“No,” Dorrie says. “I have a headache. I think I’ll just stretch out here on the couch for a minute—”
XV
KAREN
And there it is. Karen pours herself a glass of stale Oyster Bay before she even takes the letter out of the envelope that’s stuck halfway back together with old damp glue from the flap. It’s postmarked two years before. She takes a sip of wine and gently tugs on the thin sheet of paper.
My dearest Karen,
I am here in my mother’s town, but I am wishing to be back in the States with you. I so much want to be there in Boston, to be working again at the hospital, and to see you. I close my eyes and see the tulips starting to bloom by the river, and I can almost taste the pastrami at that deli where you took me downtown.
I miss you, beautiful Karen. I hope to soon be back in Boston, but until then please do not forget me and please write to me here at my mother’s home.
Love always,
Tomas
The writing is overly slanted to the right, and his name is signed with such a flourish, Karen isn’t sure if Joe could even make it out. Only Tomas’s last name is on the back flap, along with his mother’s address in Honduras.
She takes another sip of wine and sits back on her heels. What must Joe have thought? The letter didn’t sound platonic. It was actually extremely personal, romantic, even. Joe would have assumed she and Tomas were having an affair. Of course he would have because Joe was a philanderer himself, at least potentially, when he intercepted Tomas’s letter. Funny, Karen thinks, how that works. Funny how she didn’t realize Joe was cheating until his little twit literally spelled things out for her in black and white, because she, Karen, wouldn’t have thrown away her marriage the way Joe did. People, Karen has decided, can only project what they would do. It’s the thief who worries most that he’ll be robbed, the peeping tom who pulls his shades down tight. In this case, likely the adulterer who imagines his wife deceiving him. Projection.
She looks back at the date on the postmark. Is that why Joe distanced himself from her so completely? Was his involvement with the woman at work the result, rather than the cause, of his detachment? God. Karen sits all the way down on the floor, pulls her legs up under her, and wraps her arms around her knees. Maybe his affair with Dorrie was payback for what he thought she’d done with Tomas. Initially, at least, which makes what he did a lot more plausible. Not necessarily forgivable, but plausible. If he thought he’d lost his wife, if he thought she had betrayed him, that she loved another man . . .
But how dare he steal a letter meant for her? How dare he grab this small and slightly sad communication from a friend on the other side of the world? It was petty and provincial and really not at all like Joe. She guzzles down the rest of the wine, but she doesn’t feel the least bit tipsy. She feels suddenly more grounded than she has in months. He was jealous. Needlessly. Suddenly, she’s overcome by sadness, a suffocating grief that sinks inside her bones. She stares at the letter in her hand as if she’s seeing it for the first time. And then she sighs and tears it into tiny pieces, marches into the kitchen and burns it to ashes in the sink.
How could she have been so blind? So stupid? So totally oblivious? The failing business, the stolen letter, the photograph of Dorrie, this girlfriend with the smoking husband? How could she have missed all this? She gazes out the window at the snow, so bright, it’s visible in the dark, blanketing the street, the yard, her car. Or did she not see any of these things because she didn’t want to? She gets up, stumbling over Antoine. It doesn’t matter. Even if she didn’t want to know the details of her husband’s life, of their crumbling marriage—even if, like the proverbial ostrich, she’d had her blond head stuck in sand for the past two fucking years, she’s got her eyes wide open now, her head straight up, fielding all the truths bombarding her at breakneck speed. Even if she let things get away from her before, she’s determined, now, to get them back, to figure out exactly how she came to be where she is, with her husband dead, a thriving business in its death throes, and a stalker marring both her front yard and her sanity.
It’s late. Karen checks the locks and the alarm, stands at the broad window, and gazes out across the front yard, glancing across the street, and then as far as she can see in both directions before she heads off to bed. Tonight she’ll sleep in the middle of the mattress, not huddled up against the wall, the way she has for the past two years, possibly because her husband misconstrued this stolen letter from a lonely man, uprooted from his life to nurse a dying mother. Apparently Tomas had given up and never written her again. He must have thought she didn’t want to hear from him when, or, possibly, because, he’d left the country. Drained, but at the same time oddly energized, she falls across the bed in yoga pants and a T-shirt, sends two texts—one to Edward, telling him she’s ready to talk about the business, and the other to Tomas. Would love to have a cup of coffee sometime, she says. So glad you’re back in Boston. And then she turns off her cell. Quickly. Before there’s any chance of a response.
