by Scott Turow
Money. Disease. Clara had left behind an unreconstructed mess.
He was accosted, more or less unaccountably, by a memory of her, as he happened to have observed her one day on her way to her teaching assignment in the Inner-City Arts Program.
Stern and the children had long expressed concerns for her safety, but Clara twice a week drove her Seville t the eity's depleted neighborhoods for the morning. Coming by to swap cars so he could take hers to the shop, Stern had caught sight of her marching boldly to the school doors-a determined middle-aged lady with a noble look,.reddish hair, a substantial bosom. She carried no purse. Her hands were jammed into the pockets of her plain coat and her head was erect, as she ignored occasional quarreling glances. In that split-second, he recognized something essential: not that she was fearless, but rather that he had seen the same expression often before and that for Clara every trip beyond her home apparently required the same effort to master her anxieties. There were all those inner demons which she conquered only by persuading herself they were not real. Somehow, at the end, they had come to life, surrounded and devoured her. A taciturn, mannerly, dignified woman, Clara Stern had gotten herself caught in the world's muck, and it had sucked her down, like one of those prehistoric creatures whose bones were found in the tar pits.
He knew that sooner or later he was going to stumble into the very heart of it, too, enduring all the same nightmare horrors she had.
They reached the street before Kate, briefly under control, began crying once more.
How does one give up a life? At night, Stern wandered in the large house, looking for answers. In the closets, much of Clara's clothing still hung. With the doors thrown open, he stared at the garments; they seemed as mystical as relics. The empty hangers, remaining from the items Kate and Marta had packed away, waited now like the skeletons of birds.
After Marta left, he moved into her room to sleep. His own bedroom seemed disturbed, torn apart; here he felt by some bare margin more at peace. When he entered the master bedroom to gather up an item or two, the stillness was overpowering. With even a few days of disuse, a shrouded, dusty quietude had come over it. It' was like examining a photograph: a bounded portion of an unreach-able past, inanimate but preserved. He took his socks, his collar stays, and rushed back out the door.
He was shown a ceremonial kindness by neighbors and families from the synagogue. The suicide's spouse was too gruesome for the dinner table-how do you explain to the children? But the women came by with pots of stew, various chicken dishes, for him to consume alone. The freezer was jammed. Most evenings, he wOUld place something in the microwave, open a bottle of wine, eat and drink, and roam about the household.
On the refrigerator was a note to phone Nate Cawley. He had tried a number of times, hoping to dispel the question of Clara's medical bill, but Nate, busy after his week away at the medical conference in Canada, had not yet responded.
Softened by the wine, Stern took calls-friends or Marta or Kate checking intoand then resumed his movements. He sat in chairs he had not bothered with for years. He went from room to room, stared at the furnishings, the pictures. This tiny porcelain bird. Where had it come from?
Occasionally he was asked out, generally in groups, and usually by other lawyers, a kind of conventional solicitude that reflected.more his stature in the legal community than.any particular intimacy, This was the sort of social commerce which the Sterns had always minimized.
Clara, with her quiet, firm manner, had no interest in people or occasions that offered little substance. Now free to go on his own, he could not bring himself to the pretense these encounters would demand, an evening of vagrant chatter in which everyone would stare at him with unvoiced questions about his wife.
The only outings which he made willingly were to be with his children.
In the first two weeks after Marta's departme, he went to Kate's house twice for dinner, and she and John met him once downtown. But the suburban sprawl of Kindle County meant that they were almost an hour apart, and in the work week the travel was exhausting, particularly for Kate, who was wearied by the early phases of her pregnancy. And even with her, he sensed that her attentions required some self-conscious effort; Kate, always unreflec-firely loving, now seemed vaguely frightened to deal with her father on his own.
Peter, no doubt acting at the instruction of his sisters, also called, and at Stern's suggestion they had dinner one evening. "Something quick," as Peter put it, accepting.
