The New Yorker Stories Part 46

"It was a present," Dale said. "From a student who's married to a wine importer, so I suspect it's good."

Nelson held the platter for Brenda to serve herself.

"Has it been properly stored?" Jerome said. "That could be an excellent wine. We can only hope nothing happened to it."

Dale looked at him. As interested as he'd ostensibly been in her health, the concern about the wine was far greater. She had thought, to begin with, that being so solicitous had actually been Jerome's way of pointing out her vulnerability. Poor Dale, who might have to be stretched out on the floor any second. It fit with his concept of women.

Nelson moved to Jerome's side. He was holding the bottle. "Nineteen eighty-five," he said.

"You know, that is a very elegant wine indeed. Let me see that," Jerome said. Jerome cradled the bottle against his chest. He looked down at it, smiling. "May I, as the person who once saved your husband's life, ask what would you think about my opening this to go with dinner?" he said.

"Jerome!" Brenda said. "Give that back to Nelson."

Nelson looked at Dale, with an expression somewhere between perplexity and pleading. It was just a bottle of wine. She had no reason to think the doctor or her husband were wine connoisseurs. There was the bottle of Saint-emilion, but it would have seemed churlish to mention it now. "Absolutely," Dale said. She pushed her chair back and went to the cupboard and took out their own stemmed gla.s.ses with a wide bowl which they had brought with them, along with her duvet and the collection of cooking magazines.

Dale put a gla.s.s at everyone's place. Jerome was smiling. "We can only hope," he said.

Brenda was looking at Dale, but Dale did not meet her eyes. She was determined to let them all see that she was unconcerned. Jerome was usually so polite.

"Tell me," he said, wine bottle clamped between his legs, turning the corkscrew. "Surely you aren't going to decline one small gla.s.s of this, Dale?"

"I can't drink," she said.

"Then what is that gla.s.s for?" he said.

"Perrier," she said, p.r.o.nouncing the word very distinctly.

Jerome looked attentively at the bottle as he slowly withdrew the cork. He picked up the bottle slowly and sniffed. Then he put his white linen napkin over his finger and worked it around the top, inside the bottle. That was the first time it became clear to her that he was doing what he was doing out of anger. She picked up her fork and speared a piece of eggplant.

"You've fallen quiet, Dale," he said. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," she said, trying to sound mildly surprised.

"It's just that you're so quiet," he persisted.

Brenda seemed about to speak, but said nothing. Dale managed a shrug. "I hope there are enough spices on the vegetables," she said. "I roasted them without salt. Would anyone like salt?"

Of course, since they had all now turned their attention to Dale, whatever she said sounded false and shallow.

"I appreciate your laying in Macon-Lugny for me," Jerome went on. "In most cases, white would go well with pork roast. But an '85 Opus One-that, of course, is completely divine." Jerome sniffed the bottle. It might have been snuff, he inhaled so deeply. Then he sat the bottle on the table, near the sundial. "Let it breathe for a moment," he said. He turned his chair at an angle, feigning closeness with Dale.

Dale picked up a piece of carrot with her fingers and bit into it. She said nothing.

"You had Didi to dinner last month with some friends of yours, I hear," he said.

Who had told him, since he and Didi didn't speak? Nelson, obviously. Why?

"Yes," Dale said.

Jerome took a bite of meat and a bite of vegetable. He reached for the applesauce and ladled some on his plate. He said nothing about the food.

"I understand you've made a portrait of her," he said.

Brenda was chewing slowly. She knew, and Dale knew, that Jerome was warming up to something. In fact, Dale herself didn't much like Didi-in part because they seemed to have little in common. On top of that, Didi condescended by acting as if Dale was the sophisticate, and she-the world traveler-just a poor old lady. Dale had thought that photographing her-in spite of the momentary imbalance of power-might ultimately get the two of them on a more even footing.

Jerome said: "I'd be curious to see it."

"No," Dale said.

"No? Why ever not?" Jerome said.

"You don't like your ex-wife," she said. "There's no reason to look at a picture of her."

"Listen to her!" Jerome said, jutting his chin in Nelson's direction.

"Jerome-what's wrong?" Nelson said quietly.

"What's wrong? There's something wrong about my request to see a photograph? I have a curiosity about what Didi looks like. We were married for years, you'll remember."

"I don't want to see it," Brenda said.

"You don't have to. If you don't want any of the wine, you don't have to have that, either." Jerome twirled the bottle. As the label revolved in front of him, he picked up the bottle and poured. A thin stream of wine went into the gla.s.s.