The next morning Karen wakens to the ringing of the home phone in the kitchen. She rolls over, glancing at the clock, surprised to find it’s nearly ten. She yawns. Stretches. Whoever it is can leave a message. Finally, she’s slept through the night. Across the house, in the kitchen, Antoine’s tags clang against his bowl as Karen reaches into her purse to turn on her cell.
She drags herself out of bed, ties her old blue robe around her on the way to the kitchen. She puts on coffee, lets the dog out and then back in before she picks up her new message. Not Tomas or Edward. She shakes her head. Of course, it wouldn’t be Tomas—he’ll call her on her cell. Or he won’t call at all. She waits. A strange voice identifies herself as Maggie Brennan, from Mass Casualty and Life. “A surprising turn of events,” the woman tells her. Could Karen call her back at her earliest convenience? And she’s left her number.
Karen sips her coffee and finds her phone, enters Maggie Brennan’s number. “Karen Lindsay,” she says when Brennan answers. “You left me a message?”
“Yes.” Karen hears squeaking, pictures Maggie Brennan swiveling around in a cheap office chair. “Your husband’s death.” There’s a slight pause. “I don’t want to alarm you, Mrs. Lindsay, but there are a few irregularities. I wanted to give you a heads-up, let you know I’m still looking into the claim. I’ll be in touch,” she says, and then she’s gone.
Before Karen has a chance to think about the woman’s cryptic words, a small ding announces Edward’s response to her text the night before. I’ll come there, he says. See you early afternoon, and she sighs, texts him back.
Fine.
She finishes her coffee standing up and makes her way through the house, attacking the visible portions with a short-lived zeal. After an exhausting two hours, the house is presentable, at least presentable enough for Edward. He arrives at one on the dot. “Lunch hour,” he informs her. “I won’t be staying long. There’s so much to get in order down at the office.”
“Lunch?” She’s put together a little plate of food—veggies and fruit—and Edward scoops up a few stalks of celery, dips them in hummus. He chews. “Drink?” Karen asks, following his gaze to a collection of scotch and bourbon. His eyes narrow in on a particularly good bottle of scotch, but he shakes his head.
“Rain check,” Edward says. “I’m—like I said—I’m on a quick lunch break and then it’s back to the old—the old grind. ‘Balls to the wall,’ as they say.”
“Let’s at least sit, shall we?” Karen carries the plate of nibbles to the living room and sets it on the coffee table as Antoine leaps out from under a nearby chair and sinks his teeth into Edward’s ankle.
“Ow!” Edward kicks at the dog, but lightly, as if it’s a game the two of them are playing and not an all-out attack on Antoine’s part. “Nice doggie.” He reaches down to pat Antoine on the head, and Antoine nips at his hand with a nasty little growl.
“Antoine!” Karen makes a grab for the dog but he skitters side
ways and hides under the chair. “I’m so sorry, Edward,” she says, and she surveys his hand. “At least he didn’t break the skin. I think he misses Joe so much—he barely touches his food these days. Ever since the night of the accident, the poor thing has . . .” Antoine marches out from under the chair and trots into the kitchen, gobbles down a few remaining Kibbles pellets from his bowl.
“Seems to be coming around.” Edward forces a wry smile and slides forward on the sofa. “I think you should sell me your half of the company,” he says, and, even though this comes as no surprise at all, Karen feels shocked. Blindsided. “I can offer you three hundred thousand. Considering the shape we’re in at this point, that’s more than generous.”
“I’m not ready for that yet, Edward,” she manages, as Antoine returns from the kitchen, barking loudly at the sofa and leaping forward in tiny increments, on all four legs, toward Edward. A timely if embarrassing disruption.
