“I’m nothing like my mother.”
“Believe what you want,” Emily sighs, rising from her choir. ‘‘I’m going back to bed.”
Natalie follows her to the foot of the stairs. “You’re avoiding the question, running away again. Why can’t you just answer me one time? What did you need her to forgive you for? What could be so bad you’d call him for help?”
Her aunt ignores her, but then halfway up the stairs, she stops. “You really want to know?”
“I asked.”
“You think it’s always better to know the truth, but you’re wrong.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“You will.” Emily turns to face her. There’s a sadness about her, but also something else, something very much like relief. “Really, you will.”
Emily leans against the wall and slides into a squat on the stairs, her knobby ankles and white feet visible beneath the frilly hem of her nightgown. Her gaze seems to follow her finger as she traces the pattern of the wallpaper with her nail, a slow dance of ropes and curlicues.
“Do you recall anything about how it was between your mother and father before she took you away?” she asks.
“Sure.” Natalie answers. “It was bad.”
“Bad,” Emily repeats as if the word amuses her. “It was worse than bad.”
Natalie thinks back to those days, to her father’s anguish over her mother’s indifference. “They fought a lot.”
“Your father used to say the fights were the good part, at least then your mother was paying attention.”
“She wanted something else.”
“Clearly. But we didn’t know that then. All your father knew was that Megan kept pushing him away. She could get like that, you know, cold and distant, that was her personality. But toward the end, before she left, it was constant, just constant. We all noticed it, although your father got the worst of it. She shut him off entirely, love, affection, intimacy, everything. He used to confide in me about it hoping I could help, and I wanted to, I tried. But I couldn’t get through to her, no one could. Your mother in those days, it was like she had become someone else, this stranger who didn’t know any of us or for that matter particularly want to. God, she was infuriating. It was like talking to a wall.”
Yes, Natalie thinks. A wall, a mask, pick your metaphor, she doesn’t need to be told any of this.
“Your uncle and I, we were going through a bad time ourselves,” Emily continues. “Nothing like what your parents were going through, just this distancing that happens in marriages, this falling away. One day, I don’t know quite how it happened, your father and I—”
Natalie flashes on an image of Phil and Abby Wible. Moments of weakness, Natalie’s line of work. How could she not have known?
“You slept with him? With my father?”
Emily is quiet for a moment. Her finger scritches nervously across the wall. “It was an accident, Natalie, a stupid mistake,” she says finally. “Something that should have been secreted away and forgotten. Your father and I both realized it immediately. We were lying in bed talking about it when Megan walked ln. I’ll never forget the look on her face. She smiled, she actually smiled. Not in a pleasant way, almost triumphantly, like someone winning an argument. And then she just walked out. Never said a word, then or later. I tried to talk to her about it, I begged her, but she wouldn’t let me. She wouldn’t let your father, either. That’s when he finally threatened to leave. I think he hoped his leaving would wake her up, bring her back to her senses. Instead, she beat him to it. Just packed up her things, took you, and drove off. Next thing we heard you were with him.”
She waves toward the TV when she says “him,” as if Ralston’s image is still there. Natalie feels sick. The day’s alcohol and cigarettes well up inside her and she feels the ache in her gut and the rasping of her lungs. The air in the room seems close and the cobwebs in her head have thickened into coarse, dense ropes.
“My God,” she whispers. “That’s why they split up.”
“That’s not fair. I didn’t drive your mother away. She had been heading out the door for months. It was only a matter of time.”
“Maybe. But you gave her an out, maybe the one she was looking for. Maybe she wouldn’t have left otherwise, things could have ended up differently.”
“No!” Emily is emphatic.
“How do you know?” Natalie asks angrily. “You said it yourself, couples drift apart in marriages. They can drift back. You just don’t want to admit the truth, that maybe it ended when it did because of you. Things couldn’t have been all bad between them. After all, they conceived Stephanie during that time. Maybe if my mother hadn’t found you two in bed—” she stops.
Emily is staring at her with a horrible, wide-eyed look. Her finger is pressed hard against the wall, motionless, knuckle turning white from the pressure. “Oh God, Natalie, didn’t you hear me? I told you, your mother wasn’t sleeping with your Father. It had been months.”
“Wake up, Em. Men lie.”
“Your mother told me herself, Natalie. She just wasn’t interested in him anymore.”
The house fills with the slow clicking of the pendulum inside the grandfather clock. It strikes Natalie as a melancholy sound. Like water dripping on rock, endless and corrosive.
“What are you saying?”
“Stephanie wasn’t conceived until after Megan left here. Not until she left home. Stephanie is your mother’s daughter, Natalie, but not your father’s.”
Across the room, Natalie’s reflection stares forlornly back at her from the mirror. A fleck of ash dangles from a strand of hair over her face. She brushes it away, smudging her forehead, and as her reflection does the same, their eyes finally meet. It’s like an acceptance, this moment, a recognition of who she really is—ashes to ashes, dust to dust, madness to madness.
