The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Orion Oh

  Orion?”

  “In here!”

  “Where’s here?”

  “I’m out in the sunroom.” I glance at the clock. It’s almost one thirty.

  They enter, both of them in black, one as lovely as the other. “Sorry we’re so late,” Annie says. “Are you starving?”

  “No, no. How was it?”

  “Lovely,” Viveca says. “The music, the eulogy his son gave. It was a wonderful tribute, very touching but humorous, too,” Viveca says. “He obviously loved his father very much.”

  “We went out to the cemetery for the interment and were going to come over here from there,” Annie says. “But when Joe invited us to the luncheon, he said he had set up a display—old family photos and several of Mr. Agnello’s paintings. So I kind of wanted to see it. That’s why we’re so late.”

  “Not a problem,” I tell her. “You ate then?” She says they didn’t.

  Viveca stands, suggests that Annie and I visit while she gets lunch ready. After she’s out of earshot, I shoot Annie a look of mock surprise. “She cooks?”

  “We picked up deli,” she says. “Be nice. Where is everyone?”

  “My aide has the rest of the day off, and Ariane and Dario went to some kiddie carnival at the mall. Andrew’s working today, gets out at five. He’s stopping over then.”

  Her smile fades away. “How’s he doing?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure, really. He says he’s okay, but other than going to work and going to the gym, he doesn’t seem to have much of anything else. Except for the casino. He goes down there two or three times a week.”

  “By himself?”

  “Far as I know.”

  She shakes her head. “Remember all the friends he used to have? Jay Jay, Josh, Luke. Those boys practically lived here.”

  “Well, most of those guys have left the area by now. Gotten married, had kids. Remember Patrick Stanton, Andrew’s wrestling buddy? I ran into his dad at the bank a while ago. He told me Pat’s started his own tourist business in Kenya. Runs wild game tours or something.”

  “Gee,” she says. “What about Andrew’s drinking? He was slurring his words the other night when I called him.”

  “I don’t really know, Annie. He’ll have a couple of beers when he’s over here, but that’s about it. Not sure what he does when he goes back to his place. But yeah, this lone wolf stuff worries me, too. The way he’s isolating himself.”

  “And I take it he’s not seeing anyone. Every time I ask him about girlfriends, he changes the subject.”

  “Nope, no girlfriends. Ariane tried to fix him up with someone she knows, but he told her no. I’ve talked to him about maybe getting on one of those matchmaking sites, but he says he’s not interested.”

  “What do you think it’s about? His broken engagement?”

  “I doubt it. That was what? Three years ago? And the breakup was his decision, not hers.” This is starting to make me uncomfortable, so I change the subject. “I tell you one thing, though. He’s crazy about that nephew of his, and vice versa. When he comes over here for supper, Dario sticks to him like Velcro. Andrew got his old Matchbox cars down from the attic a while back, and the two of them will get down on the rug and play. Crash the cars into each other. Dario’s really into those demolition derbies of theirs. Makes the sound effects. Rrrum-rrrum, rrrum. Crash!”

  She smiles. “Boys will be boys.”

  Viveca appears in the doorway. “Either of you want coffee?”

  “I do.” We say it simultaneously. I tell her Belinda’s set it up before she left. That all she has to do is hit the “on” button.

  “Got it,” Viveca says, then disappears.

  “So how are things going with you two?” I ask Annie. Fine, she says. “Your trip to Greece is coming up pretty soon, huh? Finally.”

  “Now don’t start that again,” she says. “There was no way I was going off on a trip abroad when things were so touch and go with you. Viveca either. She was worried about you, too.”

  I nod. “Worried enough to let me borrow you back that first year. I think you spent more time in the hospital and at that rehab place than you did with her. And I know from Marissa that it was an issue—all the time you were spending here. That there was even some talk about a separation.”

  “Well, we weathered that, Orion,” she says. “Every marriage goes through its rough patches. You know that. In therapy? One of the things I had to work on—learn to put to rest—was my guilt about our comfortable lifestyle. The fact that I’d come from nothing and she hadn’t. It was a roadblock between us that I had to take down. And Viveca is generous in her own way. But we’re fine now. Better than we’ve ever been, in fact.”

