Cloudland

by Joseph Olshan

  “Oh great!” Breck’s tone was deeply sarcastic.

  Ignoring her, I said, “We even talked about the incident.”

  “How evolved of both of you.”

  “I don’t want you worrying about this.”

  Breck suddenly fumed, “What do you mean? The guy fucking ruined your life!”

  “That’s a bit melodramatic.”

  She looked disgusted. “Oh my God! Now you’re downplaying what he did. It was directly because of him that you lost your teaching job.”

  “No, it was because of some letter-writing lunatic.”

  “Did you ever consider that letter-writing lunatic maybe was him trying to get you fired?”

  I actually had considered this. “But the person also wrote to his parents. That was not what he wanted.”

  Breck was shaking her head. “Mom, I just … can’t understand how you could have allowed yourself to be alone with him.”

  “I know it was wrong. But it’s been a couple of years. I just … I went on instinct.”

  Breck looked at me warily. “Did you tell Anthony about this visit?” I merely stared at her. “No, of course you didn’t.”

  “Anthony is not my guardian. He doesn’t even know Matthew.”

  “But he keeps an eye on you.”

  “Wait a minute. How do you think Paul and Wade knew? Because I told them Matthew was coming here.”

  “At least you had the presence of mind to do that.”

  I leaned against the hallway wall. “You don’t think it matters that Matthew and I have been apart for quite a while, now? Out of touch? Disengaged?”

  Breck shook her head and looped a strand of hair behind an ear. Then she said, “Maybe you’re not so involved with him. But what about his feelings toward you?”

  “I think his feelings have changed, Breck. And that’s why it’s less complicated getting together with him.”

  Setting the Wilkie Collins novel down on a painted wooden chair standing right next to her, she said, “This is where you go so wrong in your thinking, in your judgment. Matthew will always be in love with you. And that’s why … you’ll never be able to trust him.”

  There was truth in what she said, and I didn’t try to refute it.

  Fighting to control her voice, Breck said, “You loved him more than you ever loved me.”

  “That is not true!”

  “And you lost so much because of him and now you’re … just going to let him back in again.”

  “Letting him visit once is not letting him back in.”

  She shook her head. “I know your pattern. You’ve gotten into bad relationships way too easily.”

  Despite my resentment at being criticized by my daughter, despite the urge to retort with something caustic, I swallowed the bitter commentary.

  * * *

  I remembered the time she came home one weekend during college without warning and found Matthew and me together. I’d previously mentioned him to her (in an admittedly scant description) in terms of his doing some yard- and housework and that, due to his estrangement from his parents, we’d formed an unusual “friendship.” However, when she walked in the door and found me sitting on his lap, I believe she was flabbergasted, even though she hissed, “Why am I not surprised?” She was carrying an armful of textbooks, presumably to study in the sanctity of her bedroom. Glaring at us, she hurled them down on the floor; some of the spines cracked and perfect-bound pages came loose. She knew how much I revered books and her act of sacrilege was clearly directed at me. Then she cursed us and went upstairs to her bedroom, where Matthew was keeping his weekend bag. By then he and I had extricated ourselves from each other and were standing there waiting for the next bombardment. Finally we heard Breck bounding down the stairs and she burst into the room red-faced.

  “Okay,” she said to me. “One of us is leaving. Who is it going to be?”

  “I’m leaving,” Matthew said to her.

  She refused to speak, not to mention look at him.

  “But I’m going to have to go up there and get some of my things.”

  She flicked her head as if to say, “Then do it!,” her eyes boring into me.

  * * *

  Now I moved toward Breck, stroking her hair and resting my hand on her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, the visit went fine.”

  “It was the first one. His expectations were lower.” An arduous silence followed. “Just one thing I ask of you,” she said at last.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t hide from me the next time he comes. I want to know.”

  I found myself hesitating. “Okay.”

  “You don’t sound sure, Ma. So is that a promise?”

