Possessions

by Judith Michael

  "Why?" he asked bluntly. "I'd left you."

  Katherine looked at him in astonishment. She had never heard Craig talk like that. "I loved you," she said.

  "Loved."

  "And you still haven't told me why you left us."

  "I thought it was obvious." He drained his mug. "Is there more coffee?" Katherine refilled it and, without being asked, made another pot. He watched her as she stood at the counter. "It all came crashing down. Carl screamed at me that I'd betrayed him and he'd see me in jail and make sure everyone knew what an ungrateful bastard I was. I thought a trial would mean an investigation and they'd dig up my past, and you'd hate me, if you didn't already, for stealing . . . There was no

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  good ending to it! Do you know how many hundreds of letters I've written to you, trying to explain all this?"

  "I didn't get any letters," said Katherine.

  "I never mailed them. Hell, I never finished them. How do you tell someone you love that you deserted her because everything was crushing you and you felt trapped and helpless? That morning I left I didn't even realize what I was doing until I told the cab driver to stop at the bank on the way to the airport. That was when I knew. I told him to go on, I deposited the money for you, and then I walked—two or thr^ hours, I think—until I hitched a ride with a truck driver."

  "Two or three hours . . . !"

  He shrugged. "You're right; I had time to change my mind. But how could I? The more I walked, the more I thought about it, the more everything closed in, crushing me. I couldn't tell you I'd stolen; I couldn't tell you about my past; I couldn't ask anyone for help. I couldn't do anything but run. And once I'd started I had to keep on, keep moving, because when I stopped, I couldn't stand the loneliness and I'd turn around to come back to you, and it would all come back—all the things I couldn't tell you, crushing me, so I couldn't breathe . . . Katherine, if could make you understand . . . whenever I tried to come back / couldn't breathe. I had to keep running ..."

  His voice stopped. Katherine was silent, feeling his panic.

  "But I got past that," he said. "Because I had to see you. Katherine, I want you to come back to Canada with me. I'll get the money to settle with Carl and we'll start again, make a home ... I know you sold the house; we'll build a new one, a better one, and start all—"

  "Craig, wait . . ."

  "You can't be surprised. Why do you think I came back? Why do you think I called Ross? Ross did tell you I called, didn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "I told him I love you. And want you back. Did he tell you that?"

  "Yes."

  "Well." His voice became flat. "He told me he's in love with you. I'm not surprised . . . and it's natural that you'd look for help and affection. I know it's been a rough time for

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  you; you have nothing to be ashamed of. And Ross is as decent as they come and trustworthy ... at least, I always thought so." He paused. "What are you thinking?"

  "What about your family?" Katherine asked. "If you go back to Canada."

  "You're my family! You and Jennifer and Todd!"

  "And Victoria and Tobias, Ann and Jason, Derek and— "

  "Not Derek, God damn it; he's no part of me and never will be!"

  Katherine shrank from the fury in his voice and instinctively put her finger to her lips. "Todd and Jennifer—"

  "Sorry." He stood up. "I'd like to take a look at them. You don't mind—?"

  "Of course not."

  Katherine watched him cross the living room and inch open the bedroom door. She felt a stab of pity at the stiffness of his back as he stood in the doorway; then, very gently, he closed the door and came back to her. "They look wonderful."

  'They are wonderful. They felt betrayed when you disappeared on New Year's Eve."

  Embarrassment and anger swept over his face. "You were with Derek. I couldn't handle that. All I could think of was that if I'd told you about him you would have been warned."

  Katherine frowned. "What are you talking about? You never told me about any of them. You lied about being an orphan; you kept yourself locked inside your secrets. For ten years . . . What was so terrible that you couldn't tell me about them?"

  "Something ... a long time ago. I thought about telling you but after a while it wasn't important. I didn't have to talk about them, Katherine—^I didn't even think about them—as long as I had you. It never occurred to me you'd meet them. You can't imagine how strange it is to hear you talk about Victoria, Tobias, my parents—it's all wrong; you never were supposed to know about them." Slowly, he shook his head. "I put so many years and miles between us. How did you fmd them?"

