by Warren Adler
But Jack had this thing about being too conspicuously ambitious. The accent, of course, was on "conspicuous" because it was his ambition and the disappointments about it that finally killed him. All that Watergate business had left his psyche in shambles, not that he had been involved. They had shut him off early in the game. That was frustrating enough. But when the old crowd and his old lawyer buddy from Wall Street, John Mitchell, got it, that was the end for Jack McCarthy.
Penny McCarthy had been granted two years to muse about her twenty years with Jack. Two babies had come and gone, both married and living in Portland, Oregon, of all places. That was about as far away as chickens could possibly stray from the coop and still be within the continental limits of the United States. Perhaps it had all been her fault, although the doctors had assured her that Jack had died from a heart attack and that he had had a history of rheumatic heart, which was what had kept him out of the military service.
She had not, of course, told them about his drinking habits, a fifth of vodka as a daily ritual, the last inch of the bottle always taken before bedtime to make him sleep. Pass out, rather than face another confrontation with his impotence. That was one part of it that she was glad was over. Especially since she was convinced that his impotence was caused by her frigidity. We are both unfeeling stones, she had decided, although she could never quite find the courage to tell him it was really her fault. She had tried everything to engender some response. Perhaps it was the trying too hard, the contrivance of it, that finally killed desire. Not that there was ever much to begin with, even at the beginning. She had pondered that point while he was alive and it had underpinned the rationalization for her own unfaithfulness. After all, she was entitled to find some reason for being a woman. Which was another nightmare! She had only confirmed what she knew. She was colder than ice, if that was possible. And while all this was going on, it seemed a miracle that they could maintain that great facade and attract such interesting people to their home. They went everywhere, and even at the very end, Jack could still be impressive. That, she had decided, was his principal quality. He was impressive, forever the harbinger, always the potential, never the realized.
Sometimes in the emptiness of the big house, which she clung to, she could still hear his voice, sweet and deep, the voice always clearing before the mind honed the inner articulation. He could always talk so beautifully. But it was only she who really knew how thin the crust was. Finally, in the end, she had actually begun to love him again, and when he had gone she felt she had lost a lover. If he had not gone so swiftly, she might have confessed to him her infidelities and could envision a deathbed scene, heavy with expiation. But he could not grant her even that satisfaction and simply expired in his sleep. She had not heard his last gasp, nor had she discovered that he had died until late in the afternoon when she had returned from a luncheon.
Jack's death, of course, changed her life, gave the final knell to the brittle ring of her social life, the constant comings and goings of people needed to fill the void. Now, the void could not be filled with people. Conversation actually seemed to become extinct in her mind. That, too, was a signal that something had changed radically in her chemistry, and sometimes she felt her conscious self drifting further from what had once seemed reality.
It was the discovery of the Georgetown Public Library that redirected the drifting and, she was certain, saved her sanity. The library had, of course, been there all along, but she had never been inside it until after Jack had died. Now it became her life, a ritual, to spend her days in the quiet reading room, amid the compelling essence of the dreams and fantasies of others. It was, after all, safer that way. No danger.
By then, too, friends had ceased to call. Those that did received curt acknowledgments and sometimes stony indifference. Invitations dwindled. She could imagine them all saying, "We give up on Penny. She's never gotten over Jack's death." Or, "Let's leave Penny alone. She's wallowing in self-pity these days. Let her wallow."
She dealt in projects, tackling authors one at a time. I am searching for wisdom, she had convinced herself, and she had undertaken the investigation with both diligence and discipline. By that day in February, with the leaves long gone from the dying ginkgo trees, she had already worked her way through Shakespeare, Dickens, Tolstoy, Dostoevski, Thackeray, and was pursuing Balzac when she first spotted him reading at a corner table, the light from the high windows crawling along the polished surface as he quietly took notes, his head rarely moving, revealing a remarkable concentration. Occasionally when she was deeply absorbed, she felt his gaze wash over her, but when she looked up, he had turned back to his work. It was an odd sensation, deflecting her concentration. Sometimes she tried to catch him in the act. But he was too quick.
Some mornings they were the only two people in the reading room. And the only sounds were their own stirrings and the occasional whispered conversations of the librarians. At first, she was annoyed by his presence and the little game they seemed to be playing. She wondered if it were merely her imagination, a psychic pull from an odd magnetic field. Finally she came to expect him, to want him there, although neither showed any covert signs of the other's presence.
He never stayed the entire day. Sometimes he would leave the room quickly. At other times, he would spend the hours reading, scribbling notes, then carefully replacing the books he had pulled out. She was determined not to feed her own curiosity. Nothing must deflect her attention. Her peace of mind depended on it, she was convinced. That, and keeping the big house neat, well maintained.
She did all the chores herself, including cutting the grass and trimming the shrubbery, keeping the silver and glassware shined and the house well dusted, tasks which kept her busy until she went to bed, resisting all errant thoughts, concentrating on complete emptiness of mind, a discipline she had actually begun to master.
