Random Hearts (13 page)

"It's that other fellow that worries me. Not the cop.
The man from the airlines," she said. "Do you think he knows?"

"Probably. I thought about that. I don't think the
airlines would let it out deliberately. If he says something, it will probably
be later. A cocktail party joke."

"I'll never forgive them for that as well. Making our
lives a filthy joke."

"Some joke." He shrugged.

"Mr. and Mrs. Calvin Marlboro."

"Very funny."

"What a mockery it makes of us."

"People will split their sides."

"I couldn't bear it," she said.

"Let's hope we don't have to."

"According to Dale, we'll be getting lots of
compensation."

"I hadn't thought about that."

"I have. I won't touch a cent of it. Not a cent of
that dirty money." Flush spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks.

"Maybe it's still too early to make that kind of
decision," he said cautiously.

"Not for me," she muttered. She seemed to be
fading. Her brief animation dissipated. "I'd better go," she said.

She stretched out her arm, and he took her hand, cautiously
offering the pressure of common purpose. When she returned it, he clasped
harder. Somehow it felt like a ritual, the sealing of a lifelong promise.

"I'm glad we talked," he stammered. "It's as
though we're in it together. Like conspirators."

A frown of confusion shadowed her face.

She got up, yet some vague idea was germinating in his
mind, and he delayed releasing her.

"Do you suppose..."

She waited, standing at the table's edge.

"Suppose we found that place where they ... where they
met. Now it's hanging in limbo, but if we found it, saw it, confirmed it, might
it somehow put things in perspective?" He wasn't quite sure what he meant.

"I doubt it," she said. Releasing his hand, she
began to move away. Then she stopped. "What would it prove?"

"I don't know. Just a thought." Still, he did not
want her to leave.

"Maybe." She shrugged and began to walk away. He
rose after her, fishing in his wallet. At the door he caught her attention. As
she turned, he thrust a business card in her hand. Then he watched her walk out
into the cold gray morning, leaving him feeling empty.

At first she was not certain as to why she had come. Going
home, she knew. She had come to compare agonies, and she had gone away
satisfied. His pain was no less than hers. It was as if they shared a
semi-private room in the same hospital. Someone had decided that two people
with the same condition would be more comfortable together.

This odd conversation with the husband of her husband's
mistress actually raised her spirits. In the car she emitted a trill of ironic
laughter. Misery does like company, she thought.

All day she had felt like a participant in a scavenger hunt
in which she was the only hunter. Each step presented a strange new obstacle,
each of which she felt ill-prepared to confront.

"I'll make all the arrangements, Viv," Dale
assured her after he had brought her home from the Medical Examiner's office.
Her husband's partner had barely been in her field of vision in the old life.
She was already referring to all events before the crash as the old life.
Perhaps they had happened to someone else.

With lawyerly tenacity he had persisted in probing her. He
was not a fool. Certainly he surmised why the policeman had called them both
into his office at the same time. The point was that he did not know for
certain. But she had declined to press charges, as he suggested, which surely
titillated his already keen curiosity. Also, even if the implication was clear,
he would resist, in every way possible, exposing the law firm and its clients
to scandal. Even without the stigma of infidelity, it was enough to contemplate
how his ordered universe would react to a partner who had gone off secretly
without telling either his office or his wife of his destination.

It was not for nothing that Dale Martin had been made
managing partner; he was the perfect Ivy League prig down to his old-fashioned
garters, which he proudly exhibited on occasion to prove that he was a devotee
of the tried and true ways of old money and class, and, therefore, not subject
to contemporary fads. In deference to her husband, Vivien had always resisted
detesting him.

"He's high Episcopalian," Orson had said once.

"That explains it?"

Now he reminded her of Orson, the Orson she had just
learned about, the Orson who had lived behind his facade of lies. The cheating
Orson. The real Orson.

