Paraíso

  She’d be dressed in a bright floral print by Lily Pulitzer, her short dark hair up in its usual Queen Elizabeth coif, a circle of curls like a wreath around the sides of her head. Her smile would be wide and friendly, showing many of her large, uneven teeth, and her little eyes would be almost invisible. “Why, there you are at last, you naughty girl. What took you so long? Come in now, quick. We’re all just sitting down.”

  At the circular table, in a Savile Row houndstooth tweed jacket, would be Wendy’s handsome father, eyes twinkling. Peter would be away at school. Tee-shirted, blue-jeaned Wendy would be smiling crookedly to his left. Claire would be on the right and the mother opposite. “Now tell us about your morning,” the mother would say as Grace brought in the soup course. “Did Bill fall off his horse again?” Some days she might rip off a fart, and the father would pretend to look shocked. “Now, dear. We have guests, you know.”

  Or if she arrived in the afternoon, and Wendy was late getting back from wherever she’d been, the mother might invite Claire upstairs, through the formal sitting room into the inner sanctum, where she lay watching As the World Turns at high volume from the same bed her invalid mother had taken to thirty years before. Who knew what mood she might be in? Cozy and confidential? Weepy? Bitter and angry?

  She might say things like “Oh, dear, I’m not cut out to be a mother. I think I’ve ruined my children’s lives. Wendy hates me, you know.”

  And Claire might answer: “Oh, no. Don’t worry. She can be moody sometimes.”

  “But she says such awful things to me. This morning she said she wished I was dead.”

  And Claire would keep silent because Wendy might have told her the same thing earlier. “She’s such an angry creature,” the mother would say. “Where does it all come from, anyway? Peter was never like that. You like him, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “But he’s so distant. I never know what he’s thinking. It’s so hard being a mother. Wait till you try it.”

  During one of those sessions, the mother had given her a gift, an old clothbound copy of Heidi by Johanna Spyri, with color illustrations, the mother’s favorite book as a child, a kind of talisman. Her maiden name was written childishly on the flyleaf.

  Heidi was a little Swiss orphan in the late Victorian era who’d been sent by her aunt at the age of six to stay with her grandfather up in the Alps, where he lived as a hermit in a remote chalet. Heidi grew to love the mountains and the pastoral life, and her grumpy old grandfather grew to love her, but after a few years, to make some money, her aunt billeted her as a paid companion to a rich girl her age who lived in a big gloomy house in the city and was confined to a wheelchair.

  “The invalid’s name was Klara,” the mother said. “Her parents never paid the slightest attention to her and put her under the orders of an evil governess, Miss Rottenmeier, who never allowed her any fun and was crushing the life out of her. Every year she got more sad and sickly.” She shot Claire a glance. “I had one of those myself, you know.”

  Claire didn’t know what to say, so she kept silent.

  “Luckily for her, Klara had Heidi. Heidi was finally able to get her out of there, up to the Alps with her grandfather, where she got better.” With a second quick look.

  Claire just sat there.

  “I had to hide this book, or my governess would have taken it away and burned it.” The mother now had a confusing little smile. “I would have given it to Wendy, you know, but I’m sure she’d never read it. I wanted to give it to someone who’d love it as much as I did. And after all, you have almost the same name.”

  Wendy herself was only vaguely aware of these sessions, and generally didn’t seem to care that her hated mother liked her best friend. Par for the course. Claire had no idea why the mother had taken such a fancy to her. She was a strange lady. Claire still had the book and took it out every once in a while to leaf through it and wonder.

  Instead of ringing the doorbell, Claire strolled to the end of the brick porch and stood in the sun looking out over the rose garden. Down the stone steps, past a wisteria trellis and a rock garden, the ground sloped gradually to a grove of birches beside a little pond with an island in the middle supporting a wrought-iron heron. Who took care of all this now? The place seemed at attention, waiting with its ears pricked. How did she look, in her navy worsted tight-skirted suit, low black heels, pearls, cream silk blouse? Did the spirits approve?

