Conjunctions 64: Natural Causes

by Natural Causes- The Nature Issue (retail) (epub)

  There’d been a few women whom he’d made happy, if not for long. And the children—for a while.

  For a long time he hadn’t had a reasonable expectation of happiness for himself. Maybe something like gratification—being elected to the National Academy of Science at the right time, before most of his rivals; being awarded million-dollar grants, in the days when a million dollars meant something. And of course seeing his ambitious experiments turn out successfully, results published in the American Journal of Cognitive Science and elsewhere.

  Not happiness but relief. Shrugging off the leaden vest. As if his lungs were filled with helium. He could float.

  Neatly laid on the desk in his home study were these items: Mikael K. Brun Last Will & Testament; a manila folder containing financial statements, including IRS records; the title for his Land Rover, which he was leaving to a cousin (whom he had not seen in fifteen years); an envelope containing a final check for the Filipino woman who’d been cleaning his house—soiled laundry, stained sinks and toilets, sticky tile floors, carpets—on alternate Mondays for nearly twenty years; envelopes containing detailed instructions for his young laboratory colleagues, who would be devastated by their mentor’s death; and envelopes addressed to several former students containing letters of recommendation.

  He had tried, and failed, to write letters to his son and his daughters. He had not tried to write to his former wife (whose address he no longer had) nor had he tried to write letters to his own relatives. For words of a personal, revelatory nature did not come easily to him.

  Was he hoping that the woman would change his mind in this late stage of his life? That was a possibility but—no.

  No more than a terminal cancer patient could have a reasonable hope that vitamin C shots will alter the course of his disease.

  Had he hoped for the woman to change his mind about the possibility of his being amenable to his mind being changed by any woman—no. Not that either.

  “Here we are.”

  At last they’d come to Big Burnt Island. Lisbeth was prepared to find the island remarkable in some evident way, unusually “scenic”—but of course it closely resembled nearby islands, as it resembled the densely wooded Adirondack mainland surrounding the lake. Tall pines, deciduous trees, a hilly landscape, what looked like dry, slightly sandy soil—“It’s very beautiful,” she said uncertainly.

  “Is it!”

  Mikael Brun laughed. She supposed he was laughing at her—for having said such banal words, with an air of surprise.

  Mikael had been in an exalted mood since early morning. Lisbeth had never seen him so happy, and was grateful for his happiness; he was a man of moods, mercurial and unpredictable. Not happiness itself but the relief of the other’s happiness was crucial to her.

  At first she’d been uneasy in the rented boat. It did look—small. And Mikael had made a droll comment that it wasn’t teak, only just fiberglass—“Minimally adequate.” She could not control a faint shudder as she stepped down inside the boat, which immediately rocked beneath her weight, assisted by Mikael and by the lanky-limbed marina attendant. She’d never felt comfortable in any boat, for invariably she was forced to recall the canoeing accident of her childhood about which she hadn’t wanted to speak to Mikael Brun—of course. He’d have laughed at her for worrying that a fifteen-foot outboard might be as easily overturned as a canoe.

  Mikael had rented a boat with a canopy, to protect them from the direct sun. Lisbeth was relieved to see oars and bright-orange life preservers stored in the rear.

  On their way to Big Burnt Island Mikael kept to a reasonable speed even as other boats rushed past. He was in very good spirits. Lisbeth thought—How close we are! How intimate. Seen from a little distance they were certainly a couple.

  At Glen Island, where, at the ranger station, Mikael applied for a single-day permit for Big Burnt Island, as at Big Burnt Island itself, he had some initial difficulty securing the boat to the dock. In both cases Lisbeth was pressed into helping him, awkwardly looping a rope around a pole. In both cases the helpless thump-thump-thump of the small, vulnerable-seeming white boat against the wooden dock was distressing. Lisbeth saw her companion’s jaws clench as if he were feeling pain.

