“I think you’d better call Silver,” Bergen told Teresa. “Maybe we should try to reach Reuben and King, too.” The detective found he now also had trouble swallowing; he looked up at the clouds that hung above them in the sky. “It’s the end,” Bergen said.
“You’re not a doctor.” Teresa was stubborn. “For all we know she could be getting better.”
“She’s not getting better,” Bergen said.
“She might be,” Teresa insisted.
“Teresa,” Bergen said. “No.”
Irises had begun to grow by the side of the road; they formed a circle around Bergen’s car. Even though it was nearly spring, Teresa buttoned the sweater she wore; it was lambswool, a present from Silver for her last birthday. He hadn’t forgotten to send a present since Teresa’s awful sixteenth birthday—that year he was married. But he never telephoned and he hadn’t been to Santa Rosa in more than two years. Even when Lee came up to visit her mother and sister, Silver stayed away. He said he was too busy, he told himself he just didn’t have time, but the truth was that the thought of Santa Rosa made him dizzy, and the one time he decided to drive up he started to smell roses as soon as he entered the city limits, and by the time he reached Divisadero Street the scent was so strong it was as if Teresa was right there beside him and Silver had to turn back. Teresa had seen him only twice since the day of his wedding, once at his son Jackie’s christening, five months after the wedding, and then, nearly a year and a half later, at a Thanksgiving dinner celebrated at Lee’s family’s home. Both occasions were ruined by Silver’s bad temper; he fought with Lee at the christening, he refused to sit at the dining-room table Lee’s mother had decorated with small pumpkins and yellow chrysanthemums. At those two meetings, Teresa and Silver avoided each other; but at the Thanksgiving dinner, Dina insisted Teresa go into the kitchen and bring Silver back to the table after he had stormed out of the room, insulted by the food, or the weather, or the sound of his mother-in-law’s voice. He had been standing with his back to Teresa when she found him, and when she reached out and touched his shoulder, Silver jumped.
“Don’t touch me,” he had told her. “Understand?”
Teresa had felt as though they had gone back in time; instead of in an unfamiliar kitchen they were at the edge of the reservoir. Her ears were ringing and she could barely hear the voices in the dining room, the scraping of metal as Lee’s mother sharpened a carving knife. In spite of herself she remembered everything that had happened between them, in spite of herself she remembered more than kisses, more than lies.
“You just better not touch me,” Silver had warned her that day. “What if somebody came in here and saw you do that?” he whispered.
Teresa had left the kitchen without saying another word; at the table, surrounded by Silver’s in-laws, she heard the back door slam as Silver left the house, she heard his car start in the driveway, and the scream of his tires when he stepped on the gas. Later, he had come back and tried to apologize. “Look, I’m sorry,” he had said. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to talk to you that way.”
Lee was waiting impatiently in the car, while in the kitchen Dina washed and Lee’s mother dried, then put the dishes back into the cabinets. Silver waited for Teresa to forgive him, to say just one word. But even if Lee hadn’t gotten out of the car and begun calling Silver’s name, Teresa wouldn’t have forgiven him, not then, not ever; when he told her, point-blank, not to touch him, Teresa felt exactly as she had years before, when they had stood on a street corner and Silver had promised her that no one would ever know. That Thanksgiving day, when Silver finally left her and went outside to his wife, Teresa admitted to herself what she had already known for years: somebody knew, she knew, and no promise, no warning, could make her forget. And it seemed to her then that the only way to fight her memories was to avoid Silver altogether, and avoiding him became the most important thing in the world.
On that day when Bergen suggested that she call Silver, Teresa shook her head no. She called Atlas over to her and kept her palm on the dog’s head. “I can’t do it,” she told Bergen. “I can’t talk to him any more.”
Bergen watched Teresa carefully. “Since when?” he asked. “I always thought he was the only one you could talk to.”
“You do it,” Teresa said. “You call Silver.”
