Gus thought of following him back into the bar and attempting to explain, but quickly decided against it. If Neil misinterpreted the scene, nothing he could say was likely to change his mind. Besides, there was some place he needed to be. Though it wasn’t the hospital, it felt equally urgent.
The night was starless, and the beach so dark Gus couldn’t even see the water, but it didn’t matter. The tides always quieted him. Without uttering a word, he was at prayer.
Chapter 16
Thirteen years had passed since that day on the beach when he told her he was entering the seminary; and, faithful to his vows, Gus had not spoken to her again. But in dreams, Hallie returned as vividly as ever. Hair shot through with sunlight, skin smelling like salt, the baby oil she used for tanning, and her citrusy fragrance—she came back to him as she had been in his small, neat room on Loop Street.
However, he hadn’t dreamed of the bungalow on Point of Pines Road until a few days after he met his friends at the Knot. He was a child again, sitting at the table in the old kitchen. Before him was an empty plate and a glass of milk. Amália Rodrigues, the fado singer Maria loved, on the tape, singing “Gaivota,” the song about a seagull, and the narrow room full of the scent of her spicy meat pies, the flowers she picked from her garden, and, even more strongly, her presence.
He knew the things people said. The words Hallie used when she tried to assuage his guilt. That he was nine years old. That he was just doing what he promised his mother. What she surely wanted him to do. That he might have been killed himself if he tried to stop Codfish. But he also knew that if he’d broken his promise, if he’d left his room, if he hadn’t been afraid, the night might have ended differently. Nothing could change that—even the private resolution he’d made when he emerged from the months of silence that followed her murder: he would never act out of fear again. No matter how scared he was or how truly imperiled he might be, he would always choose courage.
The morning after the dream, he woke up with the smell of her cooking in his nostrils, the memory of the empty blue plate before him and an insatiable hunger for home. He’d planned to take the dogs for a hike, then meet up with Liam and another young doctor to shoot hoops. The day usually ended in a bar on Route 28 where he stopped for a hamburger and a beer.
Instead, he showered and dressed quickly; and when the dogs followed him expectantly to the door, he stooped down to pet them. “Sorry, girls,” he said. “But where I’m going, I gotta go alone.”
“And where might that be?” Sandra said, leaning against the door that led to the kitchen. Though it was only six a.m., she was in full makeup and heels. (Excuse me? If I’m going to be a maid, I’m at least gonna be a sexy one, she said when Jack asked her how she could work in those shoes.)
It was the first time she’d been out of bed since she’d discharged herself from the hospital a week earlier. The pants that had once emphasized her curves now hung from her, and no amount of makeup or determination could mask the grayness of her skin. Gus reached out his hand to her with the intention of helping her back upstairs.
“Sandra, honey—”
But the housekeeper stopped him with a pointed finger, tipped defiantly in red polish.
“Don’t look at me with those sorry eyes of yours, Papa Gus. You hear me, don’t. I may be dying, but I’m not doing it today. Not with this place in such a damn mess. Pardon my French, but Jesus Christ. Either you or Father Jack ever hear of a broom?”
“Better not use that kind of French around Jack; he doesn’t mind swearing, but that he takes sorta personal,” Gus said, scanning the room. “And I think the place looks pretty good. Maybe not up to your standards, but, really, Sandra, I don’t want you—”
“Don’t change the subject. You were about to tell me where you were off to so early.”
“Home,” Gus said, as if it were a common occurrence. “To Provincetown.”
“The past ain’t nobody’s home, Papa Gus,” Sandra said. “But I guess that’s something you gotta find out for yourself.”
Gus leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’re a wise woman, Ms. Perez. In fact, sometimes I think you should be made bishop.”
“I woulda cleaned house on those child abusers, I can tell you that,” she said, sashaying toward the kitchen. “Call if you’re gonna be late for dinner, okay?”
“You promise to get back in that bed as soon as you feel tired and I promise to be home in time for dinner. Deal?”