  “Of course it’s a promise,” I told her.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE PHONE RANG SEVERAL TIMES the morning of Breck’s departure, and not recognizing the numbers, I let all the calls go to voice mail. I found it odd that I had yet to hear from Anthony, who claimed he’d wanted to confer with me—presumably about the investigation. I wondered if he’d somehow missed my phone message. When I finally listened there was just one voice mail, from somebody who spoke without identifying herself. “Hi, Catherine. This is all so very strange.” Then she hesitated. I knew I recognized the voice but couldn’t place it at first, annoyed that the caller didn’t introduce herself. “It’s like your visit did something to break the ice. I mean, not literally.” Then she laughed a throaty laugh.

  How could this person assume that I would identify her? But then just before she spoke her next sentence I twigged.

  “He—Tim—stopped talking, completely stopped chatting to me not fifteen minutes after you and Anthony left that afternoon. Hasn’t said a word to me in quite a while.” Her voice cracked and when she spoke again, it was quavering. “His aunt called me earlier this morning. To tell me they found him. Under the pile of debris exactly where I said he’d be.” Her voice regained some of its composure and she went on, “Now that my head is clearing, I’m hearing from other people. I have to say it’s somehow meaningful that the woman who disappeared down there was found in the water just a few days before Tim.”

  The phone rang again as I was listening to the very last words of the message.

  “Hi, Catherine, it’s me, Nan again. I don’t know if you got my first message.”

  “Just finished listening to it.” I probably sounded snippy.

  “I’m not calling about that anymore. I’m calling about Anthony.”

  About Anthony? What could she possibly have to tell me about Anthony?

  “My contact in the Burlington police department just overheard a report and got in touch with me. He knows who Anthony is and that the two of you came to see me. Apparently, this morning Anthony had some kind of fall in a men’s room in a rest area on Route 89. It happened twenty miles south of Burlington.”

  A fall in a men’s room? Twenty miles south of Burlington? What was he doing up there? “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. He—Anthony—has already reported it himself.”

  My chest tightened. I felt momentary disequilibrium and had to brace my hand against the wall. “Do you know if he’s okay?”

  “He’s driving himself home. The state police advised him to go to the ER at Fletcher Allen, but he refused to and took responsibility for himself. I’m sorry to be calling you with all of this, especially because I don’t have much information. But I thought you’d want to know.”

  I told her I appreciated it, promised to let her know when I found out more, and said good-bye.

  I put the phone down, feeling bewildered. I wondered if Anthony’s trip to Burlington had something to do with what he’d wanted to discuss with me. I hardly imagined I’d be able to reach him on his mobile phone but he surprised me by picking up, sounding very groggy.

  “I just heard what happened to you,” I said. “The Burlington police called Nan O’Brien. Are you okay?”

  “I don’t honestly know.” Anthony sounded strangely br
eathless. “I stopped to take a leak. One of the urinals was overflowing. The tiles were slippery. I slipped and fell backwards. I woke up on the floor. I feel strange right now, Catherine, dizzy. I probably shouldn’t be on the phone.”

  “You also shouldn’t be driving!”

  “I’m only ten minutes from home. Fiona is there, waiting. I’ll be okay.” There was a pause.

  “Why were you going to Burlington?”

  “I was on my way to see the coroner. I have something I need to talk to you about. But I’m feeling … I should really get off the phone. When can we talk?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He clicked off without saying good-bye.

  What was going on? Had I only spoken to him the night Matthew visited I would now know why Anthony had been on his way to see the coroner. I strongly considered calling Fiona and insisting that she drive Anthony to the hospital, but then stopped short, knowing she was quite capable of taking matters into her own hands.

  * * *

  Wade’s office, normally as quiet as a catacomb, was filled with ornery taxpayers, Paul included, waiting on line for scheduled appointments with the tax assessors. Wade was answering the phone, directing traffic into the office where the tax assessors were conducting hearings. Even though Paul was standing close to his desk, the two men were barely acknowledging each other. When Paul finally went in for his meeting I noted to Wade that there seemed to be a hostile atmosphere between them.