  But then, at last, at Big Burnt the boat was secured. There were a few other outboards in the small inlet but none at the dock for which Mikael had a permit. Happily he sprang out of the boat and reached down to grasp Lisbeth’s hand, to pull her up onto the dock. His fingers tightened upon hers to the point of pain. She laughed breathlessly and protested—“Please! You’re hurting me.”

  Sorry! He hadn’t realized, he said quickly. He was wearing a cap with a visor pulled low over his forehead, and dark sunglasses that obscured his eyes. His skin was just slightly coarse, pitted. He seemed excited, mildly anxious. But happier than Lisbeth had ever seen him.

  How easy it would be to love such a man, she thought. And easy to be loved by such a man.

  It was a foolish, feckless thought. Such thoughts plagued the woman in times of stress in particular, seeming to come from a source beyond her.

  In their backpacks were sandwiches, Evian water, towels, and the morning’s New York Times. Mikael intended to swim, and hoped that Lisbeth would also—“I don’t enjoy swimming alone.” He was scornful of her mild addiction to the daily crossword puzzle but she’d thought that in these circumstances, in protracted intimacy with a man she scarcely knew, focusing on the crossword puzzle would be a way of focusing her excitement.

  On land, Mikael took Lisbeth’s hand in his and led her briskly uphill. There was no evident path but Mikael’s way was unerring through stands of scrub pine—he might have made his way blindfolded.

  “This was our campsite. On this promontory.”

  Mikael’s face fairly glowed with excitement and his voice seemed higher pitched, tremulous.

  Fortunately no one was camping on the site. There was a clear and unimpeded view of the lake. Happily Mikael pointed out to Lisbeth mountain peaks in the distance—Black Mountain, Erebus Mountain, Shelving Rock Mountain. Lisbeth shaded her eyes and stared.

  They left their backpacks on a weathered picnic table, which, Mikael told her, had been the table his family had used. He was speaking warmly, intensely. Lisbeth knew better than to interrupt as he reminisced about the summers he’d come to the island with his family—“Until everything ended.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Why was that?”

  She’d said something wrong—had she? Was he angry with her, in an instant?

  “I mean—did something happen? So that you stopped coming here … ?”

  “Yes. Of course ‘something happened.’ It’s in the nature of our lives that something invariably ‘happens’—isn’t it? You do something for a finite number of times, but you often don’t know when you will do it for the last time. In our case, we knew.”

  Mikael was speaking matter-of-factly now, as if he were lecturing, and not accusingly; after a while he said, relenting, “It was more than one thing but essentially, my father died.”

  Lisbeth asked how old he’d been when his father had died and Mikael said, with a shrug, “Too young for him, and too young for me.”

  Lisbeth touched his wrist in silent commiseration. She did not intrude upon him otherwise for she saw that he was deeply moved. Behind the dark lenses his eyes were rapidly blinking and evasive.

  Another time she thought—He is such a lonely person!

  She thought—I will make him love me, and that will save him and me both.

  It was another of her bizarre feckless thoughts, which seemed to come to her from a consciousness not her own.

  Several times Mikael circled the campsite. He might have been seeking the entrance to an enclosure—a tent? His expression was pained, yearning, tender. He took pictures with his iPhone. He squatted on his heels, oblivious of Lisbeth, who
stood to the side, waiting uneasily. Indeed it was a beautiful setting—the campsite with an open view of the lake, and the pale-blue sky reflected in the lake. She was touched that Mikael Brun was sharing this private place with her and that they would be bound together by this sharing.

  It was a fair, bright, warm morning on Lake George. As midday approached, the air grew brighter and hotter. There was the likelihood of rain sometime later that day—so Mikael had mentioned to her at the motel, casually—but for now, the sky was clear, luminous. Lisbeth noted the abrupt drop beyond the campsite—not a very good site for children. She noted how clean the island was, so far as she could see. Visitors to the islands were forbidden to leave debris and garbage behind; they were required to carry it back with them to the mainland. In that way overflowing trash cans were avoided. The air was wonderfully fresh and the lake water, as Mikael had several times said, was pure enough to drink.