Still possessed by his dream, Gus drove too fast down Route 6—as if he had to get home before it vanished. But by the time he reached Point of Pines Road, the narrow streets of Provincetown forced him to a crawl.
He parked the car on the corner of his old block, got out and walked. The closer he got to home, the more powerfully he felt his parents’ presence, the turbulent brew of love and rage, exuberance and fear that was Codfish and Maria Silva’s life. How could a family that felt so real simply be gone? He could almost hear his mother’s voice calling his name. Gustavo! Time for supper.
The house looked pathetic—especially contrasted to the other well-tended bungalows on the street, and to his memory. After the murder, he had gone to great lengths to avoid the lane. The shutters his father had painted a bright cornflower blue and the window boxes had disappeared; the shingles were abraded by salt and time. But most devastating of all, his mother’s once resplendent blue garden had become a field of weeds.
When he entered the seminary, Gus had officially transferred ownership of the house to his Aunt Fatima. A succession of renters had passed through, each leaving the mark of their makeshift aesthetics, their fervid or apathetic cleaning. But no one was committed enough to restore the garden or replace the warped shingles. Finally Gus’s cousin, Alvaro, had taken over the place. Still single, he worked hard at pulling a living from the sea and was rarely home. Perhaps that made him the perfect occupant for the wood-framed house that leaned slightly into the wind from the bay.
Gus was not surprised when he turned the door handle and found it open. “Varo?” he called, entering cautiously. “Anyone home? It’s me—your cousin, Gus.” Voodoo. Little Cod. Stavo. He thought of the nicknames his cousins had called him. Probably still used when they spoke of him. If they did at all. A family like his would forgive anything but desertion. And though he hadn’t intended it, he supposed that was how they saw his long absence.
The house was clearly empty. In the kitchen, Gus found a storm of beer bottles, overflowing ashtrays, takeout containers from Cap’s. From the pots on the stove and the plate on the table, he surmised that the last meal to have been cooked in the house was linguiça and eggs for one. The caked-on food suggested Alvaro had been away for several days, perhaps even weeks.
The house had known more than its share of sorrow and loss, but upon entering it Gus remembered the nights when his mother set two blue plates on the table and they ate alone; he recalled Codfish and his friends laughing so hard it caused the walls to vibrate; he thought of the holidays when the relatives had filled these rooms to bursting with fado, homemade baked goods, tureens of kale soup, and stories. Eager to escape his lost family, Gus had forfeited the brightest memories of his childhood as well.
He walked through the house, allowing the pungent odors of Alvaro’s life (fish, sweat, the sweetish scent of stale beer, sausage grease) to mix with his memories. In the bedroom, he nearly tripped over a pair of Alvaro’s boots. There were piles of dirty clothes, more ash, and empty bottles.
Gus opened the shades and surveyed the messy bed where Alvaro would collapse when he returned. He was immediately drawn to the glass that hung over the bureau—his mother’s mirror. Gus almost expected to see her leaning into the mirror, inspecting her reflection for signs of age—the hint of crow’s-feet, a stray silver hair. But she always shook her head defiantly, tossing her magnificent hair as if she already knew that age would never have its way with her. However, the mirror revealed only his own face. In the muted light, he looked older than h
e did in his bright bathroom at the rectory.
Gus was so lost in the past that he didn’t hear the footsteps on the walkway, or the sound of someone entering the house until the door closed.
“Hello?” he said, scrambling to come up with an explanation for his presence. But when he turned, expecting to confront his cousin, he found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes he’d thought he would never see again—least of all there.
The figure in the doorway was silent for a beat too long as she took him in.
“Hi, Gus,” Hallie finally said, letting the impact of those two common words settle in the room. Hi, Gus. As if it had been hours, not years, since they’d seen each other.
“Hallie? I don’t understand—What on earth are you doing here?”