  "Ross found me." Katherine brought the fresh pot of coffee to the table. "It was Jennifer, wasn't it? The terrible thing, a long time ago. On the sailboat. When she died."

  He jerked back, as if stung. "Who told you about that?"

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  "Derek. And Ross. But I want to hear it from you."

  He cupped the mug in his hands, looking at the trembling surface of the coffee. "I didn't know they'd talk about it." The room was silent. The building slept; the street slept. There were only the two of them, facing each other across the oak table— until Craig began to talk, slowly at first, then faster as the story poured out.

  "We were sailing home, across the bay. We'd been invited to some damn party in Sausalito and Jenny asked Ross and Derek to sail across with us. It was a dull party with nothing to do but drink, and by the time we left I felt rotten. We all needed to clear our heads and it was so peaceful on the water I wanted to stay out as long as possible, so I decided to sail past the Golden Gate Bridge and then in again, to the harbor. But Derek decided he was in a hurry, and he harped on it, so I put up the spinnaker. Derek usually got what he wanted, one way or another. Jenny loved it. She put her head back and laughed into the wind; she opened her arms and said *I love all of you so much.' She was so lovely and happy. Oh, God . . ."

  He was looking past Katherine, at the dark window. "Near the Gate the currents were strong and the wind started to pick up, so I told Jenny and Derek to put on lifejackets, and sent Jenny down to the cabin to tell Ross. I shouldn't have; it left us alone. Usually I made sure Derek and I were never alone. We fought all the time—mostly over power, I suppose, but there were other things, too. Love, attention, money ... I was a year older but we were both first sons and Derek made it a war: enemies and rivals from the start. And he could always get to me—make me lose control—so I tried to keep others between us. But that day, for some reason, Jenny stayed below with Ross for a few minutes, and I said something about the wind, and taking down the spinnaker, and Derek called me a coward, said I was afraid to sail at anything more than a crawl . . . said if I didn't have my mama and grandma around I couldn't even shit by myself. Crude bastard, when he wanted to be . . . smooth when he wanted ..."

  He contemplated the coffee pot. "Do you have any Scotch?"

  Katherine shook her head. "Only wine."

  "Well, then, if I could—?" She brought a bottle to the table and a corkscrew, and pulled out the cork. 'That always used to be my job, remember? Thanks." He filled the glass she gave

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  him. "I told Derek to shut up—the spinnaker had to come down. It was too much sail for that wind; a bad gust could rip it apart, might even overturn us. That was when Ross and Jenny came up from the cabin. Derek reached out and pulled Jenny to him . . . put his arms around her . . . standing sideways so I could see . . . Ross couldn't ... his hand on her breast . . . Christ, I can't make that go away!—^I still see it, at night, when I'm trying to sleep ... his thin fmgers curled over Jenny's breast, his cold eyes, daring me . . . 'Jennifer and I like living dangerously,' he said. 'The only one who's afraid is the captain.'

  "It made me sick—it was the first time I knew for sure there was something between them. I yelled at Derek—because I couldn't let go of the wheel—to get his goddamn hands off Jenny and I yelle
d at Jenny to get the hell away from him. It looked like she was trying, but he held her—she looked like a scared little bird caught in a trap—

  "God knows what my face looked like; it scared the hell out of Ross. He yanked Jenny away and asked me if he should go forward and take down the spinnaker and I think I said yes, but I was yelling at Derek—^I couldn't stop—telling him to get below or get off the boat; he could swim to shore for alll cared, if he had the guts to try it in that water . . .

  "Derek came back at me in that voice he used on all of us, high and light, like fingernails on a blackboard, calling me a puppet, a doll. Grandma's toy . . . who could only get it up when Grandma stroked it . . . The wind was roaring, we were all drenched from the waves and spray breaking over the cockpit, and that bastard stood there like a goddanm soldier, absolutely straight, his voice like a knife, talking, talking, and I was shouting back and Jenny started to cry. 'Don't,' she said. 'I love you both; don't fight.'