15
A Scream of Dust
The van is ready, Sara knows it is, but the simple act of double-checking will convey a sense of progress. That’s important right now, she thinks. The others need to see her engaged in activities like this, the simple but reassuring routines of preparation. The message she wants to send is that they are still moving ahead, that this period of disruption and waiting will soon end, that their destination really is nearby and they should remain focused on reaching it.
She never was much for the Bible, but this experience has given her a whole new appreciation for Moses and his rambling lost-cause tour of the desert. Imagine, she thinks, forty years of wandering around looking for the Promised Land. Forty years, hell, she couldn’t take forty more hours.
Neither could any of the others, for that matter. Fortunately, they won’t have to. If she can just nurse them through the next twenty-four, everything will be fine.
The worst part of the whole Moses saga was that he never did get to enjoy the Promised Land—the severe consequence of a momentary lapse in the discipline of faith. Sara has no intention of suffering a similar fate. She has not come so far only to be denied now, by her own failings or anyone else’s. She intends to carry out Tethys’ instructions to the letter.
The van is parked inside the old barn out back. It’s an ancient structure, much older than the house itself. It was probably a good match for the original house on the site, but pushed up against the new cabin, it just looks run down. Not that Sara particularly cares about the aesthetics of the arrangement. There’s just something about the juxtaposition she finds interesting.
The barn works well as a place to conceal the van from prying eyes. She leaves the big doors open while she’s inside, though, with the lights on, so everyone in the house can see what she’s up to. No point in staging a play just to act it out in secret.
As added get-the-point insurance, she brings along Tracy. Tracy is a good girl, young still, but solid. She doesn’t know it, but she’s an effective messenger. Tell her something, and it gets reported back to the group, always in the most favorable terms. Less discerning types would call
Tracy a gossip, but Sara views her as a pipeline.
You have to know how to work with the tools you’re given.
“What are we checking exactly?” Tracy asks once they’re inside the barn.
“Everything. You want to be ready, don’t you?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good. Take this.”
Sara hands her the clipboard and slowly begins to circle the van. “Tires all look good,” she says. “Put a check by tires.”
“Where is it—oh, I see. Okay, check.”
Sara kneels down and peers under the van. “No sign of leaks. Put a check by oil leaks.”
“Oil leaks . . . check.”
And on they go, item by item, checking off a series of mostly make-believe readiness measures. As they’re reaching the end of the list, Sara hops out of the van and, after reclaiming the clipboard, instructs Tracy to climb into the cargo bed.
“Check these,” she says, yanking hard against one of the handcuffs.
Tracy does as she’s told, rattling each manacle in turn. “All set” she says when she’s done. “Ten back here, two up front for you and Peter. Which one is the girl’s?”
Sara frowns. “We’ll see. Now, where are we? Restraints, check. Okay, what about the Thermos?”
Tracy looks around her, puzzled. “Was it supposed to be in here?”
“Oh, that’s right” Sara says, feigning a sudden recollection. “Stupid of me. I kept it out until we’re ready to mix the drink. We ought to do that tonight.”
“Tonight!” Tracy exclaims. “Can I help?”
“Of course.”
The girl seems to hesitate for a second, as if she’s just remembered something unpleasant. “I wish we could go tonight.”
Sara squeezes her hand. “So do I, but we have to wait just a little longer.”
With her free hand, Tracy tugs at one of the handcuffs, pulling the chain tight and then letting it clank back down onto the cold metal bed. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again.
It’s obvious she wants to say something, maybe ask a question. “What is it Tracy?” Sara prods.
The girl fidgets. “It’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
“Just all that stuff that happened today. We ‘II be okay, won’t we? None of that changes anything, does it?”
“No,” Sara assures her, “It doesn’t change a thing. We’ll be fine.”
“How can you be sure?” she asks.
“Because Tethys told me it would be fine, and I believe her. You don’t doubt her, do you?
“Of course not!”
“Because if you do, we should talk about it.”
“No, Sara, really, I would never doubt Tethys.”
“What is it then? Is it me, Tracy? Have I failed you somehow?”
The girl seems horrified by this. “Never, no, of course not.”
“If I have, you should tell me.”
“But you haven’t, ever.”
“You make me feel like I must have, to keep asking me questions like this.”
“Oh no, Sara, no, God no,” Tracy stammers. “It’s just me, I get worried. I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. I’m sorry.”
Sara lets her sweat for a few seconds more before taking her trembling chin in her hand. “This waiting is hard on all of us,” she says. “We’re all anxious, on edge, especially with what went on today. I understand that. But we’re right outside the gates now, about to go inside, and that’s what we should be thinking about, okay?”
Tracy nods. Sara can tell from the look in her face that the girl won’t make a mistake like that again.
It is, of course, precisely the mistake Sara hoped she would make. Now Tracy will carry two messages back to the group: that they really will be going tomorrow night, and that they shouldn’t ask too many questions in the interim.
A little bit of carrot a little bit of stick—Sara figures that’ll get them through another day. Another day of wandering around in the desert.
* * *
Back in the house, she slips upstairs and ducks inside the door to the smallest bedroom, shutting it behind her. The interior is dark, except for the light streaming in through the window from the floodlights outside. The man silhouetted against the wash of white glass doesn’t look up when she enters, but even in the shadowy light, his features are unmistakable.
