Duet for Three Hands (20 page)

He looked longingly at the whiskey on Frank’s bar. The phone cord wasn’t long enough for him to reach it.

“Yes, Ma. Every day.”

“That’ll have to be enough to sustain you.”

“I know, Ma.”

“The folks at the church, they pray for you every Sunday.”

A lump developed at the back of his throat. “For what, Ma? What do they pray for?”

“That you’ll find some peace, Nathaniel. Just for peace.”

“You thank them for me. Merry Christmas, Ma.”

“You too, son.”

After he hung up he poured a generous whiskey, gulping it down in two swallows, then poured another and stared into the glass. He shook his head, like a horse against the reins, and set the drink on the bar, staring at his hands for a long moment before walking outside to the lake. The landscape was encased in fog and the air bitter cold, giving the whole scene a feeling of misery. He threw a stone into the lake. It made a plop into the water, lost in the mist.

T
hat evening’s
party was at a steady hum by eight o’clock. The sounds of the celebration were like those at all of the Bellmont parties Nathaniel had been to: a hum of voices punctuated by the clinks of glasses and an occasional low-toned roar of a man’s boisterous belly laugh. Tonight, though, one saw the fragments of a lost world. Many of the women wore fashions that were years old, something no one would have done before the crash. There were several couples missing, too. Roger Baker was dead by his own hand two days after Black Thursday, and his widow “was living with relatives, God knows where,” according to Clare. The Hardings, after losing their lake home and most of their other assets, disappeared from society. “The poor bastard had everything in the market, and it was gone, poof, before you could say whiskey sour,” said Frank. Colonel Tate’s dream of a summer colony had been postponed as well. “Investor money dried up, unfortunately,” Clare told Nathaniel. “But he got his resort built anyway. Not that anyone uses it.”

The rest of the crowd, as Clare called them, had managed to keep their lake homes, but their demeanors were frayed. The women self-consciously darted their eyes to their own clothing when they came in and saw Clare dressed in an extravagant European gown. Several of Frank’s friends seemed a little too jovial, with a pretend optimism about their business ventures or finances.

Nathaniel meandered about the room, feeling unknown and self-conscious at the same time, unsure what to say, wishing to shove his left hand in his pocket to protect it from the inevitable, curious stares.

Clare came up behind him. “Get yourself a drink, Nate. Eat something. Have a good time.” She smiled and lowered her voice, almost too quiet for him to hear. “Try not to glare at folks like you’re looking right through them, darlin’. It makes people nervous, especially since you’re a Yankee,” she teased.

He smiled back at her. “I’ll try, Clare.”

The back of her skirt swept the floor as she walked toward the door to greet a new guest.

He turned to see Frank approaching, cigar between his teeth. “Frances went outside with that Hazel Murphy woman. Haven’t seen her come back in.” He pointed across the room to a young woman with a flat face. “Hazel came in ’while ago.”

The scar on Nathaniel’s arm throbbed with a dart of pain. “I’ll go look for her.”

Outside, the cold caught in his chest. He coughed and pulled his white dinner jacket tighter as he strode across the grass toward the dock. A figured moved in the water. Frances.

“For Christ’s sake,” he shouted to her. “Frances, get out. It’s disgusting in there.”

She waved her arms while treading water, calling out to him, “Darlin’, come on in.”

“Get out of there before you catch your death.”

“Ah, don’t be such a bore.”

“There are water moccasins in this lake.” He leaned over the edge of the dock in an attempt to see into the water. “Do you have anything on?”

“Does it matter?”

“Please, Frances.” He used a coaxing tone as if she were a frightened child. “Come on out of there before people see you.” He sat on his knees on the end of the dock and patted the aging wood of the planks. “Come on now. We can watch the stars together.”

She swam closer, and, holding onto the ladder, climbed onto the dock. Naked, she shivered violently in the night air. Frantic to cover her, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her thin shoulders. She held onto his arm. He noticed for the first time an empty bottle of whiskey at his feet. Before he could think of how to get her inside as quietly as possible, she shook off his coat and began to dance suggestively up and down the dock, as if she performed in a burlesque show, singing
Silent Night
at the top of her lungs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw party guests gathering on the veranda of the house. He ran after her with his jacket, but she was too quick for him. She sprinted to the end of the dock and stumbled, dropping to her knees on the muddy shore before scrambling once again to her feet. He overtook her with three long strides and tackled her so that they both fell into the mud. She flailed at him with her hands, scratching his face. Covering her with his body, he held her arms above her head. A screech exploded from her as she planted her bare feet into the sand and pushed up with her hips. “Get off me. You never let me have any fun.”

Speaking through clenched teeth, he kept his voice low, knowing how sound carried over water. “Be quiet. Everyone’s watching you.”

She went limp under him. “Won’t Mother be mortified?” It was like one long word.

“My God, Frances, what’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter with me.” She let out a maniacal giggle. “Daddy’s going to be real mad.”

“Oh, Frances, I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Nate,” she slurred, “was it Juliet’s mother that couldn’t get the blood off her hands?”

“No, Lady Macbeth.” He realized he’d dropped his jacket in the chase and had nothing to cover her with. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Not enough. I can still see your face.”

