"What?" He gave her a smile both benevolent and inviting.
"I'm thinking about what you said." In fact, her mind was suddenly busy pulling narrative lines together, probing the possibilities of interweaving fact and fiction. It felt so right she couldn't imagine why she hadn't thought of it herself It was so obvious. Despite its having been one of the most horrific experiences of her life, what happened on the island was first-rate material—if she chose to view it in that light. And if she did decide to write about it, her constant recollections would be for a purpose. It would no longer be a form of very painful self-indulgence, but bona fide research. She could legitimately inspect every detail of her stay on the island without feeling guilty and oddly beleaguered, as she did now. Her regular, concentrated trips into the past would be completely justified.
And she'd also be able to document all that had been so wonderful and unique about her friend. She was overcome by a feeling of rightness, and had to wonder why she'd been unable to see any of this for herself
She looked at Charlie, slowly realizing that what she missed most about marriage was the exchange of ideas, the freedom to bounce thoughts off your partner. Charlie gave her that. He was the only man she'd known since Ken who derived pleasure from thought.
"I might do that," she said, still staring at him, feeling the creative wheels beginning to turn. "You may just be a genius, Charlie."
He beamed at her. "Shucks," he said, "T'weren't nothing."
"No, seriously. I think you may have hit on an answer."
"We aim to please, cupcake."
She swung her legs up across his lap and smiled at him, holding the glass to her mouth.
"So," he said, "did you propose to me, or what?"
"Sorry, I did not."
"Too bad. For a minute there, I got pretty excited. I wouldn't mind seeing you on a daily basis."
"Are you saying you'd want to?"
"Maybe. Would you want to?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. It'd be impossible. There's Alma to consider, a million details. Let's forget it. I didn't mean to start anything."
"Well," he said, "let's think about it."
"Charlie! Are you proposing?"
"I'm suggesting we think about it."
She leaned forward and kissed him, then sat away again, saying, "That makes me feel a lot better. I've been a mess for the last little while."
"You're fine, Eva. You've just needed to rearrange your priorities, get your life back in order. It's been a rough year."
"It's been horrendous," she said. "Sometimes I hate being competent. I really do. Every so often I have the arbitrary notion that if I weren't, someone else would have to take over and do it all for me."
"Never happen."
"I know. I wish to God this had never happened to her. Alma was so on top of everything. She was exactly the way I wanted to be when I got to her age. She loved her life. Now she's just getting through it day by day. Although I must admit Bobby's making a difference, and Penny, too. I was watching the three of them at dinner this evening, Bobby in particular, and I realized it actually makes Bobby happy taking care of Alma."
"Some people are natural care-givers," he said. "It's a talent in its own right. I take it you're not finding her as annoying as you did."
"Not as much," she said. "I'll tell you something. Every so often when I watch her with Alma she seems more Alma's child than I do. She's less inhibited, less constrained with her in many ways than I am."
"You got lucky," he said. "You've finally found the right person to look after your aunt."
"It's more than that, Charlie," she said, running her fingers around the rim of her glass. "The three of them seem to be … adopting each other, creating a unit."
"And you feel excluded?" "No, not at all. I think primarily I feel relieved. And that makes me feel guilty. Alma is my responsibility, after all."
"I think maybe," he said carefully, "you've got to stop thinking in those terms. Alma loathes being thought of as a responsibility. Surely you know that."
"I know that," she said. "I know." "So now, cupcake"—he grinned impishly—"about that proposal you made …"
Bobby got up and changed the record, putting on the Maria Callas Alma said she wanted to hear. Arias from Puccini. Returning to the armchair, she picked up her knitting, then lowered it to her lap at the sound of the woman's voice.
"Wonderful, isn't it?" Alma said, watching her.
Bobby nodded. "She's got a really sad voice."
"Brimming with emotion," Alma said. "An incredible gift."
"Eva's writing's like that," Bobby said.
"That's true," Alma said, deeply gratified. "It is. She doesn't hold anything back. She has a profound capacity for truthfulness. Her work is deeply felt. It's why the books are so good. And it's why those things she's been writing lately are so bad. There's no depth to them. But she's close to stopping. Any day now she'll announce she's starting something new, something of her own."
"How do you know that?" "I can tell. When you spend a dozen years living with someone, you come to know them in ways no one else ever could."
"I don't know about that," Bobby said. "I definitely know Pen. But I lived with Joe eight years and I don't understand him. All I know is how he'll act when he's mad about something, when he's thinking of ways to hurt me. He smiles, as if it gives him a good feeling." She looked off into space, wishing she could unburden herself once and for all, say out loud every
single one of the things he'd done to her.
"The man sounds psychopathic. There's no knowing someone like that."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he has a mental disorder."
"You mean he's crazy?"
"Well, what do you think?" Alma said impatiently. "You're the one who lived with him. Based on your experiences with this man, would you say he was in his right mind?"
In a small voice, Bobby said, "No."
"There you are, then," Alma said.
"Are you ever afraid?" Bobby asked her.
"I never used to be," Alma admitted with some bitterness, "until my body betrayed me. Now it's the only thing I am afraid of: that it will betray me again, put me into some physically vegetative state where my mind's trapped inside a body that won't function. I'd prefer to die."
