Orient

by Christopher Bollen

  Holly was trembling now.

  “Can I tell you something?” Beth asked. Holly gazed at her bewilderedly, as if she could barely imagine that anyone else had regrets. “My husband and I came out here to start a family. He moved out here for me, the same way you did for Cole. And now I feel selfish, because I don’t think I want a family anymore. I’d rather not have a kid. How do you go back on something you promised? But I realize that it’s not selfish to change your mind. You have to make concessions. You don’t have to be held hostage by the person you once thought yourself to be.”

  Holly slid her hand over her stomach. “I’ve made concessions,” she whimpered. “I’ve done things I didn’t intend. Children. There won’t be any. Cole doesn’t want them.”

  Beth took her chance.

  “You were very close to Bryan Muldoon, weren’t you?”

  The allegation woke Holly. “Who told you that?” She stiffened her shoulders. “Who said so? Did Bryan tell you that? He couldn’t have.”

  Beth massaged Holly’s knee. “No one told me,” she said softly. “But I could see it between you two even at the picnic. I’m not going to say a word. I would never break your confidence like that. I want you to know that I understand.” Beth had just wanted to gain Holly’s trust, but now she felt that she’d hold true to her promise of confidence. Perhaps they could be friends after all.

  “Are you sure Bryan didn’t tell you?” Holly dropped the tissue on the floor. “Look, I liked Pam. And I want to respect the memory of that family, even if they’re gone and I’m the one who’s left, having to live with it all by myself.” She breathed into the room, eyes dulled by the fabrics embroidered by hundreds of faceless women that spilled around her feet. “I didn’t expect it to go further than what it was. What it was for me was a break in time, a minute outside of my life. Two married people with obligations and nowhere to go but a motel room once a week. Jesus, that sounds cheap. But it wasn’t cheap. I used to stay in that rented room at the Seaview for the rest of the afternoon once Bryan left. I’d sit on the bed and look out at the Sound and convince myself that I was happy. Do you know how much convincing that takes?” Tears ran down her freckled cheeks. She purposely didn’t look at Beth. “Did Bryan say anything about me? If he told you, I’d like to hear what he said. It would mean something to me.”

  “He didn’t,” Beth admitted. “I don’t know if he told anyone. I’m sure you would have heard if Pam had found out.”

  Holly collected herself on the couch. Her bitten fingernails dug into the armrest. “She didn’t know. Absolutely not. Anyway, Bryan and I stopped about a month ago.” She glanced sidelong at Beth, and her voice deepened. “Pam did not find out. There was no split, no scene. It just ended. The affair was casual. We were intelligent adults. Until I heard about the fire, it hadn’t even occurred to me that I had come to depend on it.” Beth nodded but swept her eyes to the floor too quickly. Holly yanked her forearm and squeezed. “Don’t look away like that. I said, there was no scene. I wasn’t interested in breaking up his family and I wasn’t going to destroy it if I couldn’t have Bryan all to myself.” Holly laughed hoarsely. “I didn’t set that house on fire, if that’s what you’re thinking. My god, I would never.”

  “I don’t think that,” Beth said.

  “And I wasn’t the first. Bryan had been with other women, women he took to the Seaview before I ever came along. That evil bitch, Eleanor, who runs the motel always made these snide little comments. ‘A new one, mister. Hope you don’t mind the same room. Getting to be your room, isn’t it? Number thirty-one.’ So I swear, if you’re thinking I could have done that, poured gasoline around his house and lit a match like some heartbroken harridan, you’re wrong. I didn’t care about those other women. I don’t expect anyone to be a saint. I’m not. I’m sure Pam wasn’t. Maybe only Cole is. Maybe that’s my punishment, having to share my life with a saint.”

  “What about Cole? Did he find out?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Beth regretted them. She should have allowed a minute to pass before asking that. She had overstepped, moving too swiftly beyond the temporary shelter she had built in their conversation. Holly stood up, retreating to the sliding door near the den, creating hostile space between them.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I was just concerned,” she faltered.