  Was it?! Lisbeth wondered at this. Hadn’t acid rain fallen in the Adirondacks in recent decades? Was the lake so pure as it had been in Mikael Brun’s childhood? Lisbeth noted that they’d brought bottled water with them, in any case.

  A thrilling idea occurred to her: She would suggest to Mikael that they camp on Big Burnt sometime, together. Was that possible? Would Mikael be touched by this suggestion, or would Mikael resent her intrusion? Was it an intrusion, if he’d brought her here? Lisbeth had no great love of the outdoors, still less camping, but if such a romantic interlude would appeal to Mikael …

  We decided that Big Burnt would be our honeymoon. Beautiful, remote, Mikael’s boyhood place …

  After some minutes Mikael returned to Lisbeth, walking unsteadily. His cheeks shone with tears. He seized her hand again, as if he’d feared she might be easing away. For a moment she was frightened that he would do something extravagant—he would kiss the back of her hand and cry out that he loved her, like a Chekhov hero.

  That was when we knew. Where we knew. Big Burnt.

  Instead he led her along a path above the lake, speaking excitedly. Big Burnt was the largest of the Lake George islands, he said—thirty acres. It was so called (his father had said) because Native Americans had once burnt the trees to clear fields for planting.

  Now they were beginning to see campers at other sites, in colorful tents. Mikael waved at them, called, Hello! Lisbeth tried to see how living in a tent on this remote island might be romantic—to a degree. She tried not to be distracted by the cries of children. She tried not to notice campers staring at her with something like envy. (Was this so? But why? Was it so clear that she and Mikael Brun were only day packing, and not camping here?) To every remark of Mikael’s she was smiling, enthusiastic. She did not listen to everything he said but she gave the impression of devoted attention. He was pointing out to her the varying merits of the several campsites, which she would never have seen for herself—some had open views of the lake, some were farther inland; some boasted shady trees and privacy, others did not. Proximity to the lake, proximity to a marshy area, frogs at nighttime, gnats and mosquitoes, morning sun, evening sun, camping platforms, steep ledges, flat rocks, sandy soil—proximity to outhouses. These varying features had to be weighed carefully in choosing a campsite, Mikael said gravely.

  “Which would you prefer, if you were camping here?”

  “Which would I prefer? The campsite my father chose, of course.”

  What a naive question Lisbeth had asked her companion! She wondered if she should apologize.

  Lisbeth asked if Mikael had brought his own family to the site and Mikael paused before saying vaguely yes, a few times he had.

  Mikael paused again as if there were more to say, but he did not say it.

  Not such happy times. Not often repeated.

  Lisbeth was thinking she should have known better than to ask Mikael Brun about his ruinous marriage. For a man of such pride and self-regard, any reminder that he had failed at anything would be devastating to him.

  He’d become quieter now, walking slightly ahead of his companion. He was thinking—he was not thinking—of what awaited him after Lake George.

  The last things. Boldly and brashly he’d executed the last things, which would outlive him, so he had no need to think at all, now.

  Now, no question Why. For him there was only how, when.

  Hand in hand they walked along the edge of the island for some time. It had been rare in their relationship that Mikael Brun had ever taken the woman’s hand in quite this way—certainly, she could not recall Mikael having done so. By another route they returned, steadily uphill, in the increasing heat, to the picnic table at the Brun family’s old campsite. It was a mild shock to the woman, that their backpacks and other items were there—as if indeed they were camping here, and were returning to their temporary home.

  Mikael had bought lunch at a deli in Bolton’s Landing and had been very particular about the sandwiches he’d ordered; but now the multigrain bread was badly soggy, the lettuce limp. The tuna-fish salad tasted as if it had been laced with something sugary and the cole slaw, in little fluted cups, was inedibly sweet. Still, Mikael ate hungrily. He had not shaved for two days—it was a custom, he’d told his companion, that he ceased shaving as soon as he left Cambridge and headed north—and his beard had come in graying and steely, a surly half mask. At Lake George, he said, his appetite was always “prodigious.”

