How a Woman Becomes a Lake (ARC)

by Marjorie Celona

  But maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe Denny had driven to

  the ocean and waded in, wanting to drown like Vera. Perhaps he had

  leapt in front of a train. Perhaps he was in a motel room somewhere,

  washing his pain medication down with a bottle of cheap vodka.

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  Cutting his wrists. Affixing a rope to the ceiling fan, taking a step off the back of a chair.

  It was one of his father’s neighbours who found his father’s

  birding binoculars on a clifftop, a few miles from the house. The

  neighbour looked down. He called out but got no response.

  His father must have fallen about a hundred feet.

  It was a lie—it didn’t get easier. There was no help when you lost

  someone you loved. And there was no help for someone like his father, nothing that could have made it better, nothing Lewis or anyone

  could have done or said to prevent his father from killing himself.

  It was important to be honest about this. It was important to

  see the world as it really was, and to understand its limitations and his own.

  These were not conclusions he had reached on his own. They

  were the words of his uncle, whom Lewis had called one night at

  Evelina’s urging. It’s good to know the truth, she said. But there wasn’t much truth to be known. His uncle told him his father had always

  been odd, even when they were children. He didn’t wish to mine the

  past any further. He wasn’t unkind, but he was gruff, and Lewis knew

  he wouldn’t call again.

  Now, his hand on his gun, he opened the garage door and flicked

  on the light.

  Nothing, not even the car. The floor had been swept clean.

  “Okay,” he said to the empty garage. “Good. Okay, then.”

  He walked back into the empty house.

  Nothing but the clean rooms and the name of Scout’s vet pinned

  to the fridge with a magnet and Vera’s red bathing suit hanging from

  the dresser.

  The carpet had been vacuumed in the bedroom as well, the sheets

  washed and the bed made. The closets were empty save for their

  hangers. He took Vera’s bathing suit in his hand.

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  He had a sudden, overwhelming desire to see an orca breach in

  the bay, an eagle soaring, a heron at the shoreline. He wanted birds, lots of birds. He wanted to lie in the water and have the salt of the sea clean his body. He thought of Denny’s face after he had told him that Vera was dead: an expression of wonder, like a child’s, as if he were seeing something no one had ever seen before.

  Lewis sat on the bed, where Scout was waiting for him. He took

  the dog in his arms and buried his head in his fur. He didn’t say much of anything. This wasn’t how he had pictured it. In his mind, he and

  Denny were clinking glasses. In his mind, they were toasting Vera. In his mind, he was a great police officer, on his way to becoming a great detective. He had solved the mystery, after all. He had done it.

  He sat on the bedroom floor, his legs out in front of him, and

  breathed in the clean scent of the house. He stayed that way for over an hour, thinking at any moment he might hear Denny’s car in the

  driveway. Or the phone ringing. Something. Someone. Anything.

  Nothing but the distant sound of the foghorn, the ever-present sound

  of Whale Bay.

  He wanted to tell Denny how profoundly meaningful he had

  found their friendship to be. That Denny had taught him how to be

  a friend. That Denny had taught him to be a normal person. A nor-

  mal man. And that, armed with his new knowledge, he knew he

  could be a good husband to Evelina.

  “A husband.” He said it out loud. That’s what he would do: he

  would marry Evelina. He would be a father to her boys, and one day

  to a child of his own. He would never let anything bad happen to any

  of them.

  He hoped Denny was on an airplane, bus, or train, heading off to

  start a new life, and would soon send Lewis a letter or postcard, letting him know where he was. Or maybe Denny had fled because the

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  truth about Vera’s death was too much to bear. Maybe he would never

  hear from him again.

  Maybe his disappearance was some kind of terrible gift. Some

  way of letting Lewis carry on with Evelina and the boys.

  He lay on the bed and put his head on Denny’s pillow.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

  He felt that it was the right decision not to have arrested Leo. He

  felt it was the right thing not to have sought legal justice, in whatever form it would have taken, for what had happened to Vera Gusev.

  A terrible thing had happened to her, but he understood why it had

  happened. He understood that a little boy’s pain could blossom into

  rage. Although his own relationship with his father was different

  from Jesse’s relationship with Leo, he understood Jesse with a deep-

  ness and intensity that surprised him.

  And he understood that now he, too, had to keep the secret. For

  so long, he had been the only one who didn’t know what had hap-

  pened. Jesse, Evelina, and Leo. They’d all known. Only he and

  Dmitri, too young to comprehend it anyway, didn’t know the truth.

  But now that he knew, it was better to keep quiet. Not to act. Not to disturb the universe. He would carry the secret forever. He would do

  it for the boy.