In the mornings, before she walked to the library, she spent an hour in strenuous exercises, while Bach wafted through the house stereo system, which Jack had installed himself with such care. The exercises had been difficult at first, but now she was hard and stretched and could contort her body to the full extent called for by the exercises. She had cut her hair as short as possible and had pared her wardrobe to gray slacks and white blouses and serviceable cotton underthings which she changed daily. She had deliberately installed, it seemed, a clock in her mind. Not a moment was allowed to be unfilled, but not with trivial deflections or contrived escapes. She took no newspapers, had her television set removed, and had installed a telephone answering device to take her calls. The message she transcribed on the tape was, she knew, impolite, but hadn't she, after all, taken the call? She never returned them.
Even her children had apparently given up on her, although they took to writing her long letters which she read with mild interest. One of her fears was that they would disrupt her life with some sudden emergency, to which, she knew, she would have to respond. She never went to a store to make a purchase. Food was delivered and her meals rarely varied. Oatmeal for breakfast. A cheese sandwich for lunch. Meat and a green vegetable for dinner. She didn't drink liquor or coffee, had given up cigarettes and sugar.
If there were any lapses in her rigid schedule, they were either inadvertent or subconscious. Occasionally, she had dreams. Most times, she could will herself to forget them. In a way, her life was tranquil and she had structured it to suit her new self, to cope. Most important, she had, with deliberate and skillful mental discipline, emptied herself. And her most conspicuous achievement was that she was not lonely in the sense that she could define it. Nor did she miss not having Jack around anymore. She missed no one.
Her most recent delight was discovering that Balzac had written how many books in the Comédie Humaine series and she estimated that there was a good six months of Balzac's world ahead of her. She began to hope that the man would complete his project quickly and leave the reading room of the library to her. She could have, of course, changed her seat, but th
at would mean disruption and she had learned that disruptions required adjustments and adjustments required concentration and the act of achieving concentration meant a form of compromise. So she stayed put, trying to will the man's presence out of her consciousness.
One night, just as she had closed her eyes, an image of him appeared in her mind. Despite every effort of her will, it persisted, would not disintegrate. It was focused in remarkable clarity, the long lashes which shaded the gray eyes, the white teeth, the dark tanned look. As the sun's brightness had moved across the polished table, it had illuminated his hands and she saw again the tapered graceful fingers tapping lightly on the table.
The image did not last long at first, but when it came back the next night and then popped into her head during her exercises, she began to realize she would have to find some wellspring of special energy to will it away. But the harder she tried, the stronger his recalled image became. Then one morning as she approached the library, she saw him leaning against a stone pillar at the foot of the brick staircase leading to the library's entrance. He was smoking a cigarette, holding it delicately between his long fingers, expelling the smoke in thick gusts from his nose and mouth. The day was clear, remarkably pristine, with a delicious but icy nip in the air. A breeze crackled the dry leaves, still on the ground, lifting some on its eddy. Seeing him gave her an unaccustomed sense of danger. She ignored him and sprang up the stairs, reached for the brass handles of the double doors, and, pulling, felt the resistance. She knew he was watching her.
"It's locked," he said.
She paid no attention to him, banging on the door with the heel of her fist.
"I've done that," he said.
She did not feel embarrassed by the obdurate door or even the futility of the exercise. It was simply something that had never happened before and that was quite enough to challenge her courage. Her rigid new life had not prepared her for sudden changes.
"The librarian is probably late," he volunteered politely. "It happens sometimes," he said.
She stood on the upper landing, feeling foolish. She wondered if she should turn and walk home, but that, too, would be a break in her routine, something to fear.
"I see you here all the time," the man said as she continued to face the door. "You're doing some research, I suppose." She resisted the urge to nod her head, hoping he would go away. Once she had made it a point to avoid doing what was deliberately rude. That, too, had been thrown away with her old life. But the man was not to be put off.
"It's strange that such a beautiful library would have so little use by others," he said. "But perhaps at night. In any event, I'm glad I found it. It's a perfect place to work, don't you think?"
His voice seemed soft, velvety in the crisp air. She hoped the librarian would come soon.
"It's not really as complete as I would like," he continued. "The college libraries are far better and, of course, there is the Library of Congress. But I like the solitude here. Don't you agree?"
Holding her arms stiff against her sides, she balled her fists tightly and stubbornly now, persisting in facing down the door. It was a manufactured tension, she knew. She wanted to respond to him and was summoning all of her courage now.
"What a lovely day. Don't you think? It reminds me of Santiago."
Santiago, she thought. Was it in Spain?
"In any case, winter is better than summer in Washington."
Then he was silent and she continued to stare at the door. But her ears were alert now, waiting. She had wanted his silence and now he was obliging. Finally, she turned. He had moved downward a few steps and was lighting another cigarette. The match flared, but she could barely see the flame in the brightness. Then the smoke curled thickly from his mouth and nostrils. As he puffed, he looked up, his eyes set off by a brief spark, a glint, accentuated by a teariness from the smoke's irritant. She found herself looking at him directly now.