They met at a delicatessen downtown, but Clara's absence loomed between them, enormous, agonizing. She had been pained by their estrangement-and for her sake they had always done their best. Now it was suddenly clear that the tie had not survived her; they were both playing roles in a production which had closed. After a few minutes ill at ease they lapsed completely into silence amid the ringing plates and voices of the restaurant.
So for the most part he was alone. One night there was an unexpected interruption. A woman from the neighborhood phoned, claiming to be a friend of Clara's. She went on without a pause to describe her husband's repeated failures in the bedroom:-the man had many problems-and ended their conversation saying, simply, "Call me." Stern, of course, did not. Yet the incident provoked a storm of odd feeling, He had heard the same stories as everyone else, of the unattached females who accosted widowers with striking boldness, but given the circumstances of Clara's passing, he was sure that would not happen to him. Oh, perhaps there had been a card'or two, a few calls of sympathy from widows and divorcees of somewhat remote connection. Yet, suddenly, something seemed clarified. People were lonely; women, in particular, were lonely like him. But who knew about all of that-women? Certainly not he. And to what purpose, anyway?
The thought of all this left him feeling worse, baffled and inept, stuck within himself, like something buried.
Whatever the distractions, these evenings in the end always found him roaming. He drank wine, told himself he would work, and wandered about the house. As soon as this routine began, he realized that this, not working, was the primary business of his day. He suffered terribly-at sea with tender recollections and volumes of harsh selfrecrimination-and yet he receded to these moments almost 'urgently, as the years swam over him.
His memory of the past was of a million pages observed by a single incandescent light, and of doors falling open as he arrived, burdened with heavy cases, in a hundred different courtrooms. In the decades he recalled, it was always late at night or the morning of a trial, his emotions an intense admixture of determined concentration and stilled anxiety.
He puzzled in his hours at home; his children spoke and went unanswered as he nursed motions in his mind, a particular careful tack for cross-examination, and reached forth with a tender hand, meant to hush them, while he thought of something else. Oh, he had achieved. He was in his office with his cigars, his books, his phone, his clients, from seven in the morning until nine or ten at night. He came home then to a quiet house. The children were bedded down, gone. Clara waited with a book on her lap in the quiet living room, the aroma of his warming dinner through the house: an image of order, resourcefulness, sufficiency.
Was he persuaded by that pose? For how many years had he comforted himself with the thought that they did not quarrel, that she seldom voiced the Criticisms of other wives? That would have struck Clara as common. True, he treated her with unsparing courtesy. He rarely disregarded her wishes. But, of course, he had chosen wisely, for she seldom spoke up in her own behalf. Oh, they had had their rough spots.
Who didn't? The period when the children had gone off to college was one of intense disruption for Clara. When Kate, the last, departed, there were times when he found her in the dark, in tears. It was there each day, the quiet insinuation, throbbing like a bruise: she did not like her life, no part of it. When he tried to soothe her, she turned on him openly, livid with decades of previously unspoken complaints. But they had stumbled on, and Clara had eventually reverted to her strict self-control, he
r taut smile, and her insistence that she was bearing up. She was like some Swedish minister enduring existential torment in silence and low light.
On these evenings when he wandered, the wine made him sleepy-he had never been a drinker. He jolted awake to find himself upright in a chair, dry-mouthed, the lights blazing. One night a particularly vivid dream startled him out of his sleep. He was bathing at Wolf's Point in the Kindle River. Unnoticed, the water grew turbulent, and soon he was kicking and struggling while the white froth seethed about him. On the shore, amid the trees, his mother, father, and older brother, dressed in heavy dark woolens, watched, each immobile as a statue. Although he was moving backwards, he somehow Caught sight of Clam and the children through the bare branches. They were in a schoolroom. The children were seated at desks while Clara, with a finger raised, offered instruction. Churning his limbs in the powerful waters, he called, but they did not notice him fighting off the current, being driven farther and farther away.
Fiona Cawley, his next-door neighbor, greeted him, highball glass in hand.