"I'm executor of your husband's estate," Dale
told her, settling into a chair in her living room. He had poured himself a
drink and sat cross-legged, exhibiting preppy navy socks and their striped
garters. "I've forgotten the details of the will, but I'll know tomorrow
when I look at it again. I wrote it. I'm sure you'll have no immediate
financial problems."

She let him go on without comment. It was an area of
complete ignorance for her. What did she know about death and its details? Even
Orson's body, pink and remarkably healthy looking, hadn't looked dead. Often
she had seen him sleeping like that, in just that position, on his back.

"I suspect you'll want to bury him up in Boston. I'm sure there's cemetery space up there. New Englanders usually make provisions.
Unless he's made arrangements here. Would you know about that, Viv?"

She shrugged indifferently, although it reminded her that
she had to call his sister. She had never been really close with her, a
bloodless woman who had always thought of Vivien as beneath her brother in both
forebears and intellect. A picture of the woman sprang into her mind. Like
Orson, she possessed the same sharp-edged features—handsome in a man, cronish
in a woman. The idea, of seeing her again made her feel nauseated. Was it at
that moment the idea of cremation was confirmed in her mind?

"Would you like us to keep Ben for the night?"
Dale asked.

"No," she replied after a moment's thought. She'd
call Alice. Her reaction to Orson's sister frightened her now. It had never
occurred to her before to actually hate the woman; in fact, she had never
really allowed herself to hate anyone. Not until now.

"We never hate," her father had lectured.
"We always try to understand." Well, that was one lesson that would
need some relearning. She wondered suddenly if she would grow to hate Ben as
well because he was a part of Orson. She shrank from the horror of that
possibility.

"I think I'd like to be alone now, Dale," she
told him, ashamed of her thoughts about her son. It was all right to hate Dale
and Orson's sister because they reminded her of Orson, but surely not Ben, not
little Ben.

A tiny scratching noise intruded suddenly. Hamster
scratching at the door. She had put him out this morning.

"What is that?" Dale asked.

"The dog. He wants to come in."

But she remained seated. Hamster was another reminder of
Orson, his gift. Let him stay out, she decided, conscious of this new sense of
malicious assertiveness.

Before Dale left he pecked her on the cheek. Her skin
twitched where he touched it.

When he had gone, she called her parents. Her mother
answered, and she poured out an altered version of the tragedy, exhibiting
proper grief.

"I'm so sorry, Viv. Oh, how awful." The woman
dissolved in tears.

Her father got on the phone. "Are you all right,
darling?" he asked firmly. "And Ben?"

"We'll make it, Dad."

"Poor Orson."

"Yes, Dad. Poor Orson." She gritted her teeth in
anger. She felt total indifference, and when her father began to probe further,
even in his gentle understanding way, she cut him off.

"When you get here, we'll talk about it." She
vowed then never to tell them the real story. They would, of course, be
appalled. Such things happened only to other people.

Telling Orson's sister was the worst of it.

"I don't believe it," his sister said.

"He was in the wreck all week," Vivien explained.
"I just found out this morning."

"How horrible." Control was a Simpson trait, his
sister had once told her. "Poor Orson. Oh, how ghastly."

She let his sister gather her wits. She had always been
proud and worshipful when it came to Orson.

"I suppose you've made arrangements to bury him near
Father in the Simpson plot in Boston. Perhaps we can have a service there as
well. I'll notify our cousins—"

"I'm having him cremated," Vivien said abruptly.

"Cremated?" His sister cleared her throat.
"The Simpsons don't cremate," she said.

"It's my choice."

"Was it Orson's?"

"He's dead."

She heard her draw in a deep breath.

"I won't come then."

"Suit yourself."

"You can't do this."

"Yes, I can."

His sister began to speak, but Vivien hung up, cutting her
off. I'll send you the beloved ashes, she vowed.