And so it was the detective and not Teresa who telephoned Silver to tell him that his mother was dying. But before Silver could gas up the brand-new Camaro he had owned for less than a month, it was too late; Dina was gone. She died in the bed King Connors had built out of redwood in the first year they were married, she died with a tortoise-shell comb her father had given her still in her hair. Dina called out for Bergen, but no one heard her—the detective was downstairs in the kitchen with Teresa drinking tea, making call after call in the hopes of contacting Reuben and King Connors, since he felt he owed them at least that courtesy. Dina called his name a second time, but after that it didn’t seem to matter that Bergen hadn’t heard her, hadn’t run up the stairs two at a time. Dina didn’t bother to call out again, because it suddenly seemed that Bergen was with her, he was right there by her side. And even though the old detective was downstairs reaching for a pitcher of cream, Dina was certain he was in her bedroom. When she closed her eyes she could feel him sit down next to her, and she was grateful that Teresa had made up the bed with clean white sheets just that morning. He held her hand, and Dina whispered, finally, that she loved him, and he answered that he had known it for year; and she sighed because at this, the very end, Dina was sure he was with her even though it was the pillowcase she held on to rather than his hand. And later in the morning, when Teresa came upstairs to the bedroom, the lace curtains in the window moved back and forth even though there was no breeze. A bloodstain the shape of a wild orchid was on the pillow and Dina’s fingers were still reaching toward the white edge of the pillowcase, just as they had been before she let go.
Bergen didn’t say a word when Teresa told him; he went out to his car and sat behind the wheel. It had begun to rain and, without the windshield wipers turned on, Bergen couldn’t see anything in front of him; still he sat there, in the silent car, for nearly an hour before he could go back inside the house. He insisted that Teresa eat lunch and, because she was in shock, she walked right over to the refrigerator. After he was certain that Teresa had fixed herself a sandwich, Bergen went to the hall closet, put his sports coat on, then went into the living room. He pulled down the shades and drew all the curtains. And after that, the detective sat down on the couch, right in the center where the two pillows met unevenly, and he cried, certain that he would never recover, never be able to face a life without Dina.
Silver got to Santa Rosa late in the afternoon; when he parked his Camaro in the driveway, Dina was still upstairs, no one had moved her. But as soon as he got out of his car, Silver knew it was too late—all of the window shades in the house were drawn, the collie sat out on the porch, grief clung to the sparse grass on the front lawn. Although it was not yet four, the sky was dark, what had begun as a rain shower had become a storm. When Silver looked up he saw a line of lightning above the house, the shingles that King Connors had put on the roof shone like rough stars. Silver went in the front door, but he stood where he was, on the woven doormat—the house smelled like roses and the scent was hypnotic. He found himself unable to move. From the hallway Silver could see into the living room; Bergen sat on the couch, hunched over so that he seemed part of the fabric. All the houseplants in the living room—the begonia and the Swedish ivy, the jade plants and the cactus—all had died. Teresa and Bergen hadn’t thought to water them throughout the months of Dina’s illness and the plants had wilted in their ceramic pots, a thin carpet of brown leaves now covered the floor. When Bergen looked up and saw Silver, the old detective came out into the hallway to shake his hand.
“I’ve taken care of everything,” Bergen told Silver. “I’ve arranged the funeral, and Teresa knows that she can stay on in
this house for as long as she wants.”
“Where is she?” Silver asked.
“Upstairs,” Bergen said. “She’s still upstairs in her bed.”
“I mean Teresa,” Silver said.
“Oh,” Bergen said. “Teresa. I thought you meant Dina. Dina’s still upstairs in bed.”
Silver put his hands in his pockets; he was dripping with rainwater and a pool was collecting around each of his black leather boots. “Thanks for taking care of everything,” Silver said.
Bergen blinked, surprised that Dina’s son knew how to be polite. “You don’t have to thank me,” Bergen said. “Nothing I did saved her, did it?”