"I don't quite see how not wanting to look at a photograph of your ex means I don't want wine," Brenda said.

"You prefer white. Isn't that so?" Jerome said.

"Usually. But you made this wine sound very good."

"It's good, but not great," Jerome said, inhaling. He had not yet taken a sip. He swirled the wine in his gla.s.s, then put the gla.s.s to his lips and slowly tilted it back. "Mmm," he said. He nodded. "Quite good, but not perfect," he said. He cut a piece of roast.

Nelson kept his eyes on Dale, who was intent upon not looking at Brenda. Brenda was doing worse than anyone else with Jerome's behavior. "May I talk to you in the kitchen?" Brenda said to Jerome.

"Oh, just take me to task right here. In the great tradition of Didi, who never lowered her voice or avoided any confrontation."

"I'm not Didi," Brenda said. "What I want to know is whether you're acting this way because you're p.i.s.sed off I have a job I enjoy and that means I'm not there to answer your every whim, or whether there's some real bone you have to pick with Dale."

"Forget it," Nelson said. "Come on. Dale has made this wonderful meal."

"Don't tell me what not to say to Jerome," Brenda said.

"Let's take another walk and cool off," Dale said to Brenda. "Maybe they'd like to talk. Maybe we could use some air."

"All right," Brenda said, surprising Dale. She had thought Brenda would dig her heels in, but she seemed relieved by the suggestion. She got up and walked through the kitchen and into the hallway where the coats were hung. In the dark, she put on Dale's jacket instead of her own. Dale noticed, but since they wore the same size, she put on Brenda's without comment. Outside, Brenda realized her error when she plunged her hand in the pocket and felt the doughnut holes. "Oh, this is yours," she said, and began to unzip the jacket.

"We wear the same size. Keep it on," Dale said. Brenda looked at her, making sure she meant it. Then she took her fingers off the zipper. As they walked, Brenda began apologizing for Jerome. She said she'd only been guessing, back at the house. She didn't really know what he was so angry about, though she a.s.sumed they knew that he was more fond of them than his own children-these being the daughter he'd had between Didi and Brenda, and the son whose mother was married to someone else. "He had a couple of beers on the plane. They took a bottle upstairs when they went to fix the wiring, too. Maybe he just had too much to drink," Brenda said.

"It doesn't matter," Dale said. She pointed at the Portsmouth light. "I like that," she said. "In the evening I like the colorful sky, but at night I like that one little light almost as much."

Dale tried to see her watch, but couldn't read it. "Too late to round up Tyrone," she said. She knew that it was, even without being able to see the time. In the distance, wind rustled the willows. They were walking where the path turned and narrowed, between the divided field. It was Dale and Nelson's responsibility, as renters, to have the fields plowed so the scrub wouldn't take over. In the distance, you could hear the white noise of cars on the highway. That, and the wind rustling, disguised the sound of tires until a black car with its headlights off was almost upon them. Brenda clutched Dale's arm as she jumped in fear, moving so quickly into the gra.s.s in her high-heeled boots that she lost her balance and fell, toppling both of them. "Oh, s.h.i.+t, my ankle," she said. "Oh, no." Both were sprawled in the field, the h.o.a.rfrost on the gra.s.s crunching like wintery quicksand as they struggled to stand. A car without headlights? And after nearly sideswiping them, it accelerated. The big shadow of the car moved quickly away, crunching stones more loudly as it receded than it had on the approach.

Brenda had turned her ankle. Dale helped her up, dusting wetness from her own jacket on Brenda's back, wanting to delay the moment when Brenda would say she couldn't walk. "Some G.o.d-d.a.m.ned maniac," Dale said. "Can you put pressure on it? How does it feel?"

"It hurts, but I don't think it's broken," Brenda said.

Dale looked into the distance, Brenda's hand still on her shoulder. "s.h.i.+t," Brenda said again. "I'd better take these things off and walk home in my tights. You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say that was Jerome, zeroing in for the kill."

Kill. With a worse chill than the night air explained, she had realized that the car must have been speeding away from Janet's house. That they would have to go on-she, at least, would have to go on-and see what had happened. With a worse chill than the night air explained, she had realized that the car must have been speeding away from Janet's house. That they would have to go on-she, at least, would have to go on-and see what had happened.

"It's something bad-" Dale began.