"That's not gonna happen."
"Going to," Alma corrected her. "And when did you get your medical degree?"
Bobby laughed, set aside her knitting, and crossed the room to give the woman a kiss on her cheek. Then, squatting down in front of her, she placed one hand over Alma's and said, "It's not going to happen. You're going to be fine."
Alma shook her head, daunted by this young woman's instinctive kindness. "Go sit down," she said, "and listen to the music."
"You'll keep doing your exercises and getting stronger, and you'll be fine. You'll see."
"Go do your knitting and listen to the music," Alma told her, wishing she had Bobby's faith.
"You'll see," Bobby said again, then returned to her chair.
Alma closed her eyes and listened to the repressed sob in Maria Callas's voice as it soared into the upper registers. Pain made into music. Exquisite sorrow. Fear made tangible, transmuted into beauty.
Nineteen
As usual, Eva had fallen asleep soon after she turned out the light. And less than two hours later she was awake again, having suffered through a dream she had, in one form or another, too often for comfort. In this dream, the telephone rang and Eva picked up the receiver to hear Melissa, in a broken voice, begging her mother to come get her. Instantly alarmed, Eva asked, "Where are you?" But then they were disconnected, and Eva, frantic, knew that someone had taken her daughter, had harmed her. In the dream she went mad with grief and fear. She had no idea where Melissa was, had no means of finding her. The fear was like a plastic bag tied over her head, suffocating her. She had to fight to escape the gruesome details the dream wanted to provide, claw her way out of sleep.
/> Filled with residual anxiety, she sat up in bed telling herself yet again that she was powerless to protect Melissa. She'd done everything she could as a parent to make her aware of the dangers that lurked everywhere for women and small children. She could only sit back now and offer up a silent prayer for Melissa's continued well-being.
Her heartbeat steadying, her breathing having slowed, she rested against the pillows and let her mind go back.
Although mightily hung-over, Ian had dropped the women and children on the beach before taking off for an undisclosed destination in the car. Eva and Deborah and the children were in the boat with Deborah's uncle at the tiller, on their way to the construction site on Crescent Bay. The uncle, a robust, placid man in his early fifties, concentrated on steering the boat through the choppy swells. Eva sat in the middle, the children on either side of her, watching Deborah, who sat facing her. Deborah was gazing somewhat fearfully into the water and Eva knew she was frightened of the boat's capsizing. Not only had she never learned to swim, but she was also terrified of the water.
It was a fairly gray day, the sky hazy with intermittent lowhanging clouds. The sun stabbed through here and there sending angled beams downward like spotlights. As they rounded a rocky outcropping before entering the bay, the boat lurched on the crosscurrents and Eva put an arm around each of the children, her sneaker-clad feet braced against one of the ribs. Deborah continued to stare, mouth slightly open, at the roiling waters.
Once in the lee of the bay, the water was calmer and they made it quite quickly to shore. Deborah's uncle offered a large hand to help Eva and the children out of the boat. Eva lifted Derek forward and the man lost much of his usual stony reserve, breaking into a beautiful smile as he took the boy in his arms and, in one smooth motion, swung him through the air and set him down on the sand. His smile held as he repeated the motions, accepting Melissa and lifting her to the ground. His hand around Eva's was strong and warm and surprisingly gentle, and she gave him a smile, thanking him as he directed her down onto the beach. He nodded, his eyes connecting with hers for a second or two. She had an impression of sadness and apology. Bemused, Eva led the children up to the dry sand and knelt to remove their life vests.
Deborah, looking faintly green around the mouth and nose, watched her uncle beach the boat, then stood talking to him in low urgent tones. Eva concentrated on the children, wondering how she'd entertain them. It was too cold to swim. The clouds were pulling together, the beams of light farther out now over the bay, highlighting patches of rough sea.
Mellie complained of being cold and Eva got a sweater for her out of her large canvas bag. "Are you cold, Derek?" she asked the boy, but he was watching his mother, his sturdy body turned in Deborah's direction. Eva had his sweater too, and reached to put it on him, but he shrugged her off and went running along the sand after his mother and her uncle, who were headed toward the far end of the bay where a small group of workers sat on their haunches beneath the scrubby trees.
Eva turned to look behind her at the house. She couldn't see that any work had been done. The site looked exactly as it had two and a half weeks earlier. A mound of concrete blocks sat under a tarpaulin to one side of the foundation, the tarp anchored by spades and shovels. Eva sank down on the sand and Melissa sat between her legs, her hands on Eva's knees, asking, "When're we going home?"
"Home to New York?" Eva asked, wondering if Mellie was feeling it too, the ominous weight of each additional day they spent on this island. "Soon," she said. "Just a few more days."
"I don't like it here anymore," Melissa said, her tiny hands surprisingly cool on Eva's bare knees.
"Soon," Eva promised, determined to talk to Deborah, to ask straight out if there was anything she could do. If Deborah said there wasn't, Eva would take Melissa home.
