by Mary Campisi
Who are you? What the hell do you think you’re doing, here, in my house, digging around in my past? Who the hell do you think you are? She’d looked at the floor, the table, the clock, everywhere but at him. Tell me, tell me now, damn it. It all spilled out then, how she was collecting data for her Master’s thesis on depression and suicide in partners of medical students and Nick’s name and Caroline’s death had surfaced in several discussion groups on campus. What better way to understand the dynamics behind the tragedy than to talk to the family firsthand? I just want to ask a few questions, she’d said. That’s all. He’d taken her arm, dragged her to the back door. Leave now, tonight, and forget you ever heard my name. If I see your car in the morning, I’ll call the dean and report you for unethical behavior.
In the morning, Deborah was gone. Family emergency, he’d said, and not even his mother’s persuasiveness could get him to talk about her again.
And now there was another mystery woman in his mother’s living room, popped in out of nowhere. He’d be damned if he’d be taken in by this one. Nick tensed, forced himself to relax. Michael was the radical one with the quick temper, not him—he was cool, methodical, objective. That was him, all right. So why the hell was he getting all fired up and making suppositions about something he knew nothing about?
“Why’s she here?” Damn, he’d find out right now.
“Nick?” His mother looked up at him, frowned. “Settle down. She’s doing some sort of research on the town.”
“On Restalline? What kind of research?” It’s about the trees, she’s here about the trees. He’d bet his last dollar. Anger surged through him, so fast and potent he wanted to drag her out of town by her pale blond hair.
His mother lifted her shoulders, shrugged. “Edna said she wanted to compare small towns, write a story about life here.”
“Life here? In Restalline? Population 6,393?”
She eyed him. “Now don’t go getting all in a huff. If she says she’s writing a story about small towns, she’s writing a story about small towns. Period.”
“Did you see the pearls around her neck? The way she wears her hair? The pale blue sweater she’s got on? She’s a city girl, Ma, I’ve seen enough of them to know.”
“So? Lisa is a city girl too, and you’re not scrutinizing her.”
Nick’s gaze narrowed on his mother. “Lisa’s not pretending to be somebody she’s not.”
“That’s debatable.” She scooped more sauce over the lasagna. “Have a little faith. At least be polite and listen to what she has to say.” She tsk-tsked, “For heaven’s sake, Nicholas, it isn’t like you to be so judgmental.”
“It’s not just her. It’s the whole damn thing.” He dragged both hands over his face. “I don’t want to have to deal with this tree issue again. All I want to do is take care of my patients, do the best I can, save some lives, hopefully, make a difference. And be a good father to Justin. Is that too much to ask?”
“No, of course not.” His mother’s tone gentled, her brown eyes grew soft. “And you’re doing a wonderful job, sweetheart.”
“So let me do my job and make Michael do his. Make him straighten up and run the company. He knows it a hell of a lot better than I do.”
“How?” She lifted her hands, palms up. “How can I make Michael do anything? You know how he is, the way he acts, like a bomb ready to explode. “
Oh, he knew, only too well. “He’s thirty-six years old. When are you going to stop protecting him? Do you think he’s ever going to accept his responsibility when you’re always there to pick up the pieces?”
“He tries—”
“Really? Is that what you call getting into a brawl every other week at Cody’s just because he thinks somebody looks at him the wrong way? Or not coming home most nights until Kevin and Sara are already in bed? Is that being responsible?” He was so tired of Michael and his excuses.
“He’s had a tough time, you know that.”
“We’ve all had a tough time. That’s just life. Besides, most of Michael’s troubles were his own making.”
“Damn that woman for leaving them.” His mother poked a stuffed cabbage and a squirt of sauce landed on her arm.
“Betsy was all wrong for him, you know that. He only married her because he got her pregnant. She hated Restalline, always had. If it wouldn’t have been that pharmaceutical salesman from Buffalo, it would have been somebody else, a truck driver from Chicago or Detroit. She just wanted out and we both know it.”
There were tears in her eyes now. “You’re the strong one, Nick. You. Don’t give up on Michael. Help him.”
You don’t know what you’re asking me, Ma.
“Nick?” She looked up at him, touched his chin. “Please?”
He doesn’t want my help, he doesn’t want anything from me. He made that clear a long time ago. “I’ll try.”
“I can always count on you.”
Damn. He leaned over, gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Let’s get this food out there before it gets cold.”
***
“And so Dr. Nick says, ‘If you want to make Marie’s wedding next month, you better shape up.’ So I went right home and threw out the pack of Reese’s cups I had hidden in my workshop. And then I ate an apple. Swear to God, I did.” Harry Lendergin raised a hand and made a quick sign of the cross.