"I know," Brenda said, crying now. "But the worst thing is that I'm pregnant, and I don't dare tell him, he's been so s.h.i.+tty lately. It's like he hates me. I feel like he'd like it if my ankle was broken."

"No," Dale said, hearing what Brenda said, but not quite hearing it. "Something at the house down there. Janet's house."

Brenda's hand seized Dale's shoulder. "Oh, my G.o.d," she said.

"Wait here," Dale said.

"No! I'm coming with you," Brenda told her.

"I've got a very bad feeling," Dale said.

"We don't know," Brenda said. "It could have been kids-drunk, playing a game with the lights out." From the tenuous way she spoke, it was clear she didn't believe herself.

Slowly, helping her to walk, Brenda's boots in one of her hands, the other around Brenda's waist, the two of them walked until the little house came in sight. "Not exactly a wedding cake," Brenda said, squinting at what was hardly more than a clapboard shack. There was one light on, which was an ambiguous sign: it could be good, or it could mean nothing at all.

The front door slightly ajar was the worst possible sign. Dale surprised herself by having the courage to push it open. Inside, the wood fire had burned out. A cus.h.i.+on was on the floor. A mug lay near it, in a puddle of whatever had been inside. The house was horribly, eerily silent. It was rare that Dale found herself surrounded by silence.

"Janet?" Dale said. "It's Dale. Janet?"

She was on the kitchen floor. They saw her when Dale turned on the light. Janet was breathing shallowly, a small trickle of blood congealed at one side of her mouth. Dale's impulse was to gather Janet in her arms, but she knew she should not move her head. "Janet? Everything's going to be okay," she heard herself say dully. She meant to be emphatic, but instead her voice was monotonic. Her ears had begun to close-the warning that she would soon have an attack of vertigo. But why? She had drunk no wine; she had eaten no sugar. Panic attacks had been ruled out when Meniere's had been ruled in. "You must learn the power of positive thinking," she heard the doctor saying to her. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but it works. I'm not a mystical person. It's more like biofeedback. Say to yourself, 'This will not happen to me.' "

The room was quivering, as if the walls themselves were vibrating because of some tremor in the earth. Dale repeated the words, silently. She could see Janet's chest rising and falling. Her breathing did not seem to be labored, though whoever had been there had tried to strangle her with a piece of rope. From the color of her face, it was obvious she had been deprived of oxygen. Her long fingers were balled into fists. Blood oozed from a cut on her arm. An ankh cross dangled from one end of the rope. The Dictionary of Symbols The Dictionary of Symbols lay on the floor, a blood-smudged chart beside it. Beside that, torn from the wall, was a photograph Dale had taken of Janet's hand holding the fine pearwood brush she used to draw symbols. The photograph had been ripped so that the brush was broken in half. Remembering, suddenly, what she must do, Dale went to the wall phone and dialed 911. "Someone is unconscious at the end of Harmony Lane," she said. It was difficult to tell how loud, or soft, her words were. Harmony Lane-was that what she had just said? What ridiculous place was that? Some fake street in some ridiculous Walt Disney development? But no-they hadn't gone there. They had rented a house in Maine, that was where they were. She squinted against the star s.h.i.+ning through the kitchen window, like a bright dart aimed at her eye. It was not a star, though. It was the light from Portsmouth. lay on the floor, a blood-smudged chart beside it. Beside that, torn from the wall, was a photograph Dale had taken of Janet's hand holding the fine pearwood brush she used to draw symbols. The photograph had been ripped so that the brush was broken in half. Remembering, suddenly, what she must do, Dale went to the wall phone and dialed 911. "Someone is unconscious at the end of Harmony Lane," she said. It was difficult to tell how loud, or soft, her words were. Harmony Lane-was that what she had just said? What ridiculous place was that? Some fake street in some ridiculous Walt Disney development? But no-they hadn't gone there. They had rented a house in Maine, that was where they were. She squinted against the star s.h.i.+ning through the kitchen window, like a bright dart aimed at her eye. It was not a star, though. It was the light from Portsmouth.

The woman who answered told Dale to stay calm. She insisted she stay where she was. It was as if all this was about Dale-not Janet, but Dale, standing in Janet's kitchen. For a second the voice of the woman at 911 got confused with the voice of the doctor saying, This will not happen to me.

