Local Knowledge

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “Water under the bridge.”

  “But what if she finds out on her own somehow?”

  “She won’t. Nobody cares about it anymore, if they even remember.”

  I thought otherwise, but I also realized that there was no point in pursuing the subject with him. Paul liked to think of himself as an accentuate-the-positive kind of guy. Eliminate the negative. It’s the Alden way to bury the bad. Cover it over. Keep going. And never speak about what is dead to them. I’ve always thought of this as another sign of Paul’s inner strength. But sometimes I worry that, on my part, it’s more an indication of weakness, or cowardice. I just pretend, really—as much to myself as anyone—to have moved on.

  “So, are we going to say anything to Luke about Richard—and his threats?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to try anyway. Let me do it, though. It can only work coming from me, don’t you think?”

  “You’re sure I should even come? Maybe it would be easier if it was just you and the girls.”

  “No, I need you there,” he told me, rolling onto his side. “I need you here.”

  I lay awake for a long time afterward, thinking about how much I dreaded facing Luke again. I could never tell Paul this, but the last thing I wanted was Luke back in our lives. I hated the thought of him becoming friendly again with my daughters. Or, much worse, with Paul. My husband might be convinced that people could forgive and forget, but I wasn’t. And Luke had the power to open the floodgates to the past, a corrosive force that sometimes seemed more real to me than the present. I knew that I couldn’t stand in the way of any of this, especially now. I tried to tell myself that my objections were irrational, unfounded. The stuff of my girlhood. But, even then, I think I knew better.

  15

  “What is this?” Barry Hightower asked, running his right index finger along the clapboard. He was tall and powerfully built with a wide, generous smile and a highly cultivated baritone. “Aluminum siding?”

  I flipped through the computer printout on my clipboard. The multiple listing on Sawyer’s Mills Road, near the top of Younger Mountain, was something of a last-ditch effort on my part to find what had initially sounded like an easy enough proposition—“some quiet little farmhouse we can have some fun fixing up”—for Barry and Ted. But we’d been at it now for the last three Saturdays in a row, and I’d yet to show them anything that seemed even remotely close to what they were looking for.

  “We’re a little concerned that you’re just not getting it,” Ted told me earlier that afternoon after I drove them over to see the log cabin on Hampton Lake. Nana had suggested I put it on the itinerary, as “overlooking water” had been on their initial wish list. They hadn’t even gotten out of the car.

  I found the exterior construction entry on my sheet and called after Barry, who was walking around to the back of the house:

  “Yes, it’s aluminum.”

  Barry just shook his head and kept walking. With a sinking feeling, I followed behind him next to Ted Lundgren, a gentle-faced, pudgy man with a receding hairline and wire-rim glasses that gave him a diffident, academic air. In fact, I knew from Luanne Naylor, who’d recommended me to Ted and who served with him on the board of trustees of the Wellman Dance Theater Company, that Ted was a tough-as-nails, respected, and highly remunerated entertainment lawyer. Though I knew nothing about modern dance, I was not surprised to learn that Barry had been a compelling presence on the stage for over a decade, a principal at Alvin Ailey before joining Wellman. It was Ted who told me that Barry was suffering from adult-onset diabetes and was being forced to leave the company at the end of the fall season. The house in the country was Ted’s retirement gift to Barry, I suspected, and a well-timed project to keep his restlessly energetic lover happy and occupied.

  “Is that part of the property?” Ted asked as we came up to stand next to Barry on the rise behind the house, which sloped down to a field and small pond that was clotted with purple loosestrife. A low line of hills marked the hazy horizon.

  “Yes,” I said, looking down at my notes. “And there’s a seasonal brook back in the woods, defining the southern boundary of the land. It’s about twenty-three acres altogether, which I know is more than you—”

  “It’s spectacular,” Barry said, turning to Ted. “Don’t you think?”

  “It’s a stunning view,” Ted replied. “But the house?” We all turned around to look up at the dilapidated Cape and the ill-advised modern addition, with its enormous picture window that destroyed the gentle symmetry of the older dwelling behind it.