  I nod, smile. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. She saved my ass financially with those sales of the Jones paintings that the cops recovered. I don’t know how I would have paid off all those bills otherwise. And the fact that she took a reduced commission on them? That was above and beyond. Was that your idea or hers?”

  “Hers. But those sales have paid off for her, too, prestige- and publicity-wise. The gallery’s been doing brisk business ever since—even in this economy.”

  “Good for her then—for both of you. So, onward to Mykonos then. You looking forward to it?”

  “Very much so. There are some amazing ruins on Delos, the island next to Mykonos, that I can’t wait to see. The Sacred Lake, the Minoan Fountain, the Meeting Hall of the Poseidonists.”

  “The Poseidonists? As in the god of the sea?”

  “Uh-uh. They worshipped him. I’ve started planning a new series with a water theme. Oceans, rivers, rain. I’m thinking of calling it We Are Water. What do you think?”

  “Nice,” I tell her. “Sounds promising.”

  “I’ve done some preliminary sketches, but it’s all just conceptual and open-ended at this point. I kind of want to see what feeds me once I’m over there. But that’s enough about my work. What about yours? How’s your book coming along?”

  “Pretty good. Did I tell you I’ve decided to turn it into a novel?”

  She nods. “Last time we talked. Well, whenever you want to show it to me, I’d love to read it. Have Ariane or Andrew read any of it?”

  “No. I’m not ready for that yet.”

  She frowns. “You know what I think the trouble with Andrew is? Why he’s isolating himself? I don’t think he’s ever gotten over that shooting at Fort Hood. He worked with that doctor, you know. The one who killed all those people.”

  “Yeah, I do know that.” But I also know that what’s eating away at Andrew is another killing. A hidden corpse.

  “That was the worst day of my life,” Annie says. “When I heard about those shootings down there? I sat in front of the television, almost as if I were in a trance or something. Then I got ahold of myself—told myself I had to do something. So I put my coat on and walked down to the Church of the Most Precious Blood. Got down on my knees and prayed harder than ever before that Andrew wasn’t one of that maniac’s victims.”

  “Church of the Most Precious Blood—why does that sound familiar?”

  “It’s in Little Italy. Remember the San Gennaro festival?”

  “Ah,” I say. “That’s it.”

  “I’d been going there all along. Not for Mass, but during odd hours when the church was empty, or almost empty. And I’d kneel and ask God to keep him safe—to not let him have to go over there to Afghanistan or Iraq. And then, suddenly, not even that hospital in Texas was safe. After I left the church and went back to the apartment? The day of the shootings? When I heard his voice on the message machine—heard him say that he wasn’t even scheduled to go in that day—I just stood there and wailed.” Just thinking about that scare has brought her to tears again. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was when he decided not to reenlist—to get out of the army and move back here to help you. I cried when I heard that news, too. I tell you one thing, Orion. I kn
ow you don’t believe in the power of prayer, but I sure do.”

  The power of prayer: someone else said the same thing to me recently. Can’t remember who.

  Viveca calls in to us. “Everything’s just about ready. Anna, could you come in and set the table?”

  Annie gets up, comes over to my wheelchair. “Shall we go in?” I tell her I need to check on something first. I don’t. I just need a minute by myself. When she says she’ll be back after she sets the table, I remind her that I can wheel myself in there—that I’m not a quadriplegic. “Right,” she says. Gives me a wink and walks out.

  Alone, I sit there, thinking again about the real reason why our son has unplugged from everything except his work. I’m still the only one he’s told about what happened that day—what he did, where the body is. It must only be a skeleton now. I have to tell someone, Dad. It’s like my head is going to explode if I don’t. . . . Poor Andrew: the burden he has to live with. But what good would it have done if he’d turned himself in? The guy was a pedophile—had gone to prison for doing to some other little girl what he had done to Annie. And he’d been a loner, apparently. There’s never been anything on the Internet about his having gone missing—nothing I’ve ever found anyway. I still check from time to time. But whenever I Google the guy, all that ever comes up is the stuff about his arrest and conviction for having molested that other poor kid.

