Crazy in Love (6 page)

“There are sea turtles in the Galápagos Islands,” Eugene said. He reached for my hand, pulled me close to the water’s edge where he had drawn chalk pictures. One of them showed a dog with a remarkable penis. Eugene grinned when he saw me notice it.

“Isn’t that cute?” I said. “Want to have lunch at my place today, Clare?”

“Sure. I’ll bring the brownies.” Clare loved to bake; brownies were her specialty. I started to walk away; Clare was concentrating hard on the view she was painting.

“See you,” she said after I had turned the corner. Her voice drifted to me; she had barely noticed me leave.

In my own kitchen I puttered around and wished I had someone to talk to. I started to call Nick, then remembered he was in an all-day meeting. We had not yet had to test his suggestion that I not check in to the Gregory; work had not kept him away since our dinner at Vinnie’s.

I began to imagine him in the meeting. Over the years, he had described his work so vividly to me, I felt able to conjure any given situation.

The Meeting: He would be nervous, just a little, before it started. He would go through the file, arranging documents in the order in which they would be discussed. He would check with Denise to make sure she had supplied enough legal pads and papers for the participants and to make sure she had arranged for coffee and doughnuts. He would fix his tie. He would feel sorry he had worn the red tie with the tiny stain. Then he would gather the documents, walk down the hall to the big conference room, and arrange the proper papers on the enormous oval walnut table. He would squint at the window, adjust the blinds to let in enough sun but not too much.

The clients would enter with John Avery, the partner in charge. Since this was a friendly meeting, everyone would shake hands and people who had met before would ask about spouses and vacations. Nick would still be feeling nervous, but no one would know it because he could hide his nervousness extremely well. Nick would be asked to fill everyone in on what had happened since the previous meeting. He would start to talk. He would discuss the deal’s structure, the tax aspects, the percentage participation of each company. Within a few seconds, he would cease feeling nervous. The meeting would continue until lunchtime. Then Nick would ask everyone what kind of sandwiches they wanted. He would leave the room to call a messenger with the order, but first he would call me.

I cut myself off there. I began to mash tuna fish for the sandwich I would serve Clare. With equal clarity I could imagine negotiations, smaller meetings between Nick and one partner or one client, shuttle flights to Washington, lunches at the Downtown or Broad Street clubs, places I had never set foot in but could envision perfectly, based on Nick’s descriptions. Following him through the day in my mind had once given me pleasure, but now I felt ashamed of it. It seemed like a secret vice, akin to following him into the city on the nights he had to work late. To Nick, the love of my life and husband of eight years, I now felt I was displaying my heart on my sleeve.

I wanted to talk to Clare. I couldn’t wait for lunchtime. But the phone rang; it was Clare saying that the babysitter had a bad bee sting and couldn’t come to work, that Clare would have to take the boys to their swimming lesson. That she couldn’t come for lunch.

I made myself a tuna sandwich, and I turned to the newspaper. I quit thinking about Nick, and I became the Swift Observer. I found the window on other people’s worlds quite consoling.

4

ONE EVENING THAT WEEK I COMPLETED MY
report. My last case involved seventy-three-year-old identical twins, separated at birth, who had lived in the same Bronx apartment complex for thirty years but hadn’t discovered each other until they wound up playing bingo at the same table one night. The news account said they were dressed identically, including their jewelry. I tried to imagine a seventy-three-year-old woman dressing up for another night of bingo. Perhaps it was her only night to socialize. At the bingo table she had glanced up, and there was her mirror image. Information gave me a number for Doris McNaughton.

She answered the phone, and I identified myself. “Excuse me for bothering you,” I said, “but your story is fascinating. How do you feel, meeting your sister after so many years?” The idea of it delighted me.

“It was interesting, to say the least. I couldn’t believe it then, and I hardly believe it now. The phone has been ringing off the hook. You can’t imagine.”

“Sure I can! I’m sure every reporter in New York wants to hear your story.”

“But only one of us wants to tell it.” Pregnant pause.

“That’s you, I take it?”

“Yes. You see, I’m the one my parents kept, and Herself is sulking over the fact. She’s refusing to talk to any reporters at all. And believe me, the offers are much more lucrative if we talk together.”

“Your parents gave up one of their twins? Do you mind if I ask why?”

“We were on Ellis Island. Need I say more? The point is, you have to get on with life. I’m living on a fixed income, so naturally I want to sell my story. But Vivian is being a regular wet blanket. She’s crying day in and day out, refusing even to get out of bed.”

“Well, think of how happy your parents would be,” I said.

“It’s turning out to be a mixed blessing, to say the least. We’re not getting off on the right foot one bit.”

