Random Hearts (21 page)

As a reflex, Jan shot forward and jumped on Vinnie's back,
while Edward pinned down his arms. But the man was a bull, and all three fell
to the floor. The thump knocked books and files off their shelves. As they
struggled, Edward saw startled faces in the doorway and heard the Congressman's
outraged voice.

"Stop this at once."

Vinnie continued to struggle, but they had gained the upper
hand and the fight was going out of him.

"All right. All right," he shouted. Edward and
Jan released him reluctantly. When he was still, they backed off. Vinnie lifted
himself off the floor. The Congressman shooed everyone but Jan, Edward, and
Vinnie out of the office and closed the door.

"Are you all crazy?" he asked. Vinnie had eased
his bulk into a large leather chair, and Jan was staunching blood running out
of Edward's cut cheek.

"I insist on an explanation," the Congressman
said, his eyes roving, inspecting in turn each face of the participants.

"This man came running in..." Jan began.

"It's not your problem, Jan," Edward interrupted
"He's my brother-in-law."

"Fuck you," Vinnie croaked, lifting a fat index
finger and pointing. "I'll get you."

"We can't have this," the Congressman said.

Edward knew then that there was no sense playing the
charade. Beneath the guise of command, he knew the Congressman was scared.
Little incidents like this had a way of getting out to the press, spoiling
public images. He brushed away Jan's hand, which held a crumpled ball of
reddened tissue. His fingers probed the swelling. The blood had thickened
although it still oozed. He grabbed a wad of tissue and held it to his cheek.
By then, Vinnie was calmer.

"Wasn't for him, she'd still be here," Vinnie
said, his face puffed, his eyes filled with hate. "Now he's gonna get rich
off her."

With effort, Vinnie pushed himself out of the chair.
"It's not finished," he croaked.

"No, not finished," Edward said, noting that the
Congressman's eyes had drifted to the maps. Far from finished, he thought.
Vinnie glared at him, displaying the full measure of his hatred, then stumbled
out of the room.

When he had gone, the Congressman looked at Jan.

"Leave us please."

Hesitating, she looked at Edward, who nodded. Moist-eyed,
she walked toward the door.

"Not a word of this," the Congressman warned
after her. She threw him a look of contempt, then softened, nodded, and left.

"Shit," the Congressman said after she had gone.

"I'm sorry," Edward said. With his free hand he
tried to straighten his shredded shirt.

"Are you trying to ruin me?" the Congressman
asked.

The question, of course, required no answer. Any
explanation, however plausible, was useless. Invoking past loyalties and
reminders of devoted service would have little meaning now. To both of them. It
was as if Lily's scenario of deceit were unfolding from the grave, as if she
were continuing to punish him for some unknown sin for which there was no
forgiveness.

"I'm counterproductive now," Edward said, feeling
little regret. His cheek pulsated with radiating pain, making his eye twitch.

"Maybe when you get over this..." the Congressman
began.

It was, Edward knew, a statement meant to be interrupted,
and he did so, obediently. "Maybe. In the meantime, I'd suggest you get
someone else. Perhaps Harvey."

The Congressman nodded. Edward could see him winding up for
hearts and flowers. Politicians were expert at eloquent farewells, flowery
testimonials.

"Not now," Edward said. He had had quite enough
hypocrisy for one lifetime, thank you. He began to gather up his maps. Then he
put on his jacket and moved to the door.

"Edward," the Congressman called. Edward stopped
in his tracks. It irritated him to know that he was still conditioned to
respond. "He's not Mafia?"

A thin smile curled on Edward's lips. To a midwestern
congressman, all Italians were Mafia. Edward shrugged, leaving the question
hanging in the air. It was nice to know he had left the man with a touch of
fear.

Vivien washed his wound with peroxide and pinched it
together with adhesive.

"I'm a pharmacist's daughter," she said, watching
him inspecting her handiwork in the bathroom mirror. It felt odd, being with a
strange man stripped to the waist in the sanctum of the bathroom. More than
strange, she knew. She could not deny the tingle of mysterious excitement. His
shredded shirt and bloodied T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor.

