So Near

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “This fox ran out of nowhere right in front of the Jeep. And I swerved to keep from hitting it and—”

  “I’m sorry,” Daniel said when I couldn’t go on. He looked down into his half-filled glass and said again: “I’m really sorry.” I’d been hearing variations on that theme from so many people over the weeks since the accident, all so heartfelt, often accompanied by tears. But there was something about the way Daniel said it that was different. It took me a moment to grasp what it was: he didn’t really mean it. He didn’t really care. He’d never known Betsy. He was new to the area. Covington, the Horigan family, our little domestic tragedy—it was all pretty much an abstraction for him. None of this touched him very deeply. He wasn’t actually sorry; he was just being polite. But the funny thing? Rather than being embarrassed or hurt by this realization, I was relieved.

  “You’re actually one of the few people I know who’s not personally involved with what happened,” I told him. I was aware that I could be trying his patience, but I felt I had to push on; this was too important to me. “My family and friends keep telling me that I shouldn’t feel responsible in any way, that it wasn’t my fault. What do you think?”

  “Honestly?” Daniel asked, looking over at me again. Maybe he was trying to gauge what kind of impact his answer would have on me, or perhaps he was just pausing for dramatic affect. The overhead light gleamed on his high forehead and softened the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Suddenly I had no idea how old he was, or who he really was. He stared back down into his beer for a moment as if weighing his words. Then he said:

  “As far as I’m concerned, the whole idea of guilt is probably the worst concept mankind has ever come up with. I don’t buy into the idea that actions necessarily result in consequences. That way of thinking? I think it’s just a very clever system for keeping people in line, holding them back. I believe life simply unfolds—as mysteriously and inevitably as a flower. And, if you have any sense at all, you’ll do everything in your power to enjoy the process.”

  “Wow,” I said. He looked more serious at that moment than I’d ever seen him. Then, suddenly, as if reading my thoughts, he laughed and said:

  “Sorry, I can get a little carried away.”

  “No, that was great,” I said. Maybe it was just the alcohol starting to hit me, but I felt looser. Lighter. He’d given me a whole new way of looking at things. It wasn’t just that he’d provided me with a possible answer to something that had been gnawing away at me: he’d managed to reframe the whole question. It didn’t matter whether what happened was God’s will—or my fault. Because, for Daniel, it wasn’t about guilt and innocence. Right or wrong. It was liberating to think that these were just man-made concepts anyway, ideas people could choose to dismiss. Or ignore.

  “I’ve got one last question for you,” I said. I told him about the car seat and the possibility of suing Gannon Baby Products, but I think I already knew what he was going to say.

  “Why not?” he asked, signaling the waiter for the check. “What do you have to lose?”

  The Ravitch job gives Kurt and me a reason to get up every morning and climb the stairs to the office, make calls, move pieces of paper around, drive over to the site to see how the foundation is coming, shoot the breeze with the small crew we’ve cobbled together. But we’re not kidding anybody, especially each other. We’re barely covering expenses, and we have months to go before we see another dime out of Ravitch. I feel so grateful now that my folks handed Jenny and me the farmhouse free and clear. We have our problems, but at least we don’t have to worry about mortgage payments the way Kurt does. He got one of those interest-only loans at the top of the market, and at this point his house is deep underwater in terms of equity.

  “I’m thinking of selling the Bayliner,” Kurt said one afternoon toward the end of May. We were enjoying a run of beautiful weather: hot and clear, with the daylight hours stretching ever deeper into the evening. Last year at this time, we’d had five places under contract and were working twelve-hour days. Between us, we’d juggled crew and contracts, bids and building inspections—and had developed a highly synchronized, almost instinctual way of keeping all those balls in the air. Now, though, with so little to do, we kept finding ourselves making stupid mistakes: Kurt wiped out two weeks’ worth of phone messages by pushing the wrong button, erasing a callback number for a possible job in Red River; I forgot to send in the check for our standing ad in the North County Real Estate Guide, and those ass-holes in the ad department—claiming they were getting stiffed right and left since the downturn—dropped our full page from the May book, usually one of the biggest of the year.