After we hung up I lay on the floor, watching the sun’s declining light turn the bay’s surface silver, then purple. I felt empty and sad, thinking of rootless Vivian. I imagined Vivian lying across her bed, tears streaming from her eyes. I wondered whether Vivian had at least known she was a twin; that knowledge might have mitigated the shock. I wished I had asked Doris.

Clare’s voice came from the back door, and then she entered the room. “The little boys are sleeping out at Billy Mendillo’s house, and the big boys are flying in late tonight. What say you and I keep each other company?”

“Good idea,” I said, rising from the floor. We walked onto the porch and sat on rattan chairs. “I just spoke to a woman who was separated from her twin on Ellis Island.”

“How horrible.” Clare shook her head. “God, you have a lifetime with a sister—like you and me. Can you imagine if we’d never known each other?”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“What made you call her?”

“Her story is about sisters. Also, it’s sensational.”

“Ah, escaping the old ‘
Journal of Lipid Research
Syndrome,’ ” Clare said, and we both laughed. As the daughters of scientists, we had been surrounded by people who appreciated the minute, the insignificant, the esoteric. We had spent hours in the cavernous library beside Eel Pond, wandering through the stacks of scientific publications while our father did research. There were years’ worth of the
Journal of Liquid Chromotography, Geomarine Letters
, the
Journal of Great Lakes Research,
the
Journal of Insect Physiology
, the
Journal of Lipid Research
. How, I had wondered, could so many volumes be devoted to lipid research? What was lipid research? There it was, in the Marine Biological Laboratory Library, that I learned my love for the large, the grandiose, the extravagant. I had sat at one particular scarred linoleum table in the northwest corner, listening to the wind scream through the windows, watching my father work on his latest article for
Paleontology Today
. Clare would do her homework while I had fantasies of Hollywood, New York, and St. Moritz. My fantasies were panoramic, like movies by Louis B. Mayer. One daydream could include Jean-Claude Killy, Bob Dylan, Prince Charles, John Lindsay, Virginia Woolf, and Roger Tory Peterson.

Clare and I sat on my porch, looking west across the bay. It felt comfortable to be silent with her. She hummed a tune I couldn’t recognize, something she often did when she felt relaxed.

“Get ready for a bombshell,” I said. “Honora told me the name of Dad’s mystery woman.”

Clare’s mouth dropped open. “She did? Oh, I’m not sure I want you to tell me who it was. We knew her, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but her identity won’t devastate you. I promise. Want to know?”

“I guess so.”

“Mrs. Billings.”

After a considerable pause, Clare wrinkled her nose. “That drab little thing? God, I can barely remember her. That was his great romantic downfall? No wonder Honora could never bear to tell us—it’s shameful, to lose your husband to someone like her. I remember going over to Rachel’s and seeing her in the rattiest bathrobe I’ve ever seen.”

“I remember how frail she looked. I was afraid she’d blow away in a storm.”

“Maybe it would have been better if she had. How did Honora seem when she told you?”

“Fine. It didn’t seem to upset her at all.”

“So much time has passed.” She slapped my forearm. “I’m jealous she told you instead of me. She must be taking your role as the Swift Observer very seriously. She’s not confiding in her daughter, she’s confiding in an entity.”

“Maybe that’s true. Heaven knows we’ve been trying to get it out of her for years.”

“Why didn’t you call me the minute you heard?”

“I was going to—the day I invited you for lunch and you threw me over for swimming lessons.”

“I almost wish I didn’t know. Now I’ll always have to picture Dad kissing little Mrs. Billings. It’s a letdown in a way—I used to imagine him with an Elizabeth Taylor type.”

“So did I. Knowing her true identity makes it seem more real, I think. I feel worse for Honora.”

“I don’t. It’s too bad Dad cheated on her, but it’s not the worst thing that could happen. Honora has always drummed it into our heads that men are scheming sex fiends, ready to leave you at the first opportunity. No wonder you’re paranoid about Nick.”

“I’m not exactly paranoid,” I said, beginning to hear the faint hum of the plane’s engine.

“Listen, the fact that you even doubt him is ridiculous. Donald says Nick begins dreaming of coming home the second he gets into the plane in the morning. Give him a break and don’t have affair attacks anymore.”

“I’ll try.” The plane banked into sight, the port and starboard lights now clearly visible. “I’m not really worried anyway.”

“Bullshit,” Clare said, smiling at me. Then we held hands and said “Safe landing” at the same time, a ritual we followed whenever we were together as the plane came in. The plane chattered across the glassy bay.

“When does Nick’s firm have its summer outing?” she asked.

