Oslo, Maine

by Marcia Butler

  Begging was becoming a habit of hers and a problem for Jim. A month earlier, she’d asked him to switch their regular Tuesday to a Wednesday because she had to take Pierre to the doctor. With the appointment two weeks out, she felt certain he’d make an exception. But Jim would have none of it. Rules were sacrosanct, and if it meant they skipped a session and as a result didn’t see each other for an entire month, so be it. His point being, don’t mess with a routine that had worked perfectly for going on a year. But Celine continued to wheedle and accused him of being inflexible, especially in light of “the reason.” That did it. He accused her of using Pierre to manipulate him, which was objectively true. They ended up screaming at each other. Someone pounded on the wall. And for the first time ever, they didn’t have sex.

  So, this morning, Celine had been bent on making things right. She jumped on Jim the minute he walked into the room. In fact, she practically chewed his clothes off. Ferocious she was, with inventive foreplay. Ears? Why not? Toes? Um, sure, there’s a first time for everything. And before intercourse, she pushed him down to give her head. The first orgasm was real. The second? Well, until that morning Celine had never faked anything with Jim.

  He sat on the bed and nudged her in the back. She turned toward him and offered a hopeful smile.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m leaving in a few minutes,” he said, tapping his watch.

  “You don’t know me,” she whispered.

  “I believe I do.”

  “Then why can’t you understand that I need another hour?”

  He scrunched his lips in a grimace and she could tell he was trying to decide, or something worse. Maybe he knew the second orgasm was a sham …

  Jim reached over her and picked up the phone. “Marge? Give us another half hour.”

  She giggled, not quite believing that Jim had actually broken one of his own rules. He dug his keys out of his pocket and threw them back onto the nightstand.

  “I’m here. What?”

  “Everything Claude says about me is true,” she said.

  “He’s a psychopath.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Then a sociopath.”

  “But I am a terrible mother. I couldn’t find the vacuum cleaner—”

  “What?” Jim said, incredulous.

  “We haven’t had sex. I’m pathetic.”

  “That doesn’t make you pathetic, it means you’re discriminating.”

  “I’m so cruel to him. A monster. You have no idea. I owe him at least a fuck.”

  “Marriage doesn’t work like that, Celine.”

  “Yes, it does. Exactly that way,” she said, wiping fresh tears away.

  “Oh wow,” he said after a long sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She flopped against his chest and bawled like a newborn having an asthma attack. Jim held her face and kissed her between sobs, trying to get her to stop. Finally, crying became hiccups and Celine, eyeing the clock, forced herself to calm down. Only seven minutes left.

  “Pierre loves Sandra … I’m jealous,” she confessed, snuffing back snot.

  “Everybody’s jealous of Sandra. I’m jealous of Sandra.”

  “She’s the only functioning adult he knows.”

  “So … this is about Pierre?” he asked, thumbing moisture from her upper lip.

  She shrugged with an exaggerated motion, holding up her shoulders. “Maybe. Yeah, probably.”

  Celine caught herself in the mirror opposite the bed, looking like the queen of hags. Stringy hair, mascara smudges, sunken cheeks. Ashamed that her breasts, which had lost buoyancy due to recent weight loss, sagged badly.

  “How can you even stand me?” she asked, pointing to herself.

  “Oh, you’re so repulsive. And difficult,” Jim said, laughing.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He picked up the phone and ordered another hour from Marge, and for the first time in the year they’d been secret best friends with benefits, Celine told Jim she loved him.

  “Love makes liars out of people,” he said quietly.

  “It’s not a lie.”

  “I know it.”

  He’d never say it back, she knew that well enough. But within this room, filled with all the risks they rarely spoke about, Celine hoped that extra time at the Loon was Jim’s smoke signal for love. He gathered her up, squeezing her so tight she almost lost her breath. And she imagined he was physically willing her to make it through the next minute, hour, day, week.

  “You good for a while?” he whispered into her ear.