She turned toward the kitchen where she began nervously switching on lights, lifting shades, anything to banish the shadows. “I was about to ask you the same thing. From what I hear, you never come home to Provincetown—much less here.”
Gus pulled up a chair, and absorbed the sight of her. In jeans, a sweater, and a pair of red Doc Martens, she was as lithe and beautiful as ever. “You first,” he said.
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?” she whispered. “I came looking for you.”
Hallie removed an unread stack of The Banner from a chair and sat opposite him. She reached out her hand, but then quickly retracted it.
“Just like you did in the church that day. You saved me that day, Hallie. I probably never told you that, but you did.”
“We saved each other,” Hallie said. “That’s how it works, isn’t it?”
Gus continued to stare at her. If Maria’s ghost had walked in the door, he couldn’t have been more startled. “You still haven’t told me how you knew I was here.”
“Gallagher called this morning. He had just spoken to your housekeeper.”
“I told Sandra I was going to Provincetown, but I didn’t mention this house,” Gus began. “I didn’t even know I was coming here myself.”
“That part I figured out on my own.”
Gus shook his head. “Hallie Costa. Apart from God, no one knows me better than you do. Even after all this time. So you figured I was heading home to square off with my old demons. I suppose Neil told you what he saw outside the Knot last night, too. It wasn’t what it looked like.”
Hallie paused, then she pushed back the hair that had fallen across her face. “You know the promises kids make in high school? Promises to always be there for each other and all that corny stuff? Well, I meant those things, Gus. Every silly adolescent word of them.”
Gus smiled, momentarily forgetting where he was and what had driven him there. “I never doubted that. And, for the record, I meant them, too. But there’s nothing exactly urgent going on here.”
“Come on, Gus. If it wasn’t urgent, you wouldn’t be here,” Hallie said. “In high school, you used to walk blocks out of your way to avoid this street.”
“You noticed that?”
“You were my first love. I noticed everything about you. The way you held a cigarette. The incredible shine of your hair. Your crazy enthusiasm for the perfect french fry, the perfect tide, the perfect guitar solo . . . everything.”
She looked out the window for a minute, and then continued. “You can still talk to me, you know. Whatever’s going on . . . What I’m trying to say is, I’m on your side.”
“It’s my day off. I came down to see my cousin. That’s as dramatic as it gets. And as far as this house goes, it’s about time I came home, don’t you think?” Gus cocked his chin at her. “Now it’s your turn. What are you doing in Provincetown in the middle of the week?”
Hallie shuddered almost imperceptibly.
Scanning the disordered kitchen, now illuminated by a merciless flood of light, Gus saw it through Hallie’s eyes. Suddenly he felt ashamed for Alvaro, for himself, for the entire Silva clan.
“We should go someplace else,” he said. “There’s got to be more bacteria per square inch here than anywhere you’ve been in years.”
“My life isn’t as sanitized as you think, Gus,” Hallie said, getting up to check the fridge.
As Gus suspected, it contained nothing but a twelve-pack of beer. She pulled out two cans of Bud Light.
He watched as she cracked one open and took a long pull. “Now I know something’s wrong. Hallie Costa drinking beer at—uh—” He stopped and consulted his watch as if it could explain more than the time. “Ten thirty-eight on a Friday morning? Aren’t you supposed to be in Boston, looking down some kid’s throat or something?”
“I’ve been on a leave of absence for three weeks. Didn’t Neil or Daisy tell you?” she said, suddenly on the verge of tears. “Nick’s got pancreatic cancer.”
“Shit, no,” he murmured. “Oh, God, Hallie, I’m so sorry. Are they treating it? I’ve heard there are some new—”
Hallie shook her head. “Not for Nick. They’re giving him two months, Gus. Felicia and Linda Soares have been helping out as much as they can. And Sam—my husband—he comes down every weekend.”
“Is Nick at home?”
“He’s staying out by the Point. After Wolf died, he picked up the lease on the dune shack. His summer home, he calls it, though he never got away from the office long enough to get much use out of it. Not till now, anyway.”