I had nearly forgotten about the annual summer party for lawyers and spouses. “Sometime before the end of June. Next week, I guess. How about Donald’s?”

“Next week also,” she said, making a face that reminded me of one of Pem’s.

Nick and Donald stepped onto the jetty. The ferry to Orient Point chugged along the horizon. Dark clouds had gathered over Plum Island, covering the early stars. Nick came toward me. He held me close. “You feel wonderful,” he said.

“Say it like you mean it,” I said, and he bent me over backwards, supporting my shoulders with one arm, and kissed me hard. Then we stood up.

“Let’s have dinner. I’m starving,” I said. We said goodnight to Clare and Donald. With our arms around each other we walked up the stone walk, across the porch, into our house.

THE DAYS OF EARLY
summer passed quickly. My first report to the Avery Foundation submitted, I now worked on the second. It gave me pleasure to work each day before the heat came, filling the air with white mist. One day I called every woman whose engagement announcement appeared in the
New London Day
, to ask questions about love, family, what she wanted from life. The answers ranged from thoughtful to absurd. “We just want to be together,” said Judy Delancray, with shy pride in her voice. “I got to get away from my parents,” said Marlene Arturo. “We want to fuck with the church’s permission,” said Noreen Jackowski in a voice so deep that I suspected I had reached her brother or a male cousin, someone grabbing the opportunity for fun on the telephone. I laughed with him, remembering how Clare and I had adored prank calls as children.

None of the betrothed, however, could distract me from the well-publicized news that Mona Tuchman had suffered a miscarriage. One night I was standing at the sink, chopping vegetables, imagining the conversation she and I would have, when I heard the seaplane. I checked my watch: nine-thirty.

For a moment I tried to ignore the droning engine. I had a terrible superstition, from which I was trying to escape, that the plane would crash if I wasn’t actually watching it. When I was young I had believed the Red Sox would lose if I didn’t watch them on TV, that my father’s ship would sink on a trip to the other hemisphere if I wasn’t standing on Water Street waving goodbye when he left. On his last, doomed trip, he had flown to Scotland from Boston. I had kissed him goodbye in Woods Hole, but in order to attend a birthday party had stayed behind while Honora drove him to Logan Airport. Remembering that lapse in vigilance, I dropped the knife and hurried to the porch door. Through the trees I saw the plane’s lights angling down. They seemed to skim the top of the privet hedge. Then I heard the small splash as the plane landed.

Nick came inside and shook off his jacket. His lean face was tired but smiling. By this time of June it was usually more tan.

“It’s good to have you home,” I said.

“Oh, what a day it was,” he said, following me into the kitchen, watching me start dinner.

While dinner cooked we changed, Nick into striped blue pajamas, I into my white nightgown. I always washed it with strong bleach to keep it looking nearly blue, a prediliction I had picked up from Liza Jordan during my days as her maid. We sat on the sofa. My back against the sofa arm, I stretched my legs across Nick’s lap. He touched my toes. I stared at the white fabric draped across my knee, its folds deep lavender in the shadowy lamplight. Just one lamp burned beside us, and I loved the way it isolated me and Nick together, leaving the rest of the room dark.

“No one looks as comfortable as you do,” Nick said. “The way you snuggle into a sofa.”

“I’m a sloth.”

“No, that’s not it. Remember that Whistler exhibit at the Freer?”

During law school one of Nick’s favorite ways to relax was to visit the Freer Gallery on Sunday afternoons. We had loved the Chinese screens, the lacquered writing boxes, and the Peacock Room, but Nick had especially enjoyed an exhibition of Whistler’s watercolors. I knew what he was going to say.

“I think of those paintings a lot,” he said. “The women looked just like you, even if they didn’t resemble each other. The way they reclined on those chaise longues, or curled up in chairs to read. They were beautiful, such small paintings, but vivid. The expressions on the faces . . . you looked at one woman, all comfortable in a chair, and she’d smile at you with the most intelligent eyes. Or maybe she’d just been crying. That’s how I think of you. Your face can’t hide anything. Right now you look so happy. Your face is so pretty and happy.”

“You’re home. We’re together.”

“I know. That’s what makes you happy.”

“You know that and yet you begrudge me the chance to rendezvous with you on late nights in New York. Some husbands would actually find that romantic.” We were together and times were easy; I could joke about it when Nick was touching me.

“I find it romantic. But sometimes I find it exhausting. You know there are times when all I want to do is call room service for a BLT.”

“What did you do today?” I asked. “Are you exhausted?”

“Not really. Broadsword is on hold, so I negotiated the basics of an agreement between two companies who want to form a joint venture in Great Britain. It was pretty exciting—we drafted and signed a letter of intent before lunch.”