Random Hearts (15 page)

"So was Orson."

"Score one," Edward said. "They sat next to
each other on a plane. She probably asked him for half his newspaper. Then they
spoke."

"She did this before, then?"

"Spoke to people? Strangers? Yes. I told you."

Her tone had been accusatory.

"Picked up men, I mean," Vivien said.

He was irritated, oddly defensive, and protective. He
watched Vivien's face; she seemed pugnacious.

"I hope you're not implying that Orson was an innocent
victim of a predator. I said Lily was friendly, open. I can't conceive of her
picking up men, as you put it. She wasn't promiscuous."

"Are you sure?"

"Some things you know about people
instinctively."

He began to perspire, and moisture appeared on his upper
lip. He had to blot it with the napkin. He wished he could retract his last
remark about instinct. It had struck a false note. If his instincts had been
accurate, he would have known what was happening. He felt compelled to explain
himself.

"It would be out of character," he said, clearing
his throat. "She liked people. She liked to find out about them." He
wanted to say that she wasn't overly sexual. She liked to be cuddled and
hugged, but the sex part had always seemed obligatory. In college, she told
him, she had gone steady with a guy who was her first. Maybe there were others
in her single days. Except for the first one, they never discussed it, as if
the subject were a little embarrassing for both of them. It seemed so intimate,
even now. Especially now. He realized he was editing, but he could not bring
himself to be more explicit.

"So you think they met on a plane?" Vivien said,
nodding. "Now there's a powerful irony."

"Live by the sword, die by the sword," he
blurted. The remark made him feel strange, as if he could not quite reconcile
the idea of Lily's death with this revelation. "Fits with random
selection."

"Also a sop to us. It means they weren't actively
seeking."

"Not consciously," he corrected. "They had
to be throwing out vibrations."

"Let's accept it, then," she said testily. Her
discomfort was obvious, and she lengthened the physical distance between them.

He was aware of it instantly. "Maybe we should get out
of here," he said.

The restaurant was crowded now, spoiling the intimacy.

"I'm ready," she said, getting up.

"We'll go to my place." The suggestion had a
connotation he had not meant. "You said you'd help go through her
things."

"Yes, and I will."

He paid the check and helped her on with her coat. As she
struggled into it, he caught the scent of her, savoring it. In the process he
had also felt her shoulders and the weight of her as she leaned against him
inadvertently. It surprised him how sensitive he had become to her physical
proximity.

They walked back to his apartment. The streets were slick
from a light drizzle. It was still quite cold, and vapor poured from their
mouths. He turned up the collar of his coat and nestled his chin against the
fur lining. There were still pockets of ice and snow on the ground, and she
slipped an arm under one of his for balance. He said nothing, although he was
intensely aware of her.

He emptied the contents of her drawers and scanned papers,
mostly paycheck stubs and tear sheets from
Vogue
and
Harper's Bazaar
.
He saw the large check-book of their joint account. When he found the time he
did the balancing, but mostly he relied on her. He thumbed through the stubs.
There were other items: her passport, stationery, pencils, cast-off bits of
string, broken sunglasses, bric-a-brac of a past life. He felt no sentiment. They
were merely things, inanimate, now worthless.

Vivien looked through Lily's bedroom closet.

"Nothing of consequence in the pockets. Just the usual
female things." She grew contemplative. "She had a terrific wardrobe.
Size eight."

"She got the clothes at a discount."

"So she was quite good-looking," Vivien mused
vaguely.

He pointed to her passport.

"See for yourself."

She picked it up and studied it.

"A dark beauty."

"You can't really tell from that picture. She had the
family nose, which you can't see from that full view. Aquiline, I think you're
supposed to call it. But on her it looked good. Went with her eyes." Still
proud, he thought, baffled.

Vivien studied the picture for a long time, then put the
passport down, stole a glance at herself in the mirror, shifted, posed for a
side view.

"Opposites. Maybe that was it," she said.

Vivien was fairer, taller, larger-boned, with a bigger
bosom. In the mirror she saw him inspecting her and flushed. He came and stood
beside her, offering the physical comparison.

"Orson was six foot three," she said to his
reflection.

"Beat me by five inches. Probably in better shape,
too." He patted his paunch, which had gone down in the past few days.
"I used to be thinner."

"Orson was a jogger. Burned the calories off. He also
watched himself at the table. More than I did."