"Sandy!" she cried. From the first. word, Stern knew she was drunk.
Fiona let her front door fly open and stood with her arms thrown wide, backlit by the burning lamps of the living room. Nate, Fiona's husband, also drank more than he should have. Perhaps that was what kept them together. For 'the present, Stern was struck uncannily by a sudden understanding of what motivated Fiona. Loosened by the liquor, she was more attractive; her posture had an alluring pliancy. Clearly, she savored her liberty. She was handsomely dressed as ever in a robin's-egg knit suit that showed off her small figure to advantage. Her hair and makeup were flawless, and she wore jewelry for her evening at home, a large diamond piece between the clavicles. Fiona spent her days caring for herself. She shooed the dog away and pulled Stern into the house by the hand, assuring him, in response to his question, that he was not interrupting dinner. She seemed delighted to see him.
"How are you, Sandy." She touched his face, a drunken, excessive gesture. "We think so much about you." Already he had taken up certain inscrutable mannerisms in response. He had always been good at this, wordless flexing of the brow to suggest complex feelings. Now his look was more pinched, more allusive of pain.
"I am as well as could be expected, Fiona. Is Nate about for just a moment? I was hoping to have a word with him." A personal appearance, Stern had decided, might catch Nate's attention. After hearing from Cal, Stern was determined to be more direct in attempting to unravel Clara's knotted affairs.
"Hasn't he called you? I gave him the message twenty times.
Well, he's out for the evening, Sandy, but stay for a second.-Have a drink with me. There's something I wanted to ask you about. I'm glad you're here."
Without awaiting an answer, she walked halfway down the hall to drive the dog back to the kitchen. Fiona was one of those people who always got what they wanted. She'd given him no chance to make an excuse.
For nineteen years, the Sterns had lived beside the Cawleys. They had watched the Cawleys' modern ranch go through three separate expansions, so that it now wore a somewhat awkward-looking second story, resembling a small top hat on a large-headed man. They had witnessed the coming of age of 'the Cawley children, both of whom were now in college.
They had enjoyed weekend conversations over the fence; an occasional drink or barbecue; two decades of holding mail and exchanging garden tools-but the Cawleys as a couple, like many others, were treated with reserve. Years before, with the retirement of the obstetrician who had delivered the Sterns' children, Clara had begun to visit Nate as her gynecologist and principal physician. In an emergency-a fall from a tree, a minor infection-he was the unofficial medical adviser to the entire family. Somehow, this professional relationship suited the Sterns well, since it offered a diplomatic means of enjoying Nate without Fiona.
As a doctor, he was knowledgeable, relaxed, and affable; at home, he was apt to be overwhelmed by his wife..Younger, Fiona had no doubt been a greatbeauty, and she was still a fine-looking woman, handsomely slender, with arresting light eyes that were almost yellow. But she was, in a phrase, hard to take: nervous, high-pitched, forever striving, striving.
Fiona nursed a hothouse conservatory of internal competitions and visible resentments. A good person to avoid.
"Highball?" Fiona asked now.
Stern put himself down on a love seat upholstered in a fabric of peonies. The Cawleys' living room was decorated in what Stern took to be Irish modern fashion, a selfconscious upgrading of American colonial style. The rooms were crowded with dark tables and commodes, most of the 'Pieces beset with shawls of lace. Fiona occupied herself in a small adjoining den, where she'd set up a tea cart with booze. She drank in elegance; the liquor was in cutglass snifters, and a large sterling-silver ice bucket had been set down like a centerpiece.
"Some dry sherry, if it is there, Fiona. On a cube of ice.
I really must do some work this evening."
"Work?" she asked. "Already? Sandy, you should give yourself a chance."
This was a frequent comment. But no one mentioned alternatives.
Danring? Nightclubs? He must have missed the boat somewhere. What was the etiquette of grieving? To disdain useful labor and watch addlepated fare on TV?