  He opened the bedroom window and let the cold wind into the

  room, to clear out the ghosts. He understood something else, too: he

  did not feel young anymore.

  He hoisted himself from the bed, left the house, and stood in the

  front yard, regarding the big picture window. He had grown so used

  to seeing Denny through the window, slightly warped from the glass,

  that he could see him now, clear as anything, sitting on his fancy

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  velvet couch, a glass of bourbon in his hand. Denny raised the glass

  to Lewis, and Lewis nodded back.

  Well, wherever you are, Lewis thought, goodbye. Goodbye, Denny.

  Goodbye, my friend.

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  C h a p t e r T w e n t y - N i n e

  Leo

  A quick trip to Whale Bay to get some things out of storage,

  including the Remington. He hadn’t meant to see anyone.

  Meant to dip into Whale Bay, then dip out again. But instead he

  found himself on the block where Evelina and the boys lived, staring

  at the little white beach house, imagining himself walking up the steps and letting himself inside. He hadn’t seen Dmitri in eight months.

  Even longer since he’d seen Jesse. He’d sent them a few postcards.

  Talked to them a few times on the phone. He’d talked to Evelina, too.

  About what had happened with Jesse. And he had talked to Lewis.

  And they had made a deal. This was not part of the deal. He was not

  supposed to be anywhere near the boys.

  It was late on a Sunday morning. L
eo figured the boys and Evelina

  would never know he’d been there. But just as he began to turn away,

  Lewis emerged from the front door in uniform. The two men looked

  at each other.

  “Thought you were staying down south,” said Lewis, walking

  toward him, rubbing his hands together, his breath fogging the air.

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  Leo braced himself for something. A fist? A bullet? What did this

  police officer feel toward him? The Remington was useless, unloaded,

  locked inside his suitcase.

  He felt ashamed of his sweater, which he’d retrieved from the

  storage locker last night. It was the one he’d got in Scotland, a white cable-knit sweater, like the kind fishermen wore. He thought it

  made him look worldly. But now, standing in front of Lewis in that

  perfectly pressed uniform, Leo thought he looked shabby, like a

  person who couldn’t afford a nice winter coat. This is why he hated

  being around people—all they did was remind him of what he

  didn’t have. He didn’t even want it—money, things, a house with a

  lawn to mow. He didn’t want any of that stuff at all. He’d given

  whatever he could—his car—to the Swami. The Remington would

  be next. Only worth a few hundred dollars, probably, but every

  penny counted for something.

  “Just up for a few days,” said Leo. He gestured to the suitcase at

  his feet. “Had to get some things.”

  Lewis continued to walk toward him, and Leo found himself

  stepping behind the suitcase, as if somehow the little piece of lug-

  gage—the Remington swaddled within—could act as a shield.

  “Don’t mean any harm,” Leo said and put up his hands. “I don’t

  even know why I’m here.” He looked away from Lewis and found

  himself inspecting the sidewalk with intensity. He supposed Evelina

  had gotten everything she wanted.

  “It’s okay,” said Lewis. He gestured up and down the block.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Took the bus. In fact”—he looked at his wrist as if there were a

  watch there—“I should be going.”

  “I’ll drive you,” said Lewis. He nodded toward the white beach

  house, where Leo could see the faces of Jesse and Dmitri in the front window. “We’ll go together.”

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  ——

  He sat with his oldest son in the bus station, a cup of coffee between his knees, waiting for the bus to arrive and take him back to San

  Garcia. It was the end of January; Jesse was eleven years old. The new year stretched out in front of them.

  Leo raised his eyebrows, drummed his feet on the floor, and

  checked the big wall clock. He knew he was supposed to say some-

  thing to Jesse before boarding the bus to San Garcia and disappearing once again from his life, but he didn’t know what. He hadn’t meant

  to see the boy again until he was older and more time had passed

  between them. He prayed for Evelina and Dmitri to come back from

  getting their hot dogs.

  The bus’s engine started, and so he rose to his feet, and finally

  Evelina and Dmitri returned. Dmitri was eating his hot dog with

  both hands, mustard in the corners of his mouth. Evelina wiped his

  face with a napkin.

  He eyed the engagement ring on Evelina’s finger. Not too

  expensive-looking: a simple band. He couldn’t help feeling as if he

  had been robbed of something, even though he would never want

  to live with Evelina again. But shouldn’t a life like this be available to him? Why wasn’t it?

  The sound of the bus’s pneumatic door opening. The conductor

  announcing it was time to board.

  Evelina smelled like lavender. In her heeled boots, she came up to

  his chin. They looked at each other, but there was nothing to say.

  Jesse and Dmitri stood beside her.

