The result was that Eva felt strangled by all the things she was yearning to say, but couldn't. She also felt like the world's worst hypocrite because she wanted so badly to take her child and get as far away as possible from the fulminating animosity between her former best friend and her best friend's odious husband.
Locked in place by her seesawing emotions, she was missing Ken. He'd been dead eight months and the shock was somehow even greater than it had been when she'd received the phone call from the Minneapolis police telling her he had, from all the evidence, died quietly in his sleep. With her husband eulogized and in the ground, she'd hidden from the loss in her work, doing rewrites in every free moment. She was consoled to a small degree by the fact that her book had been sold just prior to Ken's death. He'd been almost as overjoyed at the news of the sale as he'd been by Melissa's birth, and, playfully, he'd made wild predictions. "You'll be on all the talk shows. You'll become a household name."
"Right. Like Wonder Bread. I'll probably sell twelve copies." Eva had laughed.
"Fourteen," he'd said. "No, seriously. This is great, Evie, really great. I'm so proud of you."
When she was at the typewriter during those weeks following that shattering telephone call, she was able to focus strictly on the events unfolding in the narrative. The ache that the rest of the time felt crippling disappeared when she concentrated on the characters she was creating. The writing, and her responsibility for Melissa, prevented her from succumbing to complete emotional paralysis. Deborah's invitation to come to the island had given her something to look forward to. She'd anticipated six weeks of fresh air and sunshine, a happy reunion with someone who, having known Ken, too, would indulge with her in fond, funny recollections of those earlier, happy times in London. Instead, almost from the start, she'd found herself squarely in the eye of a hurricane and had diligently pretended that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. But the wild drive from the airport should have been her first warning, when Ian took them careening along the treacherous mountain road at a terrifying speed. Halfway up the mountain, Deborah's low-pitched cry of fear had resulted in Ian's slamming on the brakes, pulling the car to a stop with its front tires at the very edge of a sheer drop-off. And they'd had their first argument then; Deborah, in a low, shaky voice saying, "If you can't drive properly, move over and let me drive. You'll kill the lot of us, you feckless bastard!" In the back, weary from the flight and the heat and slightly queasy from the insane drive, Eva had sat with the two children, concentrating hard in order not to throw up, and offering quivery smiles to the children that were meant to be reassuring.
Right then she'd wondered what she had, in all innocence, stepped into; and right then she'd had a powerful intimation that her wisest course of action would be to spend the night, make some excuse in the morning, and take Melissa to a resort on some other island. But the idea of doing that seemed to her so cowardly, and so precipitously judgmental, that she dismissed it. She'd come all this way to see her old friend. She couldn't possibly pick up and leave after only one night. Deborah would think she was crazy.
Now it was two weeks later and she was frightened. For the first time she had doubts about her ability to raise Melissa alone. She'd depended on Ken. He'd been her best friend, her constant companion. He'd made her laugh when she was in a mood to kill. He'd been her sounding board, allowing her to bounce ideas off him, telling her in no uncertain terms when she was out of line. They'd had six and a half years together. It seemed like no time at all. In the immediate aftermath of his death, she'd found herself pausing to look at her watch, wondering when Ken would get home. Then his death would be new to her again, and she'd feel as if she were drowning in disbelief, as if her life with him had been nothing more than a dream.
Feeling trapped in this barren house, she missed him more every hour, especially since Deborah and Ian fought constantly, openly now. There were brief truce-like spells over dinner while the three adults sat with their food out on the veranda and something akin to civilized conversation took place.
Just two nights earlier, Ian had expressed great interest in Eva's forthcoming book, wanting to know what it was about and as much as she could tell him about the inner workings of the publishing industry. And despite her dislike of the man, in the interest of promoting peace, Eva had detailed her limited dealings with her publisher, then went on to outline the plot of her novel.
"One would think it would do jolly well," he said judiciously.
"Yes," Deborah agreed. "One would think so."
Perhaps there was some hope for the situation, Eva thought, relaxing a degree or two as the evening drew toward a quiet close.
Then, out of the blue, Ian said to Deborah, "One imagines tomorrow's trip to the site will be another wasted effort. Rather a bad idea hiring your uncle to oversee the construction."
Instantly livid and defensive, Deborah said, "At least he's willing to do some bloody work. At least he's not hanging about in town, trying to impress the fucking natives."
Ian leapt from the sofa, flew across the veranda, and backhanded his wife, knocking her from the railing where she habitually sat. Then he marched out.
"Bastard!" Deborah shouted at his retreating back.
"Evil bitch!" Ian bellowed, not even bothering to turn around.
Appalled, scared, Eva moved to give her friend a hand up.
"Leave me be, darling!" Deborah waved her off, rising to her feet and, without another word, walking toward the master suite.
Uncertain of what to do, Eva sat and waited, hoping Deborah would come back and talk. She didn't. Finally, after waiting on the veranda for close to an hour, Eva trudged through the cavernous spaces to her bedroom.