"This hasn't happened before," she said, as if her lips were moving without her control. He shrugged, then smiled. She noticed that his mustache was neatly clipped. She had never studied a face in such detail before, wondering suddenly if her reading had conditioned her to notice details with greater concentration. He did not appear to be looking at her face with the same interest. A flash of the old insecurity began. She had an urge to pat her hair, but resisted.
"I'm wondering how long we should wait."
She resented the "we," then realized that she was secretly pleased. Down the street, she could see her house. There is still time to escape, she told herself. Still time. But now it was her legs that were resisting.
"Maybe it's a holiday?" he suggested. "What is today?"
References to time seemed an intrusion. She did not know what day it was.
"I don't know," she mumbled.
"Damn!" he said suddenly. "Of course, it's Washington's Birthday, or at least a day designated as Washington's Birthday. I read somewhere that it's a legal holiday." He laughed. "We are two fools," he said tossing his cigarette on the pavement and stamping it out with his heel. It was, of course, what she dreaded most, the twist of fate, the odd happening, the surprise. Sweat beads had broken out on her back, chilling her.
"Well, since the day is spoiled, how about a cup of coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee," she said quickly.
"Tea then," he joked. Was he mocking her, she wondered. He watched her. She knew now that he was noticing, contemplating. She became frightened now and remained silent. Finally he shrugged.
"Well, then," he said. His body seemed to move slightly in a courtly bow as he turned and started down the street toward Wisconsin Avenue. She watched him walk, his back straight, his step light and graceful.
"Wait!" she called. Her arm had left her side, a gesture to draw him back, as if it did not belong to the rest of her body. He turned, walked back part of the way. Her hand reached for her hair, an old gesture.
"I live just up the block." She pointed to her house, the windows glistening in the morning sun. "Over there. And I think we might find some tea." She doubted that and watched his hesitation with fear. Perhaps he can tell I am lying, she wondered, sure of her fear now. He looked at his wrist watch. Observing, she knew it was an empty gesture. It was a sign of her old way of thinking. I know what he is saying and doing, but what is he really thinking, what is his motive? She was back in the world of the old hypocrisies.
"Why not?" he said. Quickly, she regretted his decision. He could have saved her, she thought. He could have declined. She heard his footsteps clicking along behind her as she gained momentum, fighting the urge to break into a run.
As always, the door was unlocked. When Jack was alive the doors were always double-locked with a security system of electronic tripwiring hooked into the nearby police station. She had had all that taken out and discovered, in her new life, that she did not have a single moment of fear.
Until now! She felt a hollowness in her stomach as she heard his footsteps entering the house, a new sound. She felt the floors creak in this new odd way.
"Quite an interesting place," he said. "I have passed this house many times."
"I'll see if I can find some tea."
She left him in the big high-ceilinged parlor, but she stole a look at him from the kitchen, fidgeting in front of the fireplace, looking about the room. She knew there would be no tea, but she did feel compelled to bring something. Opening the refrigerator, she took out a carton of milk and poured out two glasses, laughing at herself, remembering how silly it would have been in the old days. Then, she would have rushed to bring ice as well. Liquor had always been available, regardless of the hour.
"Hair of the dog?" It was Jack's voice returning, a voice that had been silent in her mind for so long.
When she returned to the front parlor, she noticed that he had taken a seat in the old wing chair. Jack had hated it, preferring the overstuffed leather chair at the other end of the room.
"No tea," she said. The smile of her recollecti
on had remained on her face. She put a glass of milk beside him on the table and took a seat on the couch opposite him.
"So," the man said. "You have lived in this lovely place for a long time?"
"Yes." Time again. Her mind was not used to calculating. "Perhaps ten years," she said tentatively.
"My name is Eduardo Palmero."
"Spanish?"
"Chilean."
"Chilean." Another surprise, she thought. Her mind had insisted on his Spanish antecedents.
"Actually, my father's people were originally Italians. But it is a common mistake."
There was a long silence. He reached over and brought the milk to his lips, sipped, then conscious of having put a rim of white on his upper lip and mustache, he reached for his handkerchief and patted. It was then that she realized how much she wanted to touch his face.
"And you?" he asked.
"Me?"
"A name. Your name." He appeared boyish. A nest of wrinkles covered his forehead in a frown.
"McCarthy," she whispered. But he had caught it.
"Ah, Irish. We had a great leader named O'Higgins who helped free us from the conquistadors. There are monuments to him all over Chile. We love the Irish."
She wanted to tell him her first name. Penelope. Penny. Even the idea that the name belonged to her had been a measure of her will. She had simply rejected it, obliterated it from her consciousness, except as a practical matter.
"Anne." It was her middle name. By giving him that she thought she might continute to retain her distance from the other Penny.
"Anne," he repeated, contemplating her now as she sat bunched up on the couch facing him. She tried to see herself through his eyes. A woman, almost fifty. Brittle as dry tinder, a body without softness, like a ripcord from her exercises. Cut-off hair. Thin skin, wrinkling. And menopausal. It embarrassed her to think it. But he was not simply observing casually now. He was inspecting and she felt an odd excitement begin.