The Uninnocent (25 page)

After indulging herself in several minutes of doodling beside the name Will Jones, she stood up and more or less floated through the house, much as a specter might, looking to see if everything was as she—he—had left it. Nothing had changed. Why should it? The idea was still uncompleted, a work in progress. What she would give to eat something, anything, a lot of food, and then hover over the toilet, put her fingers down her throat to bring it all back up in its satisfying awfulness, as she had done countless times in the past. She considered going outside, taking a breather, a short jog down the street and back. But the memory of the vandals kept her from doing so. She didn't need to risk adding experiences to her life now; it was all about reducing, subtracting. Besides, no good would come of it. Indeed, she would be slowed down. Feeling a little guilty, she called Matthew's work line again but there was no answer this time. Without giving the potential consequences a thought, she telephoned Ross again, as well. She wanted to know just when and how Matthew had been in touch with Dante. After minutes of ringing, she hung up and tried to focus on refocusing. Just stay with it, stay with the program, she told herself.

She sat in the quiet, listening to the mouse family in the wall. Scratch, scratch. Their scraping sounded louder than before, more persistent. She always liked mice, felt they were cute and harmless, but Matthew insisted they had dangerous habits, could chew through electrical wiring and cause a fire. She would need to set a trap before bed tonight, although he was always the one to do it in times past, just as it was he who collected the remains and disposed of them at the far end of the backyard. But unless he returned, that responsibility would also fall to her, she realized as the phone rang.

Her sister. “What's the matter?” Lila said, her voice as rude as Dante's had been. She could tell that Ellie was trying not to cry. This was a side of her that never worked well with Lila.

“Nothing,” Ellie lied, then confessed, “A lot.”

“You sound awful.”

“Matthew left me.”

“I know.”

“And I'm drinking.”

“Brilliant. Matthew just left here, and I'm not drinking.”

Lila excelled at comebacks. Ellie once kidded, years ago, that they should create a new gridiron position unique to Lila. Quarterback, halfback, fullback, comeback. She was not in a joking mood at the moment, though. It was more and more clear that Matthew had been seen and heard everywhere but the two places he was supposed to be. His mercurial absence then presence then absence was beginning to take its toll on the idea, retarding its progress. She told herself she must carry forth with her confessions and let her husband make his own journey, which would eventually lead him back, she hoped, to where he began, so he could see she was a new woman. Still, she couldn't help but ask, “What was he doing there?”

“He was here because he's not happy with his life.”

“He drove four hours just to tell you that?”

“You are such a fool, Ellie.”

She held the receiver away from her head, breathed, decided not to hang up, so brought it back to her mouth and ear, and said, “Matthew's not why I called you.”

“So what then?”

“I want to tell you that I'm sorry for hating you as much as I do. I don't even feel you're my sister. It's never made sense to me that you are.” She paused for a moment, expecting Lila to sally forth with some acid sarcasm or another, but she had, it seemed, been momentarily shocked into silence. “It's never made sense, and I have wished my whole adult life that you weren't my sister. And if you had to be my sister I wished you were my dead sister. That's how much I despise you, Lila. I'm not going to waste your time or mine hashing over all the reasons I feel this way, because you already know them. I just called to tell you that I apologize and to let you know that while I intend to make an honest effort not to hate you from here on out I apologize in advance if I don't succeed in doing so.”

Lila cleared her throat, then said, “That's it?”

“That's it.”

“Then I'd like to clue you in on a few things, my dear.”

“Not now,” said Ellie, ending the conversation, if such it was, by placing the phone on its cradle. She wondered, for a sad instant, about Lila and Matthew. They had been together a decade ago, briefly—a month or two—before Lila left him, much the way she always left every man she had ever been with. Abruptly and without explanation; not unlike how Matthew himself had behaved just now toward his own wife. It had been Lila who introduced him to both Dante and Ellie herself. For all his dark-eyed, dark-haired good looks and his generally being a decent, even urbane person, Matthew was as helpless as Lila was shrewd.