So he was taller and surely better looking, certainly
smarter.

"Sounds like I wasn't much competition."

"Nor I."

"You were different. She was more..."

"Delicate."

"She was quite strong. With lots of energy. I'd sag
first."

"Me, too. I used to blame it on Ben. He really wore me
out. Maybe that was part of it."

He did not answer, not wanting to go down that road again,
but he continued to look at her in the mirror. She had a full-bodied,
substantial attractiveness, a type that normally did not interest him. His gaze
seemed to make her uncomfortable, and she turned away.

"I don't think I found anything," he said. It had
felt eerie, both of them going through Lily's things, a violation of her
privacy. Couldn't be helped, he thought. She had brought it on herself.

"There just has to be something," Vivien said,
stroking her chin and looking about the room.

"There probably is. We just don't know what to look
for. If they were being secretive and clever, the last thing they would leave
lying around would be an address." Suddenly, Vivien's attention was
arrested by a little digital clock that read out the time in green characters.
She was totally lost in thought, and he watched her silently, noting the
intensity of her absorption.

"Time," she said finally, as she swung to face
him. "They had to allocate time"—the muscles in her neck pumped as
she swallowed with difficulty, gulping the words—"for each other."

A flash of irritation intruded. The anger flared again. He
pondered the disguises Lily had had to assume, the concoction of a false
identity, false words. Lies! The growing rage jogged his memory. His mind
reached back for clues in their routine, in their habits, and sorted through
the confusion of old images. He knew he was searching for abrupt changes,
uncommon actions, strange moments. An affair required physical interaction.
When did they meet? How?

Edward always left the house early, before seven. It gave
him a chance to get into the office and plan the day. It had become a habit.
Lily was always still in bed, fogged with sleep. He had even developed a
superstition about it, as if the day might be a disaster if he had not kissed
her. Since she was asleep, she never reacted, and he had been very gentle, not
wanting to wake her. How thoughtful, he mocked himself.

Lily's working day began, when she wasn't traveling, at
ten. She often told him how frenetic her day was. The retail business—it sucked
you in. He worked late most nights. She did not. She, therefore, had ample opportunity
to meet Orson while Edward worked. Except that the routine was not consistent,
and their relationship implied consistency.

"Orson was an early bird," Vivien said.

"Not Lily."

"He used to jog in the mornings." She brushed a
hand over her chin, again making the now familiar gesture of looking at the
ceiling. "Then he stopped and began to jog in the evenings." She
became animated, turning to face him. "But he continued to rise at six and
leave for the office before seven. He claimed he could always get more done
before people started to come in."

"He was right about that."

"He rarely stayed late at the office. He nearly always
came home for dinner. First he'd jog for half an hour, then he'd shower. Then
we'd eat together in the dining room. After dinner he'd go into his den and
work."

"So they couldn't have met in the evenings."

"Considering Orson's routine, not on a regular
basis."

"Lunchtime, then?" A frequent hour for meetings
of this sort, he thought. Common knowledge.

"The law firm had a company dining room. Clients would
come in."

"Days, then? Afternoons?"

Had they been so self-absorbed, so unobservant, so stupid?

"You don't know about lawyers. They keep accurate time
books."

"He could have lied, written false data. Remember,
we're dealing with shrewd, calculating people."

"Miss Sparks, his secretary, would have noticed. It
was a discipline of the firm."

"Maybe she did but said nothing. Kept her mouth
shut."

"Maybe."

"Weekends?" He stood up and began pacing the
floor. "Saturday was a working day for both of us. Sundays we slept in. We
were together on Sundays."

"Orson spent lots of time with Ben on weekends. You
might say he was a devoted father."

"Aren't we only assuming that they met frequently?
Maybe they met only sporadically. Once a week. Maybe once a month."

"But when? And where? And how frequently?"

"The keys imply very frequently, I'm afraid."

"Why afraid?"

"Just a figure of speech," he stammered.

"Of course. To validate our own ignorance." She
looked at him archly until she noted the thin humor.

"Mysteries within enigmas," she sighed.
"Keys! Mr. and Mrs. Calvin Marlboro! Like..." She paused. "If I
could cry, I wonder who it would be for. Them, or us."

"And if the crash had not happened, would we ever have
found out?"

"Probably not. We were too myopic and unaware. All we
would have gotten was a pink slip. That's another reason why we owe it to
ourselves," she said.