  She took off her heels and sauntered barefoot over the dry September grass toward the trellis, through the rock garden, down the slope toward the pond. Setting her shoes down on the grass, taking off her jacket, folding it neatly beside the shoes, venturing onto the red wooden bridge over the stream below the pond, striking a slightly defiant pose with her shoulders back, head raised, hands on the railing, the wood warm under her hands and feet.

  She felt like she belonged here. As if she, not Wendy, had been born and raised here. As if she knew every secret nook and cranny. As if she, not Peter, had wandered down here on an early spring morning just after sunrise and seen the mother picking her way through the daffodils on a parallel path without noticing her.

  Her cell phone rang: it was the Briarcliffe secretary with information that Dr. Sternberg was now in private practice in Greenwich, Connecticut. She even supplied his phone number and office address. Claire called the number and left a message with the secretary that she’d been a close friend of Wendy Davis’s since grade school at Shipley in Bryn Mawr; she happened to be in Greenwich for the afternoon, and wondered if she could meet Dr. Sternberg for coffee after he left his office. She had some important news.

  A dark-haired man about her age, in a blue Oxford shirt, khaki pants, and Topsiders, was waving and smiling his way down the slope from the house toward her. “Well, well! Where have you been all my life?”

  He turned out to be the new owner, but looked confused when Claire said she’d been a childhood friend of Wendy’s. “She used to live here. Wendy Davis?”

  He’d never met the Davises. They’d sold the place to the Eisenbreys, and he’d bought it from them. He grinned. “Kind of a fire sale.”

  “Fire sale?”

  “Wendy didn’t tell you?” The man smoothed back his hair. “Strange story. A year or so after he bought it, Eisenbrey sued Mr. Davis, claimed the place was haunted. He spent heaven knows how long trying to prove it in all kinds of different courts. They all ruled against him. I got it for a song.”

  “God! Was it the mother? The one that was killed?”

  “What?”

  “The ghost.”

  “No … no ghost. Things would just fall for no reason, Eisenbrey claimed. Clocks, paintings, trays, anything. He had witnesses in court: ‘That tray of dishes just fell. We were on the other side of the room. No one was near it. And that priceless vase on the mantel.’”

  “Things just fall,” Claire repeated. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “I haven’t noticed anything falling since I moved in.” He laughed. “Unless I knock it over myself.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Don’t have one.” He put a hand over his heart. “I’m still on the market.”

  “This is a pretty big place for a single man, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I don’t plan to live here permanently. I’m a developer.” Snapping his fingers. “Condos. Start off with the main house and the garage, then subdivide and put up matching structures. You know, tasteful, traditional, solid. Just got the permits a few days ago. The plans are inside, if you’d like to see them.” Now he was smiling.

  “Actually”—returning the smile as best she could—“I’ve got a long drive to make. But I’ll tell Wendy you’re doing a great job. Can’t wait to ask her about the falling objects.”

  Now it was just before two. She should be able to make it to Greenwich in three hours or less. Shrinks were punctual about office hours, she knew. From Haverford, she crossed the Schuylkill River and got on the Pennsy Turnpike to New Je
rsey. While she was crossing the George Washington Bridge, her phone rang. The shrink, probably to tell her he could not meet. She didn’t answer. By 4:30, averaging about seventy and hitting ninety-five whenever she dared, she was in Greenwich.

  The shrink worked in a small office building on a leafy side street convenient to downtown. Should she go in and announce herself? That might give him a chance to sidestep. She parked her car opposite the building in the shade of a big elm, turned off the radio, and turned it back on again for the five o’clock news. George W. was declaring he’d make sure that bin Laden was brought to justice dead or alive.

  Her left elbow was cocked out the open window, the wedding ring on her dangling hand sizzling in a shaft of sunlight. She found herself turning the heavy, solitary ring slowly around her finger, clockwise, she realized. To the right. Right is tight, she’d learned as a girl, screwing and unscrewing nuts. She changed direction to turn the ring counterclockwise, slowly up over her knuckle until it was off. Tentatively, she opened the car’s glove compartment, put the ring inside, and closed it again.

