by Deb Caletti
Why couldn’t she have been so cautious right from the start? Why couldn’t Sarah? It kills him. Undoing things is so much harder than doing them. Some handsome guy with a good job recites a little poetry, and bam. Smooth hotshots like Mr. Marvelous who pick up the check can be their own mist nets. Good character rarely shows off. It’s quiet.
What’re you going to do? You’re a creature, a fish, who glimpses the shiny red globes of the salmon eggs when you are searching and hungry. You bite down. They taste like heaven; there is a satisfying and salty pop. Just before the fiery pain of the hook sets in your flesh.
And yes, the hook has set, because Isabelle is still appearing in photos on ShutR. Even after receiving the package with Virginia’s watch. At least, there’s the bump of bone at Isabelle’s wrist on a handrail, and there’s a wisp of her hair blowing into the frame as they ride a ferry. There is the cuff of her sleeve during the spectacular show of a rainbow across the water.
Weary knew Isabelle wouldn’t leave Henry after one mailed accessory. He expected that, and in some ways, he respects it. Well, he understands it. She’s loyal. If anyone is loyal, it’s Weary. It’s all right, too, it’s more than all right, because the great payoff, the big bells-and-whistles jackpot, will only happen if Isabelle comes to her own conclusions in her own time. He can’t rush her. He must provide rewarding lures only, no sudden, punishing hooks. In a full-on attack, a creature will only attack back.
But now, his next package waits in his office, locked in the file cabinet. Weary looks at the sky and the sun, gauges the time. He doesn’t want to be late. Jean-Marie doesn’t wait for anyone.
“Let’s try again,” Callum says.
“Lift it back up, Croco,” Lotto yells.
Weary is pretty sure that even though Isabelle stands beside Henry North in those photos, witnessing a rainbow, the watch isn’t far from her mind. Does she guess what it means yet? The rip and tear? Sarah didn’t at first when she found it in that wooden box that Henry had in his dresser. For months, she thought it was an old keepsake. But then she discovered that photo in the garage, in the box marked Electrical, and she snuck the watch out of the house, brought it to Officer McNealy, the detective who investigated Virginia’s case all those years ago. He was unimpressed. The old watch meant nothing. Virginia meant nothing by then to the Boston Police Department.
It is so much more than an old watch.
It is proof.
After that, Sarah kept the watch in her desk at work. She only told one other person about that watch and that photograph. One person.
It pains Weary. His throat tightens. He might cry. His own culpability. Losses upon losses. He should have done more. He should have done more sooner. He worried at first, sending Isabelle that watch. It felt like a risk, sending the real thing, but only the real thing hummed and throbbed with life. Or, rather, hummed and throbbed with death. There’d be no more chances after this, regardless.
“It can’t possibly be as easy as the first time,” Callum says.
But it is. The minute the net is up again, another Lorikeet flies right in, and the researchers cheer and hoot and hop around like their team is on a winning streak.
He leaves them to it. He has his own business to attend to.
“Professor!” Lotto calls, as if Weary’s missing the exciting part. He only waves his hand and heads off into the brush. He’s in a hurry, and Lot can take it from here. He doesn’t want to chance them spotting his watering eyes, either. All of these thoughts of capture and memories of the past have made his heart constrict. He realizes that he must have bitten his tongue in his rush out of the jungle, too. There is the sudden metallic taste of blood and a throb of pain, and it’s an old taste and an old throb, like his mouth remembers long-ago hooks setting into his own unsuspecting flesh.
Chapter 23
Before she heads to work, Isabelle removes the watch from her boot and zips it into the pocket of her nylon jacket. She does this every time she leaves the house. When she goes on an errand, she tucks it into the pocket of her jeans or the pouch of her purse, and it rides along with her to the Front Street Market, or the library. Every now and then, she’ll feel around to make sure it’s still there. She’s uneasy leaving it in that boot. She listens for Henry in the shower or the kitchen or on the phone and then she hurries to retrieve it, her heart thumping madly. She returns it to the boot every night, so that it doesn’t drop from a pocket or he doesn’t find it in her purse while looking for her keys. Of course, this is all asking for trouble.
