A Bridge of Years (12 page)

"Who
knows? Maybe Tom could tell you." "You want me to talk to
him?"

"I
can't tell anybody what to do anymore. I'm way past that. If you're
worried, you know where to find him."

Buzz
and hum after Tony hung up.

Her
marriage was over. She didn't owe Tom anything. Unfair, to have
this dumped in her lap.

She
packed her bag and took it to the lobby, found Rafe and explained the
situation as kindly as possible. He said he understood. He was
probably lying.

Her
hand shook when she put the key in the ignition.

She
had to pull over a couple of times to check the gas station map of
Belltower. By the time she found Tom's house it was almost ten
o'clock, Sunday morning. Peaceful out here along the Post Road, clear
skies and summer coming on fast. Barbara stepped out of the car
and took a deep lungful of cedar-scented air.

The
house looked peaceful, too. Very clean, almost pristine. The
roof was moss-free and the siding looked practically scrubbed. Tom
had let the lawn go a little bit, however.

She
put her car keys in her purse. /
didn't
think I'd be this nervous.

But
there was no turning away. Up the walk, knock on the door. Primly,
tap-tap-tap.
Then,
when no answer came, harder.

The
sound echoed and died in the Sunday morning air. No response but the
shushing of the trees.

She
had bolstered herself for every eventuality but this.
Maybe
he went out somewhere.
The
garage door was down and locked—no way to tell if his car was
inside.

No
way to tell if he was still alive. Tony's words came back like a
curse: /
think
he's suicidal.
Maybe
she had come too late. But that thought was gruesome and unwarranted,
a product of her own fears; she put it firmly out of mind. Probably
he had gone out for a while. She decided to wait in the car.

After
half an hour trying to find a comfortable place on the upholstery—and
getting a little hungry around the edge of her nerves—she caught a
glimpse of motion in the nearest window of the house.

Angry
at him for ignoring her knock—but maybe he hadn't heard it—she
ran to the window and peered up over the sill.

Into
the kitchen. She cupped her hand against the window and saw Tom with
his back to her. His shirt was untucked and he was wearing a ragged
pair of jeans. He bent down toward something on the floor; she saw it
dash away—a cat, perhaps? But that was odd: Tom had never liked
pets.

People
change,
she
told herself.

She
knocked at the door again, as hard as she could.

Moments
later, Tom answered.

His
smile faded when he saw her. He said, "My God."

"I've
been here a little while," she said. "I knocked—"

"I
must have been downstairs. My God. Come in."

She
entered the house almost apologetically—cowed by his astonishment.
I
should have phoned.
"I
didn't mean to surprise you like this, but—"

He
waved his hand. "It's all right. I've been out of the house—I
don't always pick up the phone."

She
allowed this excuse, disturbing as it was. He gestured at the sofa.
She sat down.

The
room was neutrally furnished, almost impersonal. Barbara recognized a
few items from the old Seattle apartment—a rack of jazz LPs,
the stereo amplifier Tom had put together during his
electronics-hobbyist phase. But the furniture was old-fashioned,
styleless, and spotlessly clean; she guessed it came with the house.

"I
ought to tell you why I came."

Tom
shook his head. "I can guess. Tony called you, right?" She
nodded; he said, "I should have expected it. I'm sorry, Barbara.
Not sorry to see you again. Sorry you dragged yourself all the
way out here for nothing."

"Tony's
worried. He has a decent impulse now and then. Loreen's worried, too,
he says."

"They
shouldn't be."

She
didn't want to press the subject. She said, "It's a nice house."

"I
guess I ought to show you around."

He
showed her the kitchen, the bedroom, the spare room, the bath—all
immaculate, old-fashioned, and a little bit sterile. She hovered
at the stairs but Tom hung back. "That's just the basement.
Nothing of interest."

She
sat at the kitchen table while he brewed a pot of coffee. "This
doesn't look like bachelor housekeeping."

His
smile was secretive. "Guess I've learned a few things since the
college dorm."

"Tony
said you're working down at his lot." "Yup."

"How's
it going?"

He
brought two cups of coffee to the table and passed one to her.
"Lousy. Maybe Tony mentioned that, too. I don't have a knack for
taking people's money."

"You
were always a rotten card player, too. Are you going to quit?"

He
said, "I'm thinking of leaving."

This
distinction—not "quitting" but "leaving"—struck
an odd chord. "So you don't answer the phone, the job's no good
. . . Are you moving?"

"I
don't have any firm plans."

"You
mean you don't want to talk about it."

He
shrugged.

She
said, "Well, I can't blame Tony and Loreen for worrying. I
don't think I've ever seen you like this."