  “Yes, I know. But did you see the gingerbread on the front porch?” Barry said. He turned back to take in the pond and mountain view again. “And then, of course, there’s this.”

  I knew enough at this point to say as little as possible, to let Barry do the talking, the convincing. We walked back around to the front and went inside. The older part of the house needed a thorough renovation and the kitchen was a disaster area: chipped Formica countertops, torn linoleum floors, and a four-burner electric stove that looked like something had exploded inside the oven. But the foot-wide pine floorboards were solid underfoot and the doweled staircase was beautifully constructed. The place had been in one family for a long time, then handed down to heirs who only used it occasionally in the summer and more often as a hunting lodge in the fall, which explained the ugly add-on. The long room was hung with pelts and stuffed animal heads.

  “Well, this has got to go,” Barry said, stepping gingerly into the room. “Immediately.”

  “What’s that?” Ted asked, moving over to the window and pointing to the west, to the patches of red showing through a stand of hemlocks.

  “That’s the barn. Apparently it’s still in pretty good shape. I was going to show it to you on our way out. This used to be a farm, you know. Years ago.”

  “Let’s put on a show!” Barry said, laughing as he came up to stand next to Ted. They looked out the window together for several moments without saying anything aloud, though I sensed an intense mental exchange going on.

  “It’s going to be a hell of a lot of work,” Ted said finally.

  “I know. It’s what I need. But I don’t want to spend your money with reckless abandon. Is it going to be too much?”

  “That’s not the question.”

  “Okay. I love it. I think it’s what I want.”

  We went outside again and walked around to the barn, which still smelled of hay and manure. An old-fashioned baler and a tractor were parked in adjoining stalls. Though dust motes danced through the rays of sunlight let in by missing shingles on the roof, the soaring, dim space had a cared-for, tidied-up air. It seemed to me that the soul of the farm, the life of the family that had worked these hilly fields for so many generations, resided here, not in the house. The property had been on the market for over a year, and I knew that what was left of the family just wanted it off their hands.

  After making a thorough inventory of the barn, Barry decided he wanted to see the brook and the woods. I led the way, tramping in front of them through the second-growth forest and underbrush, the brambles scratching against my skin and whipping back behind me at the two men. The ground was soggy, more woody wetland than real forest. The afternoon had turned overcast and humid, and gnats swarmed in a nimbus around our heads as we made our way out of the woods and back up to the pond. But Barry’s enthusiasm for the property, the view, all the possibilities he saw in the place was infectious. Ted, usually terse and skeptical, was obviously buoyed by his partner’s excitement.

  “We’ll clear this out,” Barry said, looking out over the weed-choked pond. “And enlarge it. I can see building a little pool house down here. Something simple but with a stone patio, perhaps, where we can sit out and have cocktails on summer evenings.”

  “And where we could maybe put up extra guests,” Ted added, “when we have big weekends.”

  We walked back up to the house, stopping to admire the overgrown apple orchard, the lilac bushes ba
rricading the cellar door. I could tell that they didn’t want to leave. We went through the house again, this time venturing up into the musty unfinished attic and down into the dank basement. In truth, the whole place needed a daunting amount of work to make it even habitable, let alone the showcase I knew the two men intended it to be. But they were already seeing it as it would be when it was transformed, and I was beginning to feel confident that, barring any truly serious structural problems, they were going to put a bid down on the property.

  I was supposed to meet Paul and the girls at Luke’s at three o’clock, but when I glanced at my watch as we climbed back up the cellar stairs to the kitchen, it was already ten past the hour. As quickly as I could without seeming too obvious about it, I drove Barry and Ted back to Nana’s, arranged a meeting between them and Eric Benson, the building inspector, the whole time talking up the farm and congratulating them on spotting and appreciating such an overlooked gem. But they still wanted to linger and talk. About the beauty of the countryside. The history of the town. The people in the area they already knew, such as the Naylors. By the time I finally turned into Luke’s overgrown dirt driveway, it was well past four o’clock and there was no sign of Paul’s pickup or my family.