Now, on the dock at Island Air, she pats the pocket of her jacket, checks for the reassuring bump of metal. Then, she tosses Joe his bag. He’s heading to Nanaimo, B.C., to pick up a group of businessmen who’d recklessly gone up the Inside Passage to do some winter fishing.
“We shouldn’t risk your neck to save theirs,” she says. There’s been word of bad weather, too.
“No worries. I’ll take off out of Departure Bay. If the waters are too rough, the fishermen get to have another beer.”
“Be safe. That’s all I ask.”
Joe smiles. He’s got a head of curls and eyes dark as ink. He’s the kind of friend who is family, especially after the month on his couch, but she hasn’t forgotten what those eyes once meant to her. She gazed into them most of her senior year, sometimes as they lay in the twin bed of his room when his parents were away, and she longed for those eyes when he went on a family trip to Chicago for three weeks. They’d sent each other lengthy letters then, real letters on paper, the kind of sweet, romantic gesture Isabelle can’t even imagine now after love has gotten as brutal and chaotic as a prison riot.
Was it wrong of her to think that life with a man like Joe seemed limited? She’d wanted more, more, more, even if she didn’t know what more looked like. Just not this. She wanted to live somewhere foreign, maybe, somewhere large, do something interesting. But, look, she hardly had great big adventures in the city with Evan, and before him, with Adam or Michael. She and Evan saw a few plays, went on a trip to Belize. Now she is back on Parrish, and this relationship with Henry is the large, confusing more. Henry’s life has been so tragic and complicated that she’s been spun and spun in a dizzying circle trying to understand both it and her own choices that have led her here. Your own choices can be so utterly baffling sometimes.
A limited life looks beautiful next to this, Maggie says. A philandering pharmaceutical salesman and a professor with two dead lovers? Some intense relationship where you can’t feel safe is your idea of excitement? What, you can’t find your own life adventure? Fucking A. Get a map! Point your finger. Go, Maggie says.
Maggie is getting louder and louder. She just won’t shut up lately. She’s the raven at the window of the chamber now, cawing and squawking. The dead don’t stay dead, that’s one thing that’s clear.
I’m involved in some intense relationship where I can’t feel safe because of you, mother dear. Plus, where did you ever go? You owned an airline! You never left here!
Peace Corps. 1963, Maggie says.
“Shit,” Isabelle says.
“Everything okay?” Joe calls.
“Oh, yeah. Just something I forgot. Have a good flight!”
Joe slips into the cockpit. Buckles up. He flips on the master switch, then the fuel pump; next, the ignition and starter switches. The propeller starts to turn, and the engine builds from a whine to a roar.
Joe signals with a wave, and Isabelle unties first the mooring line then the tail line. The Beaver glides away. As it skirts along the water, Isabelle unzips her coat pocket, fishes inside the nylon.
She rubs the back of the watch with her thumb. It’s oddly comforting, same as the bit of blue beach glass she used to carry when she was a child. She used to make wishes on that glass, though she’s far past knowing what to wish for anymore. Maybe clarity. Maybe just peace, so that she and Henry can move forward in their life together. She doesn’t believe Henry would have or even could have harmed Virginia or Sarah. He’s
a gentle person who expresses sadness every time there’s the terrible smack of another bird crashing into their glass windows. She can’t imagine any reason he’d have for doing something so horrific, either. There isn’t a reason. Virginia was just a girl. Any talk of an affair on Sarah’s part seems like mostly halfhearted speculation, and money from New Haven Providence would never be worth what Henry’s gone through. Henry—this is what a person must understand—he just wouldn’t.
Still, she’s been uneasy since Henry’s come home. It’s because of that watch. She hasn’t told Henry about it, and now it’s a lie that sits between them. They are all in a relationship—her and Henry and Virginia and Sarah. They are all a part of a story, one she doesn’t fully understand, and one that disturbs her.