“I know. And I’m sorry, Karen. I don’t mean to rush you. The only reason I’m even suggesting it so soon after Joe’s death . . .” Edward stops. He sighs. “It’s this insurance investigation—the likelihood they’ll try to paint the accident as a suicide, like I said the other day. It’s easier for them. No payout that way. Insurance companies always try for suicides. That’s their job, and really Maggie Brennan’s—a big part of it anyway. I’ve been doing some research on this company, but it’s almost impossible to really see what—” Edward stands up. He’s almost yelling over Antoine’s barking. The dog jumps backward as Edward tromps toward the kitchen with his empty plate.
“Has she said anything to you about the claim? This Maggie Brennan?”
“No. Nothing. She just—” He glances at the refrigerator and for a few seconds, he doesn’t say a word. “I could just see her wheels turning. She was a cop with the Boston PD so—” He shifts his gaze to Karen. “I’m telling you—as your friend—that if you sell, I will do right by you, Karen. You know that. Listen,” he says, and he buttons up his coat and hurries to the front door before Antoine can launch a fresh attack. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Let me know, though, when you’ve had a chance to think things over. Watch the dog,” he says, as Antoine gallops out from the hallway. A second later the door smacks shut behind him as Edward’s slick shoes skate across the icy porch.
Karen walks back to the kitchen and stares at the refrigerator. Once there were a variety of things fastened there with multicolored magnets—drawings, postcards, photos of the boys, lists for the market. Now she almost never puts things up—there are only tiny tidbits she jots down from time to time, little reminders she might leave here and there around the house. The only thing on the refrigerator now is the PROSPER magnet, sticking Arthur Reinfeld’s name above the handle. Did Edward see it? He did seem to fade out for a second there, staring at the fridge. And then he left. Abruptly, now that she thinks of it. Of course the dog was nipping at his heels. Literally.
Her cell dings in the living room and Karen pours herself a glass of water, runs the tap over the empty plates. She takes a swig of water, and when she’s stalled for several seconds, wanders to the living room and dumps out her purse. She glances at the new text on her cell: Of course, Tomas has texted back. Tell me where. I will be there happily. I am off work until the evening.
XVI
DORRIE
Dorrie still works on her own on Tuesdays. Now she tries to cram in as many calls as possible, as many visits as she can, into this one day of the week she often spent with Joe. When he was in town. When she finished her work early. It wasn’t every week, but it was often enough for her to hate Tuesdays now, to waken with a sick feeling, with a knot in her stomach and memories running through her head. Her body knows it’s Tuesday, even before she opens her eyes. She’s on the sofa. Fully clothed. The cat purrs on the chair arm. “Why am I—?” Purrl yawns, opens one large amber eye and Dorrie shakes away the remnants of her headache, smells the faint sweet smell of weed in the tangled ends of her hair. She groans.
Samuel and Lily have already gone, and Dorrie drags herself off the sofa, feels the Tuesday-ness envelope her. She heads for the bathroom, turns on the water, and reaching for the shampoo, remembers showering with Joe.
It was the day of their third lunch together in an earthy little restaurant in the North End. Italian, it was nearly dark, even in the middle of the day—a rainy, gloomy day. It was noisy in the restaurant and they leaned over the table to talk. Joe lit a candle in a glass lantern that reminded her of the one Samuel stole for her when they were young and barely scraping by—he’d brought it home from Papa Pasta’s, where he worked three nights a week around the time Lily was born, and she had felt a sharp, quick stab of guilt. Behind them, the owners argued in Italian, their hands making shadows, like puppets, on the wall.
“My mother was Italian,” she’d said. “Half Italian.”
“Do you speak it?”
“A little.” She tilted her ear toward the kitchen. “I understand it pretty well. Like now. The chef’s saying, ‘Isn’t that an adorable couple out there at table five,’ and the waiter’s saying, ‘Yeah! Especially the woman. What a cutie. Boy is that guy a lucky son of a—’ ”
“Really?”
“No,” she said, and they’d both laughed as Dorrie picked at her lasagna. “Your wife,” she’d said. “What’s she like?”