Alex listened, nodded with the rest of the group. Harry Lendergin, recurrent gallbladder attacks, Ida Sellone, high blood pressure, Chuck Lubovich, recovering heart attack, Edgar Malowski, chronic backache. This was the fourth “testimonial” she’d heard to Dr. Nick Androvich’s medical expertise and she and the Lubovich’s had only arrived ten minutes ago. Had the good doctor invited all of his patients or were all the residents of Restalline his patients? She was curious to meet the man. Beside the fact that she wanted his property and his recommendation to the rest of the town, she wondered what type of person commanded such respect, almost awe. In business, it was always the go-getter, the one who sold the most, made the most money, had the most contacts. But here, in this tiny town, what was the deciding factor? How many patients he saw in his office? How many strep cases he diagnosed? Urinary tract infections? What was it?
And where was he? There were a lot of people crowded into the old farmhouse, many of them past fifty, several past sixty, though she’d seen a handful of children snaking in and out of the front door. And there were younger people there, but they were gathered in small groups, clusters of men and women scattered around the room, spilling onto the front porch.
So where was Nicholas Androvich?
“Alex, this is Stella.” Edna Lubovich touched Alex’s shoulder, raised her voice above the polka music. “Stella Androvich.”
Alex turned to the woman next to Edna. She was tall with brownish hair, wavy, cut just above the shoulders with streaks of gray that looked as though someone had taken a brush and painted them on. Her skin was tanned from hours in the sun, perhaps from tending the vegetable garden Alex had seen on the side of the house or some other chore, no doubt. She was smiling, a big smile and her brown eyes were warm, generous, inviting. “Mrs. Androvich, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Alex took her hand, felt the chapped roughness of the other woman’s.
“And it’s a pleasure to meet you too, dear.” Her smile deepened. “But we’re quite informal around here. I’d prefer you call me Stella.”
“Stella then.” There was a genuineness to this woman, a softness that made Alex picture her as a young mother, cuddling her children in her lap, reading them a fairy tale as they snuggled against her, the feel of flannel and a warm bath making them drowsy. This woman was a mother, a caretaker, a giver. A deep longing gnawed inside Alex. What must it have been like to be loved just for the sake of oneself? To not have to prove, achieve, do anything, other than exist? And to know the honest touch of a mother, a protector, a giver, who expected nothing in return? Aunt Helen permitted kisses on the cheek and quick hugs when she wasn’t wearing silk or linen. She had nev
er been a giver, or much of a caretaker, and though she’d tried in her own way, she didn’t have it in her to be a mother. But she and Uncle Walter had made it up to Alex in other ways, hadn’t they? Tennis lessons, shopping trips to FAO Schwarz and when she got older, Bloomingdales and Saks. And wasn’t she the only person in her seventh grade class to go on a cruise? Including the teacher?
“Edna tells me you’re writing a book about small towns.”
“Yes. I’m collecting information for a documentary.” Actually, the information I’m collecting isn’t for a documentary at all. It’s to decide if we want to flatten your houses and put a resort on them.
“Well, that’s exciting.” Stella smiled again. Alex looked away, busied herself with her watch, adjusting, readjusting the band. “Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”
Edna spoke up. “I thought you might introduce Alex to Dr. Nick, maybe he could show her around.” She nudged Stella with her elbow. “You know, they seem to be about the same age, maybe he’d enjoy it.”
“Edna, what did I tell you—”
“I think it’s a perfect idea,” Stella said, cutting Chuck Lubovich off mid sentence. “Nick loves Restalline, and he knows it as well as I do, probably better. When he was younger, he and Michael used to go exploring, hills, paths, in the woods.” She let out a laugh. “Once they even got lost for ten hours. Half the town was out looking for them and when they finally came out of the woods, Nick held up his compass and shouted, ‘It worked! It worked!’” She shook her head. “Needless to say, neither one of the boys was allowed off the property for a month.”
“If you think he wouldn’t mind.” Finally.
“Mind?” Stella looked her over, nodded. “Oh, no. To tell you the truth, I think it’s exactly what he needs.”
Edna nodded, her red curls bobbing up and down. “Exactly,” she agreed.
Good. What better way to learn the land and who owned what than to get a personal tour from someone who really knew the terrain? She looked up, saw a man leaning against the far wall, beer in one hand, having a conversation with two older women. But his eyes weren’t on them. They were on her. He was tall, with dark hair, dark skin, big forearms…
Stella followed her gaze. “There he is.” She waved to the man. “That’s Nick. Come on, Alex, I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m sure of it,” Edna chimed in.
“Edna.”
Chuck’s voice faded as Alex and Stella moved through the crowd, heading toward Nick Androvich. Why is he still watching me? Can he tell I’m fake? Does he sense it?
“Nick, I want you to meet someone,” Stella said, laying her hand on Alex’s shoulder. They were close now, too close. Alex could see the fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the wave in his chestnut hair, the patch of hair sticking out of the neck of his red shirt. But most of all, from this proximity, she could see his eyes. Deep, dark with flecks of gold, mesmerizing eyes, the kind that pulled you in, held you, forced you to give up your secrets.
Alex looked away, cleared her throat, looked back. So he was watching her? He couldn’t know anything about her or the real reason she was here.
“Nick?” His mother squeezed her shoulder. “This is Alex Chamberlain. Alex, this is my oldest son, Nick.”