“Hey!”
There’s a shout, and the thump thump of running feet, and Isabelle startles because her first thought is that it’s Henry, and she’s been caught. Her guilt—for the watch, for her thoughts about Joe, for her wish for a different and far-away life—makes her jump, and the watch flies from her fingers and skitters across the wet dock. She falls to her knees, reaches and grabs it before it plunges into the water.
“Damn, I missed him,” Eddie says, as the engine of the Beaver churns to full throttle and the plane rises. “What’d you drop, Izzy? My God, you flung yourself down there like your newborn fell in.” He offers a hand and she takes it.
“I almost lost…”
“Probably that big diamond.”
“Yeah.”
“Good, I’d say. Sorry if I surprised you. I was hoping to catch Joe.” He lifts a small cooler. “Heart, for a transplant.”
“Oh, my God!’
“Kidding! It’s his lunch.”
“Jesus, Eddie.”
“Are you all right? You’re white as a sheet.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. You’re a nervous wreck. When Jane came up behind you this morning, you’d have thought she was an ax murderer.”
He realizes what he’s said. “Oh, hell. I’m sorry.” He takes her arm, grips it. “Isabelle, Christ. Look at me.”
She does. His old eyes are gentle. He’s got a grizzly, unshaven face, the kind of face that’s been through things.
“I’m okay, Eddie.”
He stares at her, hard. “Are you scared of that fucker?”
“Of course not.”
“The way you just jumped…If you’re scared even for one second…”
“I’m not scared, Eddie. Of course I’m not.”
“I would beat that asshole to a pulp, and don’t think I wouldn’t. Don’t think I couldn’t. Jane and I would take turns. If anything happened to you, your mother would haunt us from her grave. What are you doing with a guy like that? How about someone you can trust, huh? How about someone without suspicions like that all around him.”
“I do trust him.”
Eddie makes a face. “Two women, Isabelle. Two.”
“If I had any doubt…”
“What’s it take? You? Number three?”
“Don’t.”
“Come on.”
He doesn’t say anything more. He shakes his head. His bluntness is unnerving. It is the voice of a reasonable person, calling out to her in her unreasonable world. It’s unwelcome, honestly.
“Come here.” Eddie hugs her. He takes her in his big bear arms and just hugs. He smells like evergreen boughs and motor oil. She thinks she might cry. “I mean it…”
“I’m fine.” Her words are muffled against his big coat.
“Jesus Christ, kid.”
—
She feels the tension the moment she walks in the door. Henry is in the kitchen, unloading groceries from two brown bags. The way he reaches inside them, though—it’s slightly aggressive, and he sets down that can of tomatoes with a bamp. There’s a rigid set to his shoulders.
He doesn’t need to say a word. Isabelle is skilled at reading mood and temperature. You might say it’s one of the things she does best. She’s had a lot of training. From the time she was small, she could sense the shift in a profile and feel vibrations of trouble in the slightest downturn of a mouth. Words are easy; anyone can read those. Big deal. Isabelle can intuit the rising pressure in the atmosphere long before anyone speaks. She can read every silence.
“Henry?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
Now, there’s tone to factor in. The Mmm-hmm is a clean blade against her skin. It’s sharp with purpose. He has not just simply had a bad day, or gotten some upsetting news.
“What’s the matter?” Of course, he has two choices now. He can calmly tell her what’s bothering him or he can make her work for it, like her mother always did. Maggie would give you two days of silence frigid enough that you’d confess to treason and beg for forgiveness even if you never knew what you actually did wrong.
“Nothing’s the matter.”
It could make a person scream. It could make a person throw things and slam doors. Still, Isabelle wants to be calm and powerful; mature enough to take him at his word. She refuses to play this particular game. She hangs up her jacket. She leaves the watch in the pocket, where it’s safest right now. She intends to go about her night as usual, because if he can’t just talk to her like an adult, she doesn’t need to beg.