A great weight of sadness suddenly descended on him. He
felt acutely foolish, embarrassed, violated. He began to shiver, and his lips
trembled.

"Are you cold?" she asked gently.

She extended her arm across the gap between them, and his
hand reached out to meet hers. He grabbed it, like a drowning man might grab a
lifeline.

"You are cold," she said, rubbing his hand
between hers.

"Cold hands, warm heart," he said.

They held each other's hands for a long time. It was she
who disengaged first, standing up. But her touch had been physically warming.
Something more, as well, but too incongruous to define, he decided.

"We'll sleep on it," she said. "I'm tired
now. I'd better go home. Home?" A rattling sound escaped her lips, as if
she were trying to laugh. He stood up and faced her. There was little space
between them. He found himself looking deeply into her eyes. He did not want
her to go, but he said nothing to delay her. He helped her put on her coat.

"You think we're getting any closer to the heart of
this?" she asked.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"At least we're doing something—not being
passive." She shook her head. "Never again," she said firmly.

"Never," he replied.

For a long moment their eyes locked. Wounded survivors, he
thought. Ambulatory, but barely. And still full of pain. When she left he
listened until her footsteps faded. Then he felt cold again. And empty.

When she was alone, tossing and turning in the bed in the
guest room, Vivien's mind reeled with speculations. Now that she had a detailed
image of Orson's paramour, her imaginings became more frenetic. Periodically,
Edward's face surfaced in her mind. Remembering the touch of his hand gave her
goose bumps. Yes, she decided, they were smart to be involved in this together.
After all, it affected them equally.

The idea did not present itself until the morning light
filled the cracks of the blind. "Of course," she said, sitting up with
a start. But soon the satisfactions of logic gave way to the old rage, which
rushed at her with renewed fury.

"Of course," she cried.

She was dressed by six, surprisingly energized. It had
always been like this when her purpose was single-minded, clearly defined. What
she needed now was confirmation. Then she would tell Edward.

At seven she was in front of the polished double doors of
Orson's law offices. Still on the door was "and Simpson" in brass
lettering. Bradley, Martin, Conte, Barnes and Simpson. Bradley, who had founded
the firm during Roosevelt's time, died years ago. The door was open, and she
went in.

"Mrs. Simpson," Miss Sparks said with surprise.
She had glasses attached to a chain around her neck, which she removed as she
talked. Prim and graying, a cashmere sweater worn casually on her shoulders
over a white blouse, she looked the quintessential executive secretary. A cup
of coffee was steaming in front of her on her desk, along with a half-eaten
doughnut. Yet her presence implied that Orson did, indeed, work during those
early morning hours. With effort, Vivien remained calm.

"Would you like some coffee?" Miss Sparks asked.

"No, thank you."

Beyond Miss Sparks's desk she could see Orson's office. The
morning sun glinted on the polished desk top, devoid of papers. So they had not
lost any time, she thought, feeling a stab of anger, Miss Sparks had attended
the service at the crematorium. Vivien had caught a brief glimpse of her.

"I'm so sorry," Miss Sparks said.

"I thought I'd come by and pick up my husband's
personal things."

"I've packed them in a carton," she said
apologetically. "We were going to messenger them over." Miss Sparks's
shrewd eyes observed her. Her visit seemed awkward now; her confidence was
swiftly eroding. She wished Edward were here with her.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Miss
Sparks said. A great deal, Vivien thought. This, too, was part of Orson's other
life. Here, she had always been the stranger, the wife, the intruder. In this
other world, Miss Sparks held the reins of power. She, Vivien, was always the
supplicant—a presence to be deflected. How good she had been, how obedient.

"Do you always come in so early, Miss Sparks?"
Vivien asked. It occurred to her at that moment that she no longer had to
observe the amenities. Miss Sparks appeared to be considering a reaction.

"It's the best time of the day for me," she
answered sensibly, looking at her watch. "Two hours before most of them
arrive. Then things get hectic."

She had said "for me," Vivien noted. Not
"for us."

"I'm organizing his pending cases." She put on
her glasses. "He had a great deal on his plate." She paused and
removed the glasses again. "We all miss him, Mrs. Simpson. What an awful
tragedy."

Vivien could sense Miss Sparks's extreme caution. The wagons
had already closed the circle as far as the firm was concerned.

