Garden of Lies

by Eileen Goudge

  A gust of wind rattled the window. Rose looked down, and saw a lone figure hurrying along the snowy sidewalk, hunched over, clutching his overcoat at the neck. The man looked so forlorn, cut off from the world, snow dusting his shoulders; and then she thought of herself, so alone here.

  Suddenly she longed for Max, for his arms about her, holding her, squeezing her to him, for his smell, warm and tweedy and vaguely musky. She felt a pang. Tonight he was leaving for Los Angeles. Probably gone already.

  Stupid, a voice inside her sneered, Max isn’t leaving you. It’s you who gave him his walking papers.

  That day I found him cleaning out his office, why didn’t I tell him then that I loved him? I could have. Was it my damn stupid pride?

  Or was it something else altogether? Had she been afraid to get close to Max? What if Max hurt her the way Brian had?

  But I don’t want to be alone anymore. The thought came to her, clear and bright as a chime.

  For so long she had felt lonely, set apart somehow, but now she didn’t want that. She wanted Max. She wanted him more than Sylvie, more than anything.

  Maybe ... maybe she could still catch him.

  Rose felt her heart leap. She jumped up, and dashed into the kitchen. Eight o’clock, she saw. He was taking the redeye, so there might still be time.

  [515] Rose grabbed the phone, dialed. Please ... please be there, Max.

  Damn, he wasn’t picking up. She waited, letting it ring and ring and ring. She wanted to kick something, punch the wall. It wasn’t fair. Tears rose, her throat swelled, choking her almost.

  His plane, she remembered, wasn’t leaving until ten. He had sent a memo around the office with his complete itinerary, in case anyone needed to reach him. United, JFK, ten p.m., each one of those words was engraved in her mind. In this weather, he’d probably be delayed, so if she hurried, she just might make it.

  Now she was at her closet, tugging on her snow boots, throwing on her heavy coat, fumbling with the buttons. Look at me! I’m shivering already, and I haven’t even gotten out the door!

  Somehow, she was able to grab a cab almost immediately. But on the Long Island Expressway, traffic was slowed almost to a standstill. She cursed the snow, and the trucks bullying their way ahead of everyone, and the commuters clogging up the road who should have known better than to go out in this weather. Christ almighty, at this rate she would never get there. She peered at her watch. Nine now. He might be boarding soon. God, she had to tell him. Please. She could not let him go without that ... she couldn’t. ...

  Please, Max ... please be there.

  After a dozen bumper-to-bumper traffic jams, they reached the United terminal. On the approach ramp cars were double and triple parked. Inside, mobs of people, engulfing the ticket counters, packing every seat in the waiting area and camping on the floor, thronging the walkway toward the gates, ramming her with their luggage. Dozens of flights had been cancelled.

  God, please ... let Max’s be one of them.

  She scanned the departure board, quickly spotting it, Flight 351, Los Angeles, 10:05, Gate 12. According to her watch, that still gave her six minutes.

  Rose, her heart pounding in her throat, blood beating at her temples, ran, dodging her way through the crowds, nearly crashing into a huge black man lugging an enormous suitcase, almost knocking over a child. The gate numbers gradually grew higher, four, now six, seven, nine. ...

  Twelve. Gate twelve. Her lungs bursting, she dashed past the counter, into the lounge. The door leading to the airplane was closed. But maybe she could still get through ... maybe ...

  [516] Then Rose saw. Through the huge plate-glass window, red lights blinking, a dark gliding hulk.

  Max’s plane. Taxiing away from the gate.

  Her whole body grew heavy, her legs seeming to sink into the floor, her heart an iron weight.

  Max ... oh Max ...

  Chapter 42

  Max jammed his gloved hand against the door buzzer for the second time. Christ, what did he expect? Six in the morning. She had to be dead asleep. It was hardly light.

  He should just go, get moving. It was stupid coming here. No point in it. He had a plane to catch.

  Max could feel the cold of the snow-crusted stoop creeping up through his soles. His hands were numb. During the night it had stopped snowing; too cold for snow. It had to be well below freezing. His breath, pluming out, made white clouds in the still, gray air.

