Oslo, Maine

by Marcia Butler

  PARANOIA IS KNOWING ALL THE FACTS

  ONCE THEY’D RETURNED FROM THE hospital, and with Sandra due back within the hour to pick up Pierre, Celine gathered some energy and set to fixing him a quick meal. She watched her son munch on a hamburger with onion and tomato, a dab of honey mustard. At one point he stopped chewing mid-motion and offered her half. Celine smiled and shook her head, chagrined by his vigilant scrutiny. Pierre doted on her in so many ways. Like making sure she drank enough water, especially when she didn’t eat. Shyly suggesting that she apply deodorant before they leave the house. Brushing the snarled hair at the back of her head, which she’d often neglect. And giving her hard hugs, telling her that he’d be okay when she knew full well that nothing, in any way, was okay. But she’d nod, needing to believe in her son’s naïve optimism. Not only was Celine siphoning off Pierre’s good nature, but she’d begun to see herself as one of those opportunistic ocean feeders, like the fish that attached themselves to the bottom of a shark for a meal or a ride. As she’d done with Claude. Even as he chided her, threatened her, pitied her, Celine still counted on Claude’s stalwart love and his willingness to always grant affection on request. And the empirical fact that Sandra enriched Pierre’s life more than she ever could was a sure sign that, however perverse, Sandra was the best person Celine had ever known.

  She stood on the steps to her house and watched them drive off to the concert, something Celine had no understanding of. Pierre’s squeals of happiness unfurled through the open window. Their heads bobbed up and down, turned side to side—chatting, agreeing, enjoying. That Sandra was preparing her son for his future was clear enough. But in her dark imagination, Celine saw a scenario where they’d not return. Perhaps not on this particular night, but eventually Sandra would take Pierre and give him the life his talent deserved. And Celine knew that once Pierre stopped missing Claude and especially her, he’d be fine. Really, so much better off. She couldn’t, at this moment, predict the emotional land mines sure to come from such an abduction. But surely everyone would come to appreciate the wisdom of this eventuality. Because if you loved Pierre Roy, if you understood his needs, if you cared at all about his happiness, well, Sandra was the best solution.

  Celine sat at her kitchen table and gripped her midsection. This potential conclusion had produced the exact same pain—a drill digging a hole in her belly—as when she’d discovered Pierre was in the hospital from an accident that no one could, or would, explain to her. She knew of only two methods of relief and chose the one closest to her. She reached for the landline sitting across from her on the table and dialed Jim.

  Eight, nine, ten rings …

  She plunked the handset on the table and stared at the sound. He was there. She knew it. Where else could he be, what with the back pain that Sandra said prevented him from playing the concert that evening? Now her legs ached, her head itched, her fingers twitched. She went clammy cold. Pierre had placed a shawl on the back rung of her chair before he left. In case you need it, Mom. Despite the summer heat, she wrapped herself inside the wool, once again sad that her son had learned to anticipate her discomfort. That was her job. But she couldn’t even remember whether Pierre had taken his jacket for the evening chill. And truly, what kind of mother summoned her best efforts for the likes of Dr. Stanton? Because he was specifically who she’d stayed straight for earlier in the day. Not for her son. And now Celine wanted that second remedy: a pill.

  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty rings …

  Why would Jim torture her like this? They didn’t fight. No couple-like conflicts resulting in resentment and brooding. The worst thing might be one bringing Chinese food when the other preferred deli sandwiches. Or who went down on whom, first. And nothing was off-limits. Jim was amenable to every position, endless topics, and most importantly, all of her faults. That is, until she’d broken one lousy rule the day after Pierre’s accident and called him. Jesus, her son had been hurt! But since that day, Celine interpreted every eyebrow twitch as an indication of cracks in their fuselage. My eyebrows are innocent bystanders! was how Jim typically reassured her. Now Celine imagined Jim sitting in his house, staring at her incoming number, waiting her out. Hoping she’d give up and maybe even disappear from his life altogether.

  Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one …

  The phone went dead. Celine slumped. Then within five seconds, her cell buzzed from across the room.

  “Don’t ever call me on the landline,” Jim said, his voice quiet and harsh.

  “I thought it’d be harder to trace—”

  “No. It’s all listed, including date and time. Sandra pays the bills. She practically uses a microscope. Have I made my point?” he said, now almost breathless.

  “But now the cell. How do we fix that?”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Claude had also used that phrase when, the previous night, she’d demanded another pair of Jimmy Choos. You’ve already got five pairs. What the fuck’s wrong with you? Both men in her life asking the same rhetorical question, the answer so blatantly obvious. What the fuck, indeed. She walked to the bathroom with the cell clamped between her shoulder and ear and took the bottle down from the top shelf.

  “Meet me?” she whimpered, sitting on the toilet.

  “What for?”

  “I wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please.”

  Jim didn’t answer. A fresh unease filtered through her body. She cupped some water from the faucet and tipped it into her mouth, then smeared the remainder on her face. The liquid had mixed with her dried sweat. She tasted salt, which roiled her stomach slightly.

  “Does this have to do with Pierre’s appointment?” he finally asked. “Sandra didn’t say much—she was in and out.”

  Now she latched on like a grifter—his concern for her son.

  “In a way,” she said, though it wasn’t anything about Pierre. More that the pain in her stomach now felt terminal. “You know she took Pierre with her to Portland?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they’re tied up for hours and Claude’s at his shift. Meet me.”

  “Can’t do it,” he said with a sigh.

  “Jim—”

  “Stop it. Anyway, I was in bed, which is where I’m headed to now. Bye.”

  The pill Celine was thinking about swallowing sat clamped in her hand. Sweat had caused a slight melt, and the residue was settling into her life crease. She blew on the pill and dropped it into her dress pocket, then rinsed her palm. After slipping into sturdy shoes, she threw off the shawl and left the house.

  The summer heat was still intense despite it being six p.m. But a canopy of pine trees along the road buffered the sun, making it feel at least ten degrees cooler. With an intermittent breeze, walking actually felt a comfort. And surprisingly, her legs, whose calf muscles had greatly weakened from weeks of oversleeping and lack of exercise, were strong enough to propel her up the steep incline on the road common to the two properties. In short order, she passed the abandoned campground, shut down a year earlier. In spite of its close proximity, Claude had always forbidden Pierre to attend such a place. No son of his … Celine agreed, though mostly because Pierre had always been solitary. And truth be told, she couldn’t imagine him enjoying days on end with a bunch of nose-picking boys.

  After cresting the hill, Celine headed into an open field, where she happened upon the remnants of a bonfire. Field stones and rocks, with tall summer grasses thriving in between, circled charred logs. Wands meant for marshmallow roasting lay scattered about, and faded Highlights magazines were stuck together from what looked like many seasons of snow and rain. She wasn’t sure whose land she was standing on at the moment, Kimbrough or Roy. Claude hadn’t been that obnoxious as to red-stake the boundary so near to where they all lived. In any case, the fire pit was completely out of view from both the road and their houses. Celine, turning in c
ircles to get her bearings, was suddenly disoriented—almost frightened. She probed the pill in her pocket. Just then the sun vanished behind a low bank of clouds, which caused the lights at Jim’s house to appear. Relieved, she withdrew her hand, chiding herself for her paranoia.

  As with every mirage, the final leg of the walk took longer than she expected, perhaps another ten minutes. And having not eaten since the ride home from the hospital, she was by now very hungry. She approached at the back of the house and, standing outside the sliding glass doors, stared into the kitchen. Music blared. “Josie” by Steely Dan. Jim, bare-chested and wearing only his boxer shorts, ran on a treadmill at high speed. His arms pumped in sync with his gait, like a stallion in its prime. Sweat trickled down his torso and flew off his hair. Then the song changed to “Layla.” After turning off the treadmill, Jim jumped to the floor and tossed off about fifty push-ups without pausing. He segued into sit-ups, squeezing his eyes shut with the effort. Celine watched, bewildered by the ease with which he exercised. Jim had back problems.