"I suppose you both got a great deal of work done at
this hour?" Vivien asked, determined to be casual.

"He liked highly detailed preparation. That's why I
came in so early. Got into the habit. I wanted to be ready for him when he came
in." Her response was crisply informative, without any hint of suspicion.

Vivien was pleased with her own pose of detachment. She
nodded and turned away, hiding her expression, her heart pounding.

"It left him more time for his morning jog," Miss
Sparks said. "We were a good team. He was the kind of man who made every
minute count. Wasted absolutely no time. By ten, when he came in, everything
would be set." Her pride was talking now.

In a perverse way, Vivien felt her own sense of pride in
her deductive instincts. It gave her the courage to expand her inquiry. Ten in
the morning. There it was. Spots exploded in her vision, and she felt faint.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Simpson?"

"Fine," Vivien said, clearing her throat to mask
her sudden weakness. "Still shell-shocked a bit." She made an effort
to smile. She gulped deep breaths, summoning her strength, which miraculously
rose to the occasion.

"Miss Sparks," Vivien said sharply, "I
thought you knew everything."

Miss Sparks's lower lip flapped open. Then she put on her
glasses and looked at Vivien.

"I swear to you, Mrs. Simpson..." She lowered her
voice. "I swear to you. I had no idea. I can't imagine what he was doing
on that plane. I did think I knew everything about his working life. I know how
terribly awkward this must be for you, but I assure you..."

Vivien let her drone on. She had gotten what she had come
for.

"I do believe you, Miss Sparks." So she, too, had
felt the sting of betrayal.

"I can't understand it. I always made his travel
arrangements. Always."

She could see that the partners, certainly Dale, had given
her a hard time and that her days at the firm were numbered. Still, she felt no
pity.

The confirmation carried more impact than the revelation
and, in the street again, she felt the full impact of her rage. The clarity of
her logic made her dizzy, and she had to lean against a lamppost for support.

More than a year. Orson had given up his morning jogging
more than a year ago. She remembered that it was winter, like now. He had
stopped abruptly. She had been mildly curious. Better to do it in the evening,
he had explained. She fought down a wave of nausea and dashed into the lobby of
an office building. Finding a phone, she called Edward's number. There was no
answer. Then she looked at her watch. Only eight o'clock. She remembered, with
some irony, that he went to his office early. But she forgot the name of the
congressman he worked for. She called Capitol information and found him.

"I'm sorry," she began.

"Don't be, Viv," he said. "I'm glad to hear
your voice."

"There's something I want you to know"—her voice
wavered—"but not on the phone." Somehow to say it publicly seemed
obscene, a dirty little secret. It was something to be imparted privately.
"Dammit, Edward, it gets worse and worse."

"I called you first thing this morning," he said.
"I was worried." He sounded embarrassed by the concern.

"I went to Orson's office. I think I have some
answers."

A half hour later she picked him up in her car in front of
the Rayburn Building.

"Let's just park somewhere," he told her. She
headed down Independence Avenue and turned left toward the Fourteenth Street
Bridge, planning to reach the Virginia side where things were more familiar.

"Must we cross that?"

"How stupid of me."

But there was no way to turn around. Instead, she headed
the car into the curving road that led to the Jefferson Memorial.

"It's okay here," he said. She parked the car in
the deserted parking lot, cutting the motor. They did not get out. From where
they were they could see the frozen pond glistening in the sun and across it
the barren cherry trees, waiting for spring. Above them loomed the graceful
giant statue of Jefferson, surrounded by a circle of Greek pillars.

"If it gets too cold, I'll turn on the heater."

"It's okay," he said.

"I don't quite know how to put this," she began,
facing him. "Mornings," she blurted. "They met in the morning.
Every weekday morning."

"But she was sleeping..." he began. Then
understanding filtered into his mind. "So it seemed," he said sadly.

"He never got to the office before ten."

"My God." She saw his fists clench.

"He left the house at seven. That left three
hours."

"As soon as I was gone," he said angrily.
"She must have jumped out of bed. Our bed. Then went to his. How
revolting. How utterly revolting."

"There's more."

He evaded her eyes.

"Remember I said he used to jog every morning? Then he
switched to evenings?"

"Yes."

"That was a year ago."

"A whole year!"

"I'm afraid so."

"I'd bend over her, kiss her. It was an unfailing
ritual of my life. I always left the house with this good feeling...."

