Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence (22 page)

They looked at each other without really looking at each other, saying nothing; then Jane got up and raced out of the room. When Catherine saw the silver-dollar-size hole immediately to the left of where Jane had been sitting, she shuddered, realizing what might have been and understanding that she had let the mayhem and savagery of the summer spill over into her own psyche. She hurried after Jane, wanting desperately to explain, to tell her about Royal and about his smile. She wanted to tell her about how she still spoke to Wyatt, to tell her about the affair she'd had with Henry, and why she'd rented him the cottage. Catherine wanted her to know how important she was to her and what their friendship meant. When she called out her name, however, Jane refused to turn around. She simply got into her car and sped away. As Catherine watched her go, she felt her hand heavy with the weight of an object and looked down, horrified to find that she was still holding the gun. She quickly slid it into her pocket, then went back to the deli, where she bought a pack of cigarettes, smoking one after another until the sky turned to gold and it was time to close up for the evening.

Wyatt's Big Revenge Book

_____

Back in the bookstore, Catherine straightened the shelves. Absently, she kept glancing out the windows, scanning the faces to make sure none of them was Royal. As she rushed around, she cursed him. She hated how she'd reacted, how she'd reached for the gun, as if guided to it by the same force that had brought this man to the town. She was not a violent woman, but she was a frightened one, and this fright had driven her to do something terrible. Oh, Jane, she thought glumly, what have I done? She knew that, come morning, every business up and down Broad Street would have heard the story, which meant that Harold would have heard the story, too. “You've jeopardized the reputation of this store,” he would say. “I'm afraid you've left me no choice but to let you go, permanently.”

Now she not only cursed Royal but Harold as well. She also cursed Wyatt for dying, Henry for being Henry, and even Antonia, blaming her, too, for the malevolence that swirled through the summer air like a virulent pollen.

As she collected her purse and went to the shop door, she wondered what Royal Lively had wanted with her and how he had known her name. He's been watching us, all of us, she thought, unlocking the door and peering out at the darkening street. He could be waiting for me anywhere, waiting for me to step outside, for me to pull into my drive, for me to go out on the deck with a glass of wine and a cigarette. After taking a deep, fortifying breath, she locked the door behind her, then walked quickly to her car, checking all around her. Once in the car, she locked the doors, breathing easier, yet the moment she pulled up to her house and saw the black windows that gave onto the blacker rooms, she turned the car around. She felt a need to tell someone about the afternoon, about Royal and the gun and Jane. Though she guessed that Jane had already called Louise and told her everything, she didn't care; she wanted to tell Louise her version of things. Because she will understand, she thought, turning onto Louise's street, dismayed to find Jane's car at the curb. Catherine might have been able to face Louise by herself, but she couldn't possibly face Jane, not tonight, and certainly not both of them together. They must think I've gone crazy, she thought.

As she drove off, she considered taking in a movie, then decided against it. Instead, she drove around aimlessly, up one deserted street and down another, then suddenly wound up at Tint, where she sat several minutes in her car, telling herself there were far worse things for her to do than to go into a bar and order a drink. Still, she couldn't find the necessary gumption to get out of her car. People talked, she knew they did, and she had absolutely no desire to have to explain herself to anyone, least of all her friends, who would reprimand her for it. So turning the car around again, Catherine headed to the one house where she knew she would be welcome, and, she reasoned, where she should have gone first, if for no other reason than to warn the girl that her uncle was afoot in Winslow.

T
HIS TIME,
C
ATHERINE
did not waste any time sitting in the car. After getting out, she hurried up the steps to the veranda and knocked, even though the windows were dark and Antonia's car was nowhere in sight. As she knocked again to no avail, Catherine felt ashamed for having cursed her earlier. You might deserve many things, but you don't deserve my scorn, she thought. I hope you're safe. She left the veranda, the evening breeze rustling the trees around her and conjuring up all kinds of shifting shadows. After pulling the car into her drive, she stared through the deepening blue dark at her house and cottage, whose windows flickered faintly with light. The sight of these familiar, solid structures eased her fear, though she still wanted to barricade herself in her bedroom. Before she did, however, she had to tell Henry that it was time for him to go. Though she knew it would pain her to have to say good-bye to his rent money, she would gladly rip up his check if it meant she never had to see him again. She would rent the cottage to someone else. Yes, even a stranger, she thought, tapping on the cottage door.

