THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston

by Thomas Kennedy Lowenstein

  She printed out Kimoh’s email. Ed had to be home any second—it was almost 8:30—and when he came in she’d be calm and patient and not let on anything and then over dinner she’d show him the email, see what he said then. Maybe there was an explanation. Or maybe he’d at least be honest at that point. All those evenings he’d been late coming home, had he been with this Kimoh person? How long had it been since he’d started coming home late so often? Months, maybe a year. And he’d gone on that weird diet a year ago, too, eating nothing but salads. He must’ve been on that for two months, easily. He’d put the weight back on by now, but it had worked for a while. Oh God, Alice thought. And me, stupid wife, kissing him on the cheek when he got home. Sitting there looking tired and ratty all the time.

  She stood up and sat down and tapped her fingers on the keyboard.

  Maybe it was ok. Maybe Ed would explain everything and it would be nothing but a bump and everything would be fine. She started crying. She didn’t want everything to be fine. She hunched over her stomach, her arms wrapped around her middle. She had let everyone down, Ed and Eddie and Jenny.

  When she and Ed were first married he’d had a part-time bartending job on the weekends and she’d had a waitressing job nights and weekends and whoever got home first—usually she did—would sit in the ugly orange chair in the living room watching TV, waiting, and would go to the front door when they heard the other coming up the path and then they’d go inside and make sandwiches and watch TV for a while, counting their tips. She’d felt like if they worked hard enough they’d be ok.

  So even that was a cliché now, too, she thought. Now that they’d ended up not talking and bored like so many other people their past must be just like everyone else’s, too. Young and eager, then used to each other, starting to look like each other, then bored and cheating. When had she become just a—what—when had fun stopped being a consideration except on, what, special occasions? She thought about the first time they’d slept together, in college, undressing so fast in the dark—and that was a cliché, too.

  Don’t think about it, she told herself. Their relationship wasn’t a cliché, it was a life.

  She heard Ed getting home, the kids talking to him, his voice low and cheerful. She rubbed her eyes. What to do now.

  “Hey, Alice, I’m home,” he called from the top of the stairs.

  She folded the email into the waistband of her skirt and went upstairs.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Ed said. He mumbled something about the office.

  “It’s ok,” she said. He was looking at her intently—trying to see if she knew something or just if she was angry, she couldn’t tell.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “We can still go, right?”

  “No, Ed. Why don’t you go take Karen home.” He was looking at her closely but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking—at some point she’d been able to. Another cliché.

  “Aww, come on, Alice, don’t get in a mood over it, ok? I’m sorry I’m late. We can still go. Ok?”

  “No mood,” she said as he put his arms around her waist.

  “Huh?” he grunted, leaning in to kiss her.

  She pulled her head back.

  “Come on, Alice,” he said.

  The kids were right there. Ed was right, they could still go out. It wasn’t that late. They couldn’t have this conversation with the kids around, anyway. Besides, maybe in a restaurant she’d be more able to control her temper.

  “Yeah, ok, we can still go,” she said.

  “Good,” he said, squeezing and releasing her.

  How to do this, Alice wondered. No hysteria. No anger at first. No this, no that, feel this way, don’t feel that way.

  They said goodbye to the kids and got in Ed’s car. They drove in silence. The leather seats squeaked when Ed moved.

  “You still want to go to the Italian place?” he asked after a while.

  “Sure,” Alice said.

  “Look, Sweetbird, I really am sorry about being so late,” he said. He glanced over at her. “I got caught up at the office, you want to hear all about it?” He smiled at her.

  She could see the outline of his hair, his nose, his belly, without turning to him. She listened to the rhythm of his voice, not the words. Was there desperation, was he trying too hard to convince her? How to do this, she wondered. First she should say—she should take some of the blame for things. Or no, just ask him first. What if he denied it?

  “So, ok? Sweetbird?” Ed asked.

  Alice turned on the dome light and took the email from her skirt. “What time did you get back from lunch with Kim?” she asked, holding the paper in both hands.

