The Law of Bound Hearts

by Anne Leclaire

  “Stacy,” Sam said. “We’ve got to tell Stacy.” She punched in the number for her assistant. “Hi, Stace,” she said. “It’s me, Sam.”

  “I was waiting for your call,” Stacy said. For a crazy instant, Sam thought Alice had already spread the word. “Well, you don’t have to worry,” Stacy went on. “They didn’t ask for their money back.” “Who?” Sam couldn’t stop looking at Lee. She wondered how many kids he saw in their future. Two would be perfect. Maybe three.

  “Helloooo,” Stacy said. “The Chaney wedding. The cake. Isn’t that why you’re calling?”

  “Wrong wedding,” Sam said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Sam told her the news.

  “What did she say?” Lee asked after she hung up.

  “You know Stacy. After she finished whooping and hollering, she said, ‘Sagittarius and Aries. Fire attracts fire. Your future will burn bright. Lots of passion.’ ” She didn’t tell him Stacy had said half the women in Sippican would be wearing black armbands.

  “I like that last part,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. “The part about lots of passion.”

  Her toes tingled with wanting him. Maybe four. Four children and a dog.

  He turned on the ignition. “Now let’s go tell your sister.”

  It was nearly noon when they returned to the house. Libby was out and Richard was in his study. The sound of his cello reverberated through the house.

  Sam opened the refrigerator. “How about breakfast?” She checked the time. “Or lunch?”

  “Maybe later.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Right now I think I want to go upstairs and sample some more of that passion Stacy was talking about.”

  Libby turned back toward Richard. She’d heard the back door close and then the sound of a car starting up.

  “Are they going somewhere?” she asked.

  He nodded and smiled, and in that moment she caught a flash of the young Richard and knew both the heat of desire and the anguish of loss.

  “Last night Lee asked me what I thought was the most romantic spot around here,” he said. “I suggested the prairie.”

  “Most romantic spot?”

  “I think he’s going to propose to your sister.”

  “Oh.” She again felt that sense of emptiness, of being left behind.

  “Are you getting up?” he asked, pausing at the door.

  “In a bit.”

  After he left, she held her fingers over the shunt, felt the rushing of blood. She slid her hand up her forearm, felt the hardness of bone beneath her palm. She thought about Gabe’s story of the tribesmen who had survived lightning and so possessed the power to knit bones. She wondered if there were tribal healers who could mend the heart. What you would have to survive to earn that power. From another part of the house, she heard the sound of Richard tuning his cello.

  She showered, dressed, and went downstairs, restless in a house that felt too empty. She checked her e-mail, but there were no messages from either Mercy or Matt. Around ten, she tried Gabe again, but there was still no answer. Briefly, she considered driving over to the hospital, but if Hannah remained in a coma, there was little point. Plus, she knew bacteria were rampant in hospitals, carrying the risk of infection, and she certainly didn’t need that complication.

  She poached and ate an egg, cleaned up the dishes, leafed through the Sunday Tribune, did both crossword puzzles. Richard was still holed up in his study; Sam and Lee did not return. Finally she scrawled a note for the others and headed out. She drove down Westminster and stopped at Foodstuffs, where she purchased a spinach-and-chicken casserole with wine sauce. As he’d promised, Gabe’s door was unlocked.

  As soon as Libby opened the door, Lulu was on her, barking frantically and nearly knocking the bag out of her arms. She had to laugh, the way the greyhound bounced up and down, baring its teeth at her. There was no doubt about it, Libby noted, it was definitely a smile.

  She set the casserole in the refrigerator, then looked until she found a retractable leash hanging on a hook by the back door. “Don’t get too excited,” she told the dog, as she clipped on the leash. “It’s just a short one.”

  They strolled twice around the block, passing two couples who nodded to her and called Lulu by name. Ecstatic to be outdoors, the greyhound darted around, stopping every few minutes to sniff rocks and shrubs. Occasionally, in a fit of ecstasy, she’d snap and bite at the air, which made Libby laugh out loud. She wouldn’t have dreamed it could be so pleasurable to walk a dog.

