Random Hearts (12 page)

"Me, too."

"I can't believe it's possible for us not to have
known," she said. "I just can't grasp that." She looked at him,
accusing.

"I swear to you, Mrs. Simpson. It comes as a total
shock."

"But she was your wife. How can she have hidden it
from you?" She looked into the coffee cup. "Now that's a stupid
question. Where was I, you might ask."

"All right. I'll ask it. Where were you? They say a
woman can sense those things."

"We'll just have to stop these generalizations,"
she said irritably.

"I'm sorry," he said. It had started badly.
Perhaps this was not really a good idea after all.

"Did it happen before?" she asked, ignoring his
apology.

"Did what?"

"Her being, you know, unfaithful."

"She wasn't a whore," he said between clenched
teeth, instantly defensive. "What about him?" Was he trying to assign
blame?

She shook her head.

"Never?" he asked cautiously.

"Who can say that now? I'll never say never again."

He rubbed his chin, feeling the rough stubble.

"Neither will I," he mumbled facetiously.
"Maybe she
was
a whore. She certainly was a liar on a grand
scale."

"Both of them were, Mr. Davis. Both of them
were." She lifted her cup again. Coffee spills gathered in the saucer, but
she managed a sip.

"But how? Why?"

"I don't know. That's why we're here, I suppose."

"Where did she say she was going, for God's
sake?"

"To L.A. She's a—she was—a fashion buyer for Woodies.
I thought nothing of her traveling. She did it periodically. She was, after
all, a responsible executive." The old pride in her surfaced. Recognizing
it again, he cursed her in his heart.

"A buyer for Woodies? Where would she have crossed
Orson's path? He was a lawyer. Corporations. Lobbying. Far afield."

"They could have met anywhere, I suppose." Then,
after a pause, "It doesn't matter now."

"That's what I keep saying to myself. But I can't get
it out of my mind. All the speculation. I saw nothing. Nothing. I keep asking
myself: Am I so insensitive, so thick and stupid?"

"The pronoun, Mrs. Simpson. Use the plural." It
seemed a misplaced stab of humor. "We!"

"What is even worse"—she lowered her
voice—"is that I feel more anger than grief."

"I know what you mean."

Her brown eyes inspected him, and he felt drawn to meet
them.

"I wish I didn't feel that. I've never felt it before.
And I keep saying to myself that a stranger was killed, not my Orson."

He nodded. Nor my Lily.

"I had no reason to assume that we had anything but a
good marriage. I can't even envision Orson in this role. At first I thought
there must be some other explanation—a dual personality. I'm sure it's
possible. But then, in your case ... Two dual personalities? What are the odds
against that?"

"Staggering, I suppose."

"And you?" Their eyes had not drifted. Now his
turned away, and he looked at his fingers.

"The same. As you said, I had no reason to assume
otherwise. I felt good about our marriage. I didn't pretend to be the greatest
husband. I've got faults." He checked himself. His instinct was to be
self-effacing, but something held him back. He did not want this woman to see
his imperfections, although he was not quite certain why.

"There could be some other explanation." It
sounded almost like a wish. "Like a CIA thing, something like that. A
secret mission, like on TV." Her eyes widened. "You think I'm
crazy?"

"Not crazy."

"Grasping at straws?"

"More like that," he said gently.

"Anything to explain it away, I suppose. To absolve
them and us."

"Us?"

He did not wish to pursue that line. Next, they would be
blaming themselves.

"We'll never know for sure," he sighed.

"That policeman said the only connection was that
key." She fished out the key case from her pocketbook. Then she opened it
and upended the keys. "I don't even know which one it was."

"I left the key ring at the house."

"I've thought a great deal about that key. What did it
open? Just another unbearable question to live with. God, I hate thinking about
it." She raised her eyes to his and locked them there again. "I hate
discussing it."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I. Sorry for everything. You know
something?" He felt the intimacy of her tone, and it disturbed him.
"I don't think I'll ever be able to trust anyone again," she said.
"I don't even trust myself. If I couldn't see what was happening right
under my nose, how could I ever again trust my own instincts or judgment?"

