“Vanderlust,” Catherine repeated.
“Technically, it’s the impulse to go traveling, the desire to experience something new. People hear it and think it’s just a restlessness, but it’s much deeper.” Not unlike the excitement I’m feeling today, he thought.
It’s a start, Freddie, but you’re running on at the tooth.
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “Your wife passed?”
“It’s been nine months. Sometimes I can still even hear her.”
You damned coot! You are starting to bore her, and me, to tears.
“You were happy?”
“She was a wonderful woman.” He wanted to lie, maybe get a tad melodramatic to elicit sympathy. Or even mention that they had separated once, but he wasn’t sure how that would reflect on him and knew Lissa was listening anyway. “It’s like the movie’s ended and I’m the last one in the theater. I’ve still got a bucket of buttered popcorn but no one to share it with.” He stopped, not wanting to make Catherine uncomfortable. “I don’t know how to say this, but you are a beautiful woman.”
She looked at him. “Really?”
There it was. He’d said it. He wasn’t thinking of her husband. Wasn’t thinking of where this was going or why they had been brought together. He wasn’t planning the next step, any kind of seduction, just speaking from his heart. He used to play in tennis tournaments. But as he got older he’d moved from ending up in the finals or semis of the main draw to the consolation and finally the last-chance round. This was it—his last chance.
As they drove, Catherine thought of all the things that are invisible yet still felt. Static electricity and gravity and wind. She felt like she were falling into a black hole. All that mattered in the world could be packed into a hatbox.
“Look, I’m sorry about what happened last night,” Fred said.
“Sorry about what?” she asked, playing dumb.
“I don’t know what came over me.”
“No need.”
“Pardon?”
“I kissed you back, I believe.” There. It was the truth. “Let me ask you this . . . how did you keep it alive?”
“What?”
“Your marriage. For fifty years? How does that work?”
“It wasn’t work. We had our little issues at first, but once we got past those there was nothing difficult about it.”
He said it with such confidence. As if it were a thing that was built so solidly that it could be sat on like a finely crafted divan. And then she thought of her marriage to Ralph. How every day was like going to a factory, a conveyor belt of grass-stained laundry and golf anecdotes.
Once at the start of the nature trail they headed east, but the thick trees and foliage blocked the view inside the forest. After several minutes of driving, Fred pulled to one side, parked the cart, and got out. “Let’s see if we can get Sequoia’s attention,” he said. “Cover your ears,” he warned, then pressed his tongue against his teeth and made an O shape with his mouth.
He turned away and made a piercing and commanding whistle. A noise that demanded respect and would stop a cab driver in his tracks. Then Catherine thought of Ralph in New York City. He would stand in the rain for twenty minutes with a single hand held high, as if he were the Statue of Liberty in a bad mood.
They both waited and listened to the birds and the hum of the forest.
“Sequoia!” Fred called into the universe. He turned back around. “Sorry,” he said to Catherine. “Just one more.” This time he placed his index finger and thumb in his mouth and whistled again. Three times in rapid succession.
Then Catherine imagined traveling with Fred. Of visiting cities across Europe where they could use his whistle. Get a pedicab in India or stop on the edge of the Grand Canyon, just to hear the echo. Just to see if they were really there.
Karma moved from his seated position on the floorboard and onto the trail. He looked back and forth, from Catherine to Fred, as if waiting for something to happen. So Catherine stood too, to stretch her legs and get closer to Fred. To discuss their next step. But as she stepped forward she felt a force pulling them into one another, something as simple as a magnet drawing to a refrigerator.
Before she knew it, he touched her arm and turned her toward him. She looked into his blue eyes and felt momentarily lost. Then he moved toward her and delivered a feathery kiss. Like cotton candy, it melted away the moment their lips touched. She started to speak but he brought his hand up slowly. He placed the tip of his index finger on her lips. “Shhh . . .”
She remained still and felt a heat flowing from her hips, to her pelvis, then her stomach, and finally to her breasts. A helium balloon let go at a carnival. She became aware of every part of her body and smelled the pine trees and his aftershave. She heard the twit of a songbird and felt his soft cotton shirt in her hands. She moved into him with an intensity that surprised her. It’s just a kiss, she told herself. Their second and final kiss. This one must last a lifetime.