He flinched as though she’d slapped him. Shake it off. Think rationally. Behind him he heard Clare’s cashmere voice.

“I brought a robe, Nathaniel. Help her up while I put it on her.”

“Mother,” mumbled Frances. “Just what I need.”

“Nate, is she ill?”

“Drunk.” He pulled Frances up and supported her body weight while Clare put her into the robe. “Can you walk or shall I carry you?”

Her eyes fluttered and rolled back in her head as she collapsed against him. “She’s out,” he muttered, more to himself than to Clare.

“Use the entrance off the kitchen to carry her to her room.”

He didn’t bother to respond. There was nothing to say. All but the boldest guests had gone back inside the house when they saw Clare on the beach. Regardless, he didn’t glance up as he carried his wife around to the side entrance of the house.

W
hitmore

F
rom the window
of his bedroom, leaning his forehead against the glass, his breath a cloud of condensation on the window, Whitmore watched Nathaniel carry his sister off the beach. Turning back to his easel, he surveyed his work. It was of the lake that afternoon, gray mist hovering above brown water. Was it finished? Sleep on it, he decided. Sometimes he could tell what it needed after a period away.

He paced about the room, restless, thinking of Jeselle. Everything felt different. The moment he stepped into the kitchen he knew she’d changed. He remembered vividly how she’d been at ten years old, always laughing and moving through life like a dance, so alert and intelligent. How quick she was to learn things, everything absorbed in an instant and portrayed through the snap of her eyes. But now? She seemed old, almost brittle, like her mother, her carriage in a fixed line like Cassie’s, with hardness in her eyes. Had his leaving done this, or was it the speed and force of adulthood that could capture your innocence, your brilliance, and bring you to your knees, turning you into your parents? He shuddered, thinking of becoming like his father. How could he get through these several weeks of holiday now, without Jes? All his life he’d felt her by his side, and without her he was left off-kilter and barren.

And his mother? She seemed frightfully thin and nervous, reminding him of a fragile china doll Frances had played with as a child. He couldn’t help but think that things were worse since he’d left for school. For all of them.

He wandered outside. The sky had cleared during the party, and the moon was full. Sounds of laughter and clinking glasses floated across the yard as he walked along the path to the tree house, the moon lighting his way through the dense thicket of trees. Rung by rung, feeling in the dark, he climbed the ladder. Almost to the top, he stopped. Had he heard someone sniff? He climbed the last rung and looked in. Jes. Crying. Huddled in the corner.

“Jessie, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Wooden voice, like they were strangers. “I like to come up here, clear my head, get a little peace and quiet.”

A dog howled from one of the neighboring houses. Whit climbed the rest of the way in, watching her in the moonlight. The tree’s branches rustled in the breeze.

She sighed in the darkness. “It’s not the same here since you left.” She said it with a hint of judgment in her tone, like it was his fault.

He sat with that for a moment, fighting against the tickle that started at the back of his eyelids.

“You have any girlfriends up there?” Was that a quiver in her voice? Was she jealous? After all this time she doubted him? She was the one who hadn’t written.

“There are no girlfriends.” The breeze brought the smell of burning tobacco and the sounds of laughter from the veranda.

“You best find a nice girl to marry. One that looks good sitting next to you at church when you’re running Coca-Cola.”

“What’re you talking about?” She didn’t answer. It was silent for several minutes except for the rustle of pine needles. Finally, he said, “Father told me there are a hundred men every day waiting for work outside the gates. How could I walk through the doors and leave them all there, hungry?”

“You know how many men wish they had that problem instead of begging for work?”

“You think I have any say over what happens to me?”

Her voice was soft and sad. “You’ll be at one of those fancy parties with all those rich, white girls fawning all over you, and you’ll realize you haven’t checked for a letter from me in weeks.”

He turned to her, horrified to hear the tears in his voice. “Listen to me, Jeselle Thorton. That will never happen. Not ever. You hear me?” A lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. Neither of them moved.

Then he felt her shift so that she was closer to him, her voice husky next to his shoulder. “I’ve been wondering if you saw the Atlantic Ocean?” She put her head on his arm.

He felt the tears tighten his throat again. “I did. It made me feel small.”

“I knew it would.”

Her breath came in little shakes. Crying. No, this he could not allow. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his lap. She buried her face in his neck. Tears soaked his skin. He found her hands, brought them to his lips.

“Whit,” she whispered against his fingers. “I missed you so much it hurt.”

Vanilla and honey. He breathed in her scent as if to bring her mouth to his with the force of a wish, feeling possessed with fever, intoxicated from the nearness of her. And finally, after imagining it a thousand times, he kissed her. She shivered against him as he probed her mouth with the flesh of his lips, the slight tip of his tongue. After a second her mouth parted, and he felt her pressing into him, her small breasts against his chest. A sound in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, escaped. He spoke against her mouth, “Stay with me.” She stiffened. Pulling away so that he might see her face, a chill slid between them. Her eyes, round and frightened. “I’ve asked too much. I’m sorry.” He pulled back, trying to steady his ragged breath.

“No.” She tightened her arms around his neck. “Whit, no matter what, tonight, don’t stop.”

“I’ll never stop when it comes to you.” He whispered against her mouth before crushing her to him.