Orson was cremated the next day. A respectable crowd of
colleagues attended, as well as her friend Margo Teeters and her husband, her
parents, and others they had met along the way. The service was brief. At her
request, very brief. Even Dale was urged by her to keep his remarks short.
"It's my wish," she told him, unwilling to explain further. There was
a small story in the papers, recounting only that the last survivors of the air
crash had been brought up. Names were given. Nothing more.

Wearing a black veil and trying to play the role of the
aggrieved widow, she sat appropriately in the front row with her parents. She
held a bunched handkerchief in her hand, but it was not moist. The minister's
abbreviated eulogy was glowing but inane. Dale offered his own condensed
testimonial of Orson's achievements, which seemed utterly ludicrous. Be a good
soldier, she begged herself, suffering through the charade, her thoughts
running in a different direction. Must she passively accept this violation of
her self-respect? She felt degraded, abused. By dying, Orson had escaped her
scrutiny. Burning his corpse, while symbolically dramatic, brought little
satisfaction. He had no right to leave her without explanation, with all his
secrets intact. The Davis fellow had hit upon something. Putting things in
perspective, he had called it. Why? How? Where? These had become important
questions. She had been violated, betrayed, her illusions shattered. How would
she be able to confront the future without knowing these answers? The rest of
her life was at stake.

"I must know," she whispered while Dale was
speaking.

"What is it, dear?" her mother asked.

"Nothing."

No, she thought, she would not let them have their perfect
crime. Everyone left clues.

"What about the ashes?" her father asked as they
made their way to the parking lot after the service.

"They'll be along," she lied. Actually, she had
made arrangements to have them sent directly to Orson's sister.

Before she got in the car, she tossed her black veil into a
trash can.

"I hope I never need this again," she said,
placating her parents who had looked at her strangely.

"What a positive attitude," her mother exclaimed,
offering a thin smile of reluctant approval.

"Life must go on," her father said.

"Yes," she agreed. Not quite yet, she thought.

Her parents consented to take Ben to Vermont. She did not
set any time limits. If only the child were not the living image of his father.
To be conscious of such an idea seemed wrong. Her own child! Yet when she had
looked at him that morning, Orson's eyes had looked back at her, Orson's once
innocent eyes. Now they glared at her with imagined cunning and ridicule. And
she had turned away in anger from her own flesh and blood. And Orson's. Her
insides seemed to flare up in revolt.

"There are so many details to attend to. I appreciate
this, Mom."

"Nonsense. But will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine."

Her parents watched her, unsure, assessing her state of
mind. She knew that they suspected something was not quite as it should be. The
balance of their relationship was slightly awry. They had probed her in oblique
ways. Yet she could not bring herself to lie to them outright. Her explanation
had been selective but truthful. No, she had not known he was on that plane. To
avoid further probing, she told them that she was simply not ready to talk
about it. That, they were willing to accept.

"When you finish those details, will you come up to
Vermont?" her mother asked.

"It would be good therapy," her father
encouraged.

"We'll see," she answered. But first she had
other things to do.

She said good-bye to Ben with fervent kisses and promises
that seemed hollow and weak, as if they came from someone other than herself.

"Mommy will come up soon. You just listen to Grandma
and Grandpa."

"And will we make another snowman?"

"Of course we will."

She felt her son's beating heart next to her own. A wrenching
sob made her tremble, but no tears came. Something inside her was hardening. In
her arms, in the living creature that was her child, she again felt Orson's
presence. Her grip tightened as she crushed him against her.

"You're hurting me, Mommy," Ben grunted.

She unlocked her elbows and held him at arm's length.

"I would never hurt my baby. Never."

She was protesting to herself, and it frightened her. This
is my child, she thought, determined to ward off the horror of this aberrant
feeling.

"I love you very much," she said. The words were
expelled rather than spoken.

"And I love you, Mommy."

Was hate more powerful than love? She had kneeled to
embrace Ben. Now she stood up. Her knees felt weak.