There was a shriek of sirens. They sounded far, far away, yet distinct: background music that portended trouble. Dale was so stunned that, instead of hanging up, she stood with the phone in her hand, imagining she'd hung up. She had seen Janet two days before. Three? They had talked about squash. The squash Janet would appreciate Dale's buying for her at the Farmers' Market. "This is her neighbor, Dale," she said, in what she thought was an answer to the question the woman was asking, faintly, on the opposite end of the phone. Why didn't the woman ask about Janet? "We saw a car," she heard herself say, though her mouth was not near enough for the 911 operator to hear.

That was the moment when Tyrone burst out from underneath the two-seat sofa, charging so quickly he overshot Dale and knocked Brenda down. She screamed with fear long after she might have realized it was only a dog. Tyrone was as afraid as they were; everything was made worse by Brenda's high-pitched scream.

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm so sorry," Brenda said, apologizing to the cowering dog, its back legs shaking so pathetically, Dale could not see how he remained upright. "Oh, G.o.d, here," Brenda said, inching closer, reaching in the jacket pocket with trembling hands for a doughnut hole and holding it out to the dog, who did not approach but stood shakily leaning into Dale's leg. No one looked at Janet's body. Wind rattled the gla.s.s, but the louder sound was that of sirens. Dale saw Brenda c.o.c.k her head and turn, as if she could see the sound. Brenda turned back and threw the doughnut hole to the dog, missing by a mile.

"It's okay," Dale said, moving her leg astride the dog and edging the doughnut hole toward him with the toe of her boot. It was a powdered-sugar doughnut hole that left a streak of white on the floorboards. By Janet's hand had been a streak-no: a puddle, not a streak-of blood. Dale did not look in that direction; she was so afraid Janet might have stopped breathing.

Dale looked across the room at Brenda. Brenda, dejectedly, was about to throw another doughnut hole. Dale watched as she tossed it slowly, repeating Dale's words: "It's okay." Then she took a step forward and said to Dale: "Make him forgive me. Make him like me again."

Dale was stroking Tyrone's head. Tyrone had become her dog. Brenda and Jerome's child, she thought, would become Brenda's child. All of Jerome's women had wanted babies, and he had bitterly resented every one: the son born to the married woman in France, whose husband believed the child to be his; the daughter born as his marriage to his second wife was disintegrating. Nelson had been the only one he wanted. Well-if you had what you already considered the perfect child, maybe that made sense. Nelson was intellectually curious, smart, obedient, favoring his stepfather over his mother, a loyal child.

Nelson and Jerome would be at the table, finis.h.i.+ng dinner, Nelson having found a way to excuse Jerome, Jerome's pa.s.sive aggression subsiding into agreeableness-as if, by the two women's disappearing, any problem automatically disappeared, too. Without them, Nelson and Jerome could move on to the salad course. Drink the entire bottle of Opus One. Nelson would probably have brought down the photograph of Didi, her face deeply lined by years of having kept up with Jerome in his drinking, as well as other bad decisions she had made, and of course from the years at Saint-Tropez, enjoying too much sun.

Too much sun. Too much son. Jerome would like to play with that.

Though what Jerome was talking about, having already told Nelson he was seriously considering separating from Brenda, was the story of Baron Philippe de Rothschild: the Baron, being a clever businessman, and, more important, a visionary, realized that much might be gained by joining forces with the California winegrower, Robert Mondavi. Mondavi was invited to the Baron's, where both men dined on fabulous food and drank great wine. It was a social evening: business was not discussed. It was not until the next morning that the Baron-by this point, Mondavi genuinely admired him, for his taste, elegance, and good manners-summoned Mondavi to his bedside, like a character in a fairy tale. The possibility of combining their efforts was discussed, and of sharing the profits fifty-fifty. Mondavi suggested producing only one wine, which would be similar to a great Bordeaux. Did he say this tentatively? The Baron agreed. Would he have said the same? The wine would be made in California, where the Baron's winemaker would visit. Mondavi, flattered, was thrilled as well. His name linked to that of Baron Philippe de Rothschild! The Baron also triumphed, realizing that embracing his would-be adversary would lead both men to profit. Nothing remained except the ceremonial drinking of a hundred-year-old Mouton, followed by a very cold Chateau d'Yquem: a perfect deal; a perfect meal-it even rhymed, as Jerome pointed out. A brilliant label was designed, providing the perfect finis.h.i.+ng touch.

The talk back at the house was about perfection. In a perfect world, all wines would be perfect. Ditto marriages. All books brilliant (a toast was drunk). Superior music (again, gla.s.ses were raised) would be listened to, keenly. In that fairy tale, which was not Dale's, and which was not Brenda's, either, no woman would lie badly wounded on her kitchen floor.