  “What’s that?” Ed asked, glancing over. He didn’t look at her. “Kim?” he asked.

  “Don’t fucking stall,” Alice said.

  “I didn’t have lunch with Kim,” he said.

  “What time did you get back from seeing her?”

  “Seeing who? What are you—”

  “Oh, come on, Ed. Jesus Christ. What time did you get back from seeing Kim this afternoon?”

  “I had a business meeting this afternoon, if that’s what you mean.”

  Ed steered the car to a stop in the restaurant parking lot but left the motor running. A streetlamp hung a yellow patch over them. A couple hurried past, leaning into each other.

  “‘Eddie,’” she read. “‘I just want you to know how much fun—’”

  “What is that?” Ed said, grabbing the paper. He smoothed it against the center of the steering wheel.

  “‘I feel so close to you’?” Alice asked. “Who is Kim?”

  “A friend at work,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “Come on, Ed,” Alice said quietly. “Please.”

  “What? We had a business lunch today, that’s all.”

  “You just said you didn’t have lunch with her.”

  “I—I didn’t. It was for business, so I didn’t think of it as a lunch, really.”

  Don’t do this, she begged in her mind and then turned the entreaty on herself. Of course he would try to lie his way out of it. If she didn’t want everything to be fine, well, this certainly wasn’t fine.

  “That’s not a business note, Ed.”

  “What—you think—ok, Alice, listen to me.” He turned to her, brushing hair from his forehead. His broad face reddened, his soft body leaned toward her. “We flirt a little bit, Kim and I do. I admit it. We talk about business stuff sometimes like—like it’s personal. Ok? I won’t do it anymore. I know we shouldn’t. There’s laws and sexual harassment stuff, I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But when she says, like, ‘stud,’ or she feels close to me or whatever, that’s just—it just means we had a good meeting, we did well. That’s all.” His eyes were wide. He took Alice’s hand. “That’s all, Alice,” he said.

  “Ed, please,” she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. “Just tell me now, ok? If this—if something is happening, just tell me now. Eleven years, Ed. Please.”

  “Nothing is happening,” he said. “Nothing, Alice.”

  He leaned to hug her over his belly and the emergency brake and reached his arms in his too-short parka around her and whispered “sweetbird” and “It’ll be ok” and that he was sorry for flirting.

  Flirting, Alice wondered. Could she have been so wrong about it? No, he was lying. But the person she’d married couldn’t have lied to her and it was the same person, he couldn’t lie straight to her face like that. She should be worrying about her own detachment in all this; she had pulled away from him. So nothing had happened with Sam and nothing was going to happen, even the friendship showed that she was distancing herself from her husband. From her children. A married woman with two children shouldn’t need to sneak off for lunch with a male friend. Sweet Sam. If she was detached, then of course Ed flirted. But what about Kim on the computer? What about the “I was scared it was your wife” or whatever? No, no, it was flirting. Of course you wouldn’t want to talk to the wife.

 
; Ed released her. She bent over and cried. He stroked her hair.

  Hysterical sobbing wife, she thought. So ready to believe—so far from him that she could believe anything. They had problems, but Ed wouldn’t lie to her face. Oh God, she thought. How do I find my way back to him? Where do I begin?

  “Shhh, Sweetbird,” Ed whispered. His hand lay heavy on her shoulder.

  “Ed,” she said. “I’m sorry for not—I’m sorry, but I just—”

  “Shhh,” he whispered. “I don’t blame you for—I mean, if I saw that kind of email to you from some guy, I might think something was up, too.”

  Alice stared at him. That last sentence had been too conciliatory too soon. She had just accused him of cheating and he sounded like they were talking about—about what. He never sounded that conciliatory about anything anymore. Except about getting home late.

  She looked out the window. Look at you, she thought: hysterical, screechy.

  She smoothed her skirt and looked at her stomach. Had she put on weight? A couple of pounds, maybe. Maybe it looked like a lot to Ed. Nothing is wrong with you, she told herself. Do not let him make you think you’re crazy. Hysterical, maybe, but not crazy.