"Come on, Hamster," Ben called. The little dog
barked at hearing his name and nuzzled up to Ben.

"You can't bring Hamster, Ben." Her words seemed
shockingly stern.

"It's perfectly all right," her mother said.

"I'm sorry. I simply will not add to your
burdens."

"But it's no—"

"Please, Mother."

Her mother nodded and turned to Ben. "Your mother is
right," she said.

Ben brushed away a tear with the edge of his jacket. She
felt like someone had cut her into two distinct parts, each warring with the
other.

"He'll keep me company," one part of her said.
The other part detested the idea and had other plans for Hamster.

"Now you're sure you're all right, darling?" her
father whispered, lingering behind as her mother and Ben got into the car. She
let him hug her and kiss her cheek, but she did not answer the question. Sure?
she wondered. Would she ever be sure of anything again?

When they had gone she felt an enormous sense of relief, a
pleasurable sense of forbidden freedom. She could now search the house in
peace, probe the last vestiges of Orson Oscar Simpson, without the strictures
of showing a false face to others.

Beginning with the closets, she removed every article of
his clothing, carefully going through the pockets for stray notes, signs,
clues, anything that might lead her to what, in her mind, had become her prey.
She felt the full lust of the predator as she worked with single-minded
dedication. Soon there was a giant pile of discarded clothing on the floor of
the bedroom. Pickings had been slim as far as pocket contents were concerned.
She found nothing to lead her in any direction. He had, obviously, been very
cautious.

By late afternoon she had gone through every stitch of
Orson's clothing, which she packed into large plastic garbage bags and placed
outside the door. After she inspected and discarded every article that could be
designated as "his," she would call the Salvation Army and rid
herself of them, get them out of her life once and for all. Testing her
resolve, she was satisfied that she felt neither a single tremor of conscience
nor a bit of remorse.

Working late into the evening, she went through papers,
books, checkbooks, packets of cancelled checks, piles of old law briefs.
Nowhere, as far as she could ascertain, did she find a single clue to his other
fife. She pored over old telephone bills and whatever she could find of credit
card receipts. When she became satisfied that it had nothing to do with his
other life, she flung the paper or article into a plastic bag. She wanted no
part of them.

What she was seeking was something tangible, although it was
not identified in her mind as anything specific. She believed only that she
would know when she found it. When something familiar recalled a feeling of
sentiment, she threw it aside, earmarking it for the rubbish heap. With these
sentimental objects she was flinging away the old life—the life of hypocrisy,
the life in which she was cast as victim. Never again, she vowed.

Somewhere there had to be a clue. At times she clung
briefly to the idea that what Orson had done could not possibly be real or
true. When such an idea struck, there was an interlude of memory that was
difficult to control. Hadn't there been good moments between them? But the
sentiment would dissipate quickly.

At the coffee shop Edward Davis had said: "It's like
we're in it together. Like conspirators." It seemed to be an indisputable
truth. All relationships now seemed conspiratorial. Orson and the Davis woman.
Perhaps Dale and Mrs. Sparks. McCarthy and the man from the airlines. Margo
conspiring against her husband. She conspiring against her parents. Against
Ben. My God! Guilt rose inside her, burning her insides.

Confronting her frustration, she recalled the Davis man
again. His image was etched sharply in her mind, his voice was imprinted in her
memory. "What lies! What horrible lies!" he had shouted in the coffee
shop, another perfect reflection of her anguish. Reflection. He was her mirror
now. In him she could see herself, the twisted, tortured image of her abandoned
and betrayed self. She needed to confront it again, needed it now.

She rummaged in her pocketbook and found his card, noting
for the first time that he was an administrative assistant to a congressman.
Also on the card was his home number, which she called. As it rang
persistently, she remembered him saying that he was going to bury his wife in
Baltimore. When he answered, she was surprised.

"I thought you would be gone," she said without
identifying herself. There was not the slightest hesitation in his voice. He
had recognized her instantly.