  Sometimes I wish Andrew hadn’t told me. It’s not easy keeping his secret. But at least he’s not suffering in a prison somewhere. He’s doing good, useful work with those psych patients. Helping people instead of stagnating in some shit-hole cell. And at least he’s got me to share a little of the weight of his secret. Talk him down when he goes into those panics about it. And thanks to the anti-anxiety meds they put him on, he’s not having them as much lately.

  “Orion?”

  “Yup. Coming.”

  After lunch, Viveca says she wants to walk down in back and look at the cottage where Joe Jones used to live and paint. “Would you like to come with me, darling?” she asks. Annie says no, that she’ll stay and do the dishes.

  “The ground’s probably going to be mushy down there after that rain we had yesterday,” I tell Viveca. “If I were you, I’d take off those heels you’re wearing and put on Ari’s Timberlands. They’re over there by the door.”

  She nods. “Good idea.” When she’s ready to go, I kid her about her fashion statement: her fancy tailored suit and those scuffed-up hiking boots. She laughs, strikes a model’s pose. Feels good to kid with her a little.

  “Watch out for that well down there,” Annie tells her. I flinch when she says it, but it goes undetected.

  After the dishes are done, Annie pours us more coffee and sits at the table with me. “So,” I say. “Sounds like your old pal Mr. Agnello got a pretty nice send-off, eh?”

  She nods, says the Mass was concelebrated by the bishop and two other priests. I ask her if it’s weird being a Catholic these days, given the church’s position on gay marriage. “A little,” she says. “But once a Catholic, always a Catholic. It’s like saying I’m not going to be Irish anymore.”

  I nod. “What about Communion? Do you partake?”

  “I do. I’m not about to let a bunch of old men dictate what I can or can’t do. Those are their rules, not God’s. I joined the Unitarian church in our neighborhood a while back, and I go to services there mostly. But I go to Mass when the spirit moves me. My relationship with God is between Him and me.”

  “Atta girl,” I tell her. “What about all those pedophile scandals? That must hit home, too, I imagine. Fuel a little of your anger about priests.”

  She looks away from me and nods. She’s been in therapy ever since all her secrets came tumbling out, but I can see it’s still hard for her—what happened the night of the flood, and then what happened after it.

  The front door bangs open. Footsteps, big and little, come hurrying toward us. “Well, hi, Dario!” Annie says, dropping to her knees and grabbing him, giving him smooches. When she lets him go, he takes the balloon animal his mother’s holding. “Gamma, look!” he says.

  “Oh, cool! What is it? A lion?”

  He shakes his head. “A doggie.”

  “And where did you get it?”

  “A funny man made it for me.”

  “A clown,” Ari reminds him.

  Annie takes it from him. “And what does the doggie say?”

  “Woof woof.”

  She makes it bob back and forth. “Hello, Dario. I’m your doggie. Woof woof woof.” His giggling is infectious.

  The visit goes well. Chinese takeout for dinner was Andrew’s idea. He picked it up and brought it over after work. It’s been nice to see him interact so easily with Viveca this time. Little by little, he’s let go of his resentment toward her, too. Makes it easier for his mother—for all of us, really. When Dario comes back down from his bath, his hair’s slicked back and he’s zipped up in his nubby yellow sleeper. “We thought Gamma and Gamma Viveca might like to read him a story before he goes to bed,” Ari says.

  “Oh, yes indeed,” Viveca says. “Shall we read one of the ones we brought you?” His head bobs up and down. “This one,” he says, pulling The Very Hungry Caterpillar from the stack on the table.

  “Good choice,” Annie says. “Come on then.” She picks him up. “Mmm, you smell delicious. I think I’ll eat you up.” When she nuzzles his neck, he screams with delight because it tickles. The three of them head upstairs.

