Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence (7 page)

Henry wiped at his eyes, but he still did not move. There was a look of both pride and loathing in Antonia's face, and it seemed to Catherine as if she were deciding between the two men—to listen to what the man had come to say or to leave with Henry. Yet when the stranger finally took a step closer and grabbed Antonia about the shoulders, she reached for Henry's hand and ran out the door, the man rushing after them. Catherine wanted to go after them, too, but instead smoothed out the napkin in her lap and took a bite of her quail, her fingers tightly clamped around the fork and knife. She wanted to tell her friends what she'd just witnessed, but then the waiter was taking away her plate and setting down her coffee and a fresh pear tart, which she hadn't remembered ordering. A few minutes later, she glanced up to find the stranger back at the window. When he caught her staring, he drew his full lips into a smile, showing teeth small and cramped, like a barracuda's, she thought. Like Antonia's, she thought. Then he was gone and Louise was paying the check—she always paid the check—and they were leaving, but not before Catherine said, “I'll meet you outside,” and went to use the bathroom.

Once she'd finished, she wound her way toward the door, thinking again about Antonia and Henry but mostly about the stranger. She wondered who he was and what he had wanted from Antonia and why he had spit in Henry's face, like Wyatt had, she thought, with a tiny joy. Was he another writer felled by one of Henry's reviews, or was he one of Antonia's jealous, jilted lovers? The cloud of intrigue surrounding the couple filled her with both a deepening sense of curiosity and a growing unrest, because it seemed to Catherine that whatever had taken place among the three of them was scarcely finished, and maybe was only just beginning.

Be careful, she cautioned herself, as she wandered into the twilit heat. Don't let yourself get carried away. Even as she joined her friends at the entrance to the park and the lamps flickered on and they passed the gazebo, cigarette butts and empty beer bottles littering the floor—“A travesty,” Louise said—and made their way down the cement paths that led to the concert hall, she thought about him. She wondered again who he was and why he'd worn that look on his face when he'd said Antonia's name, and what he was doing in the town if only to harass the couple. Of course what Catherine didn't understand then, and what many of us don't understand until it's too late, was that she had already let herself get carried away. As she took a seat between her friends, the auditorium darkened and the crowd stopped shifting and went still.

Then a spotlight fell on the stage, and the string quartet began to play, though Catherine didn't listen, her mind elsewhere, remembering Antonia and Henry as they'd dashed away from the cafe, the stranger in pursuit. The music crescendoed around her, yet all she heard was the stranger, who whispered Antonia's name into her ear with an awful ferocity—like someone who still cared for her intensely and had come to win her back.

Yes, that must be it. He's come to win her back, she thought, sitting with the idea, the unbridled romance of it. Just like that she turned the stranger from a spiteful writer seeking revenge on Henry into a lover with inexhaustible courage, who would stop at nothing to take Antonia away from him. She liked this version of the story, and so she went on imagining it, imagining again the stranger's green eyes, Wyatt's eyes, and how they'd flashed at her through the cafe window. How could Antonia have taken the look in his eyes as hostile, and not as the painful passion Catherine had seen? She replayed the moment when the man spit in Henry's face, and again she trusted the stranger. How delicious it had been to watch Henry get exactly what he deserved! It was to Catherine like being there with Wyatt when he, too, had spit in Henry's face. Now, as the recital ended and the auditorium filled with clapping, Catherine applauded the musicians even as she also applauded the stranger, his tenacity and his fearlessness, two qualities that had lived in Wyatt's work, and which she wished had been more a part of his love for her.

The Longest Day of the Year

_____

Every year, in honor of the summer solstice, the businesses along Broad Street organized a free concert in Danvers Park. Catherine usually looked forward to the event, though Wyatt did not. He whined and complained, reminding her, in case she'd forgotten, that it often rained, that the bands were no good. Yet in the end he always relented. Later, at home, she'd remind him that he liked to put her through the same exasperating routine every summer. “You always have a ball in spite of yourself,” she'd say.

“To spite you,” he'd correct, laughing, which made her laugh as well.