  Knocking didn’t cut through Eric Clapton, so she slid open the door, walked over to Jim, and nudged his foot with the toe of her shoe.

  “What the hell!” he yelled, and crab-walked back before collapsing.

  “The door was open,” Celine explained sheepishly.

  Jim reached behind him to shut off the music. He took a towel from the kitchen counter and wiped his neck and chest, then dropped a Grateful Dead T-shirt over his head.

  “What?” he asked, arms crossed, foot tapping.

  “What about your back?” she asked, pointing to the treadmill.

  “What about it?” he said, like a sixteen-year-old sassing his least favorite parent. “Give me your phone.”

  “I didn’t bring it,” she said, patting her dress pockets to make sure.

  “Wonderful.” Jim smirked. “Delete that call when you go home. It’s still in the cloud, but it’ll have to do.”

  She nodded, produced a broad smile and took his hand.

  “Not so fast,” he said, retracting from her as if burned. “Celine. Seriously?”

  “I need you.”

  “You get every conceivable part of me twice a month.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said with a wounded look.

  “Neither did I.”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds until he yielded.

  “Oh Jesus, sit down. You look terrible.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  Jim went to the refrigerator, removed a jug of chilled water, and poured them two glasses. He grabbed a container of hummus, a couple of carrots, pita bread, and laid plates and silverware opposite each other. “This is all I’ve got. We’re a bit low on groceries at the moment.”

  While Celine devoured most of the food and several glasses of water, Jim ate very little. A bowl of M&M’s sat between them, which he pecked at. When she finished, Jim scooped a handful and flicked several her way. Every sound in the large room was amplified, including her jaw crunching on the candy. The bright clatter of plates, the bang of their glasses on the stone tabletop. Chairs scraping on the floor as they occasionally repositioned themselves. Shrill. They’d never shared a meal anywhere but the Loon, where most noise, human or otherwise, was absorbed by the stained carpet and dreary upholstery. This kitchen, with all its bouncy surfaces, was without a doubt Sandra’s territory. And Celine felt like she’d traveled not just down the road but to a far-off country whose language she’d never master and culture she’d never assimilate into. Forever the “other.”

  “When’s the last time you were here?” Jim asked as if reading her mind.

  “I’ve avoided it since we started. I really can’t remember.”

  “Well, with Claude’s Maine snobbery and now you and me, the four of us have never been the easiest of neighbors. Though Sandra’s tried pretty damned hard.”

  “Sandra’s a good person,” Celine said.

  “That she is,” Jim concurred, nodding slowly. “Couldn’t live without her.”

  “Me neither,” Celine agreed quickly, surprised by her own admission.

  The food and water had satisfied, and at last Celine’s body settled into some degree of normal. She sat back on her chair and stretched out her legs, appreciating a fullness to her belly. The ache had lessened well enough. They stayed quiet now, which Celine was grateful for, because at this moment she wasn’t nearly as desperate as when she’d left her house. She even understood why Jim hung up on her, and was about to suggest that they forget the whole episode. Just give him a kiss on the cheek and rewind the clock as if this had never happened.

  At least that was the plan, until Jim dropped his head to the table and began to weep. Celine stretched her arms out and they gripped each other’s hands. She held tight, didn’t move a muscle—her restraint to not ask questions, a miracle. All so Jim could stay with whatever was making him hurt so, just as he’d done for her on too many occasions.

  Jim pressed his palms to his eyes, wiping tears. “There’s nothing wrong with my back,” he whispered.

  “That’s obvious. I watched you work out like an iron man before I came in.”

  “You were spying?” He sniffed indignantly.

  “Not spying, just waiting for you to finish. But I was surprised.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Of course.” Celine took a sip of water and shoved the glass to him. He drank deeply.

  “I’ve been faking the pain to get out of concerts.”