  Looking around to make sure what he said was in confidence, Wade whispered emphatically, “I’m in a very difficult position here.”

  I pointed out the obvious, that we all have to pay our taxes.

  “I know, but he’s not worried about himself per se. It’s about those who just can’t afford it, the increase itself.” Indicating the room full of fidgeting, dyspeptic-looking people, Wade lowered his voice and whispered, “Many of these folks just don’t have the resources.” He reminded me that if an owner gets behind on taxes for two years, their home and land go up for tax sale to the highest bidder, who theoretically has the right to purchase the property for a fraction of its value by covering the owed taxes. “It’s a sorry situation all around.” He squinted at me. “Did you hear about Anthony?”

  “Yeah. How did you hear?”

  “I was in the corner store when Fiona breezed in looking for hydrogen peroxide and shit like that … for his wounds.”

  “So I guess she didn’t take him to the hospital.”

  “She told me he’s been refusing to go.”

  “So typical for a doctor.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment and then Wade looked at me askance. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Am I not allowed to visit?” I heard myself say, still preoccupied with the news of Anthony’s mishap.

  He smirked. “Yeah, but what’s on your mind?”

  I asked if he had time to go to Joanie’s for lunch. Wade looked at his watch and then the room full of waiting people and said it might be difficult to just leave.

  At that moment, Paul emerged from his meeting with the tax assessors, flushed and fuming. Glancing at him, Wade exclaimed, “Oh, God, maybe I should leave.”

  As Paul was heading toward us, I said to Wade, “I’ll invite him?”

  “No!” he whispered fiercely.

  But it was too late. “Come on to lunch with us, Paul. You can bend my ear all you want.”

  Wade looked exasperated.

  “I don’t need a sounding board,” Paul said. “I need action.”

  “Oh puuuhleeeease!” said Wade.

  “I hate these tax people,” Paul said. “They’re a bunch of idiots, except Barry Dean, who was a partner in a good Boston tax firm. Maybe I should move to Boston to get away from morons like them!”

  “You don’t think there are tax assessors in Boston?” Wade threw back at him. “In fact I’m sure taxes are a lot higher there.”

  “Well, at least they get some municipal services. Sewage and electricity and cable TV.” He turned to look at the petitioners waiting their turn and then said confidentially, “These people are strapped with higher tax and they’re getting nothing for it. Except possible bankruptcy. It’s not their fault the state has no money.”

  Wade went into the records room where his part-time assistant was doing some research and announced that we were going to lunch. Wedged between them, I walked the short distance down the road and across the parking lot with the drive-up banking kiosk to Joanie’s Café. To my great surprise, I discovered the café was under new ownership and was now called Midge’s.

  Gaping at the new bold-lettered sign, I said, “When did this happen?”

  “Where the dickens have you been?” Wade said.

  “Living inside my own head, clearly.”

  “You do read the paper, don’t you?” Paul wondered.

  Wade opened the door and held it for us. As we walked in Paul said to me, “Guess why the ownership has changed?”

  Before anybody could answer we heard a sneering voice say, “Joanie became a tax refugee and moved to New Hampshuh.” It was Sheila, everybody’s favorite smart-assed blond waitress, referring to the fact that there is no state income tax in New Hampshire.

  “At least some things stayed the same around here,” I told her. “Like you.” Then to Paul, “But there’s your answer. Move to New Hampshire.”

  “No way in hell. I hate New Hampshire politics. I guess I’m not leaving my house until they carry me out.”

  “You folks need to chill and sit down,” Sheila said.

  “So how come you ended up staying on if Joanie got out of Dodge?” Wade asked as we followed her to a table that stuck out from the wall like a vinyl ellipse, one of the restaurant’s new refurbishments.

  “Because people like me,” Sheila said with a disagreeable tone as she dropped three plastic menus on the table.