  Finally, after pressing the buzzer a third time, it hit him. Rose was not going to answer. She was not. Maybe she wasn’t even there. He felt his heart sink. Turning to go, he picked up his suitcase.

  Trudging down the snow-mounded steps, he remembered. God, he still had the keys. For days, he’d been meaning to give them back, but somehow he always forgot.

  He dug a hand into his pocket, and pulled out the key ring. Yes, still there. Rose’s keys. He felt a surge of joy he knew was ridiculous.

  In a minute, he was upstairs, turning the key, feeling the dead-bolt slide back, then, slowly, gently he was opening the door. He lowered his suitcase soundlessly just inside the door.

  Max stood there, his heart surging up into his throat. Shmuck, who are you kidding? You didn’t come up here to say good-bye. You’re still hoping, aren’t you?

  Christ, why couldn’t he ever learn? How many times did Lucy have to snatch the football out from under Charlie Brown before he wised up?

  [518] No, this was ridiculous.

  But still, how could he go off without at least saying good-bye?

  True, if the weather hadn’t been so lousy, if Monkey hadn’t begged him to take a later plane, he’d have been in Beverly Hills by now.

  But this flight wasn’t for another two hours. So he’d thought, Why not?

  Max tiptoed across the living room. Morning light, reflecting off the snow piled around the window frames, made everything seem brighter, far later than six in the morning. He noticed a jumble of clothing on a chair, a coat, a pair of boots askew on the floor nearby. She must have come in late, too late to bother hanging her coat up. Could she have been on a date? Some guy? He felt a little sick—Christ, she might not be alone in that bedroom. His breath left him suddenly, as if it had been sucked out of him.

  Softly, he edged into her bedroom. Dim light leaked in through the Venetian blinds, dividing the room into hazy bars, glimmering dully off the brass knobs of the bed. He looked down at the figure under the rumpled quilt. Alone, yes, thank God. He felt a sweet rush of air enter his lungs.

  He gazed at Rose, asleep, the rise and fall of her chest barely disturbing the quilt. Her face divided into two halves, light and dark, her hair a black cloud against the pillow. God, she was beautiful. His heart broke a little, and his eyes filled with tears.

  “Rose.” He touched her hand. “Rose, wake up.” Just let me say good-bye, and I promise I’ll be out of your life.

  Tomorrow, this time, he’d be navigating the Santa Monica Freeway. Seventy degrees out there, Gary had told him over the phone just last night. In fucking November. Seventy degrees! I’ll take you down to Venice, he’d said, you won’t believe your eyes. Girls in bikinis roller-skating down the sidewalk. Max, out here, you’ll have it made in the shade.

  Yeah, Max thought, along with all those other pathetic guys, shirts open to their navels, gold medallions around their throats, chasing girls half their age.

  But what if all I want is right here?

  But she don’t want you, Max old boy. So you better head on out before you make a complete ass of yourself.

  [519] No, just one quick good-bye. Got to do it. It’s the lawyer in me. Everything has to have a beginning, middle, and end. Closure.

  Sure, we’ll probably exchange Christmas cards for a few years, and maybe I’ll poke my head in her office to say hello when I’m in town. Hell, she’ll probably get married one of these days and invite me to the wedding. But this is where I get off, last stop, jury in.

  “Rose,” he murmured again, staring down at
her, memorizing her face. She was sleeping so soundly he didn’t have the heart to really wake her. She looked all done in, poor kid.

  Okay, probably better this way ... to leave before she even knew he’d been here.

  “Good-bye. I’ll miss you,” Max whispered under his breath.

  He felt as helpless as he had those long-ago nights standing watch over his daughter’s crib—Jesus, he could have watched Monkey sleep for hours, she was that sweet to look at—knowing that no matter how badly he wanted to protect her, to shield her inside the bulletproof vessel of his love, the time would come when she would walk out into the world and leave him standing back there on the curb.

  His heart slipped in his chest, and tears stung his eyes. “Yeah ... well.” He dropped a kiss on her slack mouth. “See you around, kiddo.”

  He was at the bedroom door when he heard Rose croak, “Max? That you?”