  She decided she hated George W.’s voice. The cocky braggadocio. The phony Texas accent. The slightly hoarse good-ol’-boy timbre. And most of all, the way he emphasized certain words, like in a comic strip. But she too would like to see bin Laden brought to justice.

  A fiftyish, mustachioed man dressed like a boarding school teacher, tweed jacket, khaki pants, and loafers, came down the stairs of the office building and headed up the street past her.

  Straightening her hair, opening her door, stepping out, and calling across the street: “Dr. Sternberg?”

  The man stopped and looked over at her with such suspicion she had to laugh. “No, I’m not a process server. I’m a friend of Wendy Davis’s. From Briarcliffe? I called you earlier.” She started across the street toward him.

  He seemed on the verge of turning to run, then he drew himself up and put his hands in his jacket pockets like Jack Kennedy used to.

  They ended up in an espresso place a few blocks away, drinking cappuccinos and eating biscotti. Sternberg kept looking distractedly around the room, anywhere but right at her. He had fake tortoise shell–framed glasses that he put on and took off several times and finally cleaned with a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket. He’d crossed his legs and was jiggling his free foot.

  “The cappuccino’s perfect,” Claire said encouragingly. “I love it when the foam’s nice and creamy like this.”

  “I don’t come here that much.” Sternberg put his glasses on and looked at her for almost the first time.

  “How long have you been in practice here?”

  “About twelve years.”

  “Ever since you left Briarcliffe?”

  “Pretty much. So … you were Wendy’s childhood friend?”

  “From seven years old. Grade school. We had our own club.”

  “And did the club have a name?”

  “Wonder Girls. Our motto was, Be Kind to Animals.”

  Sternberg leaned back in his chair and smiled indulgently. “So. Are you now a wonder woman? Tell me about yourself. What brings you to our little town?”

  “Not much to tell. I’m just passing through. On my way to Boston. I have a legal practice in New York and I’m going to a conference up there.”

  “Indeed.” Licking his lips. “And did you stop just to see me?”

  “I did.”

  A long silence. “You said you had some news about Wendy?”

  Claire gave him her best smile. “Don’t worry. It’s good. Her new book just came out, and she wanted you to know. She would have told you herself, but she’s in Mexico.”

  “Wonderful,” Sternberg said warily. “What’s it about?”

  “Sports. She’s a sports photographer now, a really good one. And not a bad writer. She wanted you to know that she’s doing okay. Blowing the whistle on that thing with Reiger definitely turned out for the best.”

  Sternberg said he would buy the book ASAP. Then he shook his head. “That thing with Reiger?”

  Claire sat up straighter and narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. She’s blamed her brother for the last twenty years. They’ve hardly spoken. It’s a real tragedy after they were so close as children.”

  Sternberg raised his cappuccino, took a careful sip, then wiped the foam off his mustache with his napkin.

  “Even she would say it’s all turned out for the best,” Claire went on. “But she still blames her brother for ratting. I mean, how do you work it out? Do you have any ideas?”

  Sternberg took his glasses off again and massaged the bridge of his nose. “All this is pretty much outside my territory.”

  “Well, the head nurse at the hospital where her mother died said that you had called the day before to ask if Wendy could speak to her.”

  “Really? How do you know that?”

  “The family filed suit against the trucking company that owned the vehicle that killed the mother. Your name was in the head nurse’s deposition.”

  “You’ve reviewed the papers?”

  “This morning. In the Media courthouse. How did you know she was in the hospital? Reiger himself didn’t even know.”

  A long silence.

  “Did you know that the mother told Wendy that her brother had blown the whistle?” Claire asked. “Why would she do a terrible thing like that? I mean, it completely estranged them for the rest of their lives.” She put her fists on the table on each side of her plate. “At least up to now.”