  Under its new ownership, the café had been given a makeover of chintz curtains, new tables that were affixed to the wall, and shiny black-and-white linoleum floor tiles. A stainless-steel hood had been installed above the griddle, which was definitely an improvement over the previous nonvented incarnation that had given the café its characteristic burnt-bacon smell. The menu was only slightly different, gentrified, so that staples such as chicken salad and bacon sandwiches became chicken salad, cilantro, and pancetta sandwiches (or, alternately, wraps). Paul and I each ordered one, he asked for a vanilla milkshake, and Wade decided to have an omelette au Vermont chèvre. Once Sheila took our order, I said to Paul, “Imagine how much tax you’d pay if we all lived in Sweden.”

  “Can we move on?” Wade said to both of us. “I think we’ve worn through this discussion.”

  “Fine!” Paul said irritably, fanning himself with the menu.

  Spying him, Sheila came over and snatched it out of his hands. “It’s brand-new. I don’t want you bending it.”

  “Listen to you,” Wade said.

  And then I told them, “Okay, guys, I got you here for a reason.”

  They both looked at me, a bit startled.

  “Why did you have to call Breck and tell her about Matthew’s visit?” Paul and Wade traded a glance and then looked at me again. “She just assumed that I was going to keep from telling her, myself. If I don’t hide it from you, why should I hide it from her?”

  Paul, who normally could be defensive and ornery, said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was wrong of us.”

  “What you really mean to say is that it’s none of your business.”

  “That’s true.” He gestured to Wade, who said, “We’re out of order, agreed.” As though needing an activity to ground his momentary discomfort, Wade grabbed my menu and his and called to Sheila, “Since you’ve appointed yourself as the menu police, why don’t you take these, too.”

  Sheila smirked and made a beeline to our table. “Suit yourself, honey,” she said, and walked away.

  I addressed them both. “I will say that nothing happened between Matt
hew and me. And nothing is going to happen.”

  Wade reminded me, “Like Paul said before, we all promised to look after one another.” The two men exchanged yet another meaningful glance.

  “What’s going on?” I asked them.

  But they held back.

  I was about to accuse them of harboring something when Sheila arrived with our plates of food. Once she set everything down, she turned to me, hands jammed on her hips. “Okay, gotta tell you something, Miss Catherine,” she said. I braced myself for sarcasm, but then she surprised me. “Something’s been bugging me for days.”

  I turned my palms to the ceiling, as if to say, “What could it possibly be?”

  “Okay, so as we all know, I have a reputation as the biggest mouth this side of the Connecticut River. Keep that in mind. So just as I was getting off work the other day, I had myself an interesting visitor who was asking me lots of questions. Like how long I’ve known you. Like what do I know about you. Like do I know if you have any boyfriends. But hey, I didn’t give him diddly.”

  “Who was it?” I asked, wondering if it might have been Matthew.

  “That detective from down Springfield way.”

  “Prozzo?” I exclaimed, aghast.

  Paul and Wade had fallen suspiciously quiet. “Prozzo,” Wade said at last in a snide whisper.

  A pall was cast over the table. We all sat there staring at one another, none of us eating. Without a further word Sheila began walking briskly toward the back of the restaurant and the clamoring kitchen.

  Paul pressed both his hands on the table, as though he wanted to rise out of his chair. Then he looked at Wade. “Now we have to tell her.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Why we called Breck … because Prozzo came to see us, too. Asking questions about you, but mostly questions about Matthew Blake.”

  “About Matthew?”

  Looking apologetic, Wade said, “And just so you know, I told him everything I knew, because to be honest, I was glad that for once he wasn’t dogging me.”

  NINETEEN

  WHAT COULD PROZZO possibly want to know about me that he didn’t already know? And why had he been asking questions about Matthew? Why hadn’t the detective just sought me out? I called the general number for the Springfield police, and learned that he was “out on an appointment.” I left a message for him, then called to see how Anthony was doing (with a dual purpose of procuring Prozzo’s cell number), and Fiona surprised me by picking up the phone. She apologized for answering by saying, “One of Anthony’s medical school friends should be calling right back. He’s a neurologist.”