  “What? That doesn’t make sense. Why?”

  “It’s complicated. But as long as I keep going to the chiropractor he’ll sign off on no playing, and I can take my sick days and still get paid.”

  “Can’t they tell? I mean that you’re faking it.”

  “Hell no. All you have to do is say you’re in agony. What can they do, accuse me of lying? Why would anyone lie about pain? Well, I guess there’s lots of reasons. But it’s good for them, too. They get to prescribe another batch of sessions. What a scam.”

  “But why get out of concerts?”

  “Oh Jesus.” Jim took the bottom of his T-shirt and wiped his face of sweat. “How to put this. I don’t want to play the cello anymore. I’ve had it. I’m overwhelmed. Exhausted. I hate the whole damned profession.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I’d love it if somebody’d run it over with a truck. Better, steal the damn thing. At least we’d get an insurance claim out of it.”

  “But you and Sandra are artists—”

  “Don’t idealize, Celine. You don’t know the first thing about it. We don’t have an easy or even good life. What we do, driving to kingdom come and back. Scrounging for the odd gig. It’s like being a traveling salesman. With terrible sales. And now Sandra’s up to her eyeballs with students.”

  “But why do you have to fake the pain? Can’t you tell Sandra any of this?”

  “Are you kidding? We’re flat broke. The house systems are breaking down. There’s no hot water. Neither of us has bought clothes in a couple of years. Sandra’s off to Goodwill every month to scrounge. Bottom line, we can’t survive unless I bring in my income from the symphony. And we owe a lot of people money. I’m surprised you haven’t heard … have you?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a whiff from Claude? The town crier?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Whatever. I’m not the first person in the world who hated his job. I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’ll lend you money.”

  “Right. That’s the last thing you need.”

  “But we’ve got it.”

  Jim shook his head, doubtful. “You guys have got to be as tight as we are.”

  “Claude’s pretty flush.”

  “What does that mean? Rich?”

  “No, not like that. But … you know Claude …”

  “No. What?”

  “He’s always had some sort of side hustle going. But lately there s
eems to be more money. Cash. I don’t ask.”

  “That’s really nice of you, but it’s a terrible idea. And anyway, Sandra would never allow it. But I’ve been trying to fix the solar panels on my own. There’s a flaw in the system and I think I’m onto something pretty cool …” Jim’s voice disappeared. “Listen to me.”

  She walked around the table and sat in his lap. Jim gathered her in his arms, and she looked into his eyes, all rheumy. They kissed, primly at first with Jim holding back; it was his house, after all. Then he pushed into her and the kiss deepened.

  “I think I want to live,” Jim said softly into her neck.

  “You’d better,” she said, now stroking his cheeks.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  “Do I what?”

  “Want to live?”

  “I haven’t taken one since this morning.”

  She took the pill out of her pocket and placed it on the table. Jim lobbed it into the farmhouse sink. She heard it ping several times against porcelain.

  “I guess that’s that,” she said, laughing. “I’d better get going. Can you zip me down to my house?”

  “Sure, but why are we breaking a rule? You never told me.”

  “Oh. Right. It doesn’t seem that important now. Forgive me?”

  “Don’t I always?” he said while glancing at his cell. “Christ. It’s almost nine thirty … wait. This is strange. There’s a couple hang-ups from Sandra, and a voicemail.”

  Jim listened for about ten seconds, put the phone down, and cleared his throat.

  “What is it? You look strange.”

  “Aw hell. Sandra’s had an accident,” he said.

  “Pierre?”

  Jim opened his mouth, then shut it. He nodded.

  Celine’s hand immediately went to her dress pocket. She dug deep, feeling the creases and seams along the bottom, searching for something small and round. When that yielded nothing, she gripped the fabric, trying to pull the pocket inside out. A few pieces of lint fluttered to the floor. She ran to the sink. It had been freshly rinsed, no dishes stacked, no glasses rimmed with wine. Yes, this was Sandra’s domain, and that small round thing had skittered down her drain unimpeded.