Mrs. Constantine's heart problem was news to her. Even Peter, she thought, had been surprised by it. Once she was upstairs, his mother had assured them that she'd be all right and there was no need to call a doctor or ambulance. But Meg was worried about her.
Just as she was about Peter. She realized that what Byron had said was true—he could go haywire again at any time. There was something . . . off about him, in nearly every way now. From sleeping on the balcony to the manic glitter that often filled his eyes. Even the way he'd fought with Byron in the kitchen—ramming him rather than throwing a punch—was bizarre. As for the fight, Meg feared that there'd be no going back; the break between Peter and Byron was too great, too violent, to be bridged anymore. Byron would undoubtedly leave.
Sometime later, when she heard him going into his bedroom next door, she knocked softly, announced herself, and went in. He was pulling off his wet wind-breaker. He looked lost and numb.
“I’d better hang this in the bathroom,” he said. There was mud on his hands and trousers. Meg understood what he'd been doing.
“Where?” she asked, gently.
“In the woods, just west of the gates.” He was washing his hands mechanically at the sink. “I wrapped him in his bath mat.” He sounded almost anesthetized.
“Did you put up any sort of a . . . marker?”
“I thought it was better not to.” He paused, then asked after Mrs. Constantine.
“She's still resting. She seems to be all right now.”
He came out of the bathroom again, drying off, then sat beside Meg on the bed to untie his shoes. “I don't think these will ever dry out.” He peeled off his socks, too, and rolled up the bottoms of his trousers. Then tentatively took one of Meg's hands in his own. They sat without talking.
Byron, hunched forward, appeared to be a million miles away. He stared absently at their intertwined fingers. Meg found herself thinking of the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, at the end, when Dorothy was about to return to Kansas. Byron had that same long, haunted face, and all the strength seemed to have gone out of his frame. She felt in her own heart, though hugely magnified, the same sadness she'd felt when she'd first seen the movie. She knew what Byron was going to say before he said it.
“I'm going to call Omaha and tell them I'll take that apartment now.”
“When will you leave?”
“As soon as possible. I'm sorry about punching Peter.” He looked up at Meg. “But I can't take it back.”
“I know.”
“Not that I really want to.” He gave her a wan smile. “He had it coming, I think, whether or not he had anything to do with what happened to Dodger.”
“Oh, By,” Meg said, “you don't really think he did, do you?” She couldn't imagine Peter, even drunk or in a rage, having anything to do with the killing—and mutilation—of Dodger. It was inconceivable.
Byron shook his head sadly. “Meg, I wish I could say that I didn't think so, that he wasn't capable of it. But I don't believe there's very much he's not capable of anymore.” He held her hand firmly. “I think you have to open your eyes to that. You can't keep trying to forgive him, or explain him, or exonerate him. Whatever's going on in Peter is beyond your control. And to tell you the truth, I think it's beyond his control, too.”
“Then what do I do?”
“You know what I'll say . . . come out West with me.”
Meg was silent.
“Peter wants me out of here. He made that clear last night at the Caswells. I'm afraid that if I stay, I'll only make things even worse for you . . . though I'm also afraid of leaving you here alone with him.”
“I'll be all right.”
“I'll give you my address in Omaha as soon as I know it. And my phone number as soon as I get one. I want you to know that you have someplace you can go to, whenever you need to, for as long as you want—a week, a month . . . or for good.” He squeezed her hand tightly, then suddenly drew her toward him. His arms held her in a close embrace; she could feel his heart thumping against her. He was so different from Peter; his body was so thin, so angular. She stroked his shoulders.
“I want you, Meg,” he said in a whisper. “I want you, and I love you. I know that only complicates things for you. I know I should probably shut up and go. But I love you, I love you,” he breathed, desperately, into her hair.
Meg clutched him harder. To give him comfort, to share his pain. She didn't know what she was going to do without him there to lean on, to laugh with, to talk to. She needed Byron; she needed him. And she knew that now. He was the only certain thing in her world anymore, the only refuge she knew.