He nodded, held out a hand. “Alex.” His smile was stiff and forced, much the same as hers. She placed her hand in his, felt the warmth of his grasp, quick, sure, and then he was loosening his grip and dropping his hand to his side.
“Alex, tell Nick about the project you’re working on. I’m sure he’ll want to hear all about it,” Stella said, looking at both of them as though it was their first date and she was the chaperone.
“It’s too loud in here,” Nick said before Alex had a chance to respond. “Let’s go outside where we don’t have to shout to have a conversation.” He motioned toward the kitchen door.
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Stella said, her lips spreading into a wide smile. “And Nick, if you see Uncle Frank wandering around out there, please try to coax him in.”
“Will do.” Nick and Alex passed through the kitchen and the aroma of spicy sauce and peppers. When they reached the back door, Nick held it open as she stepped outside into another galaxy. Night, black and velvety, sucked them in. There was a sliver of moon high in the sky, buried behind a moving cluster of clouds that cast an occasional flicker of light at them. And the sounds, chirping, crackling, howling. Night sounds. The closest she’d come to hearing anything like this was when she pressed the buttons on the sleep recorder at the store last Christmas. Crickets, rain, water, crickets, rain, water. These were crickets.
Nick took her arm. “Come with me.”
“I… I can’t see anything out here.”
“You don’t need to. The swing’s ten steps to your right, then three to the left.”
She counted in her head, shortened her steps.
“I meant adult steps, not baby ones,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed.
“Sorry.” Alex took a bigger step, grabbed his arm.
“Relax.” He stopped, waited for her to take another step. “Trust me, okay?”
He threw the word out with such ease. “Okay.”
Four steps later, they turned left and took three more before Nick stopped, placed both hands on her shoulders. “Now, turn around and sit.” Alex reached behind her, felt the wooden slats of the swing before she sat down.
Nick followed. “Nobody has blind faith anymore, did you ever notice that?”
“What do you mean?” She’d just followed a stranger in the dark, for heaven’s sake.
He pushed the swing with his feet. “When I told you to sit, you wouldn’t, not until you could feel the wood behind you and check it out for yourself.”
“So?”
“So, that’s what I mean. Nobody has blind faith anymore.”
“First of all, what do you call following a complete stranger in the dark, other than stupid?”
“Good point.” The swing creaked as they rocked back and forth in the dark. “So, tell me why you’re here in Restalline.”
Thank God for the night. At least he couldn’t see her face, couldn’t analyze her expression. “I thought your mother would have told you.” Stall, breathe. “I’m doing a documentary on small town life in the United States. I’m traveling all over the country, gathering information, talking to people, finding out what makes them come to a small town, what makes them stay there.”
“Where are you from?” It was a simple question, straightforward, inquisitive.
“Northern Virginia.”
“Is there a particular place you call home or do you just travel the entire terrain and set up camp as you go?”
There it was again, sarcasm or humor, hard to tell which. “No, of course not. I live in Arlington.”
“Uh-huh. Alex from Arlington. City girl.”
A frog or toad or something croaked in the background. “Well, yes, I guess you could say that.”
“Ever lived in a small town?”
“No.”
“So why the interest in them? If you haven’t lived in one how can you possibly understand one?”
She didn’t miss the edge in his voice and had to fight to keep one out of hers. “That’s why I’m here. So I can learn about them, see what brings people here, keeps them here.”
“That’s easy,” he said. “I’ll tell you now and save you months of research. People want to be more than just ‘the man in 1-A’ or the ‘woman with the red Porsche.’ They want to be a name, a face… a person.” He paused a second, went on. “They want to be seen, understood, respected. Cities don’t do that, they don’t respect people. They beat them up, wear them out, put them under enormous pressure to be faster, better, the best. And the people lose themselves, fall apart somewhere between the Espresso machine and the dry cleaners. So, they take a breath and then another and another and they like it and then they find a
place like Restalline, away from the craziness but still close enough that they can get back on the track every now and then, run full out at the malls and the theaters, and then find their way back home. And they realize they like having their neighbor know their first and last name, even their kids’ names. They like being a person, being respected.” He blew out a long breath. “That’s why they come and that’s why they stay.”
Was he talking about himself? Had he been beaten up, worn out, in need of refuge?
“What’s your neighbor’s name?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your neighbor’s name? What is it?”
“Well, I live in a condo. I have lots of neighbors.” Who was that lady with the Pomeranian next to her? Esther? Ellen?
“Okay. Name one.”
Elaine? Eleanor? “I’ve only been there a year.” She’d bought the place right after she moved out of the six-bedroom colonial she and Eric had shared.
“Only a year?” That was definite sarcasm. “Case in point. You can’t name any of them, can you? First or last name.”
“Of course I can. The woman to my right is Elaine. Yes, Elaine.” Or was it Eleanor? “And she has a little Pomeranian named Jessica.”
“You sound more sure of the dog than you do the woman.”
“Well, maybe because the dog is more friendly than the woman.” Elaine, with her ash-colored hair and long red nails, saved her attention for the men at Chase Point.