  When they returned to the house, she refilled the greyhound’s water bowl, then sat at the table and waited while Lulu drank her fill. As she sat there, occupied with nothing except a momentary contentment, a word surfaced in her brain, floating up like a fragment of music. She found a scrap of paper and set it down:

  Bonesetter.

  She let it roll around in her mind, pleased with the perfect sound of the vowels, the abruptness of the t’s, the soft liquid of the s. She pictured a scene. At first the details were hazy, but gradually they came into focus. Open mesa. A woman, tall—like her mother—stood alone.

  The greyhound came in from the kitchen, did her ritual circling, then settled in at Libby’s feet, curling into a ball. Libby bent to stroke her coat, as sleek as a seal’s. More words surfaced. She picked up the pen and wrote:

  They say when lambent light

  Illuminates the heavens.

  Too much alliteration, scoffed a familiar voice, the same one that saw all her shortcomings, the one that silenced her. She willed it away. A stronger voice told her it was crucial to keep going, reworking would come later.

  They say when sky fire strikes,

  Current burns, cracks, blinds.

  Tonight, when brown flesh splits,

  Swirls, spins and falls silent, then rises,

  They say a bonesetter is born.

  She wrote on, re-creating myth, unmindful of the greyhound at her feet or the traffic on the street outside or the ticking of the mantel clock. When she surfaced, she was amazed to see the better part of an hour had passed.

  She left a note asking Gabe to call her when he got in, and telling him she’d left food in the refrigerator. Lulu leaned against her leg. The dog cocked her head, raised her ears, and looked up with sad eyes.

  “All right, all right.” Libby scribbled a postscript to the note. “Just don’t get used to it,” she said to the dog.

  When she pulled into her driveway, she saw that in her absence Sam and Lee had returned. Hours earlier, just the thought of confronting Sam’s unyielding anger and Richard’s betrayal had overwhelmed her, but something had shifted while she was at Gabe’s, something she couldn’t put a name to or understand. She felt a strength she hadn’t in a long time. In the quiet of Gabe’s home, writing those lines of poetry, she had reclaimed a part of herself. She went inside, to the kitchen, where the three of them were having tea.

  “I was just about to send out the posse,” Richard said. And then: “What’s that?”

  “Who, not what.” Libby was absurdly pleased with herself. She unclipped the leash. “This is Lulu.”

  “Where did you find her?” The greyhound insinuated herself between them.

  “She’s Hannah’s,” Libby said.

  “Who’s Hannah?” Sam asked.

  Richard stroked the greyhound’s head. “I always wanted a dog,” he said.

  “You did?” Twenty years she’d lived with him and he’d never once mentioned it. She wondered what else she didn’t know about him, what else she hadn’t seen. Was it because he had withheld or because she hadn’t looked? Lulu darted from one of them to another, poking her muzzle in their thighs and licking their hands. Then she stood by Richard and put her head in his lap.

  “Who’s Hannah?” Sam asked again.

  “A friend,” Libby said. She crossed to the sink and filled a bowl with water, set it out for the dog. “She’s in the hospital and Lulu was so lonely without her, I couldn’t bear to leave he
r alone.”

  “How’s Gabe doing?” Richard asked.

  “He’s with her. Hannah’s parents are there, too.”

  “A couple we know,” Richard explained. “Gabe works for the Open Lands Association. Hannah was on the same dialysis schedule as Elizabeth, but she’s in a coma now.”

  “Oh,” Sam said in a quiet voice. A flash of comprehension crossed her face. She wouldn’t meet Libby’s eyes.

  Is he someone’s husband? she had said.

  Libby rested a hand lightly on her sister’s shoulder, stroked her hair back from her forehead. It’s all right, she wanted to say. Sam still would not look at her, but she did not pull away. Libby remembered a lecture Anna Rauh had given the class on Keats’s theory of negative capability. You have to be empty, the professor had said, and only then can you fill with understanding and sympathy for the subject. She’d been talking about poetry, but Libby thought maybe it was as true of life. Did you have to experience a great emptiness—a loss of certainty—in your own heart, for it to be receptive to others? Were pain and loss the lightning one had to survive in order, like a bonesetter, to heal the heart?