“I need you, too,” she said, so softly that she wasn't sure if he'd heard her at all. “I need you too, By.”
He held her face between his hands, tenderly, longingly, his fingers laced in her long blond hair. “Then come with me,” he urged. “Come with me.” There was wild joy in his eyes. “Come with me, Meg.” And before she could answer, before she could say anything to dash his hopes, he kissed her . . . and held her close, as if to seal the bargain. They fell back onto the bed, his eager hands caressing her face, her shoulders, her breasts . . . “Come with me, Meg, come with me, my love.” Meg closed her eyes, tried to give herself over. She needed him, yes . . . she needed to be loved . . . she needed him now . . . her body surged, her hips arced with the pent-up heat inside her . . . but she could not give herself, not fully, not yet, as much as she longed to, not while her heart still bore the faint but agonizing impression of Peter.
Thirty-one
LET ME PUT some new ice in that,” Leah said, taking the dishcloth to the refrigerator, then bringing it back to Peter. The rain, which hadn't let up since morning, beat on the roof of the cottage with renewed fury.
“He hit you good, huh?” Nikos said, chortling. “You want me to send Angelos"—who looked up dully from the stick he was whittling—"to get revenge?”
Peter didn't answer, but held the ice pack up to the stubble on his chin. He hurt not only where Byron had hit him, but all over now. His whole body felt as if it had been put on a rack and twisted out of shape. He must have landed on the kitchen floor even harder than he'd thought. Even the top of his head was tender, no doubt from charging into Byron.
His ears he didn't even want to think about.
“This friend of yours, he will be leaving Arcadia now.” Nikos almost made it sound like a question. “And we will be having no more trouble about Fifi and Fritz.”
“No, there'll be no more trouble about Fifi and Fritz,” Peter conceded. Jesus, even his teeth ached. “They can run free now whenever they want to.”
Nikos leaned back in his chair, with his shirt uncharacteristically pulled open. It was the first time Peter had seen his chest and belly—or almost seen them. The covering of russet-colored hair was so thick, so curly and profuse, that even his nipples were completely hidden. The navel, too. It was as close to fur as Peter could imagine on a human being.
“So then there will just be your mother and your wife,” Nikos said, as if keeping score. Leah, Peter thought, threw her father a cautionary glance.
Why couldn't he have found Leah alone somewhere? That's what he really could have used right now. That's what might have taken some of the ache out of his bones.
“My mother's not feeling very well,” Peter said. How long had she had this heart condition? What exactly was it? “I don't know how much longer she'll be staying either.”
“Arcadia does not agree with her?” Nikos said, as if it were inconceivable. “Arcadia is like no other place on this earth. What can make her not well here?”
“It's not Arcadia,” Peter said, “it's her heart.” That's what she'd always said had killed his father—a heart problem of some sort. If that were so, then the odds against Peter were getting worse all the time. Maybe he'd better see a doctor himself.
“That is too bad,” Nikos said, clucking his tongue. “But even if your mother has to leave, that does not mean you have to go,
too. Your grandfather, he always wanted you to live here after him.”
Peter still found it hard to believe that his grandfather, who'd set eyes on him only once, could have had these determined plans for him. Why in the world had he cared what happened to a grandson he'd never known?
“ ‘Nikos,’ he would say to me, ‘one day my grandson will come here, to Arcadia, to see what we have done. And you will show him,’ “ the caretaker recalled, proudly. “ ‘You will show him all the things that you have shown me. You will help him to under- stand things, and to know who he is. With you, he will taste—’ “ and here Nikos lifted one of his straw-covered bottles from the table—” ‘the one true wine.’ “ He refilled both his and Peter's glasses.
"Stin eeya sas,” Nikos said, raising a toast. Peter drank, too. Then he asked one of the many questions that had troubled him since coming to Arcadia.
“Nikos, how is it that you can make wine here? There's no other vineyard that I know of anywhere around this area.”