Silver left Bergen in the hallway and went toward the kitchen: he knew Teresa was in there, the odor of roses was so strong it made him dizzy. What Silver needed was a drink, a warm dinner, a night of pure uninterrupted sleep, but he went on into the kitchen. She had her back to him; there was a cold cup of coffee in front of her, an uneaten sandwich on a blue and white china plate. She hadn’t combed her hair, it was knotted and thick, and fell down her back like a flock of blackbirds in flight. Silver imagined that if he frightened her, if she moved too quickly, dark feathers would drop onto the floor.
“It’s happened,” Silver whispered, “just like I told you it would.”
Teresa had been sitting in the same place for hours; if she closed her eyes for even a second she felt she was surrounded by wild horses with hoofs so sharp they were like daggers. Now that she heard Silver’s voice she could no longer control her grief; she bent her head and cried, and her tears fell into the untouched cup of coffee. Although he tried not to go any closer, Silver was drawn to her; he stood right behind her, then reached down and put his hand on her neck. He could feel her rapid pulse.
“We’re orphans now,” he whispered.
Beneath his touch, Teresa was melting. She had more tears inside her than she thought possible; she was sure that if she turned to face him, she would throw her arms around Silver, she would never be able to let go.
Silver bent down; he was so close that when he spoke Teresa could feel his breath on her skin.
“It’s just the two of us now,” Silver told her, and even though Dina was still upstairs in her bed, and Bergen sat in the living room staring at the photograph Dina’s father had given him so many years ago, Teresa felt her heart leap, and being near to Silver seemed more dangerous than ever. And in that dark kitchen on a day when lightning moved across the sky, she couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t been waiting for Silver to say exactly those words for as long as she could remember.
It rained on the day of the funeral, it poured all that following week. The river overflowed and even the houses built above the flood line on stilts soon had pools of water in every room. Cows were swept away, dogs got lost on familiar roads, pelicans nested in chimneys and the feathers of their young became coated with ashes. In town, anyone who didn’t have to go out stayed home; all over Santa Rosa roofs leaked and backyards became reservoirs. On Divisadero Street, snails drowned in circles in the vegetable patch where Dina had insisted Bergen spread mulch only a few weeks earlier.
Silver’s wife and son had come up to Santa Rosa by bus. Days after the funeral, Lee still continued to wear her black wool dress; although she had packed a suitcase full of clothes for Silver and Jackie, she hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes for herself. The house was so quiet that she found herself walking on tiptoes, barefoot so that her high heels wouldn’t echo across the floor. It was a house thick with sleep. Teresa had locked herself in her room after the funeral, she refused to come out; Bergen, torn between remaining at the Lamplighter Motel and returning to San Francisco, wound up sleeping on the living-room couch. Silver spent his nights at the Dragon, searching out old connections; when he came home he slept till noon in his old room, then spent the rest of the day wandering through the house. The house was so damp that Bergen had begun to wheeze, and his heavy breathing set Silver on edge.
“Why don’t you take some cough medicine?” Silver asked Bergen a few days after the funeral. “You’re driving me crazy.”
Bergen took the hint. “I know I should leave,” he said.
“Listen, I don’t have the right to ask you to leave,” Silver admitted. “This house belongs to you, so I’m not kicking you out, understand?”
“You’re not kicking me out,” Bergen agreed. “I could never live here without your mother.”
“If you want to go, I’m not going to stop you,” Silver said, and when the detective finally got up from the couch Silver felt as though a weight had been lifted off his back; he had never understood what his mother saw in the old man, he didn’t like the stare the detective often fixed him with, especially when Teresa was in the same room.
“I’m just going to wait to say goodbye to Teresa,” Bergen told Silver after he had gone to the hall closet for his sports coat.
“Christ,” Silver said. “That could be days.” He lowered his voice. “She’s been sleeping a lot.”
“That’s all right,” Bergen said. “I’ve got time.”
As soon as they had come home from the funeral, Teresa had gone to her room. She had slept for eighteen hours straight. In her dreams two black butterflies had attached themselves to her shoulders. Though their wings were delicate, the butterflies lifted Teresa off the ground. Even when she had wakened, Teresa had still felt those butterflies attached to her skin; when she walked across the floor she imagined her feet were inches above the wood.