"Not bad," he said, patting the dressing, smiling
broadly at her in the mirror. His body was softer than Orson's, his chest
hairier. Blushing, she noted how a thin line of hair trickled onto his belt.
Orson had a small patch on his chest and larger pectorals, with better defined
muscles on his upper arms. She was surprised at her absorption of these
details.

Leaving him while he put on a fresh shirt, she went
downstairs to broil the steaks. Despite the cold, she had set up a grill on the
outside patio. In the quiet, she heard the faint rustle of pine needles. She
turned toward the snowman, his size further diminished by time and evaporation.
Thoughts of Ben intruded, which she thrust aside with a ruthless will.

"I'll do that," he called from the kitchen. He
was buttoning his shirt. She arranged the steaks on the grill and came back
into the house, just as he was putting on his jacket.

Earlier, he had explained briefly what had happened. It had
shocked her to see him standing there in the doorway, blood caked on his cheek,
a tattered shirt showing beneath his open coat. Under his arm he held a clean
shirt. In his hand, inexplicably, he held a small tea rose, which he had taken
the time to buy from a vendor.

"Something to chase a bit of the bleak," he said,
obviously hoping it would make the sight of him seem less forlorn. She put the
flower in a bud vase and put it on the kitchen table.

She gave him the grilling fork, and he went out onto the
patio. As she tore lettuce and sliced tomatoes for a salad, she inspected him.
Orson had never done the grilling. Orson, in fact, had rarely done kitchen
chores. Watching him, intent on his work, squinting low over the glowing coals
to get a better view of the steaks' progress, she grew curious about the way he
and Lily had carried on with their daily lives, performed the mundane details
of their existence. How did they divide the labor? Did he ever cook? Who set
the table?

Her mind tried to form pictures of Lily in their apartment.
Was she left- or right-handed? What color were her eyes? Did she have good
teeth? She tried to imagine the sound of her voice. Was it high-pitched or soft?
Were her fingers graceful or boney? Tapered like hers? Conscious of her
fingers, she discovered suddenly that she still wore her gold wedding band. Not
once since her marriage had she ever taken it off. Reaching for a bar of soap,
she lathered her hands and forced it over her knuckle, ignoring the pain. Then
she threw it into the trash, along with the leavings of browned lettuce.

He came in ruddy-cheeked. The steaks sizzled on a wooden
board. She had lit candles and dimmed the kitchen lights. The little rose stood
proudly in its vase. Rarely had she and Orson eaten their evening meal in the
kitchen. The formality of the dining room was more to Orson's liking.

"Real cozy," Edward said as he sat down. She
divided the steaks, poured out red wine, and offered the wooden salad tools. He
dipped them into the bowl and lifted salad onto his plate. The smell of garlic
butter wafted upward from the toasting French bread.

In the flickering light, Edward's face seemed altered, more
angular. It was not just the swollen welt. When she had first seen him, he had
appeared rounder. It could have been her imagination, since she had only the
faintest recollection of their first meeting in the Medical Examiner's office.
Now his presence seemed to dominate her perceptions.

"We'll have more time to do what we have to," he
said after having told her that his job with the Congressman was over.

Beneath the appearance of apprehension, she was secretly
pleased. "It doesn't worry you?"

"Not a bit. First, we have this to do. When it's over,
I'll take it from there. Besides, what I was doing no longer interested
me." He shrugged. "I'm free. There's nothing to hold me. I've got a
few bucks saved, and there's severance." He speared a piece of steak and
held it up as a pointer, nearly touching a candle's flame. "I agree with
what you did about the insurance. It was an act of moral courage. I'm going to
do the same."

"But you have no children." A wave of guilt about
Ben surfaced, then passed. Would it ever be the same between Ben and her? she
wondered, feeling sad.

"There's always charity. Or I can do what you did—set
it up for your kid."

"That doesn't seem right."

"There's such a thing as poetic justice. He and Lily
were in it together. She was carrying his half-brother."

So he was certain now, she thought with some comfort.