Their battles were epic, ceaseless, often going on late into the night. And Derek, bewildered, had to be distracted constantly in order to keep him from running to his mother in the middle of one of these sessions seeking to be reassured. On the few occasions when Eva was unable to hold him back and he flung himself, sobbing, at his mother's legs, both Deborah and Ian had rounded on the child, telling him to, "Go off now and leave Mommy and Daddy be," pushing the boy away and then, without missing a beat, continuing their argument.
Fortunately, Derek and Mellie got along well together, and they took turns being the leader. One hour Mellie would be telling Derek what to do, the next he'd be fabricating complexly bewildering rules to some new game. They played with astounding energy and inventiveness while around them everything slid further out of control.
The day before, Eva had seen Ian standing in the driveway with a gun. Evidently he'd been keeping it hidden in the car. For some reason he'd taken it out to examine it and Eva had, in passing the windows, seen it in his hand. Since then she'd become, almost hourly, increasingly anxious to leave. She'd been debating telling Deborah about the gun, but Deborah was so preoccupied, and Ian, with that damnable radar of his, stuck so close to her so much of the time that no opportunity had presented itself for a private conversation.
She wanted to weep. Outside, the palm fronds rattled dryly in the heavy air. She went to sit in the armchair on the veranda and looked at the children. Their hair was wet, matted to their faces. They slept sprawled, like abandoned dolls. She let her head fall back, wondering if Deborah knew about the gun. Dread, like the heat, seemed to be saturating her. She could-n't imagine how she was going to survive one more day here, and, feeling sorry for herself, wished with all her heart that Ken were there to take control of the situation.
She hated this, couldn't abide a single minute more of it. Flinging herself forward, Eva sat up in bed, actively pushing it all away from her. After a minute or two she rose and went barefoot to the kitchen.
The door to Bobby's apartment was ajar. She could see a faint glow of light, could smell cigarette smoke. According to the clock on the stove it was three-twenty. She opened the refrigerator for the orange juice, glancing again at the apartment door. Bobby was awake down there, smoking a cigarette. Did she also have dream
s and memories that ruined her sleep, had her getting up at random hours seeking escape? She poured some juice, then stared into space as she drank it, wondering why it all had ended as it had.
Penny sat up and rubbed her fists into her eyes, then looked over to see her mom curled up under the blankets, sleeping. Getting out of bed, she tiptoed over to read the numbers on the digital clock. Six-forty. Still on tiptoe, she crept out of the room.
She knocked very very softly at Granny's door and right away Granny said, "Come in."
Penny padded over to stand by the side of the bed, whispering, "You said I could come see you anytime."
"That's right, I did."
"C'n I come in bed with you?"
"Yes."
Penny climbed up, asking, "C'n I come under the covers?"
In answer, Alma lifted the bedclothes and Penny ducked in beside her, saying, "I had a bad dream."
"Did you?"
"Uh-hunh." Penny snuggled closer.
"Would you like to tell me about it?"
"Uh-hunh."
"Okay," Alma said.
"I dreamed that me and Mom were in the car at night, drivin' fast. It was rainin' very very hard and I was havin' a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, tryin' to see out the window through the rain. My mom had her new hair but it was tied back like Auntie Eva's, with a big blue bow, and she said we were goin' to see Auntie Helen. Then all of a sudden the sun was shinin' and the trees were nice and green. So I said, 'I'm goin' swimmin',' and I opened the back door of the kitchen and started runnin' across the grass. It was all wet on my feet but it was warm outside and you were there, Granny, wavin' to me from down by the water. Auntie Eva was sittin' at a table on the grass with her computer and she said, 'I can't talk to you now. I'm workin'.'
"I stopped to watch and put my finger on one of the keys. Auntie Eva jumped up and started shoutin', and I wanted to touch the key again and make everything right but Auntie Eva wouldn't let me, and Mom came runnin' from the house. Everybody was mad at me and I was in big trouble, so I started runnin' again, down to the beach where you were."
Penny snuggled a bit closer. "You said to me, 'Come on, we'll hide in the water.' So I climbed on your lap and you drove the wheelchair right into the water. It rolled on top of the water just like a boat and you smiled at me 'n' said, 'Isn't this fun, Pen?' and I said, 'Uh-hunh,' and when I looked back Auntie Eva was diggin' up the grass with a big shovel and Mom was helpin' her bury the computer in a hole."
Alma chuckled appreciatively. After a moment, she said, "Go on, dear."
"Is that funny?" Penny asked.
"I can't begin to explain just how funny," Alma said. "I apologize for interrupting. Go on, Penny. Tell me the rest of it."
"Okay. So we're ridin' on top of the water and I told you I made Auntie Eva mad," Penny said, "and you said, 'Auntie Eva likes being mad,' and you laughed."
Again Alma chuckled. "This is wonderful," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Truly," Alma said. "I'm sorry I keep interrupting."
"That's okay, Granny."
"What happened next?" Alma prompted.
"We saw a big white boat and Emma Whitton was standin' on it with a yellow flag, wavin' to us. I said I was gonna go play with Emma, but then I felt bad and said if you're gonna be sad, I wouldn't go. But you said for me to go ahead and play with Emma, and that you'd wait for me. So Emma and I played with the Nintendo and her mom made us tacos and we had cherry Cokes.
