The New Yorker Stories (72 page)

Brenda was chewing slowly. She knew, and Dale knew, that Jerome was warming up to something. In fact, Dale herself didn’t much like Didi—in part because they seemed to have little in common. On top of that, Didi condescended by acting as if Dale was the sophisticate, and she—the world traveler—just a poor old lady. Dale had thought that photographing her—in spite of the momentary imbalance of power—might ultimately get the two of them on a more even footing.

Jerome said: “I’d be curious to see it.”

“No,” Dale said.

“No? Why ever not?” Jerome said.

“You don’t like your ex-wife,” she said. “There’s no reason to look at a picture of her.”

“Listen to her!” Jerome said, jutting his chin in Nelson’s direction.

“Jerome—what’s wrong?” Nelson said quietly.

“What’s wrong? There’s something wrong about my request to see a photograph? I have a curiosity about what Didi looks like. We were married for years, you’ll remember.”

“I don’t want to see it,” Brenda said.

“You don’t have to. If you don’t want any of the wine, you don’t have to have that, either.” Jerome twirled the bottle. As the label revolved in front of him, he picked up the bottle and poured. A thin stream of wine went into the glass.

“I don’t quite see how not wanting to look at a photograph of your ex means I don’t want wine,” Brenda said.

“You prefer white. Isn’t that so?” Jerome said.

“Usually. But you made this wine sound very good.”

“It’s good, but not great,” Jerome said, inhaling. He had not yet taken a sip. He swirled the wine in his glass, then put the glass to his lips and slowly tilted it back. “Mmm,” he said. He nodded. “Quite good, but not perfect,” he said. He cut a piece of roast.

Nelson kept his eyes on Dale, who was intent upon not looking at Brenda. Brenda was doing worse than anyone else with Jerome’s behavior. “May I talk to you in the kitchen?” Brenda said to Jerome.

“Oh, just take me to task right here. In the great tradition of Didi, who never lowered her voice or avoided any confrontation.”

“I’m not Didi,” Brenda said. “What I want to know is whether you’re acting this way because you’re pissed off I have a job I enjoy and that means I’m not there to answer your every whim, or whether there’s some real bone you have to pick with Dale.”

“Forget it,” Nelson said. “Come on. Dale has made this wonderful meal.”

“Don’t tell me what not to say to Jerome,” Brenda said.

“Let’s take another walk and cool off,” Dale said to Brenda. “Maybe they’d like to talk. Maybe we could use some air.”

“All right,” Brenda said, surprising Dale. She had thought Brenda would dig her heels in, but she seemed relieved by the suggestion. She got up and walked through the kitchen and into the hallway where the coats were hung. In the dark, she put on Dale’s jacket instead of her own. Dale noticed, but since they wore the same size, she put on Brenda’s without comment. Outside, Brenda realized her error when she plunged her hand in the pocket and felt the doughnut holes. “Oh, this is yours,” she said, and began to unzip the jacket.

“We wear the same size. Keep it on,” Dale said. Brenda looked at her, making sure she meant it. Then she took her fingers off the zipper. As they walked, Brenda began apologizing for Jerome. She said she’d only been guessing, back at the house. She didn’t really know what he was so angry about, though she assumed they knew that he was more fond of them than his own children—these being the daughter he’d had between Didi and Brenda, and the son whose mother was married to someone else. “He had a couple of beers on the plane. They took a bottle upstairs when they went to fix the wiring, too. Maybe he just had too much to drink,” Brenda said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dale said. She pointed at the Portsmouth light. “I like that,” she said. “In the evening I like the colorful sky, but at night I like that one little light almost as much.”

Dale tried to see her watch, but couldn’t read it. “Too late to round up Tyrone,” she said. She knew that it was, even without being able to see the time. In the distance, wind rustled the willows. They were walking where the path turned and narrowed, between the divided field. It was Dale and Nelson’s responsibility, as renters, to have the fields plowed so the scrub wouldn’t take over. In the distance, you could hear the white noise of cars on the highway. That, and the wind rustling, disguised the sound of tires until a black car with its headlights off was almost upon them. Brenda clutched Dale’s arm as she jumped in fear, moving so quickly into the grass in her high-heeled boots that she lost her balance and fell, toppling both of them. “Oh, shit, my ankle,” she said. “Oh, no.” Both were sprawled in the field, the hoarfrost on the grass crunching like wintery quicksand as they struggled to stand. A car without headlights? And after nearly sideswiping them, it accelerated. The big shadow of the car moved quickly away, crunching stones more loudly as it receded than it had on the approach.