This summer, because of the intense heat, the event had been postponed, which was fine by Catherine, who had skipped last year's. Without Wyatt—well, there had been no going without him. Still, when she saw Henry, whom she ran into slinking back from Antonia's as she was fetching the morning paper, the concert was all he could talk about, which she found odd, since there were far more important things to discuss, like the incident at the cafe. When she told him the concert was canceled, Henry's face reflected his disappointment, and he said, “Oh, that's a shame. Antonia was looking forward to it.”

“Speaking of Antonia,” she said. “How is she?”

“How should she be?” he asked, the words clipped, as if Catherine had no business caring. “I'm sorry,” he added, softening. “She's fine, considering. You were there. You must have seen everything.”

She thought again about the fracas in the cafe, about the stranger with the green eyes. She wondered if he weren't looking for Antonia at this very moment, and her heart expanded at the thought. She had seen the love in the stranger's face, the fierce sorrow, and the memory vibrated through her. Her skin tingled with the idea that Henry had a rival in the town and that this rival was more handsome and younger than he was. She was thrilled to see Henry on the verge of defeat and only wished she could have been there when Antonia had told him about the man, how much she had loved him, how much she still did. “I never loved you the way I love him, Henry,” Antonia might have said. “You've been wonderful, but what we have isn't real. It never was.”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “I did. I saw it all.”

“Then I guess you saw him spit at me,” he said. “It's the second time in my life.” She waited for him to invoke Wyatt's name, but he didn't. “I'd take an angry, embittered writer over an angry, estranged father any day of the week,” he said. “My God, but Linwood Lively's a menace.”

“Her father? I thought . . .” she said, deflating. This news of Henry's changed the valence of everything. “What kind of person makes such a scene?”

“I don't think I need to answer that,” he said. “It's probably the same kind of person who paints on walls.” He glanced back at the cottage. “I don't know how he found Antonia here, but now that he has, we'll just have be a lot more cautious. You saw what he was capable of last night. I'm not unconvinced that he didn't do that terrible thing to your cottage.”

“Do you really believe it could have been her father? The world is chock-full of mean people,” she said pointedly. The barbed reference seemed to have missed Henry completely, for he simply rolled his shoulders, shrugging. Yes, the world is full of mean people, Catherine thought, casting her eyes past him to the cottage. Though the words had been washed away, Catherine still saw them whenever she shut her eyes. “Who is she, Henry? Who is Wren? Why would Linwood Lively have written her name on my cottage?” she asked slowly, gauging his face for a reaction.

He simply rolled his shoulders again, his expression blank. “I have no idea,” he said.

She allowed him to keep up his little charade and didn't press him, although it was all too clear that he'd registered the name; she'd caught the flicker of surprise in his sleepy eyes. As she stood in her yard with him on this longest day of the year, she remembered being in Wyatt's study in the cottage—she'd gone there to ask him about dinner that night—and glancing at his typewriter and the manuscript page, still spooled in it. Wyatt had become quite secretive about his work, telling her that he didn't like talking about it because it took the power out of the story. But Wyatt had gone to use the bathroom and there was the typewriter, so inviting. She took a step closer to the desk, letting her eyes skim the page, and suddenly, now, she remembered one word, one word that stood out:
Wren.
At least, this is the word Catherine thought she remembered. But how could she be sure she'd seen the name when she couldn't even tell the difference between an angry father and a valiant lover?

“If that's everything,” Henry said, “I'm sort of in a hurry.”

“Yes,” she said. “I mean no. If you have just another minute, I'd like to go over the lease.”

“I don't have a minute right now,” he said, “but why don't you bring it with you tonight? Antonia is making dinner. Join us.”

“That's very kind, but I already have plans,” she said.

“Then I'll see you later,” he said, already heading for the cottage.

“Henry,” she said, somewhat hesitantly, “I don't have to remind you, do I, that I'm doing you a favor? The least you can do is sign your copy of the lease. I think it's best for both of us, just in case there are any misunderstandings.” She thought about the fire at his house and all the things that could go wrong. And probably would, she thought.

“No, you don't have to remind me,” he said sharply. Then, “Leases are merely formalities between two parties who don't trust each other. You trust me, don't you, Catherine?”

“I trust you to keep the cottage clean. I trust you to treat it with respect,” she said. “I trust you to take the trash out on time, but mostly I trust you not to smoke in it. That goes for Antonia as well.”