She let them all think her spell went on for much longer than it did; she stayed in her room, waiting till long past midnight to come down to the kitchen, no matter how hungry she was. In the days since the funeral Teresa had managed to avoid them all, but at night in her room she looked out the window, she studied the stars; already she missed Dina, already a tide of despair rose up to the ceiling. On the day that Bergen left, Silver came to her room; he put his ear to the door and listened for a sigh, or the rustle of a sheet. When he knocked on the door, Teresa considered not answering. She could have pretended to be asleep, but the walls of her room were closing in on her, and no matter how much she wished for a long sleeping spell she was awake, and lonely, and finally she opened the door.
“Bergen’s leaving,” Silver told her. “At long last. He wants to say goodbye.”
When they walked downstairs Teresa held on to the banister; she heard the whir of a butterfly’s wings just above her head, and she nearly stumbled on the last stair. Silver put his arm around her waist to steady her, but as soon as he saw Bergen he backed away from Teresa. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, but he didn’t make a move to leave Bergen alone with his sister; he found himself afraid of what she might say.
Bergen came over to Teresa and shook her hand formally; his clothes were wrinkled, he carried a brown paper shopping bag which he opened to show Teresa.
“Tell me if you don’t want me to take these things,” Bergen said.
Inside the bag was some forsythia that Bergen had wrapped in a scrap of tin foil, there was the white wool blanket Dina had always kept on her bed, and a bottle of Chanel he had bought her one Christmas and Dina had thought too expensive to use.
Teresa closed the paper bag. “This is your house,” she said to Bergen. “You own it, and if anyone should leave it’s me.”
Lee was in the kitchen, baking a lemon-flavored angel cake she would serve later that day when her mother and sister came over to visit. She balanced the mixing bowl on the counter when the phone rang, then called to Silver. And so, even though Silver hadn’t planned to leave Teresa and Bergen alone, he reluctantly did just that, and went to talk to the bartender of the Dragon, who wanted to buy some cocaine. While Silver made his arrangements, Teresa walked Bergen out to his car.
“I’m going to miss you,” she admitted. “I’ve gotten used to you.”
Bergen opened the trunk of his car and put the paper bag full of Dina’s belongings inside, making certain to tak
e out the forsythia and place it inside the car, on the front seat next to him.
“What should I do now?” Teresa asked Bergen after he locked the trunk.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” Bergen said. It had finally stopped raining, but there were mud puddles all up and down Divisadero Street. “All right,” Bergen said. “You want to know what I think you should do?”
Teresa nodded her head emphatically. “Yes.”
“Anything,” Bergen said. “Anything but go with him.”
Silver came out of the house then; he slammed the door shut behind him, waved at Teresa, then got into the Camaro and started the engine. Bergen’s mouth puckered, as if he had just eaten a lemon. He had never trusted Silver, not from the first when Silver was nothing more than a rude boy who aspired to a life of danger. Toward the end, even Dina had admitted that Silver always looked for trouble; toward the end, he was no longer her favorite child. And it wasn’t because he had married and moved away, it was because she had begun to compare him to Bergen, and, compared to kindness, blind courage and recklessness seemed trivial. And a man who traveled beneath an orange moon on nights that were scented with wildflowers and thick with heat suddenly seemed much less marvelous than a man who would sit on the back porch and hold her hand for hours without having to say one word.
But Dina had never told Teresa about her disillusionment with Arias, and with Silver, and when Silver drove away Teresa stared after him, and even if Dina had warned Teresa it might not have made any difference, because even now Teresa never gave her grandmother’s parting words a second thought. What she thought about was Silver.
“You asked for advice, so I’m giving it to you,” Bergen said. “Start a new life. Don’t think you need anyone to protect you—your mother spent twenty years doing that and look what it got her. That’s why I never pressured her to let me move in here. It’s no good to need someone more than you want them. And sometimes you just have to start over again.”
White Horses Page 15