Nikos shrugged. “It is not so easy. Here, I can make much less than I could make in the old country. Near Heraea. But enough,” he said. “I can make enough.”
The mention of Heraea rang a bell. “Is that where you met my grandfather?” Peter asked. “In Heraea?”
“Very near.”
“Because that's where someone named Kesseogolou was from, a man who was included in my grandfather's will. Did you know him?”
Angelos laughed suddenly, in an alarming and improbable falsetto. Leah told him to keep still. Nikos gave them both a chastening glance, then said, “Yes, he was with us there. He had some business with your grandfather, and he—what is the word?—introduced us.”
“What kind of business?”
“Oh, business,” Nikos repeated evasively. “Who can say?”
“But what do you mean, he was ‘with you’ there?” Peter persisted. He felt that he mustn't lose this opportunity. “Was he part of your family?”
Angelos muffled another laugh. What was so funny, Peter wondered. Even Nikos was smiling slightly when he replied. “Yes, you could say that. But so was your grandfather.”
“So was my grandfather what? Part of your family?” My God, Peter thought, was he related to these people?
“I think that's enough,” Leah said, coming to the table.
“In Greece, there are some very old families,” Nikos went on, unallayed, “families that were once very large, but that are now very small.” He held his fingers an inch apart. “Sometimes they do not even know who the others in the family are . . . until they meet. And then they know. Then they know who they are.”
“The rain has stopped,” Leah said, perhaps to encourage Peter to go.
“The blood of these families is like this wine,” Nikos said, “very rare, and very precious. And what remains must be carefully tended to. It must be . . . cultivated, like the vines outside.” He was looking fixedly at Peter now, his dark eyes narrowing to catlike slits. “That is why your grandfather wanted you to stay here with us.”
“What—to be cultivated?” Peter said, with a bitter laugh of his own. His ears suddenly itched; he resisted the urge to uncover and scratch them. “He wanted me to learn how to play the flute? Is that it?” His ears burned; he heard an edge of hysteria in his own voice.
“Not that alone,” Nikos replied, coldly. “Many things, that you are only beginning to learn. One of them you learned last night,” he said, “in the woods with us. Can you remember that?” he asked. “Can you? You were very fast, Peter, faster than the rest of us. Even Fifi and Fritz could not keep up.”
“You should have waited for me,” Angelos complained.
“It will come to you,” Nikos said with certainty. “But perhaps not now.”
The screen door rattled, in a last gust of wind from the storm, as Peter sat, his ears prickling with fire, remembering again that flickering vision of smoke, and trees, and . . . God, what was it, an animal running, and hunted . . .
Thirty-two
WHEN THE FIRST bubbles began to pop up, Mrs. Constantine turned off the flame. If the milk was too hot, she didn't like it. Just warm, that was how it was most likely to help her sleep. She sat at the kitchen counter, her long navy blue robe buttoned up to the neck, holding the mug between both hands.
This was the most reassuringly normal room in the whole house—no ancient pottery or sculpture, no columns or caryatids, no gloomy corners. The floor was plain old checkered linoleum, the oven a Westinghouse, the toaster a GE. All of this Mrs. Constantine found comforting. That young girl, Leah, kept everything very neat and clean, too—except, she noticed now, a rectangular patch of floor beside the refrigerator. The linoleum there was a dingy gray. Then she remembered. That was where Dodger's blue bath mat used to lie.
Her heart fluttered again at the recollection. The scare she'd had that morning was the worst she could remember . . . even though the actual fighting was over in a matter of seconds. She was starting to wonder how much of Arcadia she'd be able to withstand, after all. She could almost feel the air thickening, the tranquillity of the place growing as menacing as the preternatural calm before a storm. Tonight, in her bed, she'd bolted upright with her father's face floating, still and white as a death mask, in her mind's eye. And for the thousandth time since coming to Arcadia, she'd wondered why, and how, he had told Nikos.
Had he been drunk? Had he blurted it out to purge his soul? Had he grieved? Had he boasted of it?