Peter is watching the night pass by.
“Nice show,” he offers.
“Someone has to try to keep up their spirits,” she responds.
Some relationships are inherently difficult and never do improve despite repeated attempts. Her relationship with Peter is like that. They should have been friends, she thinks, and could have been, if only he would have taken his responsibilities more seriously. She has a hard time with people who don’t live up to their obligations, and Peter, for all his strengths, has that flaw. This afternoon proved that.
Actually, this afternoon guaranteed they would never be friends. She can never trust him now. She can barely stand the sight of him.
“Tell me about the tape,” he says, his voice still dead.
Sara peers down at him in disgust and disbelief. The tape. So that’s it. He’s jealous of her.
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why?” he implores. “What is it?”
“An explanation for something that may not even happen.” Although she believes that it will happen, because Tethys believed it would, and she has never known Tethys to be wrong.
“She should have told me, too.”
“You can take that up with her when we get to Atlantis.”
There’s a long silence, and then finally he turns toward her. “Didn’t she trust me?”
His wheedling irritates her even more. “Not everything is about you, Peter!” she snaps.
The words hit their mark, and he turns away. For just a second, the light flashes on a thin trail running down his cheek. Tethys liked this about him, what she called his sensitivity. Sara can’t abide it. He’s weak, and right now his weakness is something they can’t afford.
“I didn’t come up here to argue,” she says, trying to rein in her anger. “How’s the girl?”
Peter glances at the little figure sitting motionless next to him. “The same.”
The shots Marty and Tim fired missed Selena by the proverbial country mile, but the ordeal didn’t leave her unscathed. She hasn’t said a word since Peter and Sara found her crumpled in a desolate heap on the lawn, and she hasn’t moved from this chair since they carried her back inside. Her eyes stare through the two adults into some nether space no one else can visit, not even Peter.
“She’s in shock,” Sara says.
“Being shot at will do that to you.”
“They were just warning shots, Peter. Besides, you and I both know that’s not what caused this.”
He rests his head on the girl’s, a tender, fatherly gesture. “I thought you didn’t come in here to argue,” he says, his voice thick.
“I want you to come back downstairs.”
‘‘I’m needed up here.”
“You’re needed down there!” Sara explodes. “Your family needs you, remember them? Remember the promise you made to Tethys, that you and I would lead them together? Well, they’re waiting, Peter, and so am I.”
It makes her sick to plead this way. How could Tethys ever have thought this man was capable of leading? The sad fact is, though, that Peter still matters, and like it or not Sara needs him. The others expect him to be at her side, playing the gentle soul to her hard-ass. They are like children whose parents are bickering and who want nothing more than for them to stop, to be together again, to be happy.
Peter stands, a slow, angry, unfolding motion. “On one condition,” he says.
“Go on.”
“I made a promise to this girl.”
“Which was?”
“That she gets to go home, too.”
“Peter –”
“No! Thi
s isn’t up for debate. I intend to keep that promise, and you aren’t going to stop me.”
Too disgusted to argue, Sara fires back, “Fine, whatever. But she’s your problem, understood? One more episode like today and that’s it. Agreed?”
Peter moves closer and his hand extends from his body. Reluctantly, she offers her own and they shake on the deal. “Go on,” she tells him. “Get downstairs. I’ll sit with the girl for a while.”
Peter’s footsteps recede down the stairs, floppy slapping sounds that make her think of a penguin. That’s Peter, she thinks. All waddle and no wings.
Alone in the dark, she reaches into her pocket and feels the cold metal of the pistol she took from the van. “There will be no next times, no more screw ups,” she says aloud, certain that at some level the girl can hear her. “And no more warning shots.”
Outside, moths flit against the window, the beating of their wings like a tiny scratching. Their even more suicidal brethren dance around the floodlights, casting vague, swirling shadows across the yard.
* * *
Natalie’s only thought is of proving it isn’t true.
She drives furiously, past the two new stadiums flanking the brooding mass of their doomed but still-standing predecessor, past the glittering lights of the sometimes resurgent downtown, past all the city’s gaudy symbols of life and renewal, rejecting them all, oblivious and angry. The cemetery is all she wants, the cemetery with its comforting familiarity, the cemetery with Stephanie—her sister, goddammit! not some mutant half-breed—who can tell her what a colossal lie her aunt has spun.
But the cemetery seems wrong from the moment she arrives and the ghost-white image of St. Francis sweeps by in her headlights. The statue has always been oddly comforting to her, like a sure companion, mute and accepting. But tonight, the gentle friar, patron saint of God’s creatures, seems cold and distant, almost hostile, as if he doesn’t approve.
Of what, she wonders? But she knows that: of her.
She stops the car and steps out into the darkness. Its intensity staggers her. Thick clouds have erased every trace of light, every hint of moon and stars, and the surrounding blackness seems to cling to her, liquid and thick like the skin on scalded milk, now cooled. She waits for her eyes to adjust, and when that doesn’t happen, listens for Stephanie to call for her. But the only noise is of distant traffic and the tired rustling of fallen leaves being brushed along by a slight breeze.
Ring of Years Page 20