  “Yeah,” she grunted.

  “I didn’t bring any. Can you last till next time?”

  “If I’m careful.”

  “Go easy.”

  “I’m trying. Really.”

  Jim’s eyes welled up and he hid his face with his hands.

  “It’s not your fault, Jim. You gave me the first one. I took all the rest.”

  “I could kill myself for doing this to you,” he said, his voice cracking.

  They fell back onto the bed, where Celine’s crying was overpowered by Jim’s sobs.

  THE DAY OF Pierre’s accident, Celine had been scrambling to find someone to pick him up from an after-school event. The other moms on her call list either weren’t available or didn’t answer. Claude was useless, because reception west of the Hump and at the March was almost nonexistent unless he happened to be standing exactly in one of three hot spots. For a few minutes Celine considered abandoning her plans and picking up her son. Then, in a final stab at getting coverage, she called Edna.

  “Luc’s out back trying to get our generator cleared out from the windstorm. So many branches! Did you and Claude suffer?”

  Edna always began a phone call with updates on either the weather or what Luc was doing that very moment, or both—a formality that, though endearingly Edna, annoyed Celine on this particular day because she was in a hurry.

  “No, we’re fine. But I heard some folks in Peru had terrible damage.”

  “Always something up here in Maine—”

  “Listen, Edna, sorry to rush you, but I have a favor to ask. Pierre will be waiting for me at school in about thirty minutes, and I’m tied up. Is there any chance Luc could scoot over and pick him up?”

  “I’m sure he can, but hang on a minute.”

  Celine heard the phone clunk on the counter and then some distant shouting with Edna-like emphasis on every sixth word or so.

  “Celine? It’s fine. I’ll have him leave in five minutes just to be on the safe side.”

  “You’re a doll. Thanks.”

  She’d returned home no more than two hours later, expecting Pierre to greet her at the door. He was old enough to stay by himself for short periods, especially with Sandra and Jim just up the road. But the house was empty, and she immediately felt uneasy. Celine waited only ten seconds before calling Edna, who didn’t answer the phone. This set her to a panic because Edna, a disciple of schedules, was always, always home at that time of day.

  Celine raced to the school on the off chance that Pierre was still there, though she knew the trip was pure folly. Indeed, the parking lot was deserted, and the front doors had been chained. She idled for a few minutes, trying to conjure up even one plausible reason that Pierre was just fine. She knew he wasn’t. There was no option but to head toward the center of Oslo and specifically, the police station. She jammed the gas, running a few red lights along the way. When the road leading to the hospital appeared on her left, on impulse, she careened toward the emergency entrance. She parked right next to Luc’s truck, almost hitting a light pole in the process. Edna’s car was nearby, straddling two spaces at a sloppy angle.

  Then came a sequence of events which, in weeks to come, she’d dream about over and over and in unbearable detail. Slamming the car door and then realizing she’d left her purse on the seat. And thanking God she had the keys right there in her palm. But leaving the purse there anyway, becau
se at that moment she spotted Claude’s truck near the hospital entrance. And pushing through the glass doors, stumbling to her knees, ripping her pants leg while simultaneously tasting blood because she’d bit her tongue. Edna and Luc huddling at the end of a corridor. Claude walking toward her much too slowly. His eyes so wide, from a man who was never, ever surprised. And Celine collapsing to all fours, her head hanging like a beaten dog. Because she knew her son was dead.

  Pierre was released from the hospital that night with a hopeful prognosis—the doctors had assured them he’d be good as new in no time. But the very next morning, Celine realized her son was facing a planet of trouble. Not with his purple eye. Not with his aching body. Not with his lack of appetite, nor even his unquenchable thirst. But all that he’d forgotten. Not only had Pierre lost the entire day of the accident, but large chunks of his general memory seemed to be missing, as well. By early afternoon, after badgering the doctors all morning, who advised nothing more than to wait and see, Celine broke one of Jim’s rules for the first time. She called him at home.