  “The hell you are,” I said, looking over at Kurt, who was busy flipping through his digital deck of solitaire cards. “You love that thing.”

  Kurt’s twenty-eight-foot Ciera outboard cruiser has a Mercruiser V-8 engine that, five years old now, still purrs like a kitten. It was the only high-ticket item he bought for himself after the company took off, and over the years he’s loaded it up with options: microwave, stove, fridge, Bose radio and CD player. Every spring, until this one anyway, we haul it up to Lake George or Lake Champlain and spend a long weekend cruising and fishing. Kurt’s never been particularly possessive or acquisitive, but on one of those trips a few years back I managed to gauge an inch-long scratch in the Bayliner’s fiberglass, and Kurt fussed over that thing like a mother hen with an ailing chick.

  “I could probably get over fifteen thousand for it on eBay,” Kurt replied, not looking up from his game.

  “You really need the money that bad?”

  “It’s not just that. Tessa’s on this kick about cutting back on our carbon footprint, doing our bit to stop global warming or whatever. We’re decluttering.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “The Bayliner isn’t clutter. It’s almost like a collectible at this point. I remember you saying you wanted to hand it down to Jamie someday. And weren’t we going to start teaching him how to fish in a couple of years?”

  “Well, that’s another thing,” Kurt said, sighing and turning away from the computer. He ran his hands through what was left of his hair. “Now Tessa doesn’t want Jamie going out on the boat until he’s like eighteen or something. Says it’s too dangerous. She’s suddenly gotten a little nuts about safety issues. So what’s the fucking point, right?”

  That did it for me. I’m not sure why, but suddenly I felt like I had to push back. Make a stand. Betsy’s death hadn’t just fouled up my own life; its ugliness was starting to seep into the lives of those around me. Jenny couldn’t see it, I told myself, because she was still so wrapped up in her own suffering. I thought back to what Edmund had told me: that the lawsuit wasn’t about blame. It’s about restitution. It’s about someone destroying the most precious thing in your world—and you saying, “Guess what: that’s not okay.” That’s exactly how I was feeling now. It was time to get some answers. Stop the self-doubt and recriminations. How else were we going to be able to move on?

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said to Kurt. “Do you know what happened to Betsy’s car seat?”

  “Why?” Kurt replied.

  “I just don’t want it thrown away by mistake,” I told him. “I mean, if you do happen to have it, I don’t want it getting tossed out with all this decluttering you’re planning, okay?”

  “Why not just let it go? It’s not really something you want to keep.”

  “Yes, it is, actually,” I said. “It’s hard to explain, but I’d like to hold on to it. It’s the last thing that touched her.”

  Kurt seemed to buy my explanation. It had just the right tone of sentimentality for him, the correct note of sorrow. Old Kurt. I don’t think he suspected what I was up to. He trusted me. He believed we saw eye to eye on just about everything. He thought he knew me so well.

  “I stored it away in the garage,” he told me. “Up in the eaves. I’ll get it down for you on your way out.”

  8

  Jenny
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  I started talking to him in my head at first. The day after Cal brought him over, I found myself mentally haranguing him as I knelt in the garden, pulling out the bishop’s-weed that had sprung up among the epimedium and heucheras. It was a warm, muggy morning, and even though I was working in the shade, I felt sticky and uncomfortable. You know what, Daniel? I’m not particularly impressed by all your awards. I’m not as easily taken in as my husband is. Not by a long shot. Cal thinks you’re so special, that there’s so much he can learn from you. Well, I’m not so sure about that . . .