By the time she’s changed out of her work clothes, though, the nothing has gotten under her skin, where it now wriggles and grows. It is a mystery. A nameless accusation. The urge to scream and throw and slam is speedily vanishing, as is her vow not to get pulled in. It’s all replaced with a vapor of worry. What has she done? She scrolls through her possible wrongdoings. There are always lots of them. Which one? Not knowing the nothing can drive a person nuts. Trying and trying to figure out the nothing is how you start to pay for your crime. It’s the proof of love and loyalty the accuser is looking for.
She is a master of giving proof. Fine! You want me to grovel, I’ll grovel! See how good I am and how much I love you? she thinks. Her fury is fighting for its freedom, but the old, habitual fear shuts it up. Her thoughts are going rogue. A tiny rage clangs and bangs and tries to rise. What would happen if the lid came off her anger? Best not to find out.
“Tell me, Henry.”
“Do you even trust me?”
“Yes, Henry. Of course.”
God, sometimes you hate your own self. He is still unloading two measly bags of groceries. Look at what I do for you, the carton of butter says. I deserve so much better, the container of mixed greens whines. The refrigerator slaps shut. Isabelle stops Henry. She places a gentle hand on his arm. What she feels mostly is Please. Please be reasonable. Please stop. Her whole life she’s been pleading for unreasonable people to be reasonable. From her mother to Evan and now Henry. Please and pleasing—she knows lots of tricks for this part of an argument, too. Soft voice. A little joking. A lot of apologizing. Never blaming. Gentle steps. Have a little compassion, those who judge! If you can say Back off, it’s because you were allowed. Maggie was a force of nature and an excellent trainer, and all it takes is a harsh tone, and Isabelle will sit up and beg.
“Henry. What’s going on?”
“Were you in my office?”
“When?”
“When I was away. Were you looking through my stuff?”
Oh, no. No!
Any anger that was there is now entirely gone. Poof! There’s not a single trace of it. Any compassion has run for the hills. Her heart feels dark with dread. She is strangely terrified, as terrified as when she thought Maggie had found her journal, or her birth-control pills, or that college application essay she never sent, the one where she wrote about her desperate need to leave home, all proof of treachery. She had betrayed Henry, too, and now he knows. Isabelle tries to think what evidence she left behind. How did he know? Did she leave coffee rings on a poem? Forget to lock the desk back up? Oh, my God. What if she left that paperclip lock pick on the desk? Shit!
“What do you mean?”
“Clearly, you were in my office.”
Now, she sees it—the pad of yellow-lined paper on the counter. He picks it up and waves it at her.
“A pad of paper?”
She is losing her mind. She has a flash of fear that she wrote something on it that day, some confession of her true doubts, some blast of vitriol about the way he lied to her. Honest and awful words that she completely forgot about.
“I see the swirls. The impression left by the pen.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“The swirls.”
It’s quiet. There’s only the tick-tick of the kitchen clock. The barely visible phantom loops on that pad look innocent, almost merry. But the way he waves that pad is strange and upsetting. She feels sick. Something bad is happening, that he can see those imprints as ominous. And yet, she had been in there. She had been snooping.
“I was just trying out a pen, Henry.”
“A pen.”
“You have all the good ones. Am I not allowed to go in there and get a pen? Are you implying that a room in our mutual home is off limits? Because that’s just wrong.”
“It’s not that you were in the room. It’s what you were doing in the room. I mean, you were there, weren’t you? When I was gone? Sitting at my desk, trying to find some sort of evidence, taking notes for your interrogation of me…”
“No, Henry. No!” She flushes. It’s uncanny, the way he knows things, the way he senses the slightest wrongdoing against him. He hears every unspoken rejection. And he is right. He is always right.
“Do you want to leave me?”
“Of course not. You know I love you.”
“I just feel…”
His voice breaks, then.
“What?”