  “How is he?” Jim asked, interrupting the first ring as if expecting her. The news had spread through Oslo by this time, and she and Claude were fielding dozens of calls from well-wishers.

  She sobbed into the phone, unable to speak for a long minute.

  “Tell me,” he said finally.

  “He can’t remember anything,” she managed to blurt out through tears.

  “Confusion?”

  “No. When we came home last night he went right to sleep. No idea about the memory loss until this morning. I think it’s very serious, Jim.”

  “Shit.”

  “But that’s not it. I mean it is … but … I can’t get anybody to tell me what happened.”

  “Not Luc?”

  “Only that he had to take care of something at the March and made a detour before bringing Pierre home. He claims he left Pierre alone for a few minutes and when he came back to get him, he was on the floor, unconscious. That’s his story.”

  “It’s possible, though—”

  “Don’t defend him!”

  “Calm down, Celine. I’m just trying to work it through with you. Rationally—”

  “I don’t believe him. Luc is obedient like a dog, especially with Edna and instructions. But more and more he’s been glued to Claude with this mentoring thing. And now Claude’s been skulking around the house like he just beat his own mother to a pulp. He might not have been there, but he knows what happened. I know that man.”

  “Is it possible you’re overreacting—”

  “Stop!” she screamed.

  To make the call to Jim, Celine had secreted herself in a storage closet, and she suddenly felt suffocated by the wool winter coats on either side. Though the closet itself was cool, Celine began to sweat and felt close to blacking out. Now she could hear Jim panting over the phone, almost in sync with her own breathing.

  “I have to see you. Please. Do this one thing for me,” she begged.

  “Not at the Loon. Can you get to Portland? Tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Of course. Yes.”

  “There’s a Motel 6 just outside of town. I’ll reserve a room … about two-ish.”

  Celine arrived at the Motel 6 unwashed and hungry. Jim pulled out a sandwich from the pocket of his cello case and forced her to eat it. He ran the water and helped her into the tub, then washed her hair with Dial soap from the pump. Celine couldn’t stop shivering, so he added hot water from time to time. Finally, her body seemed to release the tension she’d been holding from not sleeping for over twenty-four hours. Once in bed and under the covers, she turned onto her belly and wailed into the pillow. Jim dragged a desk chair over and waited her out. When her voice got too hoarse to make much of a sound at all, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial.

  “Take one when you get home. It’ll help.”

  “What is it?” she croaked.

  “Painkiller. For my back. It’ll put you to sleep.”

  He tapped a dozen small white pills into her palm.

  NOON APPROACHED AT the Loon and a chambermaid knocked twice.

  “We’re still in here!” Celine yelled.

  A faint “sorry, senorita” came from the other side of the door.

  “Look at us. We’re both wrecks,” Jim said, blowing his nose. “At least Sandra’s in Portland today, so we don’t have to worry about the extra time.”

  “Claude never asks where I’ve been anymore. He’s terrified of me. And all guilty about Pierre.”

  “Well, he should be. I mean about Pierre,” Jim said.

  “Lighten up on Claude.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Jim, I have to get this out. Tell you something.”

  Being the only one naked, Celine suddenly felt modest. She got up, pulled on her clothes, and sat on the only chair in the room. A Gideon Bible lay on the desktop and she considered picking it up, but somebody else’s god couldn’t help her now. Jim eyed her with a worry she’d never seen on his face.

  “It’s not what you think,” she assured him.

  “What do I think?”

  “That I’m having sex with someone else. I mean, other than Claude.”

  “Good. Because that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “It’s worse.”

  “Nothing could be worse than that. Unless you killed somebody. Wait … Claude?”

  Usually Celine appreciated Jim’s dark humor, and he often joked about Claude disappearing one day like Jimmy Hoffa. But she couldn’t laugh now; nothing had been funny for a long time.

  “It was my fault. I caused the whole thing.”

  “That thing being …”

  “Pierre,” she said, biting her fingernails.