"Then," Penny said with a tremor in her voice, "all of a sudden it was late and I went to find you to say I was comin' home now, but you were gone and I was scared, Granny. I thought you were gone. I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find you."
Alma reached for the child's hand, saying, "I don't intend to go off and leave you, Penny."
"Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?"
"Cross my heart," Alma said.
"It was a real bad dream," Penny said earnestly.
"Yes, it was. I hope you're not scared anymore."
"No, I'm not. D'you have bad dreams sometimes, Granny?"
"Sometimes."
"Yeah. My mom does, too." Abruptly she sat up, worriedly asking, "What time is it?"
Alma turned to look at the luminous clock on the bedside table. "Almost seven."
"Oh, I better go back. I don't want my mom to worry."
"No, you wouldn't want that," Alma said.
Penny leaned over and gave Alma a hearty kiss on the cheek, then scrambled off the bed, ran to the door, stopped and ran back. "I love you, Granny," she said.
"Granny loves you, too." Alma smiled in the darkness.
"See you after school," Penny promised, then flew to the door.
"What kinds of books do you like to read?" Alma asked, from over by the
bookcase in the living room.
"I don't know," Bobby said. "Ones with good stories."
Alma turned to the bookcase and came up with a book. "Try this," she said, handing it to Bobby. "I'd be interested to know what you think of it."
Bobby looked at the front cover, the back, and again at the front. Understanding suddenly, she felt her face grow hot. "Evangeline Chaney," she said. "Is this one of Eva's books?"
"That's right. One of the ones she wrote before she started grinding out this trash." Alma pulled two paperbacks from the shelf.
"She wrote those, too?"
"She's done three of them. The third one's coming out in a month or so, and she's working on number four. That's what she's doing every day up in the office." Alma made a face and moved to return the two paperbacks to the shelf.
"Maybe I'll have a read of them," Bobby said.
"One does not 'have a read of,'" Alma corrected her. "One reads."
"Okay. Maybe I'd like to give them a try."
"Suit yourself." Alma surrendered the pair of books and Bobby looked at the covers.
"She uses different names?" Bobby asked.
"Thank God for something," Alma said. "She'd have no reputation left if she signed her own name to that rubbish."
"So this is what you two were arguing about yesterday."
"That is correct."
"If she wants to do them, what does it matter?"
"It matters," Alma said with an exaggerated show of patience, "because her motives for doing them are questionable at best."
"Oh!"
"Why do you say oh, as if you know what I mean?"
"Well, I kind of think I do."
"And what precisely do you think you know?"
"Lots of people read these books," Bobby said. "They probably pay good money. Maybe not so many people read this other kind of story. So she's doing it for the money."
Grudgingly, Alma said, "You seem to have grasped the nuances of the situation."
"I'll read them all," Bobby said, quite excited. Eva was probably pretty famous. And Bobby was impressed to see there were a number of other Evangeline Chaney books on the shelf. "I've always loved to read," she said eagerly. "I read the whole of Dickens while I was going to school. I liked Great Expectations best, especially Miss Havisham. I could just see her in her ratty old wedding dress, and all the cobwebs."
"What else did you like?" Alma asked with interest.
"It's hard to think," Bobby said, sitting on the ottoman with the books piled on her knees. "Oh! I liked the stories by that woman … What's her name? Kind of spooky books. And there was one I thought was going to be real … really scary but it turned out to be about a little kid. Raising Demons, it was called."
"Shirley Jackson."
"That's right! I really liked her books. I read that one and then I went back to the library and got every single one of hers I could find. I like to do that with a good writer: read all the books."
"Yes, so do I," Alma agreed. "I'm very pleased to learn you like to read, Bobby. It's the sign of an inquiring mind."
"It is?" Bobby said, flattered. "I didn't know that. I just like to read so I don't have to think about things.
" She remembered Joe coming in one time while she was sitting in bed reading. He'd had too many beers, and he came over and whipped the book right out of her hand, whacked her across the side of the head with it, then ripped it to pieces, even though she tried to explain to him that it was a library book. He tore off the covers, ripped the thing to bits, and threw the bits on the floor. And when he'd finished, he unzipped his pants and pissed all over the pieces. She'd had to tell the librarian she'd lost the book, and pay the library sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents to replace it.
She was startled back into the present by Alma's hand touching hers.
"Whatever it is," Alma said, "it's over now."
"Things are never over inside your head," Bobby said soberly.
"That's true," Alma agreed. "But they can't happen again."
"That's what I used to tell myself every time Joe took his hands to me. I'd think, it's over now. It'll never happen again. But it always did."
"But you've changed things now. You've made a choice, and placed all that behind you. You don't ever have to go back."
"No," Bobby said softly. "I'd never want to."
"Then you won't," Alma said, and gave Bobby one of her sadly lopsided smiles.
Gripped by sudden gratitude and welling fondness, Bobby sat forward and kissed the old woman's cheek. Then, cowed by her own boldness, she sank back on the ottoman saying, "You make me feel real … really good about myself."
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