Strange Fits of Passion (26 page)

"I thought that might be it," she said.

She studied me then as if I were a daughter who had grown too fast for safekeeping, who was now beyond a mother's reach.

"You be careful," she said.

Jack did not come the next morning, either. It was the Thursday, and I thought that he would be hauling his boat on Friday. At best we had only one more morning left. I waited in the bed until the sun rose. Then I got out of bed and walked downstairs to the windows in the living room. I looked out at his boat. The white paint had taken on a salmon hue.

In the afternoon, I went into town, to the store. I did this almost every day, from habit even more than from necessity.

That afternoon, when I parked my car across the street, I saw, in front of the Mobil pump, a black pickup truck with a cap. I knew this truck well, knew its dents and rust marks even better than those of my own car. In the front seat, on the passenger side, there was a woman. I turned off the ignition and looked at her. Her hair was gray, pulled back severely off her face. She wore a silklike kerchief in a navy-blue print. She had high cheekbones in a face you sensed had once been beautiful but now was painfully thin and white. Her lips were narrow, pressed together tightly. She had on a navy-blue wool coat, and it seemed that her hands were folded in her lap, although I couldn't see them. She must have sensed that someone was looking at her, in that way that one does, for she turned slowly to look in my direction.

I saw then her eyes, and looking at them I felt what it was that Jack had had to live with. Her eyes were pale, a milky blue, or perhaps I have that impression of their color because they seemed cloudy, clouded over. And yet they had a hunted look, a haunted look. They were pinched at the sides. Looking at them, you could not describe what it was these eyes were seeing, but you sensed that it was something terrible. I had the immediate impression that this was a woman who had lost her children to illness or to an accident, but I knew that wasn't true.

I looked away—as much because I didn't want to see those eyes as because I didn't want her to know I'd been examining her. When I glanced up again, she was facing straight ahead, waiting.

I thought then that I ought to start the car up, go home. But I knew he was inside the store. I couldn't pass up this chance to see him, even if I couldn't talk to him.

I got out of the car and removed Caroline from the baby basket. I walked with her around the back of the black pickup and up the steps into the store. The bell tinkled overhead, announcing me.

He was standing with his daughter at the counter. She wasn't wearing a hat, and her hair fell in curls down her back. She had on a red woolen jacket and a white scarf. She turned to see who had entered the store, and when she did this, he turned too. Everett nodded, said hello. I was looking at Jack. I didn't know if he would speak, if he would dare to acknowledge me. He looked at his daughter and then said, in as casual a voice as he could, "How's the baby?"

"She's better," I said.

Everett was looking at both of us.

Jack said to his daughter, "I don't think you've met Mary Amesbury, have you? She's living in Julia's cottage over to the point."

And to me, "This is my daughter, Emily."

I said hello to Emily, and she said hi in a shy way, as fifteen-year-olds do.

I saw Jack glance briefly through the window at the truck. I knew he was wondering if I'd seen Rebecca.

"Mary's baby had a fever the other day," he said to his daughter. He turned to me. "But she's better now?" he asked.

I nodded.

Around me, the canned goods and the fluorescent lights began to spin. It was a reprise of that first evening in the store, only now there was Jack. In the spinning, I had locked onto his face, and I became aware that I was standing there longer than would have been natural. With an effort of will that seemed monumental, I made myself walk forward, made myself say lightly, "I need some milk and things...."

I waited at the rear of the store until I heard the bell over the door. When I walked back to the counter, Everett said, "Julia told me the baby was sick. Looks OK now, though."

He rang up my purchases. I had no idea what I had bought. Outside, I heard the truck start up, the familiar motor.

"Rebecca's poorly," Everett said, nodding to the sound. "Jack's had to do for her."

That night I was lying in the bed. I heard a motor on the lane. The room seemed darker than it ought to be, and I was thinking that he'd come earlier than usual. This would be our last morning together, and like myself he'd been impatient. Perhaps he'd told his wife that he'd be leaving early, that he had a lot to do before he could haul the boat.