Really, Stern was tiring already of these conventional efforts to orchestrate his feelings.
As she handed him his drink, he asked if she was well. "Oh, me? I'm just ducky," said Fiona, and looked into her glass.
Stern recalled now that he had determined years ago, without reflection, not to ask Fiona such questions. The dog was pawing about and growling in the kitchen, where he had been shut up; you could hear his claws racing on the tiles. "What is it you wanted with Nate?" 'I merely had a question or two concerning Clara. Tell him I need only a moment. I wanted to know if he was treating her for any ailment."
"There was something," said Fiona. She used her glass and gestured with a rummy lushness.
"Was there?"
"He used to stop over there in the morning. She needed medication or something." Fiona waved her free hand about, suggesting the way Nate, probably, had put her off.
"Ah-ha." As he suspected. Stern held still. Then, fortitled to Iearn he was right, rose to go.
"Oh, you can't leave yet. Remember? I wanted to ask you somethings"
"Just so," said Stern. He had indeed forgotten.
She went into another room and returned with a small package.
"Sandy, you're probably not ready for this yet, but when you are, you have to let me introduce you to Phoebe Brower.
She is charming. And you'd have things in common. Her husband, you know-" Fiona fiddled a hand and wriggled her features. "Sleeping pills."
He could not quite remain silent-some sound escaped him, a noise of sorts. If Fiona were not drunk, or Fiona, he might have actually taken offense. Perhaps she thought he was starting a club. Unbearable Spouses Anonymous. He recognized the wrapper of the local camera store on the package Fiona was holding. Photos, too? There should be a sign up on his house. Decommissioned. Shipwrecked. Out of use.
"As you say, Fiona. It i's much too soon."
She shrugged. "I would Really, Stern was tiring already of these conventional efforts to orchestrate his feelings.
As she handed him his drink, he asked if she was well. "Oh, me? I'm just ducky," said Fiona, and looked into her glass.
Stern recalled now that he had determined years ago, without reflection, not to ask Fiona such questions. The dog was pawing about and growling in the kitchen, where he had been shut up; you could hear his claws racing on the tiles. "What is it you wanted with Nate?" 'I merely had a question or two concerning Clara. Tell him I need only a moment. I wanted to know if he was treating her for any ailment."
"There was something," said Fiona. She used her glass and gestured with a rummy lushness.
"Was there?"
"He used to stop over there in the morning. She needed medication or some
thing." Fiona waved her free hand about, suggesting the way Nate, probably, had put her off.
"Ah-ha." As he suspected. Stern held still. Then, fortitled to Iearn he was right, rose to go.
"Oh, you can't leave yet. Remember? I wanted to ask you somethings"
"Just so," said Stern. He had indeed forgotten.
She went into another room and returned with a small package.
"Sandy, you're probably not ready for this yet, but when you are, you have to let me introduce you to Phoebe Brower.
She is charming. And you'd have things in common. Her husband, you know-" Fiona fiddled a hand and wriggled her features. "Sleeping pills."
He could not quite remain silent-some sound escaped him, a noise of sorts. If Fiona were not drunk, or Fiona, he might have actually taken offense. Perhaps she thought he was starting a club. Unbearable Spouses Anonymous. He recognized the wrapper of the local camera store on the package Fiona was holding. Photos, too? There should be a sign up on his house. Decommissioned. Shipwrecked. Out of use.
"As you say, Fiona. It i's much too soon."
She shrugged. "I would think that's something most men would look forward to. Being on the loose again."
Well, they had done fairly well until now, but Fiona was veering off the road. Stern slapped his thighs, a sign he was ready to be on his way.
"Perhaps you are correct, Fiona. Women always know better about men."
"Don't humor me, Sandy. You do that too much. I have a reason for asking."
She was masterful, no doubt about that. Stern sat silent, watching, as Fiona at last drew herself together.
"Sandy, I want you to look at this. I need to ask you a question." She offered the package.