Bending low over the table, she began to raise the cup
again. Her hands trembled, and she put it down, placing her hands on the
table's edge. Edward looked at her fingers. They struck him as being delicate,
gentle. He felt an urge to be touched by them, as if somehow they would soothe,
assuage pain.

"How long do you suppose it was going on?" she
asked.

"I was afraid to ask myself," he murmured.

"A long time? Months? Years?"

Her alabaster skin seemed to whiten as she spoke.

"Are you all right?" he asked, reaching out but
not touching her.

"I'll never be all right."

Outside, it was getting light, and more recognizable
daytime types, white collar workers, began arriving. Vivien and Edward sat in
silence for a long time. Edward felt enervated, emptied of all vitality. Vivien
nodded her head as if she were contemplating the oil slick on the surface of
her tepid coffee.

"I'm just taking it one day at a time," he said
finally, clearing his throat of a sudden hoarseness. "The worst thing will
be facing my wife's family. They'll think I murdered Lily...."

"Lily?" She shot him a quick angry glance, as if
to repeat the name was somehow an obscenity.

"A bit old-fashioned, naming kids after flowers. Her
parents were old-fashioned Italians."

"Corny. Like Orson. His mother is dead, but his sister
is still alive." Her throat emitted an odd bubbling sound. "She
objects to my decision to cremate Orson, so she won't come to the
service."

He searched her face for some sign of irony, but her
features were impenetrable.

"She called it a burning."

"It's a perfectly proper way to dispose of the
body," he said, as if suddenly compelled to come to her defense.

"Perfectly proper." She looked at him, offering
an unmistakable flash of belligerence. Their eyes locked.

In hers he imagined he could see the battle between fury
and resignation, a mirror of his own.

"What an odd way to put it," she said. In his
heart, he agreed with her choice, sensing it was deliberate. But he did not
explore it further, fearing that his own choice for Lily's disposal was somehow
an act of cowardice.

"It was all so strange. The way he looked. All pink
and healthy. Lying there so quiet and innocent." Her lips pursed.

His last image of Lily intruded suddenly. The upper part of
her head was caved in: Retribution? The question posed itself as though it were
independent of his will. His stomach lurched, and a chill shot through him.
Such ideas were alien and terrible, part of the distorted perceptions of a
nightmare.

He looked about him, fixing his sense of place and reality.
He was, he told himself, completely awake, living the immediacy of the moment.

"Anyway, that part will be over by tomorrow
afternoon." She took a deep breath.

"I'll have to go up to Baltimore and face it with her
family. Clannish, emotional Italians. It will be a ghastly experience. In a way
they have a point. If I hadn't married her, she'd still be alive."

"I doubt that. Women like that always create some kind
of mischief." She checked herself quickly, but it was too late to
retrieve.

"Like what?" Incredibly, he was still defending.
As he watched her, she seemed to be debating what she might say next. Her tense
expression gave away her response. Oddly, he seemed to be girding himself.

"You're not going to deny it. The woman must consent.
It's not exactly like rape." Her features distorted in anger.

"And the man? Isn't he supposed to be the
pursuer?"

"Orson was not like that," she stammered.

"Takes two to tango," he said. Was she actually
trying to affix blame? "Maybe three," he muttered. "Or
four."

"Four?"

The idea transformed the issue. Up until then she had
seemed poised for combat.

"Us. Something lacking in us," he said.
"Something that drove them away from us, toward each other. Maybe we're
cold, indifferent, unloving."

He watched her facial muscles go slack.

"I was a devoted, loving, dedicated wife, an
old-fashioned hausfrau and mother. I tended, the home. I was a good little
lamb."

"Who never strayed?"

"Never." She sucked in a gasp of indignation.

"Me, too," he sighed. Suckers, he thought. Unless
she lied.

"Maybe we
are
to blame," she said after
another long silence. She lifted her hands from the table, clasping her fingers
to keep them from trembling.