Brenda had turned her ankle. Dale helped her up, dusting wetness from her own jacket on Brenda’s back, wanting to delay the moment when Brenda would say she couldn’t walk. “Some God-damned maniac,” Dale said. “Can you put pressure on it? How does it feel?”

“It hurts, but I don’t think it’s broken,” Brenda said.

Dale looked into the distance, Brenda’s hand still on her shoulder. “Shit,” Brenda said again. “I’d better take these things off and walk home in my tights. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that was Jerome, zeroing in for the kill.”

Kill.
With a worse chill than the night air explained, she had realized that the car must have been speeding away from Janet’s house. That they would have to go on—she, at least, would have to go on—and see what had happened.

“It’s something bad—” Dale began.

“I know,” Brenda said, crying now. “But the worst thing is that I’m pregnant, and I don’t dare tell him, he’s been so shitty lately. It’s like he hates me. I feel like he’d like it if my ankle was broken.”

“No,” Dale said, hearing what Brenda said, but not quite hearing it. “Something at the house down there. Janet’s house.”

Brenda’s hand seized Dale’s shoulder. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“Wait here,” Dale said.

“No! I’m coming with you,” Brenda told her.

“I’ve got a very bad feeling,” Dale said.

“We don’t know,” Brenda said. “It could have been kids—drunk, playing a game with the lights out.” From the tenuous way she spoke, it was clear she didn’t believe herself.

Slowly, helping her to walk, Brenda’s boots in one of her hands, the other around Brenda’s waist, the two of them walked until the little house came in sight. “Not exactly a wedding cake,” Brenda said, squinting at what was hardly more than a clapboard shack. There was one light on, which was an ambiguous sign: it could be good, or it could mean nothing at all.

The front door slightly ajar was the worst possible sign. Dale surprised herself by having the courage to push it open. Inside, the wood fire had burned out. A cushion was on the floor. A mug lay near it, in a puddle of whatever had been inside. The house was horribly, eerily silent. It was rare that Dale found herself surrounded by silence.

“Janet?” Dale said. “It’s Dale. Janet?”

She was on the kitchen floor. They saw her when Dale turned on the light. Janet was breathing shallowly, a small trickle of blood congealed at one side of her mouth. Dale’s impulse was to gather Janet in her arms, but she knew she should not move her head. “Janet? Everything’s going to be okay,” she heard herself say dully. She meant to be emphatic, but instead her voice was monotonic. Her ears had begun to close—the warning that she would soon have an attack of vertigo. But why? She had drunk no wine; she had eaten no sugar. Panic attacks had been ruled out when Ménière’s had been ruled in. “You must learn the power of positive thinking,” she heard the doctor saying to her. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it works. I’m not a mystical person. It’s more like biofeedback. Say to yourself, ‘This will not happen to me.’ ”

The room was quivering, as if the walls themselves were vibrating because of some tremor in the earth. Dale repeated the words, silently. She could see Janet’s chest rising and falling. Her breathing did not seem to be labored, though whoever had been there had tried to strangle her with a piece of rope. From the color of her face, it was obvious she had been deprived of oxygen. Her long fingers were balled into fists. Blood oozed from a cut on her arm. An ankh cross dangled from one end of the rope.
The Dictionary of Symbols
lay on the floor, a blood-smudged chart beside it. Beside that, torn from the wall, was a photograph Dale had taken of Janet’s hand holding the fine pearwood brush she used to draw symbols. The photograph had been ripped so that the brush was broken in half. Remembering, suddenly, what she must do, Dale went to the wall phone and dialed 911. “Someone is unconscious at the end of Harmony Lane,” she said. It was difficult to tell how loud, or soft, her words were. Harmony Lane—was that what she had just said? What ridiculous place was that? Some fake street in some ridiculous Walt Disney development? But no—they hadn’t gone there. They had rented a house in Maine, that was where they were. She squinted against the star shining through the kitchen window, like a bright dart aimed at her eye. It was not a star, though. It was the light from Portsmouth.

The woman who answered told Dale to stay calm. She insisted she stay where she was. It was as if all this was about Dale—not Janet, but Dale, standing in Janet’s kitchen. For a second the voice of the woman at 911 got confused with the voice of the doctor saying, This will not happen to me.