Brenda crossed the room and stood at Dale's side. "Doughnut hole," she said quietly, looking down, then picked it up, at the end of its trail of powdered sugar, as if plucking a shooting star from the darkness.

This time, Tyrone showed interest. Dale picked up the other two. The dog was definitely interested. There was no dirt on the doughnut holes that Dale and Brenda could see, as they examined them closely.

"Why not?" Dale said, giving voice to what Brenda was thinking. They could pretend to be people at a c.o.c.ktail party, eating pleasant tidbits.

But sirens pierced the night.

They signified a problem for someone, Nelson knew. Another problem, Jerome also thought.

The sound overwhelmed Bartok on the stereo. The sirens were shrill and constant: a sound you might say was annoyingly like a woman's voice-if one could still say such things, but of course one could not.

Then the crescendo of noise, demanding their attention.

One man preceded the other out of the house. That door, too, was left open to the wind.

A police car, a second police car, an ambulance, a fire engine-the full militia leading the way.

To what? The two words were like a heartbeat: to what, to what to what, to what.

Down a dirt road in a country far from France.

Down a narrow road across from a rented house.

The meal left behind, one or the other having remembered to extinguish the candles.

That Last Odd Day in L.A.

Keller went back and forth about going into Cambridge to see Lynn, his daughter, for Thanksgiving. If he went in November, he'd miss his niece and nephew, who made the trip back East only in December, for Christmas. They probably could have got away from their jobs and returned for both holidays, but they never did. The family had gathered for Thanksgiving at his daughter's ever since she moved into her own apartment, which was going on six years now; Christmas dinner was at Keller's sister's house, in Arlington. His daughter's apartment was near Porter Square. She had once lived there with Ray Ceruto, before she decided she was too good for a car mechanic. A nice man, a hard worker, a gentleman-so naturally she chose instead to live in serial monogamy with men Keller found it almost impossible to get along with. Oh, but they had white-collar jobs and white-collar aspirations: with her current boyfriend, she had recently flown to England for all of three days in order to see the white cliffs of Dover. If there had been bluebirds, they had gone unmentioned.

Years ago, Keller's wife, Sue Anne, had moved back to Roanoke, Virginia, where she now rented a "mother-in-law apartment" from a woman she had gone to school with back in the days when she and Keller were courting. Sue Anne joked that she herself had become a sort of ideal mother-in-law, gardening and taking care of the pets when her friends went away. She was happy to have returned to gardening. During the almost twenty years that she and Keller had been together, their little house in the Boston suburbs, shaded by trees, had allowed for the growth of almost nothing but springtime bulbs, and even those had to be planted in raised beds because the soil was of such poor quality. Eventually, the squirrels discovered the beds. Sue Anne's breakdown had had to do with the squirrels.

So: call his daughter, or do the more important thing and call his neighbor and travel agent, Sigrid, at Pleasure Travel, to apologize for their recent, rather uneventful dinner at the local Chinese restaurant, which had been interrupted by a thunderstorm grand enough to announce the presence of Charlton Heston, which had reminded Keller that he'd left his windows open. He probably should not have refused to have the food packed to go. But when he'd thought of having her to his house to eat the dinner-his house was a complete mess-or of going to her house and having to deal with her son's sour disdain, it had seemed easier just to bolt down his food.

A few days after the ill-fated dinner, he had bought six raffle tickets and sent them to her, in the hope that a winning number would provide a bicycle for her son, though he obviously hadn't given her a winning ticket, or she would have called. Her son's expensive bicycle had been taken at knifepoint, in a neighborhood he had promised his mother he would not ride through.

Two or three weeks before, Sigrid and Keller had driven into Boston to see a show at the MFA and afterward had gone to a coffee shop where he had clumsily, stupidly, splashed a cup of tea onto her when he was jostled by a mother with a stroller the size of an infantry vehicle. He had brought dish towels to the door of the ladies' room for Sigrid to dry herself off with, and he had even-rather gallantly, some might have said-thought to bite the end off his daily vitamin-E capsule from the little packet of multivitamins he carried in his s.h.i.+rt pocket and urged her to sc.r.a.pe the goop from the tip of his finger and spread it on the burn. She maintained that she had not been burned. Later, on the way to the car, they had got into a tiff when he said that it wasn't necessary for her to pretend that everything was fine, that he liked women who spoke honestly. "It could not have been all right that I scalded you, Sigrid," he'd told her.