  “You ok, Bird?” Ed asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “To be honest, Ed, I—I don’t know what to think. About the Kim thing. And—”

  “I told you, Alice, it’s innocent flirting.”

  “It’s not just that, Ed. Let me finish. The point is, whether it’s true or not, I could believe it. We’re so—so far off, Ed, do you know what I mean?”

  “You mean it’s my fault if you’re not happy.”

  “See, that’s exactly what I mean—that you even said that. I’m trying to tell you something and you jump right on—”

  “I jump right on? Me? No, Alice, I walked through the door and you jumped right on me. Don’t turn this thing around.”

  “I’m not trying to turn anything around, Ed. I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”

  “Oh, right,” Ed said, nodding. “In case I forgot the most important thing in the world, how Alice feels.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that five years ago I would never have believed even for one second that you’d—that you could cheat. Now I’m not sure. I don’t know how we went from—”

  “We? We? Talk about yourself, Alice. You. You went from trusting me to not trusting me.”

  “No,” Alice said. “We went, Ed, we went. My God, I don’t even believe I’m saying this.”

  “Me neither,” Ed said. He sat in his anger for a long time and didn’t touch her. “Sweetbird,” he said finally. “Come on.”

  She stared at him and said, “Is anything going on?”

  He blinked. “No,” he said. “No, Alice, nothing is going on.”

  But he had blinked first, he had needed a second to think. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not, that was the worst part. No, the worst part was that she’d wanted him to say “yes,” not because she wanted him to be cheating on her but she wanted him to admit that their marriage was in trouble. He hugged her again but she pushed away. If she concentrated, if she worked, could she find something in her that wanted to fix it?

  “Let’s go home,” she said.

  Ed turned the car around in the parking lot. “Aren’t you going to be hungry?” he asked.

  Alice rested her chin in her palm and looked out the window at the closed shops in the center of town. They drove home without talking.

  Chapter Twenty

  Railroad Standard Time

  Mrs. Atlee awoke and stared at the ceiling. You know where you are, for God’s sake, she told herself. Her annoyance increased when she tried to sit up and pain convulsed her back and sides. She rested her head on a pillow and gasped. Turning her eyes to her left, she could see a glass of water on the bedside table, but it was too far off to reach just now. She looked at the ceiling again. Oh yes, she thought. This room.

  How many rooms had she been in in her life, she wondered. Could one possibly count, even the ones after, say, age twenty? What if one counted all the rooms one had slept in? Impossible. She’d die counting if she tried. But maybe that would help, would keep her mind off the pain, like counting sheep to fall asleep. But she’d never counted sheep, ever. After her husband’s death she’d made a habit of going to bed only when she was sure she’d sleep right away and in the mornings when she awoke she got up right away. Until the illness. Now she was in bed all the time and slept all the time and always woke up not remembering where she was. As if the world, in preparation for letting her go, was detaching her slowly, room by room.

  What about counting all the rooms she and Phillip had slept in while on vacations. There was the cabin, the guest cabin in Maine, of course. And on their honeymoon, the dark, high-ceilinged room at Daddy’s friend’s house in London. What had that ceiling looked like? She couldn’t remember. The bed had been a four-poster, so she’d looked at the canopy. But what had that looked like? She couldn’t remember.

  Phillip was dead. So were Daddy and Mother. How boring to sit and think of the dead.

  “How strange to be so old,” Phillip had said on his fortieth birthday.

  And of course not long after that the younger women had started. Or maybe it was before that, did it matter now? Not at all. Men. Men and their penises, God help them all.

  I forgive you, Phillip, she thought for the thousandth time: the thought like a reflex, formed and sent off to heaven before she decided to think it. For breaking your vows. For dying first. For lying about it all.

  The sound of the wind folding and murmuring in the soft grass, of boats touching in the sway of the green sea, of waves lapping against the dock.