  "I went crazy, I guess. First seeing Derek hold her, and his voice, cutting into me, and then hearing Jenny say she loved us both —I had to stop her, make her despise him, see what he really was under that fake charm ... so I screamed at him—so Jenny would be sure to hear—that he was a crook; he'd changed the specs on a building we were putting up after the city had approved them; he'd violated a pack of laws and was a rotten crook who didn't give a shit if he built a dangerous building. His face was like stone. I'd seen the changed specs

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  that week and couldn't figure out how they'd gotten past an inspector, so I made a wild guess and accused him of bribing the inspector on the job.

  "When Ross asked what the hell I was talking about, Derek turned it around—he could recover and attack faster than anyone I ever knew—and in that damned scraping voice he said: 'Golden boy changed the specs on the Macklin Building to be Grandma's hero—even bribed the inspector—but now he's scared and shifting the blame. Running away, as usual.' That was when I knew I was right, and I laughed. I remember how good that felt, to laugh in Derek's face because he'd given himself away. I told him I cared more about our reputation than he did and I was going to my father and his and get him kicked out of the company before he got us into real trouble.

  'That was when I told Ross to go forward and take down the spinnaker—while I was laughing at Derek. And while Ross did that . . . while Jenny huddled in a comer, and spray and waves washed over us and the wind roared . . . Derek came up to me, close to me, and told me—so goddamned soft and friendly—that Jenny was in love with him and . . . pregnant . . . b) him . . . pregnant by Derek ..."

  Katherine drew in her breath sharply, but Craig did not hear. ". . . and they hadn't decided what they were going to do, but if I got in his way, he'd tell the family . . . and anybody else who might be interested . . .

  **! broke apart inside. I saw Derek's eyes watching me and I had to close them—crush him—so I went for his throat and got my hands around his neck. I could feel Jenny pulling on my arm, and I was sick, thinking, Derek's child, Derek inside you, Derek's child, and I exploded—'You whore, Jenny! You damned whore; damn you, damn you—!' and then suddenly she was gone. Everything was gone . . .

  "I didn't see it, but I felt it: when I left the wheel, the boat changed course and jibed, and the boom swung across and slammed into Jenny. I heard it, a terrible thud, and saw her stumble—blood, a starburst of blood, next to her eye—and then she went over. She didn't make a sound. She just . . . fell. I dropped Derek and got to the life preserver and the marker pole and threw them to Jenny—she was face down and I screamed at her to grab the preserver—JENNY! JENNY! JENNY!—I still hear that scream inside me. I screamed it when

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  I dove in and swam to her—and when I held her head out of the water and saw her eyes, staring at me, not seeing me, not seeing the sky . . . not seeing ever again . . . Because she was dead."

  He was crying. 'The boat was gone. There was no one but Jenny and me and the water—choppy and dark, so cold—and an awful silence.

  "I got Jenny to the life preserver and tucked her into it so her face was out of the water and I stayed with her. It was so cold, but I had to talk to her ... I was crying and treading water and telling her I was sorry. I had to make her understand that I didn't mean what I said, I'd been crazy because I hated Derek and he'd used her the way he used everyone . . . I kept saying, 'Please, Jenny, forgive me—please, please —'"

  Tears ran down his face and caught like raindrops in his beard. "I saw the boat, coming back, and I heard Ross calling me, and I thought how it would be getting into the boat with him and Derek, taking Jenny home, her eyes staring through everyone . . . and I couldn't do it. I'd destroyed everything and I couldn't go back to them. If I hadn't jumped Derek, Jenny wouldn't have been killed. My parents and my grandmother had asked me to watch over her when she started going out with Derek. They said, 'Craig, stop her; she listens to you.' And I failed. I didn't try hard enough to stop her because I couldn't let myself believe it was serious. I let everyone down, and then I killed Jenny. I hated Derek so much I let him become more important to me than Jenny. And Jenny died.

  "And even when I was asking her to forgive me, I was still sick and furious because Derek had been inside her. And once— only once—^I thought, 'It's good that Derek's baby is dead.' I couldn't face myself after that—or anyone else—so when Ross called, I swam away. I didn't know which direction I was going; I didn't care. I thought eventually I'd just go under. But instead, after a while, I don't know how long, I came to a spit of land with a flashing light ..."