  The twins start tackling the cleanup. It’s good to see Andrew in such a good mood tonight, the two of them bantering back and forth like old times. “Uh-oh. Whose phone is that?” I ask.

  Ariane says it’s hers and digs around in her purse. “Hello?” From the gist of the conversation, there seems to be a problem over at the group home.

  “They going back to the city tonight or staying over?” Andrew asks me.

  Going back, I tell him. They should be taking off pretty soon. When his sister gets off the phone, she says she has to go over there to straighten something out. “Can you stay?” she asks her brother.

  “Sure,” he says. “I was going to stick around anyway. Help Papa Bear over here with his nighttime stuff.”

  “Okay, great. I’ll just run up and say good-bye to Mama and Viveca.”

  A year ago, I might have gotten miffed about Ariane’s assumption that I couldn’t have babysat Dario by myself, but I’m less sensitive about that kind of thing now. Learning to let go of the small stuff has helped me with my recovery. Reminds me of that bracelet Ariane always wears: the one someone gave her on a plane once. Change what you can, accept what you can’t, and be smart enough to know the difference.

  Viveca comes downstairs first and heads into the living room. When I wheel myself in there, I see her standing in front of Joe Jones’s painting of the Tree of Life. “Anytime you change your mind, Orion,” she says.

  “No, no. This one’s a keeper.”

  “Speaking of keepers, I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she says. She tells me she’s the one who purchased Jones’s The Cercus People. For Annie, she says. Their anniversary’s coming up just before they leave for Greece, and she’s going to surprise her with it. “It’s such an important part of her history as an artist that I thought she should have it.”

  “Yeah, but you shouldn’t have had to buy it. After all those other sales you brokered at that reduced commission? I would have been happy to give it to you. Why don’t you let me write you a check?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” she says. “Nor would I have thought to charge you a straight commission on those other sales. I wanted to find some way to help you out after what happened, Orion, and that was what I could do.”

  “That, and letting me borrow Annie back all those weeks at the beginning. And all those weekends afterward.”

  She reaches over and pats my shoulder. Smiles. I think back to the day when Annie told me she and Viveca had fallen in love. That she wanted
a divorce. Angry and in pain, I had made Viveca the rich bitch, the mercenary predator who had stolen my wife. Suspected she was more interested in Annie’s art sales than she was in Annie. But Annie had already begun to let go of me by the time she moved to New York, and it’s not like I was the blameless victim in that. We’d been growing apart, taking each other for granted. I’d done nothing to turn things around; I’d just let her float away. But at the time, I couldn’t admit that. It was easier to think of myself as Viveca’s victim than to cop to my own culpability. So I had cast her as the villain. But if it was convenient for me to think that way back then, it wasn’t really fair. Viveca’s got her good points as well as her less desirable ones, just like the rest of us. Like me, for example. And the truth is, they really do love each other. I can admit that now. Viveca isn’t Cruella De Vil after all. She never was.

  When Annie comes back down, she reports that Dario’s fast asleep, sucking his thumb. She says they’d better be going. Good-bye hugs, good-bye kisses. When I suggest that they take some of the leftover Chinese with them, Viveca asks me if I’m kidding. Reminds me that their apartment is four blocks up from Chinatown.

  After they leave, Andrew asks if I want to watch some TV or head upstairs and get ready for bed. I tell him I think I’ll hit the sack; that this evening has been fun, but I’m beat. He nods, releases the brake on my chair, and wheels me toward the stairs. I put my arms around his neck and he pulls me up and onto the chair lift. Hits the button. I rise.

  When I’m done in the bathroom, I wheel myself down the hall to check in on Dario. Andrew’s in there, watching him sleep. He and I exchange smiles and he wheels me into my bedroom. Like the pro he is, he transfers me from the chair onto my bed. Sits down and starts kneading my feet to promote my circulation. My paralysis still strikes me as strange sometimes: the way I can see him working on my feet but can’t feel a thing. I still dream sometimes that I can walk. “How about a back rub?” Andrew asks. I shake my head, tell him I’ll pass. “Okay then. Let me fix you up and let you get some shut-eye.”