  “He was in the city for business that night. Is that why you’re asking, because he wasn’t here with me?” Her thoughts seemed to fly across her face as she spoke, each one redder than the last. “Did you even come here to buy a present? Cole’s office has a branch in Manhattan, for Christ’s sake. He commutes there for meetings all the time. I drove him to the train station myself.” The words came angrily, as if Holly had already realized the inconvenience of her husband’s absence on the night of the fire, which denied either of them an alibi. Holly’s eyes narrowed. “Whose birthday is it? Don’t lie to me.”

  Before Holly could push any further, Beth fished through her purse and pulled out the photograph. When she held it out, Holly squinted at it, her brain erasing the devil horns and the scratched-out eyes and the goatee, to see herself smiling on her own summer lawn. She snatched the photo from Beth’s fingers.

  “What is this? Why did you do this to me?” Holly stared at her as if she suddenly thought Beth herself might be capable of taking a match to an Orient house. “This is my picture. Cole took this of me two summers ago. I can tell by the roses. It should be in our picture drawer.”

  “I found it in a book belonging to Jeff Trader. I wondered why Jeff would do this to a photo of you. That’s why I’m here, to ask you about it.”

  “Jeff Trader,” Holly said furiously, relishing the bitter memory with a flicking tongue. “He didn’t like me. But so what? I didn’t like him either. He did odd jobs for us for a few years. Cole insisted. Give the local drunk his due. I guess Cole saw that disgusting man as some sort of village mascot. But he wasn’t harmless. He stood around asking me all kinds of personal questions. Were we planning to have children? If we did, were we going to move into a bigger home or build onto the back of this one? Did Cole like his job? Was I happily married?” She snorted after the last question. “It’s not innocent to ask those kind of questions, even when you do reek of liquor at ten in the morning. Finally, I caught him searching through the drawers of my desk—looking for I don’t know what, cash most likely—and I fired him on the spot. I told him I was going to call the police and warn other families out here. Isn’t that what a good neighbor is supposed to do when the man who takes care of all the houses in Orient turns out to be a thief?”

  Beth smiled wanly and leaned forward to reclaim the photograph, but Holly held it to her chest. “No, I’m keeping this. It belongs to me. I don’t know who you think you are, but you have no right to enter my house and ask me to justify what I’ve done when all I’m guilty of is unhappiness. Infidelity, sure, but that’s unhappiness by another means. I was only trying to do what any human being would do.” Holly attacked her own sweater with groping hands.

  “I’m not asking—”

  “You tricked me. And I’ve defended you in this community time and time again when there were nasty words spoken about you. And, believe me, there have been plenty.” Holly pulled on a red rivulet of hair by its tip. “What an arrogant snob you are. Cold and judgmental, condescending, just like your mother. I guess I didn’t see the resemblance until now.” Beth gathered her purse, and Holly pointed toward the hallway. “Get out.”

  But both women froze at the oncoming roar of a motor. They watched through the glass as a green Subaru pulled into the driveway. Cole climbed out, carrying his briefcase, warped and embryonic through each adjoining pane. Holly blew deep breaths, warning Beth with her eyes. She picked up a batik swirling with peacocks and jagged striations, stretching the fabric between her arms, and started extolling its virtues before the key turned in the lock.

  “It’s block printed by little girls in Malaysia with natural inks. Th
e peacock is a common symbol in the east for holiness and purity and the virtue of friendship because it shows its true colors.” The front door opened, and a shadow passed into the foyer. “Not to mention the eye of the feather, always watching. The silver unblinking eye of god. If you look closely, the background pattern is fire. When you move the fabric, it looks like it’s burning. And the eyes are all over it, watching, resistant to flames.”

  Cole stepped into the room, his skinny body barely filling his suit. The sharp folds of his necktie matched the sharp side part in his hair. He glanced at the two women entranced by the batik under the showroom lights. When Beth looked over her shoulder, he fixed his stare on her and passed through the parlor toward the den.

  “Sweetie, you’re back early. It’s only two o’clock.” Cole clenched and unclenched his hand like it had been wounded. “Beth’s just buying a birthday present. Your friend is going to love this. And what a steal, just two hundred dollars. Cash only. A percentage goes to the Malaysian orphan fund. Shall I wrap it in tissue?” Beth had only $130 in her wallet, but Holly took it without counting. She bagged the batik without wrapping it in tissue.