"They were very clever," Vivien said.
"Choosing the morning. The innocent hours."

"The lousy lying bitch. How could she?"

"And he?"

"And for more than a year."

"Degrading, isn't it?"

He did not respond. The unthinkable seemed remarkably
rational. Inadvertently, they had moved closer together in the car. One of his
arms was stretched across the back of the seat, his hand touching her shoulder.
She felt its pressure but made no move to extricate herself.

"Nobody knows anybody," he said after a long
silence. "There's the lesson of it."

"A whole year," she mused. Just to contemplate
the idea of their own ignorance was an embarrassment. No! She was not going to
insult her self-worth. "Just imagine what they had to do to keep us from
knowing. It wasn't just a single lie. They had to create another person to go
through the routine with us."

As she talked she became aware of the pressure of his hand
on her shoulder. While it felt comforting, it made her uneasy, as if it were
she
who was being unfaithful. She looked around her. The situation had all the
trappings of a clandestine tryst, a midday affair: the deserted parking lot,
the male stranger beside her, the odd sense of sensual anticipation. She
imagined she could hear Margo's knowing giggle.

Then another thought intruded. When she turned, would it be
Orson beside her, the handsome craggy face, the watchful eyes—hiding the
Machiavellian intelligence, all the mechanisms of Byzantine plotting, behind an
accusing gaze—as if she were the guilty party, and he had arranged the
entrapment? Suddenly she moved away, beyond his reach.

"What is it?"

Edward's voice recalled the reality. She looked across the
pond at the barren cherry trees, dormant and waiting like herself.

"What is it?" he repeated. His elbow still rested
on the seat's rim, but his arm was up, like a teenager frightened on a first
date.

Somehow the image softened her, and she moved back toward
him, waiting for the arm to come down. Yes, she decided, she could understand
his need to touch another human being. And hers, as well. She wondered if she
was receiving more than simple comfort, whether she needed more than that. It
was irrelevant, she decided. And, considering the circumstances, a bit odd.

He lay his head back against the headrest and closed his
eyes. His hand caressed her shoulder. Despite her sensitivity, the uneasiness
passed.

"Maybe it was we who invented them," he said.

He breathed deeply and sighed.

"More like they invented themselves."

"A whole year." He shook his head in disbelief.
"There must have been something. Something! Surely you must have picked up
vibes, felt something intuitively."

"So much for woman's intuition. Mine must have been in
mothballs."

"I was too self-absorbed. Working my ass off. It
wasn't even in my frame of reference. You were a housewife. Your world revolved
around him...."

"Makes me the dumbest, I guess."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"What way?"

"The way it sounded. Like it was an accusation against
your ... gender."

Enough, she cried within herself. She was too exhausted to
defend the role. Besides, she now hated what she had been, the trusting wife
with the lamp always lit in the window. It hurt to think about it.

"Theirs was a crime against, well, against the
concept, the bond of marriage," he said, "against commitment.
Like"—he paused—"embezzlement. Stealing without the owner's
knowledge. An inside job." The idea seemed to excite him, and he went on.
"Think of how devious they had to be. They had to know our every quirk and
habit, our routine, our way of living. They had to cover their tracks in
advance, take advantage of our trust, and conspire against us. God, how well
they played us."

"Like musical instruments."

"A regular quartet."

"Everything had to be precise, in perfect harmony. One
sour note, and we'd both suspect." He paused. "Or would we? How
thickheaded they must have thought we were. Two naive pinheads."

"No denying that. They were right, of course."

A muffled sound escaped from his throat, a kind of sardonic
chuckle.

"What is it?"

He shook his head.

"Too crude to say," he muttered.

"We can't have secrets," she said lightly. Her
hand had brushed almost playfully against his chest.

"All right. We shared bacteria. The four of us."

"How gross." She suppressed a giggle. The idea
was ludicrous.

"Like herpes." He began to laugh full throated.
His body shook. "I'm sorry," he said when he had settled down, wiping
his eyes. "It's not happy laughter. More like hysterics." He seemed
apologetic.

"I can see," she said. "Black humor."
An idea suddenly imposed itself. "But why did they choose Florida at
precisely that moment?" She answered her own question. "Maybe to make
a decision. Maybe they needed a place to think. A place away from us. Orson was
like that. The lawyer's mind."

"But they had a place," Edward said.

She felt a sudden cramp.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not."