"Maybe."

"Well, they're not here to explain it." Her voice
rose. People in the next booth turned.

"That's for sure," he said bitterly.

"And even if they were..." Her lips clamped shut
as she fought for control.

"Did you tell anyone?" he asked, surprised at the
direction of his thoughts. Public shame was another alien idea. Now, for some
reason, it filled him with dread. He could not deny the challenge to his
manhood. He thought suddenly of Jan Peters mocking his faithfulness.

"Absolutely not. Never." The vehemence of her
tone startled him, but it, too, merely articulated his own reaction. "Not
even Dale, my husband's partner. It's not his business. He pressed me. Wanted
to sue the airline for withholding the names so long. I said absolutely not. It
won't bring Orson back. Thank God. I wouldn't want him." She looked
determined. "I told no one. My parents are coming down tomorrow. I usually
tell them most things. But not this."

"Do you suppose it will be in the papers? The
Post
called for a picture. I gave them nothing."

"I didn't either." She paused. "I couldn't
bear to see it in the papers."

"Do you trust the cop? I mean, not to spread it
everywhere. It would make a juicy story."

"I told you, I will never trust anyone again."

"I'll vote yea on that."

"Never."

He nodded, further underlining the resolution. Her fingers
unclasped and formed themselves into balled fists. Without realizing, his own
had done the same. They seemed to be feeling each other's anger.

"The bottom line is that neither of us knew a damned
thing. Nothing."

"Where do you suppose they were going?" She
looked at him, her lashes fluttering nervously.

"Does it matter?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Four days, she told me."

"Paris by Concorde and back."

"That's where he said he was going?"

She nodded.

"What lies. What horrible lies." This time his
voice rose and a number of customers turned around.

"Maybe we should leave it alone," she said,
pushing the coffee cup toward the center of the table. "If we go over and
over it like this, it can't be good for us. I have a child to worry about. His
child," she added, her eyes narrowing. "You?"

"No children."

He supposed he should be thankful for that. With the
thought came another realization. He would not have a living memory to remind
him always of her. His stomach tightened. Her betrayal!

"Someday my son will ask me exactly how his daddy
died," she said.

"What have you told him?" The question seemed an
intrusion.

"That he went to heaven." She flashed an empty
smile.

"Heaven. That's a gas."

"When he's old enough he'll find out the truth; then
he'll probably blame me for being inadequate."

"So don't tell him. Keep the secret." It struck
him that the "secret" had become a kind of bond between them, like
two independent witnesses to a murder.

"Maybe. It's too early to think about that," she
sighed.

Too early to think about anything, he supposed, confronting
the tangle of his own thoughts and emotions.

"Dammit," he said sharply, compelled to describe
his state. "My mind is repelled by what I feel."

Her eyes suddenly widened.

"Yes. That's exactly it." She paused and nodded
her head. "Yes. Are we supposed to be demolished by grief? I feel nothing
like that. Shouldn't we be forgiving, tolerant, understanding? After all,
hasn't the punishment fit the crime? Where is our compassion? I don't know
about you, but all I feel is..." Her voice quivered, and the muscles of
her neck worked to hold back hysteria.

"Anger?" he offered.

"More than that. I feel so much..."

He waited, sure she would say what he himself felt.

"Hatred," she gasped. "And I hate myself for
feeling it. But I just can't help it. They had no right..."

"I know," he said gently. He moved one hand and
put it over her still-balled fist. "Who the hell but us would understand
that?"

She nodded, then removed her hand from his and brushed away
a tear.

His mind drifted. Again he thought of the impending ordeal
in Baltimore.

"I hope I don't blast it out to my in-laws. They think
of Lily like her name—white and pure." A low chuckle rose from his throat.

It was the one weapon against her family that he was
holding in reserve. If they pressed him too hard, he would take that arrow from
his quiver.

"I hope you will resist that," she said with
sudden panic, as though he had taken an oath of secrecy.

"I'll try," he said sincerely, knowing it was not
going to be easy.