They stepped back for a moment. Absurdly, she thought. As if they were actors on a stage who needed to let the audience keep up with the action. Catherine noticed the wrinkled outer edges of Fred’s mouth, like he’d spent his entire life smiling and laughing. As if he’d never regretted a thing. “What are we doing?” she whispered.
He considered her question. “Looking for Sequoia.”
“No. Right now.”
He brought his hand to her face and ran his fingertips from her forehead, across one side of her temple, down her cheek, and to rest on her chin. “Right now, I’m hoping to find what I’ve lost.” His eyes held her.
Catherine felt like she were watching a complicated magic trick. If only she could view it in slow motion or from above, then maybe she could figure it out, could deconstruct the mechanics of what was happening.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel like I’m waking from a very sad dream,” he continued.
Fred moved forward again in slow motion. His hand brushed the small of her back, and her hips pressed into him while the rest of the world spun around her. Her skirt had ridden up on her legs so she pulled it down and laughed. “Look at me,” she said, an embarrassed schoolgirl.
She’d stopped worrying about Sequoia. Something in Fred’s voice made her believe that his dog would be okay. She didn’t want to spend these moments someplace else. She owned them.
They spent almost ten more minutes in an embrace. Making out, someone might call it. But making out was just mild entertainment for teenagers in the backseats of cars. This felt real, as if her whole life were coming into focus.
After a bit, they stopped, as if coming up for air. Karma trotted to them, barked once, then hopped up on the golf cart. It was time to continue. Without saying a word, they returned to the wide seat and drove to another break in the trail. It led to the Seven Oaks community area, with a slide, swings, jungle gym, and seesaws. Despite a few parked cars in the lot, the area was empty.
Fred parked the cart and they all got out. Though Karma ran ahead, the local leash law was the last thing on Catherine’s mind.
“Let’s go,” Fred said and took her by the hand.
“Where?”
“For a ride.” He pulled her toward the playground and, once there, stood behind the middle of three swings, offering it to her. “Madam, your chariot.”
She sat down into the swing and was surprised at how strong and secure it felt, the plastic seat wrapping around her buttocks. If things had been different, if Ralph had wanted children, she’d be pushing a grandchild in a swing by now. Spending her days here. “I haven’t ridden one of these in forever,” she said, laughing.
“It’s like a bicycle.” Fred pushed her gently at first, his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t forget to pump with your legs.”
As she accelerated she rose higher and higher and Fred’s hands fell to her middle back, then to the sides of her waist. She felt stronger and younger than she had in years. As if she could simply will herself of
f the swing and into the cloudless sky. As if she could find Sequoia and have the strength and the determination to leave Ralph. As if she were free.
chapter 29
After returning the gown to the walk-in closet and wiping the makeup from her face, Amity collected her prescription pills and fanny pack and left the house, moving out into the inky darkness. Instead of abandoning the plant to endure a slow and sure death, she took it with her, cradling it in the crook of her arm. Not having anticipated a return trip, she hadn’t brought a flashlight, so she stepped carefully into the night, being sure to lock the back door on the way out.
Clouds skittered across the sky as if eager for daybreak. Though light from the half-moon helped, it was difficult to make out what was ahead, so she kept her bearings by shuffling along the hard driveway. She used the edge of the tabby pavement as a compass, taking careful baby steps, one at a time.
After finding her car and driving out past the bright security booth and the community’s electronic sign (HURRICANE MEETING TUESDAY . . . STAY IN THE KNOW FOR THE BIG BLOW), she followed Diamond Causeway over the Intracoastal. She might have taken the Truman Parkway to the Henry Street exit, the fastest way home, but decided it was time for a change and headed northeast on Ferguson Avenue toward Sandfly, then left on Skidaway Road.
The scenic route, Alex might have said.