Are you asleep, Ellen? Let your papa tell you a story—remember not to tell Mama.
Ellen—your mother has gone to Heaven. Papa will stay with you. Papa will stay.
You are not leaving this house! There's nothing that boy can do for you that I can't.
And always, through it all, the creak of the bedroom door, the stale smell of cigars and whiskey, the orders and rules and punishments and restrictions. All growing worse with the passing of the years, until the ultimate tragedy. Unforeseen? Or premeditated? She had worked at that puzzle forever. The will, leaving the estate to Peter—that had made her think, yes, he'd intended it right from the start. The legacy to Kesseogolou—that, too, confirmed it. Kesseogolou had come into the house just before. And soon after, he had disappeared again.
She finished the milk and rinsed out the mug in the sink. Turning off the light, she padded in her velvet slippers (a Christmas gift from Peter) through the dining room, then down the first-floor hall past the billiard room. She was about to emerge into the foyer, from under the overhanging balcony, when she stopped to regard the pebbled floor mosaic. The naked woman on the right of the design was hurling a pitcher of water at the hunter on the left; the water was cleverly done in a flurry of white and gray stones which glimmered in the moonlight. A shadow passed across the picture, lending it an eerie impression of movement. She was about to cross over it and continue up the stairs, when the shadow loomed again, this time more darkly and with greater definition. Above her head, in the upstairs hall, she thought she heard a floorboard groan. She shrank back under the overhang, out of sight. The shadow seemed to be bobbing and weaving back and forth, as if something or someone were swaying slowly overhead. For a moment, she debated going back to the kitchen, or even forward, toward the foot of the stairs. Who could it be—Byron, Meg, Peter? But not knowing, she held back until she heard footsteps, very light ones, approaching the staircase and then descending.
Just seeing the feet and calves between the white marble balusters was enough for her to know that it was her son, and not Byron, tiptoeing down to the front hall. She was about to come forward, out of the shadows—perhaps he was just going down to the kitchen, too, for a midnight snack—when he descended farther, and she saw that he was naked. Not since he was a boy, eight or nine years old, had she seen him like that. He was hairier than she could ever have imagined—on his chest, and legs, even his back. His arms were held slightly out from his body; he moved cautiously, stealthily. She couldn't reveal herself now; she was ashamed even to wa
tch.
At the foot of the stairs, he stopped to observe the mosaic himself. He shook his head idly, the way a horse might shake its bridle. Was he sleepwalking, Mrs. Constantine wondered. Should she do something to wake him?
One of his feet pawed at the ground; he raised himself up, on point, with the other. Then swiveled, effortlessly and with great agility, toward the front doors. He opened them slowly, as if anxious to make no noise.
He must be asleep, she thought, as he stepped outside. She had to stop him, regardless of the embarrassment involved. She swept across the floor mosaic; her slippers seemed to adhere to the surface, as if the pebbles were wet. Be careful not to startle him, she thought; don't do anything sudden.
As she came to the open doors, she saw him standing at the top of the front steps. He was crouching forward, the curly hair on the sides of his head shining like tiny silver springs. She was wondering how best to approach him, to say something first or just touch him gently on the shoulder, when she stopped and instinctively stepped back into the protection of the house.
On the gravel drive outside, Fifi and Fritz sat patiently on their haunches, as still as two lawn ornaments. Peter went down the steps, walking sideways, and bent down between them. With his arms outstretched, he scratched the tops of their heads. Then picked up from the driveway something they had laid there. He appeared to study it for a moment, running it through his hands. He straightened up again, though still not fully, and wrapped the offering around his shoulders like a cloak.
He raised his head and looked fixedly at the night sky. Then, as if in response to something his mother could not hear, cantered off with the dogs beside him, and the pale blue cape flapping loosely at his back.
Thirty-three
ON MONDAY MORNING, after allowing for the two-hour time difference, Byron called the head of the faculty housing department in Omaha and told her he'd accept the apartment in the off-campus house she'd mentioned.
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