“Henry, unlock the door, please,” she said. The door, however, was already unlocked. Apprehensively, Catherine stepped into the cottage, calling out, “Henry, are you here?”

She didn't see him as she entered, although he was in evidence everywhere she looked—from the still-burning candles that sat on the low-slung mosaic table to the bottles, newspapers, and cigarette butts that littered the floor. She blew out the candles, then turned to the study. She knew he was in there, because a dim light spilled under the door. Pressing an ear against it, she heard nothing but the hum of the wind and the beat of her own angry, disappointed heart. “I'm not mad, Henry, but I really have to talk to you,” she said, lying, keeping the fury out of her voice. “What went on between you and Antonia is none of my business. I'm not here about that anyway. I'm here because we had an arrangement, remember? I just don't want this to become forever. Look, if you don't come out, I'm going to have come in, and I'd rather not.” Even as she said this, she reached in her pocket for her keys.

After fitting the key into the lock, she turned the knob, dreading what she might find. Opening the door, she said, “Henry,” though he was not in the room. The light came from the street outside, and from the full moon, which shone brightly through the windows. She was relieved to find that nothing had changed. Wyatt's cherrywood desk still sat under the windows, Henry's typewriter resting on top of it, the demure stained-glass lamp beside it. He'd spooled a single sheet of paper into the typewriter's roller, but the page was blank, as blank and unused, she thought, as the room itself. Then, really, what has he been doing?

Suddenly, Catherine looked out the window, where she thought she saw a figure streaking past. She let out a gasp and stumbled backward against the wall, which caused a small avalanche of what felt like soft bricks. She reached down, grabbed one of the bricks, and held it up. No, she thought, not a brick at all, but a stack of what looked like newly minted dollar bills, bound with rubber bands. “Dollar bills? What in the world, Henry?” she said aloud, replacing the stacks as neatly as she could. She counted forty-three of them, guessing that each stack contained one hundred bills. If Henry were planning some kind of escape—though from what she couldn't imagine—forty-three hundred dollars wouldn't get him far or last him long. Clearly, he was up to something. Clearly, he'd been using the cottage for no good.

B
ACK IN HER
house, Catherine went around locking all the windows. When the phone rang she stared at it, hesitant to pick it up. From the kitchen, the answering machine clicked on, filling the house with a whistling echo and a terrible laugh. It was Royal, she knew it was Royal, and she went to the front window, peering out into the dark. After this, the night unfolded in a series of endless scratches and groans that arose from everywhere and nowhere. Again, she checked the front and back doors and windows, to make sure everything was secure. No one was getting in, she understood, but then she wasn't getting out, either.

After pouring a glass of wine, she took it to the sofa. Deciding then that she wanted to talk to someone, anyone, she got up to use the phone, just as it rang again. This time, she answered it, only to hear what sounded like someone typing—and she slammed down the phone. When she had been a girl and afraid of the night, she had always read a book to distract herself. She looked for Antonia's novel, though after a few minutes remembered she'd left it out on the deck. There were other novels to choose from, however, and she rummaged the shelves, yet nothing grabbed her eye.

“Wyatt, what should I read?” she said aloud as she entered the study, where she was met with a mildewy, decaying scent. She'd been back inside it only once since the rainstorm, and in that time it seemed to have rotted even further. A cluster of what looked like small toadstools had pushed up through the spaces between the planks in the hardwood floor. The walls were graying, and black mold clung to the window frames. When she tried to move one of the cardboard boxes, it came apart in her fingers, spilling out her incomplete dissertation—“The Deconstructing Williams: Eschatological Anticipation in the Novels of Gass and Gaddis”—a couple of frayed scholarly journals she'd published in, her diploma from Stanford, the acceptance letter to NYU. There was also the first edition of
Poor Folk,
an anniversary present she'd planned to give to Wyatt, which was still wrapped in the same blue tissue paper, the card with his name still stuck under the red-satin ribbon. It was a nasty surprise—she'd forgotten about the book—and it sent a ripple of sorrow through her. She tried another box, which also fell apart, letting go Wyatt's magazines and papers, which hadn't gotten wet, and his manuscript, which had. She set the damp pages aside, then climbed over the odds and ends of the life she'd stored in the room to get at the box marked
BOOKS
. Over the last year and a half since Wyatt's death, she'd intended to go through all the boxes but hadn't found the courage.