She passed a Chicken and Waffle House, strip malls, and low apartment buildings. Once on Victory Drive she noted the dark expanse of Daffin Park. After miles of unsynchronized stoplights, Amity decided “Slo-vannah” deserved its nickname. In contrast to how lost she’d been just an hour earlier, she felt herself perking up, the English teacher in her bristling at egregious signage—HARD HAT’S REQUIRED, DIRT4SALE, and several examples of DRIVE THRUS. Whatever it takes to get back to my old self, she thought. As she crossed the invisible line from Ardsley Park to Midtown, she rolled down the windows and could almost taste the wet earth in the air, as if the rain had washed away all the pollen and dirt and dark debris from the past so the world could come alive again.
In the historic district, she found a convenient parking space on Tattnall and felt exhausted, every muscle in her body spent. She considered leaning back her car seat and settling in for the night, but she willed herself forward, if only for the sake of the poor plant beside her. Instead of going upstairs to the guest bedroom, where she had slept since her husband left, she went directly to the master suite on the main floor and collapsed on the bed in her clothes. The sheets had been stripped and thrown out long ago, but there she remained undisturbed on the bare mattress until the next morning.
IT WAS AFTER nine o’clock when the sunlight streamed through the windows and awakened her. She was shocked that she’d slept so well without the assistance of Ambien or meditation CDs. The first thing that came to her was relief that she hadn’t gone through with her pathetic exit plan. She felt indebted to Catherine as she considered the ironic timing of her phone call. Karma is gone. Can you help look for him? For months Amity had had the overwhelming feeling of being attached to the railing of a sinking ship, a reluctant passenger on the Titanic’s sunset cruise. Today, just by the simple fact that she was needed—not just once in a while by a slow-moving school district—she felt as if a lifeline of hope had been thrown her way.
Without wasting any time, Amity dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt and drove directly to Seven Oaks. At the gatehouse, Rusty waved her through while giving her a thumbs-up, and she headed straight to Catherine’s house, where she and Catherine had found each other in the first place. There was little traffic, residents already in tennis matches or pickleball games, doing whatever it was that people not strapped to sinking ships did.
As she approached Catherine’s street, she saw a man in a golf cart pulling out of Catherine’s driveway, his clubs strapped into the bag holder like a child riding piggyback. She recognized his salt-and-pepper hair blowing in the wind and vaguely remembered Ralph from the day she’d met Catherine. It seemed he hadn’t cut his hair since then. Amity had seen it a million times. Men who have post-midlife crises and grow their hair long, buy a convertible, or have an affair. Manopause, she’d heard it called.
Amity parked her car in Catherine’s driveway. Whereas three months ago she’d sneaked into the yard and jimmied the lock of the side door, today she rang the doorbell, proud that her presence had been requested. I need you. She heard the correlating chime somewhere within. In the entryway she noted a small ceramic gnome, a lucky horseshoe, and a sign by the front door. WARNING: KILLER BOSTON TERRIER ON DUTY. The cartoon dog wore a pointed polka dot hat. Amity felt momentarily disappointed in Catherine. She should know better than to joke about security.
In her fantasy, Amity hoped that Catherine would throw open the door and greet her with a giant hug. You’re here! she might exclaim. What would I do without you?! It was the type of relationship she’d seen while having coffee at the fitness center, in a world where women cared about each other.
With no answer and no barking, she knocked. Three times. Louder with each. Knocks that said, Open up! I can help! Then she tried the knob. Locked, of course. And that’s when she felt a familiar pull. The feeling came upon her before she recognized it. The feeling an alcoholic must have after a certain period of sobriety—that one sip of wine would be nice—shortly before swan-diving into a vat of tequila. Amity hadn’t brought her fanny pack that contained her tools, of course. But before she knew it she was at the garage door, punching in the numbers of Catherine’s wedding date. The date Ralph could never remember—seven-eight-seven-eight.
The house seemed smaller than she remembered, as if she’d been just a little girl when she’d last visited. But Amity recognized the view and feeling of openness. On an intellectual level she understood that she shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be snooping around Catherine’s house, yet another part of her reasoned that Catherine had asked, had pleaded, for her help, and that she was simply answering the call of duty. And Amity felt indebted to her for contacting someone to remove the raccoon corpse without getting them both booked for trespassing. They could have left it there to rot for months, but it was the neighborly thing to do.