He bit a piece of steak from the prongs and began to chew,
watching her. She wondered what he saw, how he would describe her. She wondered
what sort of an impression he had of her. A confidante? A companion? A buddy?
She pushed the thought away. It was too foolish to contemplate. Their alliance
had only one purpose: to crack open the meaning of their spouses' mutual
activities. Again, the knowledge of the elaborate deception charged through
her. She shivered with anger.

"There are many who would think we're both crazy, not
taking the money. The whole principle of insurance is to be compensated for
pain."

"I might accept that," he said, "if the pain
was in their dying."

"Sounds awful when you say it out loud."

"I know. That's just one more barb they left us with,
one more resentment, one more dimension to disillusionment and hate. Before
this, I could barely find it in myself. Now its like something stuck in my
tissues. Like lead poisoning."

She put down her fork. Her appetite had left her. Noting
that he had finished his wine, she refilled his glass and topped off her own.
They finished the remainder of the meal in silence.

He went into the living room and got his maps from the
inside of his jacket pocket. When he came back, she had begun to clear the
dishes. He helped her, then laid out the maps on the table. Coming close,
bending over his shoulder, she listened as he explained the logistics of the
plan.

"We'll find it," he said firmly, looking up. His
hand gripped her forearm. "You'll see."

"I'm sure of that, Edward."

He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight.

"We should start early," he said, getting up.
"I suppose I should be going."

She followed him into the living room.

"A brandy?"

"Maybe one."

He sat down and stretched out his legs on a hassock, and
she brought him a brandy. Before he drank, his eyes roved the room.

"Grass is always greener." He shrugged, dipping
his nose into the snifter. Then he drank and lifted his eyes to the ceiling.
They glistened in the faint light, and she knew he was trying hard to prevent
the tears from spilling.

It gave her another chance to study him. Physically, he was
a thicker man than Orson, less imposing, shorter, softer. His curly hair was
growing longer, making him seem younger. If she had met him casually, she
wondered if she would have noticed him. He was so different from Orson. Orson
exuded an air of self-confidence, containment, and authority. He shopped for
his own clothes and turned himself out in a special way, as if his costume were
designed specifically for his role. On Edward, she noted now, clothes hung,
creased and indifferent. She had taken a special secret pride in Orson's craggy
good looks and in watching other women's eyes on him light up with interest.
Sometimes, a tingle of jealousy assailed her. Yet he had never been blatantly
flirtatious. Never in her presence, she thought bitterly, hating him now—not
for dying, for destroying her innocence.

Perhaps, underneath it all, all men were like that. Even
Edward. She blinked her eyes, half expecting Edward's image to disappear. It
remained, soft, vulnerable, not at all like your standard myth of manhood. Not
weak, she added quickly to herself, noting the previous unreliability of her
perceptions, or unmale. She noted that even the cleft in his chin had deepened.
Her thoughts began to trouble her, and she was relieved when he slapped his
thighs and stood up.

"I've got to go."

He had thrown his jacket coat over the back of a chair, and
he moved to put it on. Orson would never have done that; he would have hung it
up. All his jackets and suits were hung up on hangers, neat as soldiers.

"But where?"

"A motel somewhere." He shrugged. "It
doesn't matter. Better than that place."

"That's ridiculous," she blurted.

"It's my choice."

"But I have all this room." Her arm moved about
like a wand. "Believe me, I understand your hesitation."

"Do you?" His eyes probed her, and she turned
away, addressing him while she looked out into the cold night.

"The house is mine, Edward. I picked it out. It's the
only thing I really claim." A wave of panic crested, broke over her. I
need you near me, she wanted to shout out.

"I'm in the guest room," she felt compelled to
explain. "You can sleep on the couch."

"Like in old-fashioned movies." He smiled, felt
awkward. Then he shrugged consent.

"It would make it a lot easier all around."

"I'll make up the couch."

She went upstairs to get sheets, a blanket, and a pillow.
She heard the front door open and close, then the slam of a car's trunk. When
she came down, his suitcase was on the floor along with the hanging bag. She
made up the couch into a bed.

"I still feel funny about this," he said,
watching her as she tucked in the blanket.

"I don't," she said, smoothing the blanket.
Giving it a final inspection, she said good night and walked up the stairs.