As Ellie blotted out her sister's name, a refreshing surge of energy rose within her. The sublimity of the idea that had brimmed with such promise that morning once more took hold. She poured the last of the wine into her glass. Half a dozen quick calls to honor her regrets about small matters—an heirloom vase borrowed and broken; a surprise party inadvertently divulged; the failure to visit a friend after surgery; the missed appointment; the unintended insult; the unkept promise—and the list was narrowed down to a handful of victims. There was light at the end of this tunnel. She could see it, the light, and was reminded of the light the dying supposedly see when they are about to verge into death, an iridescence of angels' wings, that primary light of truth itself. Ellie wanted to walk to the light at the end of the idea. In spite of the surprising number of indignant, even irate responses her apologies had generated, she felt better about the idea now than at any point during her long day. It was as virtuous an idea now as it had been this morning. No, even better. Far better. She was frightened but had to stay faithful to the course she'd set.

When she awoke she was surrounded by thick, warm, muggy darkness. The phone was ringing but she couldn't find it. She reached out and patted the air in front of her. The jangling music of it was right here somewhere. Her head was splitting. Must have passed out, sitting at the table where she had spent the day and now into night. She found and then dropped the receiver, which made a hollow hard-plastic rattle as it hit the floor. Now someone, a man whose voice was small and distant, was saying, “Hello?”

“Hang on,” she said, fumbling for the switch.

“Hello?”

The light was painfully bright. She picked up the phone. It was Matthew. What had she wanted to tell him earlier? she wondered as she listened. He wanted to see her, he said.

“When?”

“As soon as possible. Right now.”

“I thought you were in Ithaca.”

“Who told you that?”

“Lila.”

“I was, but I'm here now.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I've been thinking, is all,” he said. “So what did Lila tell you?”

“That I'm a fool.”

“That's why she called?”

“No, I called her.”

“About what?”

Ellie didn't really want to revisit her conversation with her sister, and had no interest in hearing Matthew lie about his having gone there to rekindle a spent fire, or maybe even pursue the continuance of a flame that had glowed all these years in secret, so replied instead, “Ross tells me you were in touch with Dante.”

“Did you call Scandal earlier today?”

“Actually, he answered your phone the first time, and the second time he called me.”

“You spoke with him twice?” Matthew didn't sound like himself. The usual confidence was absent. There was something akin to a whimper in his voice that made her feel both sorry for him and annoyed somehow.

“Matthew, will you forgive me for asking you a question?”

“Ellie. Let's do this in person. I'd like to come by in an hour or so. All right by you?”

When they got off, she walked around the small house and opened every window. The place was like a steamy, plaster-walled sauna. She who so rarely perspired—wraiths don't—was damp and clammy. Her temples pulsed and heart raced unevenly. Almost midnight, according to the stove clock. Had there been some aspirin in the medicine cabinet, she would have taken a few. She remembered she had bought a pint of cooking sherry before being summoned to Ithaca, intending to use it in a French onion soup, Matthew's favorite, and went to the kitchen cabinet, half expecting it to be gone. She still had one more call to make and could use the succor.
In vino veritas
. Some ice in the glass and she was ready to complete the idea.

Her mother answered. Sounded sleepy.

“You have a couple minutes, Mom?”

“What time is it?”

“Late, but I need to talk.”

“You don't sound right, Ellie. Are you sick?”

“How are you doing? The ribs?”

“Still hurts to breathe, especially at night, but we're coming along slowly. What's happening? Your sister called here earlier and said you were hysterical. Having problems with Matthew.”

“He's on his way home right now. She's mistaken, as usual.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Ellie took a drink of sherry, hoping her mother couldn't hear the ice clicking. “I want to apologize to you.”

“I don't understand.”