Walking into the living room she shouted, “Helloooo!” as a real estate agent might.
No answer.
Again, without conscious effort, she became an archeologist at a dig, just as she’d done in dozens of other houses. In the living room antique golf clubs lined the wall, and on the coffee table sat photo books with glossy covers featuring jarring names like Fifty Courses to Play before You Die. “Helloooo!” Amity called again.
If for some reason Catherine was in the house, just stepping out of the shower, Amity would explain that the garage door had been left up. That Catherine’s husband must have left in a hurry. Every wife would understand that sort of recklessness. Amity would tell her she was here to help find Karma and was sorry she’d been delayed but had slept better than she had in her entire life. She would thank Catherine for the well-timed phone call, not bothering to explain that she’d decided to give this business of living another chance. Amity might have worried about Ralph returning to find her standing in their living room, but she knew a man holding a golf club on a pleasant day was like a teenager with a key to the fun house. He would be gone for hours.
Amity moved into the kitchen and saw that someone, probably Ralph, had spilled milk and several chunks of granola on the granite counter, so she wiped up the mess with a dishrag. While there, she put what she presumed was his cereal bowl into the dishwasher and turned off the dripping tap. A folded Savannah newspaper, open to commercial real estate listings, and a half-drunk cup of coffee sat on the kitchen table. Amity picked up the mug, still warm, and held it in her cupped hands before taking a sip and rinsing it out.
On the first floor was an office, clearly Catherine’s. Thick books promoting power aging lined the bookshelves. Amity thought it remarkable and a little pathetic that someone Catherine’s age could still
believe that a little virgin olive oil or static stretching would keep her young. An antique planter held fresh flowers, and an old tennis racket, painted pink, hung on the wall. Terse notes were clipped to the strings: Martha BDAY; Find Dentist; Dog Food.
On Amity’s previous visit, when the house had belonged to someone else, she hadn’t had time to explore, hadn’t seen the stairs that led to the second floor. So up she went, confident that Ralph was by now on the first tee and Catherine was somewhere with a pound of raw bacon trying to locate her dog. Amity felt a little guilty not leaving to join her, but there were a dozen places Catherine might be—the walking trails, the marina, the narrow sidewalks of Palmetto Pines. If she’d had her cell phone she might have called Catherine, but she’d forgotten it in her fanny pack and, besides, maybe she could do more good here.
After passing two guest rooms she came to an enlarged skylit alcove overlooking the living room. Clearly it was where Ralph had taken up residence. A brown swivel chair sat in front of a desktop computer. As if he were ten years old, clear Lucite trophies for business-deal closings lined the top of his lateral file. Amity’s ex-husband had kept the same things on his desk, along with framed photos of her, now presumably replaced with images of his son and new wife. To one side sat books on finance and fishing and an engraved stone that read NOTHING IS EVER ETCHED IN STONE. Above Ralph’s desk hung a Civil War map identifying Gettysburg, Antietam, Shiloh. She felt sorry for Catherine, trapped in the world with a man who celebrated the bloodiest war in US history.
As if Catherine were a naive older sister, Amity felt protective of her and angry that Ralph had departed with his golf clubs, clearly not available to look for their dog. Her experience had proved that men kept secrets, and wives needed to be informed. There were falsehoods hidden in plain sight everywhere, from fake rocks to pretend marriages. And so she started looking.
She began with the dozens of small containers scattered around his office—a commemorative golf pencil caddy and rusted brass tin and felt-lined valet box filled with coppery coins as if Ralph might need to feed parking meters in Europe someday. Then she opened two carved wooden boxes—the first filled with specialty golf balls, the second with cell phone and iPad chargers. She ruffled through the manila files labeled Mortgage, Flood Insurance, and Battlefields to Visit. She couldn’t find anything remarkable. No love letters or hidden receipts. No pornographic VHS tapes or angry letters from the IRS. It took every bit of fifteen minutes, but she knew it was there. Every man had something he kept secret, part of a covert operation of living.
Good Karma Page 17