His
mood, she meant, but it was the way he looked, too. All his
flabbiness had been stripped away. He moved as if he'd tapped some
secret well of energy. She considered checking his medicine cabinet
for stimulants—but this wasn't a chemical nerviness. Something
deeper, she thought: a
purposeful
energy.

"I'm
not sick," he said. "And I'm not crazy."

"Can
you tell me what's going on?"

He
hesitated a long time. Finally he said, "I chose not to talk
about this with Tony or Loreen or anyone else. I think I have that
right."

"And
you don't want to talk about it with me."

A
longer pause. He wasn't smiling anymore.

"I
waited a long time to see you," he said. "I wanted you to
come back. I wanted to see you come through that door. To come and to
stay. But that's not why you're here."

"No,"
she said.

"We
don't share secrets anymore. I think that's a fact of life."

"I
suppose so. But you understand why I came?" "Yes."

"You
would have done the same—right?" "Yes. I would."

They
sipped coffee in the silence of the kitchen. A breeze lifted the
curtains over the sink.

By
noon, Barbara understood that, yes, he was preparing to go away for a
long time; that he was secretive but probably not suicidal; that she
might not see him again.

Adjusting
to this last nugget of information was harder than she'd anticipated.
She had left him months ago, and the break had been final; she had
never made plans to meet him again. The separation had been difficult
but not traumatic. But maybe that was because, at the back of her
mind, he was still there, as solid and invulnerable as a monument, a
part of her life cast in stone.

His
bout with alcoholism had disturbed that complacency and now it had
been shaken to the roots. This wasn't Tom as she'd left him. This was
some new Tom. A wilder Tom, deep in some enterprise he wouldn't
explain.

Selfish,
of course, to want him never to change. But she was afraid for him,
too.

He
fixed a little lunch, omelettes, ham and onion—"I don't live
entirely on TV dinners." She accepted gratefully but understood
that the meal was a gesture; she would have to leave soon.

"Whatever
it is you're doing," she said, "I hope it's good for you. I
mean that."

He
thanked her; then he put down his fork. His face was solemn.
"Barbara," he said, "how much do you love the year
1989?"

It
was a weird question. "I think it sucks," she said. "Why?"

"It's
bad because—well, why?"

"I
don't know. Where do you start? It's a bad time for the world because
people are starving, because the climate is tough, because we've
stripped away the ozone layer—all kinds of reasons. And it's a bad
time in America because everybody is very, very nervous and very,
very careful. Except the bad guys. Remember Yeats? 'The best
lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate
intensity.' Why do you ask?"

"What
if you had a choice?"

"What?"

"I'm
serious. What if you could step out of the world? What if you knew a
place—not a perfect place, but a place where you could live without
some of the uncertainties? A place where you knew for sure there
wouldn't be a nuclear exchange in the next thirty years. Where there
was disease, but not AIDS. All the human agony—repression, pain,
ugliness—but on a slightly less massive scale. And suppose you
could predict some of it. Maybe not stop it, but at least stay away
from it—floods, plane crashes, terrorist raids. What do you think,
Barb, is that a good offer?"

She
said, "I don't know. I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's
a hypothetical question."

"Even
hypothetically, it doesn't make sense."

"But
if there
were
such
a place. If you
could
go
there."

She
thought about it. She meant to answer carefully: the question might
be hypothetical but it certainly wasn't casual. She read the
intensity in Tom's face. "I might be tempted," she said.
"Well, hell. I
would
be
tempted. Who wouldn't? But in the end—no, I don't think I'd go."

He
seemed disappointed. "Why not?"

"Lots
of reasons. I have business here."

"Saving
the world?"

A
small vein of sarcasm. She ignored it. "Maybe doing my share.
And there are people—" "Rafe, for instance?"

"Rafe.
Among others, yes. I have a lot to live for, Tom." "I
wasn't talking about dying."
/
hope not,
she
thought. But then, what?

Had
somebody
made
him
such an offer?

Too
weird, she thought. Absolutely too weird. "I would stay here,"
she said firmly.

Tom
looked at her a long time. She guessed he was weighing the
claim, turning it over, judging it. Finally he nodded. "Maybe
you would."

"Is
that the wrong answer?"

"No
. . . not really."

"But
it's not
your
answer."

He
smiled. "No."

She
stood up. "Tell me again. Before I leave. Tell me you're all
right."

He
walked her to the door. "I'm fine. Just going away for a while."

"You
mean that?"

"I
mean that."

She
inspected his face. He was holding something back; but he meant what
he said. Her fear had retreated a little— he wasn't suicidal—but
a small nugget of anxiety remained firmly lodged, because
something
had
got hold of him, obviously—some strange tide carrying him
beyond her reach.