  He turned back, his heart leaping. “It’s me. Sorry if I scared you.”

  Now she was bolting upright, wide awake, her huge dark eyes fixed on him in amazement. “Max, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in L.A.!”

  “Mandy was worried about me flying in such lousy weather, so I told her I’d wait until it cleared. And now I’m on my way to the airport. Just stopped in to say good-bye ... and leave you these.” He slid the keys off his ring, and dropped them on the dresser with a muffled click. “Don’t get up. I only have a minute.” He forced a smile. “California, here I come, as the song goes. Hey ... hey, what’s this? What’s with the waterworks?”

  Suddenly, Rose, in a rumpled blue flannel nightgown, was leaping from the bed, with that wild clock-sprung hair sticking out all [520] over her head and tears running down her cheeks. And now she was blocking the door, hands on hips.

  “You can’t go. I won’t let you.”

  Max stared at her, stunned.

  “Rose, what are you talking about?”

  “You heard me, Max Griffin! You’re not going anywhere, not without me, you’re not!” Flags of stung red stood out on her cheeks, and her eyes glittered.

  A kernel of hope broke open inside him, and sent out a pale, searching tendril. Max found he could move then, and he was crossing the room in two strides, grabbing her by the shoulders.

  “Rose, are you crazy?”

  “You heard me. I’m going with you.”

  “Are you dreaming? What the hell do you want to go to California for?”

  “Grapefruit.”

  “Rose ... you’re not making—”

  “Smog. Hot tubs. Freeways. Ronald Reagan ...”

  “Have you gone completely—”

  “You.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You.” She was smiling. “I love you, Max. I can’t stay if you’re not going to be here.”

  Now the hope was blossoming in him, full blown, incredulous. “I think I’m the one who’s dreaming now.”

  “I loved you from the beginning, I think, only I just didn’t know it. Then when I thought it was too late, when you told me you were moving to L.A.. ... oh Max, is it too late?”

  “Did you mean that, about coming out with me?”

  She grinned, but he could see that the corners of her mouth were trembling. “I hear hot tubs do wonders for your sex life. I also happen to love grapefruit.”

  Max stared at her, feeling as if the floor had been yanked out from underneath him, and he were tumbling in midair. And now landing with a bone-jarring thud. Jesus, oh Jesus, he had been down twenty years of bad road, and here she was suddenly, a mirage shimmering on the horizon, promising coolness and sweet water and an end to the loneliness.

  [521] God, could he trust this?

  A memory floated up from his subconscious. Sixteen years old, and wanting so bad to own a car that he spent every day of the summer working the bag-packing line of a Jersey cement plant. Coming home each day in a pall of dust, eyes on fire, a gritty taste of cement dust in his mouth that wouldn’t wash out even when he brushed his teeth until his gums were bleeding. And then finally, come September, when he’d had four hundred saved, the car. Oh Jesus, that shit-kicking car. A 1941 puke-green Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight. Rust-eaten and hung together with old coathangers. His mother cried when he brought it home and parked it in the driveway. But it ran, goddamn it. Wouldn’t have stood up in the Indy 500, but it ran. On a gallon of spit for every gallon of regular. Christ, he’d loved that car. Better than the brand-new Thunderbird he’d bought after law school, and all the cars he’d owned since. Now he thought he understood why, in spite of all its flaws, he’d loved it so.

  Because he hadn’t just bought it, he’d dreamed it. He had conjured it up, like some demented teenage Ali Baba, out of cement dust and wishful thinking. And he had known, then and forever, sitting behind the sun-cracked steering wheel of that Olds, that if you wanted it bad enough, dreamed hard enough, anything was possible.

  Max blinked, bringing Rose into sudden, dazzling focus, and it was as if he were seeing a tiny universe of sorts, the delicate blue veins tracing her temples, each glistening coil of hair, the specks of clear light in her dark eyes, making them shine.

  He brought his hand to her face, palm up, not touching her but close enough to feel her heat. Rose leaned into his palm, closing her eyes, and the silken feel of her skin over the hard curve of cheekbone made him feel as if he were turning cartwheels on new grass, leaving him breathless, dizzy, heartstruck. No mirage, he told himself. No, she, like himself, was just another weary traveler come home.