  “What does God have to do with this?” Phillip had asked, sweat and hair goo, panting. “You know I’m going to marry you, we’ve agreed on that.”

  “Yes,” she had said, holding back what she felt suddenly and as if instinctively: But God has to do with everything, Phillip.

  “It’s not a sin to be in love,” Phillip had continued. “It’s not a sin to express that love, is it?”

  Mrs. Atlee’s eyes opened. Why had she been remembering this scene? Why, of all moments, that one—sordid and pressured. But would it seem so if Phillip hadn’t lied? Later, that was so much later.

  Phillip kissing had felt good, she had wanted to feel him; he hadn’t talked her in to anything. The high sun, the wind in the grass, smells of wood and Phillip, the feel of his body on top of hers. How much would it hurt, she’d wondered.

  There was something for which she did not forgive him. Not sex, that was her choice as much as his; at the moment, at the pain she had cried out and he had looked down at her, Oh are you okay are you okay, but hadn’t stopped. So everything had changed and she had determined that all changes would be for the better in their lives together and when they’d returned to the main house no-one had noticed how long they’d been gone; her brother had asked how their walk was and Phillip had said “fine” and smiled at her. That was a change, having a secret.

  Her mind skipped fifteen years and she was in her and Phillip’s living room, smoking a cigarette, staring at him with wide hard eyes over curling smoke. He was leaning on the mantelpiece, looking at the fire.

  “Are you trying to decide whether to ask my forgiveness or to act like you don’t need to?” she’d asked.

  He’d left the room, smoothing his hair into place, his jaw muscles pressing, knotting.

  Forgiven, forgiven, Mrs. Atlee thought. Go away, go away.

  “Do you need to consult God to know I love you?”

  That was the earlier Phillip. She tried in her memory to look down and see her own earlier body but she was old, her sides hurt. She thought of the poisoned and cut and stitched but uncured disease inside her.

  “Consult God,” he’d said again, later, dying. The same words as that day. Young Phillip smiling. Dying Phillip gasping like she gasped now.

  One doesn’t consult God,
you idiot, she thought. What is a life without faith? She had had one and it wasn’t Phillip’s fault. She could’ve searched—especially later, after he left, after he broke the vows and then really left or even after he died. Forgiven, forgiven. But not—earlier—not—you do not consult God, you idiot. You breathe Him. You stare at grass and clouds in awe, feel Him in the breeze or the warm sun. How could you think you could place yourself between me and Him? How could you think to try. What does God have to do with this? You can’t separate the two. And that moment—oh it was her own fault, her own doing, how could she blame Phillip for the lives without faith they’d led? Devoid of purpose, discipline. Forgiven, Phillip, please go away. You won’t ask but I forgive anyway. Oh Phillip, you poor idiot. But anger filled her stomach, rose into her chest. Her scars ached.

  Oh Phillip. All that time is as nothing.

  At the moment she died, would it all fold in on itself? A life without faith was its own punishment because faith is discipline and without discipline there can be no human attempt at beauty. Human attempts at beauty are conceptions of the divine. Oh God help me to forgive as I ask You to forgive.

  She was moving her lips.

  Prayer was talking to yourself, she thought, and that was fine. Faith was discipline and discipline formed self. She needed a bible. She would ask that nice child—Sam—she would ask Sam to get her a bible and that is what she would read from now on, and have Sam read to her. Not to hear the word of God, as if in consultation, but to glimpse the beauty possible through faith. The beauty of earth, the God in everything, the gentle sweet touches of the soul.

  She lay on her back on soft grass in warm sunlight, arms outstretched, but her rotten insides pulled at her heart and tore at their moorings. It was all at the same time, everything twisting and coiling in on itself, disease and health, youth and age, pain and stillness—nothing—no imploring or injection could ease the—no bright soft light was coming to make everything okay. Everything would change. But would it hurt? Oh, how much would it hurt?

  She cried, and the sobbing hurt her insides more than she thought possible. She managed to raise herself on to her elbows and take a drink of water from the glass on the nightstand.