  "Lime Point," Katherine murmured, and Craig's head shot up. He had forgotten her, forgotten where he was, and he squinted through his tears as he looked closely at her.

  "You're crying," he said. "For Jenny?"

  "And for you," Katherine said. She was crying for all of them—for Jenny and Craig, for Ross, calling into the darkness,

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  even for Derek, gnawed inside, all his life, by jealousy. Bit by bit, she recalled the pieces of all the stories she had heard, and as she put them together, she felt another rush of pity, stronger than before, for Craig.

  "I'm sorry for breaking down," he said. "I've never told the whole thing." He wiped his face with his handkerchief. "How did you know about Lime Point?"

  "Ross and Derek told me. When they learned you were alive—"

  "When was that?"

  "Not until last year, when I came here the first time. Then they thought you must have made it to Lime Point. Everyone told me how strong you were. Ann said she had your trophies from college. For running."

  He nodded. "She was always so proud of those."

  "And you left them behind. With everything else. You made yourself into another person . . . ?"

  He shrugged. "It's not hard, you know. A social security card, a driver's hcense, a job . . . anyone can get them. And Vancouver was big enough; I could be anonymous."

  "I didn't mean that," Katherine said. "I was thinking of inside ..."

  "It takes longer." He shrugged again. "You shed bits of yourself, and it hurts, but you do it. You begin to live a different kind of life and after a while you think of yourself as a different person. If you do it enough, you wake up one day and you know you can't go back to your other life. It's too late."

  Katherine stared at him. Which one of us is he talking about?

  The bottle was empty. Katherine had made another pot of coffee and absently Craig filled both mugs, glancing at the clock as if they were a normal couple wondering if there was time for one more cup before leaving for work. "My God, it's two thirty. I'm keeping you up."

  It was so absurd that they looked at each other and laughed, a soft laugh: the first they had shared. Memories rushed in on Katherine, overwhelming her with images, words, laughter, hope ... the brilliant light of nostalgic love that burned away the bad times, leaving only the good ones.

  She forced herself to stand up and walk away f
rom the table, away from that warm spell. "If you'd told me all this . . . years ago . . ."

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  "Why? For a while I wanted to, but then I realized that I wanted even more to get away from it, not to be forced to think about Craig Hayward ever again. Why should I tell you about him when I was happy as Craig Fraser? We were both happy; we had a fiill life together, how would a long confession have helped us?"

  "It would have let me share part of your life."

  "A part I hated and wanted to forget."

  "But you never forgot it! You just kept it from me. And then you kept our finances, and other things—"

  "You hardly made a point of asking," he said coldly. "You enjoyed the way we lived without asking if we really had the money to pay for it, ot where it came from— **

  "I know." Katherine*s face was burning. "I've thought about that. You're right; I should have asked; I should have known what was happening. But that was what you wanted, Craig; someone who wouldn't question your decisions; someone who wouldn't ask questions at all."

  He shook his head. "You wanted someone who wouldn't burden you with answers."

  They were silent. "Well," he said with a short laugh. "An impasse."

  "It always was," Katherine responded. "But I should have insisted. I've learned that. Then we would have been two grownup people instead of a husband shielding a httle-girl wife."

  Craig leaned back in his chair and gazed at her. Then he smiled, ahnost wistfully. "Do you know, Katherine, I'm not sure it would have made a danm bit of difference what you did or how you behaved. I don't think I could have told you. I never was able to show my weaknesses to people I love."

  Slowly, Katherine walked back to the table and stood beside him. Almost fearfully, she put out her hand and touched his. 'That's the first time you ever told me a simple truth about yourself," she said.

  "But it's not true anymore." He grasped her hand. "I've had sixteen months to think about it; I know what I did to you, to both of us, and I won't let it happen again. I've changed, Katherine; everything will be different now." He stood and faced her, still holding her hand. "We have a lot invested in each other: ten years, ten wonderful years, and the children— we can't just throw it all away."