  He saw that the woman was eating sparingly, as she’d eaten sparingly at breakfast. She was having difficulty with the large, damp sandwiches, which leaked watery mayonnaise. Each time she drank from the plastic water bottle, she took care to wipe the opening with a paper napkin. But she removed from a plastic bag the several ripe peaches Mikael had bought, offering him one and taking a smaller one for herself.

  The peach was delicious. Juice ran down Mikael’s chin. His mouth flooded with saliva, the taste of the sweet fruit was so intense.

  Shyly, yet with an air of recklessness, the woman was saying that she thought she might like to “try camping” again. She hadn’t been camping, she said, for a long time.

  Mikael laughed, not troubling to disguise his disbelief. “You camped, at one time? Really?”

  “Not in a tent but in a cabin. Just once. I mean—for about a week. When I was a girl.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Where? Oh, nowhere—important … Somewhere in the Catskills, I think. It wasn’t nearly so beautiful as Lake George.” Embarrassed by Mikael Brun’s bemused scrutiny, the woman wiped her mouth. She’d given up on the soggy tuna-fish sandwich. She’d used all the paper napkins she’d been allotted. In the dappled shade at the picnic table her face looked appealingly young yet strained.

  He did not want to hurt this woman, who had been hurt by other men. Without her needing to tell him this, he knew. For she seemed to open herself to such hurt, and to recoil from it belatedly, like a kind of sea anemone that is exquisitely beautiful but fragile. You begin in awe of such beauty but soon become impatient with it and want to injure it.

  “Nowhere I’ve been has been quite so beautiful as this,” the woman said, as if her point had been contested. “You must have been so happy …”

  “You think that children are made ‘happy’ by beauty? You should know better, you have children of your own. Children are blind to beauty.”

  They were silent for a moment. The woman surely felt rebuffed. But she persisted, as if reluctantly—“A terrible thing happened when I was at camp. A girl from my cabin died in a canoe accident …”

  “It wasn’t a canoe. It wasn’t an accident.”

  Mikael spoke with such authority, the woman looked at him. Her smile was faint, quizzical.

  “What do you mean? Why do you say that?”

  “There was a girl, and she died—she’d been murdered somewhere on Big Burnt. But it wasn’t a canoe accident. I was very young and all I knew was what I could overhear from adults spea
king … This was in 1972.”

  The woman was silent, staring at him across the badly weathered wooden table. Her eyes were widened in perplexity and yet in a distrust of her perplexity—should she know what her companion was talking about?

  He spoke sometimes in a kind of code. A kind of poetry. Elliptical, elusive. He left me behind. Probably—he left us all behind.

  The silence between them was strained, for silence between individuals in an island setting is far more awkward than on the mainland.

  Mikael could not think of more to say because he’d just realized that the subject of the murdered girl had been a forbidden subject about which he should not have known. The memory of the girl (whose family had been camping at a site not far from the Bruns at the time of her death) was both scintillate and fleeting, like a fish seen in murky water, which has no sooner emerged into sight than it has vanished.

  Sylvia. The forbidden name came to him, though he knew not to speak it aloud.

  He had not thought of Sylvia Delacorte for years. He was sure it had been most of the years of his adult life.

  The girl hadn’t been so young, actually—sixteen. To Mikael, at age five, that had not seemed young.

  A man had strangled Sylvia Delacorte. Or had he beaten her to death with a rock?

  Somewhere in the woods it was rumored to have happened, in the dense interior of the island where no one went. Mikael had been too young to be told what had happened, why the park ranger boat had come to Big Burnt in the early morning bringing such disruption and upset and why adults had stood about in small, stunned groups speaking quietly together. His young mother he’d seen embrace herself as if she were cold, and shivering, and when he’d seen her, and she saw him seeing her, she’d frowned at him with a look he’d interpreted as angry and told him to go away, back into the tent.

  For the remainder of the summer he’d had trouble sleeping in the tent. In the child-sized sleeping bag that he’d so loved.