“When I was young? You used to make such wonderful meals for us. Such a great cook, a chef, really. What other kids were eating
coq au vin
one night and paella the next? Well, as you probably've suspected over the years, I threw up a lot of that food in the toilet after dinner, saying I needed to go to the bathroom.”

“Young women sometimes go through periods when—”

“I'm still bulimic, Mom, just have it under white-knuckle control. But that's not my point, my point is I'm sorry you put in all that effort for nothing.”

“It wasn't for nothing, Ell. You're alive, aren't you, and basically healthy.”

“Then, there's this. I have always loathed George. Yes, he's been a decent husband to you, at least I think he has, but I can't stand him any more than he can stand me. And I'm sorry about it. I apologize to you from the bottom of my heart, and even to him. I know it's immature of me, should get help, therapy, and all that stuff, but I miss my real father—”

“Ell, how can you miss him when you never met him? Dwelling in a past that happened is one thing, but to dwell in one that didn't exist?”

“And also, I think when you talk with Lila you'll find out I said I was sorry for hating her, too—”

“Please don't use that kind of language about your sister, Ellie.”

“Half sister. George's daughter. I wish I'd never met her.”

“You two used to get along so well.”

“We grew up and apart. There are stories to tell. I'll write them down for you if you want. But that's not my purpose here in calling. I just wanted to tell you that I'm very sorry about everything I've done to make your life harder than it needed to be. I've been a distant, wayward daughter at best. Will you forgive me?”

She could hear her mother weeping. Not what she intended.

“Please don't cry. It's bad for you. Your ribs.”

“If I could change the past, Ellie, I would. Most people would. But we've got what we made for ourselves and each other. And asking for all the forgiveness in the world isn't going to change that.”

“I disagree. I think it will. It has to.”

“George's right here and he's saying he would like to speak with you.”

“You haven't accepted my apology, though.”

“I accept, I accept. Now would you have a word with your father?”

My
stepfather
, she thought, before realizing that this was almost it, this was the moment when the idea was very near completion. She said, “I need to speak first, though. Tell him that.”

“Hello, Eleanor. I gather you're going through a rough patch—”

“George, I'm fine. Don't give me a second thought,” she said, knowing she should ask him how his shoulder was, apologize for waking him up, express her regrets for never having been quite the daughter to him that his darling Lila always was. Instead, she said, “I thought it was important to tell you that I think I have found God.”

“What?”

“Yes, I'm a religious person now, and wanted to apologize to you for that.” The third lie she had told today, and offered in bad faith, at that, meant to wound. He said nothing; there was nothing for him to say. He'd never tendered much affection toward his stepdaughter on the rosiest of days, and wasn't going to let her get the upper hand on him now, either. The girl had always been a trial.

“That's fine, El—”

“No. You don't understand. I mean, I just
love
God.
Love him
. His purity, the sanctity of his creation. His omnipotence and transcendent wisdom. The love he feels for all his children. I'll tell you what, George. If I could have God's baby I would do it. He could come down from the clouds and have me right here on the kitchen table. You'll just have to forgive me for feeling sorry for you, George, because when the apocalypse comes and all of us are judged for having been good and loving toward others, or cold and distant—” But this time one of her victims hung up on her, and so she sat there, holding tight to her chest the glass of cooking sherry whose ice cubes had melted, in a state of mind that did after all come close to the ecstatic.

She sat unmoving, but moved. She knew that the consummation of the idea would create an aftermath of new wars and fresh truces, breakdowns and buildups, of coming-to-grips and losing-one's-grip, of advances and retreats, tears and laughter, and also, now, of one spirit—if Ellie had a spirit—who could just sit still. Sit at her plain wooden table in this stark kitchen with its French windows overlooking an unmown yard under the stars and waxing moon, knowing she was, for a single ephemeral moment in what she hoped would be a long life, but might not be, unsullied. Free from corruption. At peace with herself. She finished her wine with a complicated smile on her face even as the key turned in the front door.