Gus had heard about Wolf’s death when he went home for his aunt’s funeral four years earlier. An asthma attack, people said, adding that he’d been dead for nearly a month before anyone knew it. Nick had been the one who finally hiked through the biting winds in the dead of winter and discovered the body.
He got up, pulled her from her seat and hugged her. The move was instinctive, but when her hair brushed his cheek, and he inhaled her scent, he was overwhelmed by the same longings that had infiltrated his dreams.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, pulling away. This time he wasn’t sure he was expressing sadness for Nick’s illness, for everything that had come between them, or for the way he felt when he held her.
She, too, appeared shaken. “Remember that day on the Point when you told me you were going into the seminary?”
Gus watched her, knowing the question needed no reply.
“I wanted you to touch me like that so badly. It tormented me for longer than I care to admit.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand why you didn’t.”
He walked to the window and looked out on the street. Several moments passed before he spoke, but the silence between him and Hallie felt as natural as it always had. “I always thought Nick was immortal,” he finally said. “The man seemed to know everything; and though he was exposed to every virus in town, he never got sick.”
“Everyone thought that. Especially me.” Hallie smiled sadly.
“When you first came in, you made it sound like I was the one with the problem. And here you are dealing with something like this.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You do have a problem,” Hallie interrupted. “One significant enough to take me away from my father. Neil told me—”
“Listen, Hallie—I don’t know what Gallagher thought he saw the other night, but he was wrong. Totally wrong. That woman in the car—she came to me for counseling.”
He instantly realized how foolish he must sound. Spiritual counseling? In a bar? Or worse, in a car parked outside it?
“Whatever you were doing, it’s your business,” Hallie said. “And much as I enjoy sharing a morning beer with you, you shouldn’t be here. If they find you in this house, it will look incriminating.” She rose and set her beer can on the counter. “Provincetown is the last place you should have come, Gus.”
Gus laughed. “You’re losing me, Hallie. Find me? Incriminating?”
Hallie drew a long breath, looking surprised that he didn’t know. “That friend of yours—Ava something? Liam treated her in the ER. Apparently, someone assaulted her last night or early this morning—pretty badly from
what I hear. Her daughter found her sometime around six and called nine-one-one.”
Gus jumped to his feet, raking his hand through his hair as the questions rushed out in a torrent. “What? Is she going to be all right? And what about the little girl?”
“I don’t know what happened to the child, but the mother’s doing well enough to speak to the police. She’s even named her assailant.”
If Gus were not so relieved, he would have picked up on the edge in Hallie’s voice.
“Dammit, Gus, don’t you get what I’m trying to tell you?” she said. “She told them it was you.”
At first, Gus didn’t absorb the words. Then, like a man catching a hint of thunder in the background, he felt Hallie’s anxiety spreading into his brain: What did you say?
“That’s why Neil called me. Apparently, the police talked to Liam at the hospital this morning. She told them about the affair, and how she tried to end it last night. She says that you followed her from the bar and completely lost it—”
“Affair? She didn’t say that. She couldn’t have, Hallie. Maybe her husband . . .” Without waiting for an answer, Gus started for the door. “She’s at the hospital now?”
Hallie grabbed his arm. “Are you out of your mind? There’s no way you can go there.”
Gus turned back, his hand holding the screen door open, and surveyed the house that held his best and his worst memories. “Yeah, I probably am, but I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with this story.”
Hallie opened her mouth to speak, but Gus held up his hand.
“I have to go, Hallie. If anyone knows that, it’s you. I may not be able to do anything to save this woman. But if I don’t try, I’ll never live with myself.”
“Go within a mile of that hospital, and it will look like you’re trying to silence her. Or worse.”
“The man’s her next of kin, Hallie. He has complete access. While the police are busy looking for me, he could get in there and—”
“He?” Hallie said. “Then it wasn’t—” She stopped herself, but not in time.
The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel Page 17