I heard his footsteps on the linoleum floor in the kitchen. He didn't come straight up the stairs as I had thought he would, but instead seemed to be getting a glass of water from the sink. Then I heard him open the door into Caroline's room. Yes, I thought, he's checking on the baby. He's been worried about her.

Finally, I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I rose in the bed to greet him. He opened the door.

"Jack," I said with relief in the darkness.

A figure loomed into the room, hovered over the bed.

It wasn't Jack.

You're askin' me now did I know about Mary 'n' Jack afore that terrible business over to the point. Well, that's a hard one to answer. I know Julia 'n' me, we talked about it at length, but whether it was afore the killing or after it, I'm not sure I can say now. Memory is a funny thing. 'Specially so in this case, because I do know this, that when Julia did say somethin' to me about Mary 'n' Jack, I remember thinkin' to myself that I already had an idea about that.

She came into the store just afore the end. And Jack was here with Emily, 'n' the two of 'em, Mary 'n' Jack, they had a little bit of conversation between 'em, and I think even at that point I might of been sayin' to myself, Those two know each other. Course I did know that he'd helped her with the baby the morning the baby got the fever. Do you know about the fever? It's important, because that's how she got found.

As I understand it, the baby got the fever on the Monday morning, 'n' Jack come by—well, who's to say; maybe he was there already—'n' he drove her into Machias to the clinic there, 'n' Dr. Posner, he's this young fella from Massachusetts come to take over the clinic when Doc Chavenage retired, he saw the baby, 'n' somehow because of the baby bein' allergic to some kind of medication, he had to call down to New York for the baby's records, 'n' I guess he had to give his name 'n' all, 'n' the husband, he'd already alerted a nurse in the office there to Mary's disappearance, 'n' so forth. So it wasn't too long after that morning that the private detective come by askin' questions.

He didn't waste much time, I'll tell you that, 'cause it was Tuesday evenin', 'n' I was gettin' ready to close down the store for my supper, when this fellow walked in. Actually he kinda caught my attention afore he walked in, due to the fact that he was wearin' these shiny black shoes 'n' he slipped on the steps 'n' caught himself, 'n' I heard him cuss on the steps. So he came in, 'n' he was blowin' on his hands; he didn't have any gloves—I tell you, some people don't have the sense God gave 'em—'n' he asked me if I'd seen a woman named Maureen English around. I didn't know the name, of course, but I had an idea, right off the bat, what was up, so I asked this fella to show me some identification, 'n' he did, 'n' then I told him I was the town's only officer of the law, 'n' this seemed to please him. I suppose he thought he'd come to the right place for help. And then I asked him what the woman was wanted for, and he said it was a private matter, she'd run away from home, 'n' so forth. And then he showed me a picture, 'n' if I'd a had any doubt, I wouldn't have then, but of course, I didn't have any doubt in the first place, so I told the fella I'd never seen anyone like this, 'n' if anyone in town would know, I would know. Then I wished him well and told him he ought to try Machias.

That's when he told me he'd already tried Machias. He'd got a tip that she'd been to the clinic there, as I told you. Dr. Posner, I got to hand it to him, he didn't let on much more'n he had to. I don't know whether she didn't give the doctor her address, or she gave it 'n' he wouldn't give it to this fella, but the fella told me the doctor told him he'd treated the baby but had no idea where she was; in fact, he'd had the idea she was just passin' through, on her way north.

Course, none of this matters much now, does it? I mean to say, someone got on to this fella, didn't he? My guess is the fella was on his way out to his car 'n' saw some trucks down by the co-op, and thought, just for the hell of it, don't you know, he'd go down there, snoop around, ask a few questions. And someone down there must of said they'd seen her and where they'd seen her, and that was that.

I got the call 'round five-fifteen in the mornin'. I picked up the phone, 'n' this voice said,
Everett.
I said,
What?
And the voice said,
It's Jack.
And I said,
Jack.
And he said,
You better get out here.
And I said,
Rebecca?

And then there was a long silence, 'n' I thought he'd gone off the phone.