  “On a happier note,” Richard said, “we were waiting for you to return to begin a proper celebration.”

  “Celebration,” Libby said.

  Sam extended her hand. “My engagement ring,” she said.

  Libby looked at the grass band on Sam’s finger.

  “Until the real thing comes along,” Lee said, looking sheepish.

  Sam looked at him, her face luminous. “This is the real thing,” she said.

  “Congratulations.” Libby was amazed to find she meant it, completely. She leaned over and gave Sam a hug and then crossed to hug Lee. “Welcome to the family,” she told him. “Such as we are.”

  They had a celebratory meal of leftover chicken and salad, and Richard found a bottle of champagne for the toast. Libby allowed herself one sip. While they ate, she told Lee stories about Sam, about the summer Sam made money by selling the neighbors floral bouquets, the catch being she’d cut the flowers from their gardens.

  “I never did,” Sam protested.

  “And another time,” Libby said, “she got up in the night and cut my hair with our mother’s sewing scissors.”

  “I did not,” Sam said, truly shocked.

  Libby looked at her. “You don’t remember?” she said. “I had long braids and you cut one right off. We found it on your pillow in the morning. Mother was furious.”

  “I really did that?” Sam said.

  Libby nodded. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten.”

  “What about the time you made me go to St. Martin’s Catholic Church?” Sam told Lee and Richard the story of taking Communion and of her fear that Libby’s shoes would go up in flames, consuming them both as well.

  “Snotty, know-it-all Janice McKenney,” Libby said. “I haven’t thought about her in years.” She looked at Sam. “I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been there.”

  “Because I was your audience?”

  “Because you gave me courage. I always felt stronger when it was the two of us.”

  “I gave you courage?” Sam said, eyes wide in astonishment. “I was always afraid of everything.”

  “You loved me,” Libby said.

  Lee left shortly after lunch. The others tried to talk him into waiting until the next morning, but he had appointments he couldn’t reschedule. And then there’s Alice, he said, winking at Sam. He told them he had to get back and get his mother under control before she made all the wedding arrangements.

  When he went upstairs to pack, Sam followed him. Part of their conversation drifted down to Libby. She heard him ask Sam how long she was going to be staying, and her answer: I don’t know. Then a door closed and she could hear no more.

  “Don’t forget I owe you a sail on the lake,” Richard said. They were standing on the porch, saying good-bye.

  “I’m glad I finally got to meet you,” Lee said to Libby, and she could tell he meant it. “Take care of yourself. Get well.”

  Then he and Sam walked down the steps to the truck. Libby saw them kiss. Watching them, strengthened by the reflection of their love, Libby permitted herself to believe pain and loss were really in the past. She allowed herself to hope.

  And then the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Richard said.

  She waited.

  “Hello, yes?” he said, his customary opening. He listened for a moment, and his face altered, as if for an instant the fiber holding flesh to bone had given way. Libby felt a rusty band circle her heart.

  “I see,” Richard said. And then: “I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll tell her. Yes, of course. As long as you want. No.” He hung up and turned to her. She felt the band tighten.

  “Who was it?”

  “Gabe,” he said. “Hannah’s passed.”

  Libby and Sam

  Shortly after Gabe’s phone call, Libby went up to her room, taking the greyhound with her. “For a nap,” she said, but an hour later, when Sam walked down the hall past her sister’s room, she heard Libby crying. She hesitated, debating whether or not to go in, then tiptoed past.

  Alone in the guest room, Sam curled up on the bed, but she could not rest. She missed Lee, although he had been gone only an hour. She crossed to the dresser and picked up the ring he’d given her. It already felt more brittle than it had been that morning and was fragile in her fingers. There must be some kind of fixative, she thought, that would preserve it. She would ask Lee. She set it carefully back on the dresser, then looked at her watch. Right about now, if he hadn’t run into any holdups, Lee should be halfway through Indiana. She’d made him promise he would stop somewhere overnight and not drive straight through.