  I put the car in park but kept the engine running, the air conditioner on. My first instinct was to pull right out again. I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place and I knew that, however Luke might have greeted Paul and the girls, I wasn’t welcome. I think that Luke holds me responsible for everything that’s gone wrong in his life, and I him. Our animus goes back so far and down so deep; it’s like one of those fires burning in the farthest reaches of an abandoned mine, feeding on itself, noxious and unstoppable. His place oppresses me, too; it always has. The hemlocks, dense and towering years ago when Paul briefly lived here, now blocked out the sky entirely, casting the house in deep shadow and making the land around it bald and barren. I know Rachel believes Luke’s art pieces are funny and inventive, and Paul views them as clever, satiric. But, to me, Luke’s sculptures seem to sprout out of the ground like goblins—bizarre heads twisted at odd angles, grotesque limbs clawing at the sky. I’ve done what I could to keep my feelings about them to myself. But, God, I think they’re ugly. Accusatory. Mean.

  When he knocked on the front passenger window, I jumped. He leaned down, looking in, unsmiling. The shock of seeing him jolted me. He was both unchanged and hardly recognizable: paler than I remembered, gaunter, with deep creases bracketing his mouth. His lips, though, were still girlish and full, and the dark-fringed eyes that distant, unreadable blue. His hair seemed lighter, a few streaks of gray mixing in with the sandy blond; it was beginning to recede at the temples. He still wore it long, tucked carelessly back behind his ears; I believe he knew that it had always been one of the things that women found attractive about him. I pressed the button and lowered the window.

  “They left about ten minutes ago,” he said, resting his elbows on the open window. The voice was the same soft tenor, carefully modulated, almost expressionless.

  “I got tied up with a client.”

  “I’m sure you did. Little Maddie, busy as a bee.” The sarcasm was like a slap, though why should I be surprised? I hadn’t really believed that he would change. Now I knew it for sure. But I felt that I had undergone a metamorphosis since the last time I’d seen him, and I believed that he was no longer a threat. That he’d lost his power to hurt me.

  “Yes, I have been busy. I’ve been having a great summer.”

  “Well, good for you,” he said, cocking his head to one side as he took me in. It was an old trick of his, that bland, seemingly harmless scrutiny. And yet I knew him well enough to be aware that he was simply sizing me up, searching for the weak spot. “And you look good. Very prosperous and professional. I see you escorting your clients around town. Paul says that you’re a great success.”

  “I’m doing well, Luke. We’re doing well. We hope you are, too.”

  “That’s very magnanimous of you, Maddie. And, thank you, yes, I am doing fine. I’ve got my health and my art, my ten little acres and house here, as you know. Not everybody longs to live in one of your enormous mausoleums. We don’t all aspire to your idea of greatness. Some of us just want to be left alone to live quietly and modestly.”

  “I didn’t come here to pick up where we left off,” I told him. “We just wanted to warn you that—”

  “No.” He cut me off. “Your chance to warn me is long gone. You got what you wanted. And—who knows?—maybe we both got what we deserved. But, please, give me a little credit. Don’t come around here pretending you’re worried about my welfare, okay? I know what you’re trying to say. I know what you want me to do. Watch my step. Stay out of the way. Roll over and play dead while a bunch of fucking idiots who don’t give a—”

  “It was an accident!” I said. “They’re your neighbors, for heaven’s sakes. They were having a party. You were invited. Everybody was. We were all having a good time. They’re perfectly nice people. You don’t even know them. And you don’t want to, do you?” Stop! I told myself. Take a breath. Get a grip. I was stunned by the speed and intensity of my anger, and I hated that I’d let Luke see it. How easily he could still get to me! I knew he probably enjoyed seeing my flushed face and creased forehead, the way my hands gripped the steering wheel. I told myself: don’t say another word. But I did. “No, of course you don’t want to know them. It might just get in the way of your being able to hate them—along with everybody else.”