  “It was the wife.” Sternberg spoke so softly she could barely hear him.

  “The wife? Whose wife?”

  “Reiger’s wife. Apparently, he’d done this kind of thing before. Many times. That’s why he left Austria. The mother had to promise not to sue. The wife was trying to save his ass. I was supposed to follow up with the mother when she came for that last visit. And afterward. Reiger wouldn’t see her.”

  “The wife.” Claire shook her head. “I was sure it was you.”

  “I would have lost my job. In a heartbeat. Reiger would have found out. Plus, I really didn’t know for sure. Though I had my suspicions.”

  “But … why did the mother tell Wendy it was her brother?”

  Sternberg spread his hands. “There you have me.”

  “You know she killed herself right after that visit. That car accident wasn’t an accident.”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t think suicide was ever established.”

  “When Wendy was a child, the mother used to do things to her, you know. She never told me what they were, exactly. I wonder if …”

  The doctor slowly raised his hands, palms toward Claire as if to ward her off, and shook his head.

  Claire was back in the mother’s bedroom, being handed her favorite book as a special gift … a gift that Wendy should have gotten. “I think she was like someone out of Shakespeare. A tragic figure. She wanted so much to love and be loved, but she didn’t know how. So it drove her crazy.”

  Sternberg leaned back and gave her another smile, much less indulgent than the first. “Very perceptive. Maybe you missed your calling.”

  Claire and Isabel had been walking side by side on the parallel sandy tracks, heads down, lost in the story. When the words stopped, they kept walking and didn’t look at each other. Now they were almost at the beach.

  A little farther on, the track began to climb a high beige dune. They left their shoes at the bottom and silently slogged their way up through deep dry sand. The summit looked out over the huge beach on one side, the green valley, the little town, and the high sierra on the other.

  “They’re up there somewhere.” Isabel pointed. “God only knows. You think your Peter can—?”

  “He’s on the right side. That counts for something, doesn’t it? I wish I could have told him all this stuff before.”

  “Yes, the truth at last. It would have made him stronger. But you don’t know Marco. Maybe we ought to s
ay a prayer for them.”

  “Maybe we should. Do you know any?”

  “In Spanish, claro.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  Their hands touched and clasped as they faced the mountain and bowed their heads. After Isabel had finished she cleared her throat. “And now she’s going to be a mother herself, si Dios quiere. Qué raro, no?”

  “Qué raro. What does that mean?”

  “How strange. It is strange, isn’t it? How things turn out?”

  “Could be the best thing that ever happened.” As soon as she said it, Claire knew she was right.

  Isabel released Claire’s hand and turned to the ocean. A midday breeze was coming in from the northwest, turning the light blue water darker. “Hey, are we too old to run?” Then, like a young girl, she was tearing headlong down the dune toward the creamy breakers. Claire, in good shape from the mountains of Montana, could hardly keep up.

  Honey on the Mountain

  As we walked past the shed toward the horse, Marco moved ahead to untie its lead. I felt my sister’s fingers curl around mine and squeeze. When I looked at her, she cut her eyes to the shed and back. I understood what she wanted, and why, as well as if she’d told me.

  As a perfect unit, we were running together to the shed’s door, hearing Marco yell, hearing his pounding feet behind us. Wendy pulled the door open and we were inside. Marco was there in a second, and then the only sound was our hard breathing.

  Felipe seemed to be smiling. My sister knelt beside him, ignoring the terrible wound, cradling his head with her free arm.

  “Cut his own throat,” Marco was saying. “I didn’t want you to see that, Wendy.”

  And she staring up at him.

  I knelt myself, to take the strain off her arm.

  “He tried it before, you know,” Marco said. “Because of a woman. Everyone knows that. He was a little crazy that way.”

  “He didn’t have a knife,” Wendy whispered.

  “You’re wrong.” Marco’s hand went to his pocket and removed a large rosewood-handled folding knife with heavy silver caps on the ends. “He had this, Wendy. It was lying next to him.”