“Smart,” he’d told her. “Witty. Puns a lot, like you, which I’ve always hated. Probably because I can’t do it.”
Dorrie nodded, chewed, forced a smile. “She sounds really—”
“She’s great.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “And we were. We were great.” He stuck his hand up for the waitress. “Things change. People change.”
“That’s life, though, really, isn’t it? Change?” Dorrie polished off her wine. “I mean, we certainly have. Samuel and I. He hasn’t got the slightest idea what’s going on in my head most of the time. Or, really, in my life. I don’t think he even cares. Not unless it involves him directly or his job or—”
“You sound like her.” He’d caught the waiter’s eye, motioned for more wine, and Dorrie let all thoughts of Karen slide back into that vague region of Joe’s life, so much less real than the spilled marinara sauce on the checked tablecloth, the aria drifting out through speakers near the entrance.
“Thought I’d show you how to use the design program,” Joe said, and he’d pulled out his laptop, set it up on the table, patted the booth beside him. “You’ll need to come over here to really see what I’m doing.” And she’d scooted in beside him, watched his hands on the mouse, his long fingers, watched the different rooms invented, born, the virtual tubs, the colored walls, the floors, converted with a click.
“Here. You try,” he’d said after a minute or two.
“I always wanted to have this for our house,” she’d told him. “I always loved to watch the transformations on TV, but I didn’t know this software was available. For just normal people.”
“Normal?” He’d leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the bathroom she’d created, slightly unaligned, walls the color of eggplant.
“Well,” she’d said. “People.”
“It’s okay,” he’d said. “Normal is vastly overrated.”
“I agree.” She’d pointed to the bathroom. “Just look!”
They slept together that day. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the rainy, dreamy weather, or the music in the restaurant or Dorrie wanting to erase Joe’s words—you sound like her. He’d called ahead, reserved a room at the Harborside Inn, with rosy quilts, a red brick wall behind the bed. She felt his breath, warm on her face, warm against her body, his skin against hers. Warm. Outside the rain pattered down, making splattering sounds, as the world walked by on cracking sidewalks, lumbered past on thick black streets, sloshed by in shiny rubber coats. Across the Charles, a train shuttled down the Red Line and a flock of pigeons flew off, making flapping sounds, like the shuffling of a thousand decks of cards, the swishing of
a million gowns. Somewhere Lily whispered with her friends in study hall and Karen ran her hands down her perfect thighs in her perfect house in Waltham, but inside that room, there was only Joe. Afterward, they lay like spoons, his chest against her back, his lips against her hair. She listened to their breathing, listened to the rain. She closed her eyes and clung to that brief moment between passion and the guilt she knew she’d feel for being what she’d told herself she’d never be—the other woman, betraying Samuel. Karen. But she had. And would again. She’d risk everything to be with Joe, to feel him next to her. Come on out, Dorrie. There’s no reason to be all locked up inside like you have been, butting up against your own bones and lies. She’d risk everything she had to feel alive.
XVII
DORRIE
Dorrie heads to Brookline. Maple Street. A couple with three grown sons wants to open up their house a little more. Eileen and Albert. For entertaining, Eileen said. Mostly for her husband’s job—she’s been so slack in that department. She’s thinking about a sunporch. She’s wanted one for years. And since Home Runs did such a fantastic job on their kitchen recently . . .
Dorrie turns off Boylston. Maple is a pretty street, more so in the spring, when the trees aren’t bare, when they frame the yards in lush green, when grasses edge the fence that curves along the sidewalk. The houses are diverse, brick and wood. Dorrie parks and Eileen Ramsey lets her in, putters in the kitchen, making coffee. She sets a cup in front of Dorrie. “Sugar?” she says. “Cream?”
Dorrie shakes her head. “Nice kitchen,” she quips. “Whoever your designer is, she must be—wait. What’s—?” Eileen smiles. A small and unconvincing smile. “Don’t you like it?” Dorrie says, surprised. It is nice. The rest of the house is stuffy and airless. Crowded with heavy mahogany. Sealed in by dark long drapes and ancient papered walls.
The Other Widow Page 11