  “That armoire and grandfather clock are sitting in Magdalena’s house waiting for you to collect them,” Cole said, almost numb, as he set his briefcase down by the step. There were certain houses where the air was so crowded with disappointments they were as claustrophobic as an elevator between floors. “I can’t promise they’ll be there after her house gets sold. You can take them whenever you want. Your choice.”

  Beth wanted to ask if the Kiefer property was for sale, but Cole vanished into the den. Holly led her to the door. The marbled cat tried to flee the house, making a desperate low-crawling dash at freedom, but Holly stopped it with her slipper.

  “Don’t come back,” Holly said as she waved.

  CHAPTER 20

  Mills sat on his bed, scrolling through Tommy’s computer watch. Besides a clock, a compass, a weather forecast, and a game devoted to brick building, the only other feature on the high-tech watch was a file reserved for notes. Tommy recorded his secrets in a jumpy list, interspersed with rambling cultural observations time-stamped over the course of the past year. “What would 9/11 have been like if the people trapped in the towers had Facebook and Instagram and smartphones? The world would have tracked the fall of the towers through constant Twitter updates.” “Wilt Chamberlain slept with 20,000 women; Fidel Castro 35,000. Communists and basketball players believe in quantity. But wouldn’t better sex dudes have their scores handicapped by repeats?” “SAT vocab reminder: Even using the word grandiloquent is grandiloquent.” “Jack Kerouac slept with men. Jesse Arnez keeps wearing a Jack Kerouac T-shirt to school. Jesse Arnez must be willing to try things.” “Where does all our garbage go? Our world would be a moonscape of trash without garbage men. Why is there no national garbage men day? Because we’d have to treat them like men and not like garbage.”

  Mills was impressed with Tommy’s private thoughts. Mills had an airtight room in his mind for his own desires, but Tommy had built this room in his phone for his musings, never meant for outside eyes, and in reading them Mills found the sorrow for the young man’s death that he hadn’t managed to summon while standing in the burned remains on the lawn. You can’t will ghosts to haunt you. They elude when prompted; like weather, they must come on their own. One entry, from August, even included a salacious personal entry: “7.25 inches, ¼ inch bigger than last year.” Women had cup sizes to track their development. Men had a ruler and hope.

  But there were other entries on the watch, less personal, that suggested why Tommy felt he needed to hide it in a locked safe. “Dad loaned 10k to Ted Herrig; can’t pay it back? Mom doesn’t know.” “Parties on Arthur’s Ark always include Gardiner descendants. WTF? Island?” “Rm. 31 Seaview motel. 3 dif women, all married!” “Karen N. closeted lesbian.” “Rev. Whitlen, 2013 C-Class Mercedes. Church funds?” “Roe diC, three screaming messages on dad’s answering machine.” “Why is old Raleigh house so hard to buy?” “Orient Monster, bodies of animals: raccoon, dog, pig, deer, badger, sheep. All local wildlife.” “Big artist = total fraud.”

  The parade of local gossip went on in digital type. Mills recalled Tommy standing in his boy-smelling bedroom, bragging about how he’d escape Orient once he found the money to get away. Mills wondered if he’d been saving up these Orient secrets in hopes of one day using them as blackmail. And he also wondered if the darker secrets in Jeff Trader’s journal had sped that plan along, spurring Tommy to blackmail someone. Could that someone have resorted to arson to keep him silent? Fire was a good way to destroy both the evidence and the kid who clumsily wielded it.

  The last entry was written on the day Mills had found Tommy walking up the street in a rage. “She’s a liar. Seaview room for one. Should I turn her in?” Her not him—not Bryan Muldoon, but a woman. What could Tommy have turned her in for? Had he found a woman’s name in Jeff Trader’s book and matched it to one of his father’s affairs? Along with Jeff’s journal, Mills had found a piece of paper in the safe, engraved with a drawing of an oyster shell in profile, the circle of a pearl lodged in its crevice. On it Tommy had scrawled, “Orient’s real threat is its trust.” Mills didn’t know what to make of the note. As a sensationally normal seventeen-year-old, Tommy was susceptible to sensationalism. By “trust,” did he mean the trust set up for the Kiefer Nondevelopment Initiative? Or was he warning against trust in general—the kind applied to neighbors that they’d always look out for one other?