  “Take care, my sons,” he said and bent to their level.

  He took Jesse and Dmitri in his arms. He remembered when they

  were babies and their heads smelled like baby powder and milk.

  “Goodbye,” he said.

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  He moved away from them and joined the long line of people

  waiting to board the bus. He stood a moment looking for Lewis before

  he spotted him, hanging back, almost out of sight, at the entrance to the bus station. He wondered if Lewis was hanging around in case

  Leo decided to bolt. But he wouldn’t bolt. He would go back to San

  Garcia and stay out of the boys’ lives. That had been his deal with

  Lewis. The deal they’d made, late one night on the phone.

  But Leo felt certain he would resurface—he would see his boys

  again one day. Not immediately. Maybe not for years. And he would

  never speak of Vera Gusev or what had happened that day at the lake

  to anyone, not even Holly, who he hoped would be waiting up for

  him when he arrived.

  “Dad,” Jesse called out. “What kind of car you drive?”

  “I don’t,” said Leo.

  The line wasn’t moving, and Leo imagined breaking out of it and

  going back to Evelina’s house for Chinese food. In his mind, he set

  the table, asked where she kept the placemats, napkins, and cutlery,

  and whether they should eat in the kitchen or dining room. He

  thought of the mismatched plates, the cheap knives and forks he and

  Evelina had gotten at a thrift store before they were married. He

  imagined that she now had chopsticks inlaid with abalone shells, and

  special dishes for dipping sauces, and a large rectangular platter that she would put in her oven’s warming drawer. He imagined himself

  inspecting the little sauce dishes, taking a liking to one shaped like an oyster shell, and turning it over in his hand. Bringing it to his ear as if it were a conch. Is this thing on? he imagined himself saying, waiting for laughter.

  “Dad,” Jesse said. “You coming back anytime soon?”

  “We’ll see,” said Leo.

  His suitcase was like a dead weight in his hand.

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  C h a p t e r T h i r t y

  Evelina

  “You’re listed as next of kin,” the woman on the phone says to

  Evelina, who sits up in bed and fumbles to turn on the little

  bedside lamp. The room shoots into light, and she sees that it is

  almost seven. Lewis is snoring beside her. There isn’t any point in

  showering. She presses a hot washcloth to her face, brushes her teeth, steps into a pair of black stretch pants and slides a grey sweater over her shoulders, wiggles her feet into her driving moccasins. Her hair is completely white and cropped to the chin, and she combs it out with

  her fingers, checks her purse for her keys, and leaves a quick note for Lewis on the counter. It is shocking to leave the house before the sun is up. She feels like a fugitive. Her vision is poor and so she pushes the seat as far forward as it will go and drives with
desperate, squinting eyes. The hospital is twenty minutes away. She clenches the wheel.

  She turns on the radio, hoping the music will comfort her. Her hands

  are shaking. The car cost a smal fortune. She turns on the heated

  seats, lets herself sink into the soft warm leather. There is no one on the road at this hour, no reason to be nervous, no reason not to trust Celo_9780735235823_4p_all_r1.indd 249

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  herself to get there, but still she scans the side of the road, waiting for something to leap out in front of her.

  “Will I recognize him?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” the coroner’s officer says. “He looks different than

  he does in his driver’s licence photo.”

  “He has a scar on his left ankle,” Evelina tells the coroner’s officer.

  “He was born with a club foot. His left leg—if you measure it—is

  smaller than his right.”

  “That’s helpful, thanks,” says the coroner’s officer.

  The coroner’s officer is a woman. The nurses hurrying through

  the halls are women. The janitor pushing the big custodial cart is a

  woman. Two doctors in white lab coats. The front-desk receptionist.

  Evelina can’t see another man in the cold white hospital except for the photograph of her ex-husband that the coroner’s officer places in her hand. Dead as he is, she thinks he still might burst through the double doors at any minute and ask her what the hell took her so long.

  She takes a breath and unlocks the door to Leo’s apartment. He had

  been living two miles from her and Lewis’s house in Whale Bay. The

  television is on, muted, showing the news. She watches for a moment,

  then shuts it off. The apartment is in a low-income housing co-op, the units squished together, a small concrete courtyard in the back with a basketball hoop. Some graffiti. When did he move back here? Why

  didn’t he live in San Garcia still? Did her sons know he was here? She waits while the sun rises, waits for it to illuminate the living room.

  Someone (Leo?) had painted the walls varying shades of blue. Either

  that or the light is playing tricks on her old, tired eyes. She studies the walls, but can’t figure it out. It is possible she is going blind. She will Celo_9780735235823_4p_all_r1.indd 250

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