And then he said,
No, Everett. It's not Rebecca.

I think you aren't like me. I think you wouldn't have let this happen to you. I see you in your khaki dress, your summer suit, your eyes clear and unwavering, like your sentences, and I think you couldn't have loved Harrold. You'd have left him after the first night.

Do you have a lover? Do you go to bars after work at night? Do you stay at your lover's place, or does he come to you—when
you
want, when
you
say?

I imagine you reading this. I imagine you thinking to yourself: Why did she let this go so far?

I write all night and all day too. I have learned to write through the light and the noise and the numbing routine. I sleep badly and infrequently, napping under the lights, amid the din.

When I dream, I dream of Harrold.

Harrold stood at the foot of the bed. I was kneeling on the mattress with the covers pulled up to my neck. He reached for the switch and flipped it on, lighting the lamp on the table.

The bright glare momentarily blinded us both, and when I looked at him, he was squinting. He had on a heavy crimson sweater and a pair of jeans, with his navy cashmere topcoat over them. The skin of his face was mottled and drawn, and I could see that he hadn't had a haircut since I'd left. He rubbed his eyes. There were dark circles under them, and the whites were bloodshot.

"Why are you naked?" he asked.

I said nothing, didn't move.

"Put something on," he said. "And come downstairs. I need some coffee." His voice was flat, as if drained.

He turned and left the room. I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I was nearly as stunned by his sudden departure as I'd been by his entrance.

My blocking the light behind me cast a long shadow on the opposite wall. I was still frozen on my knees, with the bedcovers drawn up to my chin. Below me I could hear a chair scrape on the linoleum floor. He was sitting at the table. I had a vision of myself slipping out the dormer window, shimmying down a drainpipe, crawling in the window of Caroline's bedroom, snatching her, getting into the car, driving off. But I didn't even know if there was a drainpipe; I had locked Caroline's window to keep out drafts; my coat was on the hook at the back of the kitchen door; my keys were on the kitchen table.

I looked down at my own nakedness. What time was it? Two-thirty? Three?

I dressed as quickly as I could. I put on layers: A long-sleeved T-shirt, a shirt, a sweater, my cardigan over that. The layers felt protective. I put jeans on, and my boots.

When I came down the stairs, he was slouched in a chair by the table, his head thrown back, resting on the top rung. He had his eyes closed, and I thought for a moment that he was dozing. When he heard my footsteps, he sat up and looked at me.

"I drove straight through," he said. His voice was low, husky with lack of sleep. But it was also without inflection, as if he were on automatic pilot, or as if he were trying hard to modulate his emotions. "I haven't slept in a couple of days," he added. "I need some coffee."

I walked to the stove.

I took the percolator from the burner, filled it with water and with coffee from a canister. I knew that he was watching me as I performed this task, but I didn't return his gaze. He'd been drinking—I'd guessed that when I'd seen his eyes, and I'd smelled it when I passed him—and I was afraid to look at him, to say or do anything that might be a trigger.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "I've just come to talk."

"To talk?"

I put the percolator on the stove, turned on the gas underneath the pot. I stood in front of the stove with my arms crossed, staring at the flame. Just beyond me, to the left, was the door to Caroline's bedroom. I imagined I could hear her turning in her sleep, crinkling the plastic that covered her mattress under the crib sheet.

"How's she been?" he asked. "How's the fever and the ear infections?"

How had it worked? I wondered. The pediatrician had called Harrold? Harrold had called the private detective he'd used on his stories, and the man had driven north, talked to the doctor in Machias? The doctor had known Jack, given the detective Jack's address?

No, Jack wouldn't have said anything, I knew. And Everett wouldn't, either. Someone else had. But who?

"How did you know?" I asked.

"Your mother called, did you know that?" he said, slightly off the subject. "When you talked to her on Christmas Day, apparently you sounded so out of it that she called back to talk to you again, and I had to tell her, of course, that you weren't there, you'd left."

I shut my eyes. I thought of my mother, of how she must have worried. I realized, too, with some surprise, that I hadn't spoken to her since Christmas.