There was a shriek of sirens. They sounded far, far away, yet distinct: background music that portended trouble. Dale was so stunned that, instead of hanging up, she stood with the phone in her hand, imagining she’d hung up. She had seen Janet two days before. Three? They had talked about squash. The squash Janet would appreciate Dale’s buying for her at the Farmers’ Market. “This is her neighbor, Dale,” she said, in what she thought was an answer to the question the woman was asking, faintly, on the opposite end of the phone. Why didn’t the woman ask about Janet? “We saw a car,” she heard herself say, though her mouth was not near enough for the 911 operator to hear.

That was the moment when Tyrone burst out from underneath the two-seat sofa, charging so quickly he overshot Dale and knocked Brenda down. She screamed with fear long after she might have realized it was only a dog. Tyrone was as afraid as they were; everything was made worse by Brenda’s high-pitched scream.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” Brenda said, apologizing to the cowering dog, its back legs shaking so pathetically, Dale could not see how he remained upright. “Oh, God, here,” Brenda said, inching closer, reaching in the jacket pocket with trembling hands for a doughnut hole and holding it out to the dog, who did not approach but stood shakily leaning into Dale’s leg. No one looked at Janet’s body. Wind rattled the glass, but the louder sound was that of sirens. Dale saw Brenda cock her head and turn, as if she could see the sound. Brenda turned back and threw the doughnut hole to the dog, missing by a mile.

“It’s okay,” Dale said, moving her leg astride the dog and edging the doughnut hole toward him with the toe of her boot. It was a powdered-sugar doughnut hole that left a streak of white on the floorboards. By Janet’s hand had been a streak—no: a puddle, not a streak—of blood. Dale did not look in that direction; she was so afraid Janet might have stopped breathing.

Dale looked across the room at Brenda. Brenda, dejectedly, was about to throw another doughnut hole. Dale watched as she tossed it slowly, repeating Dale’s words: “It’s okay.” Then she took a step forward and said to Dale: “Make him forgive me. Make him like me again.”

Dale was stroking Tyrone’s head. Tyrone had become her dog. Brenda and Jerome’s child, she thought, would become Brenda’s child. All of Jerome’s women had wanted babies, and he had bitterly resented every one: the son born to the married woman in France, whose husband believed the child to be his; the daughter born as his marriage to his second wife was disintegrating. Nelson had been the only one he wanted. Well—if you had what you already considered the perfect child, maybe that made sense. Nelson was intellectually curious, smart, obedient, favoring his stepfather over his mother, a loyal child.

Nelson and Jerome would be at the table, finishing dinner, Nelson having found a way to excuse Jerome, Jerome’s passive aggression subsiding into agreeableness—as if, by the two women’s disappearing, any problem automatically disappeared, too. Without them, Nelson and Jerome could move on to the salad course. Drink the entire bottle of Opus One. Nelson would probably have brought down the photograph of Didi, her face deeply lined by years of having kept up with Jerome in his drinking, as well as other bad decisions she had made, and of course from the years at Saint-Tropez, enjoying too much sun.

Too much sun. Too much son. Jerome would like to play with that.

Though what Jerome was talking about, having already told Nelson he was seriously considering separating from Brenda, was the story of Baron Philippe de Rothschild: the Baron, being a clever businessman, and, more important, a visionary, realized that much might be gained by joining forces with the California winegrower, Robert Mondavi. Mondavi was invited to the Baron’s, where both men dined on fabulous food and drank great wine. It was a social evening: business was not discussed. It was not until the next morning that the Baron—by this point, Mondavi genuinely admired him, for his taste, elegance, and good manners—summoned Mondavi to his bedside, like a character in a fairy tale. The possibility of combining their efforts was discussed, and of sharing the profits fifty-fifty. Mondavi suggested producing only one wine, which would be similar to a great Bordeaux. Did he say this tentatively? The Baron agreed. Would he have said the same? The wine would be made in California, where the Baron’s winemaker would visit. Mondavi, flattered, was thrilled as well. His name linked to that of Baron Philippe de Rothschild! The Baron also triumphed, realizing that embracing his would-be adversary would lead both men to profit. Nothing remained except the ceremonial drinking of a hundred-year-old Mouton, followed by a very cold Château d’Yquem: a perfect deal; a perfect meal—it even rhymed, as Jerome pointed out. A brilliant label was designed, providing the perfect finishing touch.