Now she opened the box and gazed down into a world that had once belonged to both of them. Every book she pulled out reminded her of Wyatt, every title a different memory. She began to weep.

“I can't do this without you anymore, Wyatt,” she said. “I don't want to do any of this without you. I-I hate you for leaving and for taking Henry's review to heart. I hate you for giving in.”

Though she had imagined saying this before, hoping it might make her feel better, she'd never let herself. Having done it, she was sad to feel as she always did, and even sadder because she missed Wyatt all the more. Abandoning the books, she was about to leave the room when she stopped and looked down at the manuscript. She remembered wanting to read it the day she'd brought it home from his office, though it turned out she hadn't had the courage for this, either. She also remembered telling Jane about the manuscript and how Jane had asked her, “Do you really want Wyatt in your head right now? Give yourself a few months, Catherine, then maybe you'll be ready.” Tonight, she still didn't know if she was ready, but she knew it was time.

She had always taken a keen interest in Wyatt's writing, yet when his novel had met with such an unkind reception, she stopped asking him about it. She trained herself not to pry. Then, one mild, sunny winter morning, she had awoken from a dream in which Wyatt had won the Pulitzer Prize. A wonderful dream, she had wanted to share it with him. Without thinking, she had turned to him in bed and described it to him. He had said nothing, the look on his face telling her everything. She had gotten up to shower while Wyatt had gone into the kitchen to make coffee. Yet when she had walked into the kitchen, there had not been any coffee, just Wyatt at the sink, gazing out the half-open window. Just as she had been about to say his name, he slammed the window shut. The birds, he had said. The damn birds and their damn singing.

Now, after Catherine undressed and put on her nightgown, she went into her bedroom and locked the door. Then she climbed under the covers with Wyatt's manuscript—
The Girl in the Road
—knowing this was what he had intended for her to read all along.

W
YATT HAD NOT
dedicated the book to her, as she had hoped, but to Jim, whoever he was. The epigraph was a quotation from Richard Yates: “Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn't much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.” He had broken the novel up into three parts—1956, 1982, and 1988. She read through the first part, 1956, which followed the narrator, Walter Schell, from his childhood in Connecticut through his graduation from NYU, ending just before he sold his debut novel. He had based Walter on himself, which startled her, since he detested romans à clef. “It's cheating,” he used to tell his students. “Yes, of course, we all write about ourselves, we're always a part of our creations, but writing fiction is about leaving ourselves out of our work. If you want to write autobiographically, don't call it fiction and don't expect me to read it.”

The first part of the novel exposed all of his family's secrets, some of which she knew, others he'd either made up or hadn't told her. She'd no idea, for instance, that he'd ever felt such animosity toward his mother; his depiction of her, she found incredibly unjust, especially since he'd always spoken so highly of her. As she finished this first part, her heart began to beat faster, worrying about what she would find in the second. If he could depict his mother like that . . .

She began to read and didn't stop until she had come to the end of the section. She had to admit that he had done what he did best—he had presented an honest portrait of her and their marriage. He didn't describe her as a bad or incompetent person, only as the woman she was, and it stung. She had loved him and trusted him to do the same, trusted him to forgive her mistakes as she forgave his. She had forgiven him for making her leave Manhattan, for moving them to Winslow. She had forgiven him for needing a space of his own. She had even forgiven him for his daydreams of big advances and book royalties that would see them into the future. But how could she now forgive him for this, for exposing her flaws and secrets to the world, for telling the story of the ring?

“No,” she said, shucking back the covers and sending the pages of the manuscript tumbling to the floor, her mind swirling with what she'd just read—how Wyatt the writer had used Walter the narrator to reveal his truest feelings about her, how he'd wanted to leave her, how he nearly had, how he'd found touching her repulsive after he'd learned about her past involvement with the renowned literary critic, Hiram Simonov. She wondered how Wyatt could have possibly found out about them when she'd never told him. Then, with horror, she remembered the night Henry had shown up at the house, asking to see Wyatt. While the two had talked on the deck, Catherine had sat up in bed, trying to read. Henry, you unbelievable bastard, she thought.