  She found her cell, called him.

  “Hey,” she said when she reached him. “Guess who.”

  “Could I possibly be speaking to the future Mrs. Hardwin?”

  Mrs. Hardwin. Samantha Hardwin. If she’d had a pencil she would have doodled the words like a teenager.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said in a voice belly-soft.

  “Only one,” he said. “Only you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Indiana,” he said. “Home of James Dean and David Letter-man.”

  “I mean specifically. What town?”

  “Just west of South Bend,” he said. “I’m making good time.”

  “When are you going to stop?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll see how it goes. Probably around Cleveland. Or maybe as far as Youngstown.”

  “But you’re not going to drive straight through, right? You promise?”

  “Hey,” he said. “Are you going to be a nagging wife?”

  “Count on it,” she’d said.

  “I am,” he said.

  At six, she went back downstairs and found Richard in the kitchen preparing dinner. Libby was still in her room.

  “Is she sleeping?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t think so. I heard her a while ago talking to the dog.”

  “Have you told her about Mercy?” Sam kept her voice low.

  “No,” he said. “That’s the last thing she needs to be thinking about now. She’s taking Hannah’s death really hard.”

  “Were they good friends?”

  “Hannah’s younger. In her twenties, I would guess. I think they became close while they were at the center having treatments.”

  Sam crossed to the stove and put the kettle on to heat. “Want some tea?” she asked.

  “Yes, thanks. Listen, has Elizabeth mentioned anything about the bonfire to you?”

  “No,” she said. She found mugs and tea bags, a jar of thyme honey, and set them out.

  He told her about the annual event. “It’s tonight,” he said. “I think it would do Elizabeth good to get out of the house. See if you can talk her into it.”

  “Talk me into what?” Libby stood at the door. Lulu was at her side.

&nbs
p; “The bonfire,” Richard said. “I was just telling Samantha about it. I thought it would be a good idea if you went.”

  She surprised them both by saying yes.

  There was no moon; the meadow was cloaked in shadows. Sam was aware of a crowd but had no idea of its size. Flashlights bobbed and weaved in the dark as people approached. It had turned chilly in the past hour. She shoved her fists into her pockets and hunched her shoulders against the cold. “Are you okay?” she asked Libby.

  “I’m fine,” Libby said.

  There was an uneasy truce between them; things had softened but were not resolved.

  Two men with spouted gallon cans circled the pyre, sending arcs of kerosene over the stacked wood. Sam could smell it from where she stood. Parents pulled their children back. The crowd stilled. Flashlights were flicked off. It grew quiet, as if everyone had drawn one long breath of anticipation. Then a match was struck, torches were lit. The fire starters held the torches to the pyre. There was a hollow whoosh—the roar of combustion—and the flame leapt upward. Sam jumped back involuntarily. Several mice ran from the pile, and a squirrel. Three or four songbirds flew from the top.

  From somewhere behind her came the sound of a single bagpipe. Then, in the distance, an answering call. Sam’s breath caught in her throat. Libby hadn’t told her about this. She wished Lee could have stayed, could have been here with her. She wanted to share everything with him.

  She looked over at Libby. For a moment, she nearly didn’t recognize her. In the leap and flicker of the flames, her sister’s face had been transformed into a mask of sorrow, bones etched with grief. Sam looked back at the fire, as if the flames were capable of burning away the image of Libby. A spasm of pain, nearly electric in nature, shot through her chest, and for a moment she wondered if she was having a heart attack. Wouldn’t that be the perfect irony, she thought.

  She dared another look at Libby, saw a tear trace down her sister’s cheek.

  Three times, Lee had said. Three times to grant forgiveness.

  The flames leapt as if their hunger would never be assuaged. Sparks flittered up into the night like fireflies. The echo of pipes faded into the moonless sky.