  I sat back on my heels, remembering how I’d reacted when he took off his sunglasses and met my gaze for the first time. I’d instinctively moved away from him, feeling like he’d overstepped some invisible boundary. For all Daniel’s professional veneer, I think there’s something overly intimate about him. Suggestive and knowing. It bothers me that Cal didn’t seem to pick up on any of this, didn’t notice what had passed between Daniel and myself. And what had it been exactly? More than a look. More like an appraisal.

  Well, you don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. I silently upbraided him through that afternoon and the day after as I weeded and uprooted an overgrown flowering quince bush. Its gnarly tentacles had worked their way so deep into the earth, I had to take a pickax to break the roots apart. I found myself addressing Daniel the whole time I was working: Maybe I don’t have your advanced degrees, but you know what? I really don’t need your help. I don’t want your advice. Why didn’t I just tell Cal that he should save his money? It would have been so simple. Why didn’t I ask him for something else, a gift certificate to Pellani’s Garden Center, say? Because, in fact, the anger felt good. Almost comforting. For the first time since Betsy’s death, some of the anguish that had been weighing so heavily on my heart lifted—and was redirected outward. At the straw man I built Daniel up to be. At the person it then felt so satisfying to spend my waking hours tearing down.

  So I was taken aback when Daniel himself called later that week. It was a shock to hear his actual voice again. He wanted to come by in the afternoon and take some digital photographs. We were courteous and matter-of-fact with each other as we agreed on a time and said good-bye. It wasn’t until I put down the receiver and saw that my hands were shaking that I realized how much I’d already allowed Daniel to insinuate himself into my life.

  He arrived at the front door right on time, dressed in a black collarless shirt and chinos that draped neatly over expensive-looking loafers. I led him through the house and out to the back, working hard as I did so to try to get him into some kind of perspective. It didn’t help that he looked so different from the man I’d been imagining these past few days. Perhaps it was just being indoors, but he seemed taller and a little heavier now. Also, I’d remembered him as fairly pale, with finely drawn features. But I realized that his skin was actually deeply tanned with the kind of swarthiness that often comes from teenage acne—and that you might associate with a pirate or Gypsy. It was hard to imagine what he might have looked like as a child. He seemed so adult and completely evolved. Not really a handsome man, I thought, though he was clearly someone who took a great deal of care with his appearance.

  It occurred to me that he had very likely made himself over from some former, less acceptable persona. That the image he projected to the world was a calculated one, created to both dazzle and obscure. He’d successfully put that facade over on Cal, I decided, as he probably tried to do with all of his clients.

  “Do you mind if I just roam around and take some pictures ?” he asked as we walked out onto the back porch.

  “No, go right ahead,” I said. I sat down on the wicker settee and picked up a magazine. I wasn’t about to show him around again. I knew I was being a little rude, but I didn’t care. Since Betsy’s death I’ve stopped worrying about the niceties. In fact, I’ve become abrupt and dangerously frank. I finally told Tessa a few days ago to please stop dropping by so often, that her outpouring of love and concern wasn’t really helping me right now.

  At the same time I’ve grown far more intuitive and alert to the world around me. Our house, the garden, my friends, our two families—everything has a kind of hyperreal quality.

  More than that, I’m now acutely aware of possible dimensions beyond this one—especially the feeling that Betsy is often hovering nearby. Sometimes, when I’m working in the garden, I can so easily believe that she’s playing just behind me the way she used to with her trowel or one of her dolls. I’ll turn—as quickly as I can—hoping to catch her there, only to find an empty stretch of green summer lawn and the unbearable reality of her absence. My arms ache to pick her up, to hold her to me. I can almost breathe in the scent of her skin and hair. But not quite. And this physical longing—and deprivation—dominates my waking hours now. It permeates my dreams. As the days pass and she remains just beyond my grasp, I can feel the need building and intensifying.

  Without being aware of it, I keep rubbing the tips of my fingers together. I know why, of course. Though I’ve managed to block out all thoughts of those final moments with the seat belt, I can’t seem to stop this unconscious questioning. Weighing. Wondering. Thumb against index and middle fingers, over and over.