  The fire had spooked Mills, burning nightmares into his dreams. He had stayed indoors for the past two days. Paul was even more disturbed by his neighbors’ deaths. Mills heard him making choking sounds as he stared out of the parlor window, like a hand drill hushed by a bed pillow: Umph, erg, oh, errr—as if he were registering the fact of the fire over and over again. They’re dead. The Muldoons are dead. The people next door are gone. Paul set the alarm system every night and darted around the house placing fresh batteries in the smoke detectors. He even brought a rope ladder up from the cellar and told Mills, as casually as anyone could when discussing home-safety precautions, that he’d leave it in the upstairs closet in case they had to climb out of a second-floor window.

  “Who do you think set the fire?” Mills had asked him bluntly.

  “Let’s wait to hear the final verdict from the police before we start pointing fingers,” Paul said, feigning calm. To Mills he seemed New York naïve, suffering under the same delusional mentality he’d witnessed in every other affluent white resident of that metropolis. From the safe haven of their urban fortress of coffee shops and yoga studios and flower-lined delis, they had all convinced themselves that New York City was still the most dangerous city in America. New Yorkers should spend a week in Modesto, Mills thought, where carjackings and desert shotgun assaults were as constant as quinceañera parties in the public gardens.

  The morning after the fire, three officers had knocked on Paul’s door. A bearded plainclothes detective and two uniformed cops stood on the porch and asked questions while Mills listened from the shadows of the foyer. Had Paul seen anyone suspicious the day of the fire, creeping around the Muldoons’ house? Had he noticed any erratic behavior in the family members? Had Paul been home all night? The questions were “just procedure,” Detective Gilburn promised, scratching his beard as he flipped through his notebook, nodding along to Paul’s answers. “We’ll be coming back, if we need to, for a thorough statement,” the detective said as he shook Paul’s hand. “Again, just procedure. And it will give you a little time to remember if anything comes to mind.”

  Erratic behavior. Creeping around the house. Mills tried to let the questions pass through him without sharpening them into hooks.

  Paul had asked him, over lunch that afternoon, if he had woken on the couch before or after the fire started. Mills told him after, that he had heard the noise of the blaze or the sirens or maybe the neighbors collecting on the sidewalk. What
he recalled most vividly was the orange light spilling across the coffee table.

  “I saw you asleep before I went upstairs to bed,” Paul said. “If the police come back, I just don’t want—” He stopped, his fists balled against his plate.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Paul’s foot stamped the floor, as if applying a car brake. A labored smile intercepted his thoughts. “It will be fine. It’s just that in all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never witnessed something like this. The whole village is going to be in hysterics. I pray they find a defective electrical socket before the funeral. It’s awful that every time I step outside, the remains of that house are right beside us.” There was a sharp tug in his voice, like Christmas lights yanked from a tree. “I was about thirteen when Bryan and Pam moved in. They were this young, happy couple. My mother took a liking to Pam. Helped her with her garden and when she was pregnant with Lisa.” Mills had a hard time imagining Pam and Bryan just starting out; they seemed to him as fixed and severe as military statues. “And they were so good to me when my mother was sick. I just can’t wrap my head around it. Theo was nine. Tommy, seventeen. Kids in their own home.” Paul shut all the curtains on the left side of the house to blind them from the rubble. Mills peered through them, watching a team of red-vested investigators sift through the debris. One of the pieces of evidence they carted away was Tommy’s safe. It must have seemed more valuable once the bumper sticker was obliterated from its door.

  Paul tried to get back to work on his laptop—“Just putting some finishing touches on this corporate headquarters my firm’s presenting for an international food distributor. It’ll never get built. All I do is design corporate buildings that never end up getting built.” Mills sat on the parlor floor, sorting ancient VHS tapes and a summer’s worth of news clippings from the rededication of Bug Light in 1990, when the ersatz lighthouse was feted with fireworks and a marching band. He blew the dust off of Paul’s digital video camera and added it to the keepsake box.