  He looked at me impassively, his elbows still resting on the window frame. A strand of hair had come loose and fallen across his cheek; he brushed it back behind his right ear. I noticed how rough his hands were, the nails rimed with dirt, like a farmer’s or a mechanic’s. Richard was right: the place looked like a pigsty. Rusting mufflers were stacked on the front porch, alongside other bits and pieces of scrap metal. Plastic bags filled with—what? trash? scavenged treasure that only Luke would want?—roosted around the front steps. A bathroom sink leaned against the side of the house, overflowing with needle droppings, flanked by a collection of mismatched hubcaps. Yellowing pillowcases had been hung in the downstairs windows; makeshift curtains, I supposed, though sunlight couldn’t possibly penetrate that woodsy gloom. They must be his attempt to keep prying eyes away. I looked back at him. He’d been looking away, too, staring up into the wooded rise. He must have sensed my gaze, because he glanced back at me and shook his head.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” he said, stepping away from the car. “You never did. But, I’ll tell you what: let’s not put Paul in the middle of this damned situation again. You have something you want to tell me in the future, Maddie, have the guts to come over here and say it yourself.”

  He turned and walked back to the house.

  Well, he didn’t get it either, I thought bitterly as I backed the car down the drive. Hadn’t I come—as had Paul and the girls—with the best of intentions? Out of friendship? Concern? It wasn’t my fault that Luke had willfully misread this. That he needed to keep despising me when I was only doing what I could to help him. I knew he kept a running mental tally of enemies. As the years went by, as he cut himself off from more and more people, the list had grown. He saw injustices everywhere. He had the time and the solitude to nurse these grudges, these causes, all the wrongs of the world. I realized that most people in town saw him as a total eccentric, perhaps even a little mentally unstable. I wished that I could feel the same way. That I could write him off, dismiss him as a misfit. But I knew too much about him. A part of me had to admit that he was one of the few people I knew who truly lived by his convictions, who refused to compromise. At the same time, it seemed to me that he was fighting battles no one cared about anymore. The rest of us had moved on.

  But he was right about one thing: I was deeply concerned that his actions were going to cause problems with the Zellers—and bring a load of trouble down on all of us.

  I saw it as soon as I turned u
p our driveway: the enormous sunflower, about Beanie’s height, welded together from mufflers and hubcaps. At one point, its petals had been spray-painted a bright metallic yellow, but the paint was now pitted and rusting. Paul had set it up on the front lawn, where the girls usually built their snowmen. It could be seen from every window in the front of the house and from the road as people drove past. Paul knew perfectly well what I thought about Luke’s work. I suspected Paul, by positioning the sculpture front and center on our lawn, was laying down the law. Of course, he would have weighed my feelings and decided that my own misgivings were insignificant compared to the loyalty and support we needed to show Luke. This hideous flaking monstrous flower was Paul’s signal to the town that we were friends of Luke Barnett’s—and proud of it.

  “Where’ve you been?” Paul emerged from the garage as I got out of the car.

  “I got to Luke’s right after you left. Sorry I was so late, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got another sale.”

  “That’s great,” he said, giving me a one-armed bear hug and then turning me around so that we were facing the sculpture. I’m sure he’d seen me looking at it from the garage, so I didn’t pretend to act surprised.

  “What do you think?” he asked when I didn’t say anything right away.

  “I’m grateful that you didn’t go with the flying sea turtle, okay?”

  “You see Luke, or what?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I take it you told him about Richard Zeller?”

  “Yeah. But I really hated to bring it up and waited until the very end,” he told me as we walked through the garage into the kitchen. “He seemed so happy to see the girls. I guess I somehow forgot how great he’s always been with them. We just fell into our old easygoing way with him right off the bat. You should have seen how Beanie opened up to him; she was chattering away like a little magpie. And Lia! She was suddenly so shy! So girlish; it was cute. And you know how Luke gets. He called her Princess Lia and insisted on getting down on one knee and kissing her hand. It was great to see him, don’t you think?”