"Tomorrow," he said. "I had her shipped. I
couldn't bear to sit around with them. I'll show up at the church at the last
possible moment," he explained. "I'm the outsider. Just a gesture.
Why not?"

"It's over for me," she said. "He was
cremated today."

"So it's behind you," he said with an air of
sympathy.

"You think so?"

"Not really. It'll never be behind us."

"Can we talk?" she asked, not bothering to hide
her urgency.

"Of course. Same place?"

"No."

"Then where?"

"Someplace not public. But not here." She looked
around the house. "Your place?"

There was a brief pause. "It's an absolute horror. I'm
a terrible housekeeper."

"You should see mine." She looked about her,
surveying the wreckage from her search.

She wrote down the directions to his place, then brushed
back her hair and washed her face. Earlier she had let Hamster out again.
Vaguely, she remembered, he had scratched on the door. She put out his dog
food. Orson's gift. Even her relationship with Hamster would never be the same
again. She tried to chuckle away the idea but failed to savor the humor of it.

She drove quickly over the Key Bridge. At that hour there
was hardly any traffic, and she arrived in a surprisingly short time.

He opened the door, tired and disheveled, more ravaged than
he had looked at their meeting in the coffee shop. She could see that he had
made a halfhearted effort to tidy up but had not been completely successful.

"I told you, it's a shithouse. Lily was as neat as a
pin."

Towels, articles of clothing, empty pizza boxes were strewn
about. Pictures were awry, pillows mashed. Crumbs were everywhere. A hint of
pine-scented deodorizer seemed incongruous in the disjointed atmosphere. In his
haste he had probably oversprayed the room.

He was wearing jeans, a torn sweater, down-at-the-heel
loafers, and no socks. On his haggard face was a day's growth of beard. Her
inspection lingered a trifle too long, making him uncomfortable.

"I just sat here all day," he said, stroking his
face, clearing a place on a chair thick with cast-off shirts and socks.
"Tomorrow I'll drive up to Baltimore. It's going to be awful."

She removed her coat and sat down. "Mine was
surprisingly routine. A crackling fire. Over and done with." She patted
her knee. Then, standing abruptly, she walked to the window, parted the
curtains with her fingers, and looked out over the darkened city. She felt him
watching her. To tell him why she had come she had to turn and face him. He
looked forlorn.

"I want to know what really went on between
them."

"You do? Isn't that masochistic?" His change in
attitude surprised her.

"Why give it a name? I just have to know."

He locked his fingers together and rubbed the palm of one
with the thumb of the other.

"I've spent the day trying to reject the idea. But
it's all I could think about." His eyes swept the room. "As you can
see, I'm not coping very well."

"I think that if we really found more—the truth—it
would help us cope with the future. Maybe find out what went wrong with both of
us. Why they did it." Was it herself talking?

"You do really want to know?"

She nodded.

"I have that need. Yes." Was it the real reason?
Catching her reflection in a wall mirror, she saw an image of determination:
jaw jutting upward, eyes narrowed with intensity, and head held high. Who was
this creature? she wondered, turning again to face him. He had sagged onto the
couch.

"I'd rather forget it," he muttered. He looked up
at her like a helpless puppy. "But I can't."

"You see?"

"What's the point?" He shook his head. A burst of
mocking laughter hissed out of his throat. "It's like asking someone: How
are you? And he tells you the absolute truth. Who wants to know?"

"I want to know. I spent eight years with a man I
believed in, someone to whom I was committed for a lifetime, the father of my
son. That man betrayed me, and I want to know why."

"No, you don't," Davis said. "You want to
know how. You'll never find out why. My dilemma is more of a who. Who the hell
was Lily? The person I knew and loved and married and lived with? Or the broken
woman on the tray? That's my problem. If I couldn't recognize the person with
whom I've had what I thought was the closest possible relationship, then how
can I ever judge anything again?"