  “One condition,” he said, his throat rusty with emotion.

  “Shoot,” she murmured.

  “Marry me.”

  Her eyes flew open. A slow smile spreading across her face. “I do. I mean, I will. Yes. Does that answer your question or do you want me to go on?”

  [522] “Yeah,” he said. “But keep going. I like hearing it anyway.” She threw her head back, laughing, arms stretching up, up, her throat arching, her electric hair falling away from her ears and neck. And that’s when he noticed—the earrings. Two of them, identical, shaped like tiny teardrops, sparkling in each of her ears.

  Epilogue

  Sylvie sank into the deep chair by the fireplace, and luxuriated a moment in its soft velvet. She kicked off her pumps, and let her head fall against the plump backrest. Through the etched glass panels of the parlor pocket doors, she could see shadows wavering—the caterer’s people clearing away empty glasses, ashtrays, plates.

  She felt tired, but it was a good tired. Like arranging roses in her best Waterford vase after a hard morning of pulling weeds in the hot sun.

  They loved it. Everyone. What Nikos has done with this old wreck of a house. What I have done. A miracle, they said.

  Drifting up the stairs, she could hear the faint tinkle of the women’s laughter, the deep rolling bell of Nikos’s voice bidding the last of the guests good-night. And sounds from the kitchen directly below, too, the singsong patter of Jamaican patois, the tap running, dishes clattering.

  Sylvie propped her stockinged feet on the needlepoint foot rest. She felt a twinge of sheepishness now to think how shamelessly she had basked in the evening’s praise, worn it about her like a crown of laurel leaves.

  But then, why not? She did deserve it.

  Sylvie looked about the parlor, soft in the rosy light of the dying fire, and saw it in its splendid completeness as if for the first time—without the invasive memories of cracked walls, sagging ceiling, lumber and paint buckets. A slow, wondering pride crept through, made her feel lifted up.

  Grand, yes. And intimate, too. The best of both worlds.

  How right she’d been to choose this light color to offset the mahogany moldings about the doors and windows, a William Morris design in the palest silver; and for the ceiling, with its garlands of plaster rosettes, soft pastel colors. And instead of the heavy funereal [524] velvet, she’d picked drapes of a soft lemony weave, with the sheerest of liners, designed to drink in the sunlight. And, her
e and there, bright accents. A red-lacquered Chinese tea cabinet, a striking Louis Quinze gilt pier mirror between the two tall windows, a Georgia O’Keeffe lily over the fireplace.

  I created this. Something to be proud of. Oh, Mama, I wish you could see this. ...

  In the tall pier mirror, Sylvie caught the shimmery amber reflection of a slender woman wearing a crepe gown the color of Blue Nile roses, her pale hair caught up with two antique silver combs. There was a look of deep calm in the woman’s wide, sea-green eyes.

  She gazed at this image of herself, feeling distanced, as if she were seeing a portrait someone had painted of her. And she was struck by the woman’s dignity, her air of self-possession.

  “You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?” she whispered to herself, breathing in the scent of perfume and cigarettes which still lingered.

  Yes. Finally. She knew how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Nikos was growing impatient. She had put him off too long. Now he deserved an answer, though it hurt so to think of what she’d be sacrificing.

  But for every choice there is a price. And who knows that better than I?

  She thought of that long-ago night, the choking smoke, terror, searing flames, and how after claiming the sheet-wrapped bundle in her arms as her own, she’d had to live with that choice. But, thank God, it wasn’t so painful anymore. She had found her child, her Rose. She had held her true daughter in her arms. And she would never let herself be separated from Rose, not completely, not even with Rose in California. She would visit often. She’d flown out once already. And there would be the wedding, this summer. Other times, too.

  Nikos had visited Rose too, just two weeks ago. He’d brought home snapshots, and told her everything, every detail of their reunion, what they’d talked about, what they’d done together.

  Sylvie finally could look ahead of her, instead of looking back. She could go on, devote more energy to her work.