  “You mean his accident?”

  “I stopped to get a manicure.”

  “Huh? You could use another,” he said, leaning forward and gently slapping her hand away from her mouth.

  “And then I got a pedicure.”

  “I have no idea where this is going—”

  “They hadn’t dried enough. My toes. So, I figured if somebody was available for a massage, I’d get one while they dried. But that was going to make me late to pick up Pierre, so I called Edna and got Luc to pick him up. All because of my fucking toenails.”

  “Oh, come on, Celine—”

  “Wait. It gets worse. Then I talked to the salon owner for another thirty minutes. By the time I left, Pierre was already in the hospital.”

  Jim stared at her, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “It’s my only job. To be his mother. To keep him safe. To pick him up from school. To not get pedicures—”

  “Wait. Are you stoned right now?”

  “Not since yesterday. I told you. I’m trying.”

  “Good. Now I’m sure you’ll understand this. A million things could have prevented Pierre’s accident that day. A million things … including Luc bringing Pierre directly home. You are not responsible, Celine. Don’t make this your problem.”

  The problem was, once upon a time the pills actually did their job. She slept as if unconscious, then woke and functioned as usual. But as Pierre’s condition dragged on and her family disintegrated in front of her eyes, Celine wanted to shut it all out. Even the hope. She began to chip. Now the problem was that Jim’s notion of the truth felt empty. His answers to her problems, no matter how rational and well-intentioned, had ceased to mean what she knew they should. Because the only answer that made any sense at all, seemed to be a pill.

  A RED-SLASH DAY

  MORE AND MORE, PIERRE’S MOM (AND occasionally his dad) had been interrupting his practice sessions, bugging him about unimportant stuff like, had he brushed his teeth? (Yes.) Or, did he want to help shop for food? (No.) And, most irritating, had he gotten any memory back? (No comment.) So, Pierre had recently devised a method to get rid of them. As soon as he heard footsteps approaching from down the hall, he’d close his eyes and play as loud as he coul
d. They’d try and try and try to talk over the sound, even poke him on the shoulder. But if he just kept playing and ignored anything they did or said to make him stop and pay attention, sooner or later they’d back out of the room. He’d then refocus, continue practicing, and soon forget all their pointless questions. That was the best thing about playing the violin: getting lost. The sounds, and music, were Pierre’s safe zone.

  This morning he was working on an especially tricky passage in the last movement of the Vivaldi concerto. He tried to play it correctly three times in a row, something Mrs. Kimbrough said he should aim for. She said three was a special number—even called it “spiritual”—and that it was also connected to physics and lots of other stuff. Mrs. Kimbrough warned that three was a very hard thing to do. Pierre was skeptical. But he soon discovered that while twice in a row was pretty easy, three was almost impossible. He’d just started the fifth round of attempts, when a banging on the mudroom door broke his concentration. Pierre ignored the noise and now decided to pick apart the phrase. Slowing it down, he played one note, then the next and the next, focusing only on his bow arm. Then he brought in the left hand and tried for accuracy of pitch. Finally, he added the correct rhythms. Each thing on its own was really hard. But when all of it did come together, oh, how that made him happy.

  Now he was ready to try another round of three, but the door pounding hadn’t stopped. He took his time. He wiped his violin with a soft rag and placed it on the bed; Pierre meant to come straight back to practicing once he got rid of whoever was at the door. Then, he squared up the small area rug, which had gone off-kilter, and straightened a fresh stack of books from Edna. Just as Pierre walked out of his bedroom to see who was there, the banging stopped. Still, he wanted to make certain they were gone.

  “Is your mom home?”

  Mrs. Cabot stood next to the Ringleader, who was all dressed up with colored bows in her hair and green toenails poking out of her sandals—obviously trying to bring attention to herself. Pierre suddenly worried that he’d forgotten something. Maybe his mom had scheduled some weird playdate. Pierre grimaced at the thought. He didn’t want friends to be organized for him and had told her so many times.