  And here I was, doing it again! I flexed my hands, shook them out, and started to leaf through the magazine, pretending to read while I watched Daniel move around the property. Stopping at the stone wall to take a series of photos. Turning toward the sunny side border and lifting the camera again. Then turning back toward the house, camera blocking his face, but his fingers clearly moving. Tapping the lens button. Focusing in. Closer and closer. There was no way I could prove it, but I was suddenly certain he wasn’t taking shots of the garden anymore. He was photographing me. I felt threatened in a way that I couldn’t account for—and that was probably ridiculous. Still, it made me realize that there’s something about Daniel’s physical presence that alarms me—that the air around him feels charged and expectant—like the seconds between a lightning strike and the clap of thunder. I have to remind myself that Ravitch handpicked him, that Cal admires him, that he’s an established and respected professional.

  As he walked back toward the house, I could feel my whole body tensing.

  “Is there anything in particular you’re hoping for?” he asked as he climbed the porch stairs toward me. I had one of those flashes I’ve been experiencing lately—like a door opening a crack and closing just as quickly—of Betsy climbing up those same steps calling My Yay Yay!

  “What?”

  “About the garden?” he asked, leaning against the railing. “Any favorite plants or shrubs I should know about? Did you have any kind of plan in mind already?” He crossed his arms in front of him, cradling the camera in his hands. It seemed an oddly protective gesture, and I had the outrageous notion that he was aroused and concealing an erection. I could feel my neck and face flushing with embarrassment. Where in the world were these thoughts coming from? I’ve never thought about anybody but Cal in that way. I looked past Daniel to the garden. To the hill of wildflowers where I’d wanted to put in the pathway leading up to the gazebo.

  “No,” I said. But he must have seen something in my expression, because he said, “I think of it as my job to make this the garden of your dreams, Mrs. Horigan. How can I do that unless you tell me what they might be?”

  It startled me that he called me by my married name. It seemed to me that we’d already moved beyond that somehow. I’d been thinking of him as Daniel almost from the moment we first met. Had it all been one-sided? Could it be that I’d just been imagining all these crosscurrents between us?

  “No. You’re the expert,” I told him. I dropped the magazine beside me on the settee. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with. Would you like a drink of water or anything before you go?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, smiling, “but thanks for the offer.” He had a little gap between his two front teeth, and his smile made him look youn
ger and more harmless than I believed he actually was. He tilted his head, studying me in a knowing kind of way. It struck me then that he was actually fully aware of the interior argument I’d been conducting with him and that he was simply toying with me.

  “My dreams have nothing to do with this,” I added, standing up and leading him back down the porch steps. He could walk up by way of the side garden to the driveway and his car. I didn’t want to take him through the house again. I suddenly didn’t want him anywhere near me.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I said, knocking on the door of my father’s study. It worried me that he hadn’t heard me come into the house, even though the screen door to the kitchen screeched as usual on its rusty hinges. And the old hickory floors creaked as I made my way down the side hall to the room where the Reverend Honegger spends most of his waking hours, surrounded by his books, papers, church bulletins, and—I like to imagine—regrets. The air was filled with dust motes, swirling upward through the late afternoon sunlight, no doubt set in motion by the draft I’d created coming into the house. Though my father’s prostate cancer treatment two years ago was declared a success, it seems to me that he’s been slowly failing in other ways: both his hearing and his eyesight have been getting worse. He turned at the sound of my voice.

  “Jennifer?” he said, taking me in over his rimless glasses. “I wasn’t expecting you.” He looked so mild mannered and unassuming with his wispy white hair cross-combed over that freckled pate. Some ironic quirk of physiognomy makes it look as though he’s always half smiling; his lips curl sharply up on either end and the skin around his mouth is soft and dimpled. Yet I’ve never known a harder, more unbending man.