Deborah was returning, scowling with displeasure. Her uncle finished speaking to the group of workers, who began getting to their feet, then he turned and, head down, followed after Deborah. Derek ran along at Deborah's side, trying to catch hold of his mother's hand, but she was moving too quickly. He tried several times, his chunky arm reaching out to her, but she seemed oblivious.
"I will kill that bloody man," Deborah seethed, her anger and frustration having clearly reached a peak of desperation.
"What's wrong?" Eva asked, her arms automatically closing around Melissa.
"He hasn't paid them," Deborah said, her mouth downturned with disgust. "He hasn't bloody paid them. We're going back." She swatted at Derek's hand, saying, "Leave Mummy be just now," as she watched her uncle approaching.
"There's something you should know," Eva said quickly, latching onto the moment. Deborah looked at her, her expression one of utter impatience, and Eva said in a low voice, "Ian has a gun."
Deborah emitted a bark of derisive laughter. "He's had that bloody thing forever. Next to his precious Dunhill, it's his favorite toy." She looked away, over at her approaching uncle, saying, "Ian's a child, darling. A fucked-up child who's very likely pissed away the crew's wages. I swear I will kill him."
Nonplused, feeling somehow small, Eva reached for one of the vests she'd left stacked on the sand and began fitting Melissa's arms into it, saying as she did, "Come here, Derek, and let me put your vest on."
His frustration as great as his mother's, Derek shouted, "No!" and ran across the beach toward the construction.
Deborah flew after him, caught him by one arm, and delivered a resounding whack to his backside. At once the boy began to howl. She ignored it as she dragged him by the arm back to the shore. "Be quiet," she warned. "Behave yourself!"
Pulling on her own vest, Eva got to her feet, feeling a dreadful sympathy for Derek. Every day he was going a bit more out of control, his behavior deteriorating in direct proportion, it seemed, to his mother's discontent.
The uncle pushed the boat back into the water, then assisted the women and children back on board. They sat bobbing in the shallows while he tried to get the engine started. It took several times before the Evinrude roared to life. Deborah sat alone facing Eva and the children, her eyes on the construction. Eva watched her, wishing now that she'd never mentioned the damned gun. She should've said something about the fights but she hadn't wanted to discuss any of that in front of the children. They were upset enough as it was.
They had rounded the treacherous rocks and were perhaps a hundred feet from shore when Derek suddenly stood up, evidently with the idea in mind of going to his mother. The boat lifted in the chop, lurched, and the boy toppled over the side. Melissa screamed. Deborah half-stood, terrified, a cry breaking from her throat.
The uncle cut the engine, commanded, "Sit, Deborah!" and dived from the back of the boat. Mouth agape, prepared to go in too if necessary, Eva held Melissa, held her breath. Two strokes, three, then the uncle had hold of Derek, turned, and was towing him back to the boat. Just below the surface Eva could see the elongated bodies of barracudas. A few more seconds and the uncle had one arm over the side, lifting Derek by the back of his life vest with the other. Deborah seemed frozen. Releasing Melissa, wondering why the hell Deborah wasn't helping, Eva braced herself and hauled the now sobbing boy into the boat. Then she held out her hand to the uncle, glancing briefly over her shoulder, telling Melissa to hold on tight.
The boat tilted almost into the water as the uncle pulled himself in. With a murmured thank you to Eva, he pressed her shoulder as he climbed past her to seat himself again at the tiller. "Keep a hand on your boy, Deborah," he said angrily, then proceeded to direct them toward the shore.
Deborah held Derek between her knees, his back pressed to her chest. He continued sobbing until they hit the sand. Then, abruptly, his crying ceased. He pulled away from his mother and shoved Melissa aside to get to the uncle and be lifted ashore. He seemed suddenly to have a very definite destination, and when Eva looked up she saw Ian leaning against the car, the silver Dunhill lighter turning, turning in his hands, that perpetual sneer on his face.
Deborah cl
imbed down from the boat and went marching across the sand, fists swinging at her sides.
Eva sat Melissa on the beach, told her not to move, then went back to help the uncle pull the boat up onto the sand. They worked together in silence. The uncle said softly, "It's bad. Take the child and go home, girl."
Wanting to weep, she whispered, "I'm trying to help, but I don't know what to do. She doesn't seem to want to talk to me."
"Take the child," he said again, "and go home. Don't be waitin'." He then raised his large liquid eyes to look over at the car where Deborah, holding Derek's hand, was talking to Ian, her upper body leaning into him, the actual words inaudible, her tone deadly. Derek turned suddenly and waved, all smiles.
"But she's my friend,” Eva murmured. "I can't go off and leave her, not with the way things are."
The uncle gazed down at her for a long moment, then gave a slow shake of his head. "She not the girl you knew from England. She not the girl anybody knew." His eyes moving to Melissa, he gave the child a dazzling smile so reminiscent of Deborah's smiles once upon a time, that Eva's eyes were suddenly full of tears.
Melissa returned his smile and leaned against his knee, staring up at him adoringly. With a hearty laugh, he threw her up into the air, beaming as she squealed with pleasure. He caught her, set her gently down, and turned back to Eva. "Take your baby home, Mistress Eva," he counseled sympathetically, then started away.
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