whole batch of brownies. At five, Walter proclaims that the weather calls for sherry. He digs into their host’s stash of liquor, finds a bottle of Harveys, and dusts it off.