“I see,” he said. “Well, I'm glad we understand each other.” And with that, he walked through the cottage door and shut it.

Catherine went back into the house and began getting out of her shorts and T-shirt, then took a shower and dressed for work. As she did, she thought about the night before, the scene at the cafe, the look of pure terror on Antonia's face. She pictured the way Henry had just rolled his shoulders moments ago; his nonchalance infuriated her. “I have no idea,” he'd said. He did have an idea, though, she thought; she'd seen the flicker of it in his eyes. How could he not understand the significance of someone, perhaps Antonia's father, sneaking onto her property and vandalizing the cottage? How could he not see that this led back to Henry himself?

Her anger continued to build as she dressed. She was already more than sick of Henry, of the way he expected the world to turn for him, thought that everything had to be done on his schedule, at his leisure. How hard was it to sign a lease? At the door, she turned and snatched her copy of the lease off the counter, then went to the cottage. She knocked on the door, then knocked again, calling out his name. As she'd anticipated, he didn't come to the door. She noticed that his bicycle that usually rested against the fence was gone. This isn't over, she thought, heading back into the house to phone him at the college. Yet as the phone rang, she realized she wanted to have this conversation with him face-to-face. This arrangement isn't working, she thought, hanging up. I'm sorry, Henry, but you either have to sign the lease today or get out.

To her utter chagrin, Catherine found herself again driving up to the campus to speak to Henry in person.

T
HE COLLEGE OFFERED
two summer sessions, which meant there were always some students in the town, and Catherine could spot them by their cars and by the speed at which they drove—far too fast. “Be careful with Daddy's money,” Wyatt liked to jeer as they raced through the town, running stop signs and red lights, always in a hurry. They came to Winslow College from all over the country, and all corners of the world, though Catherine never fully understood the attraction. The college boasted a few major luminaries in math and creative writing, along with a prohibitively high tuition. Still, the students came, flooding the town in fall, hurling themselves into studying and partying.

Across the swell of Shaddock Green this late morning, clumps of students roamed and grazed, and through this mix of sunbathers and studiers, Catherine looked for Antonia, scanning the blue-eyed, blond-haired girls scattered on the lawns. Not that she expected to find Antonia among them, yet she looked for the girl anyway.

The air-conditioning in Mead Hall was a cool, welcome relief to the oppressive heat and humidity, but Catherine didn't slow her pace. She traveled quickly through the halls, aware of being an alien in a world in which she no longer belonged. As she neared the offices on the third floor, the corridors stirred, as a couple of Wyatt's former colleagues jutted their heads out of their offices by way of greeting. She nodded as she walked past them and into the writing program offices, where Bertrand, seemingly more slender and paler than the last time she'd seen him, stood hunched and glowering over the gray, institutional desk. In his trembling fingers, he held a Styrofoam cup, the coffee in it having spilled down his wrist.

“He got past me,” he said, almost tearfully. “This place—it's just too much.”

“Who got past you?” Catherine asked, mirroring the boy's own alarm. He shook his head, indicating that he had no idea.

“He did not give to me his name,” he said, “but I will never forget the face. A face like—how do you say?—a bullfrog.”

“Go wash up,” Catherine said, gently taking his shoulder. Through the plaid, short-sleeve shirt, his fragile bones jutted and poked. When he reached for her, she let him fold his thinness around her, and she hugged him close.

“I am sorry,” he said, pulling back, wiping his eyes.

Then, all at once she thought about why she was there, to see Henry. “He got past you,” she said, “and into Henry's office? Was Henry in? Is he all right?”

“There was some shouting,” he said. “Then the man, he was gone. I did not see where Monsieur Swallow went.”

Hesitantly, Bertrand approached the hall and peered up and down. “I am not meant for such drama,” he murmured, stepping out into the empty hallway.

After he left, Catherine found some napkins near the coffeemaker and wiped up the spill on the floor and the desk, dabbing at the computer. She thought about who the man might have been and knew, almost instantaneously, that it had to have been Linwood Lively. Who else could it have been? She headed for Henry's door, which was shut. With a tentative knock, she called out Henry's name and, receiving no response, she went inside. The blinds were drawn against the sun, giving the usually bright corner office a close, submerged feeling, as if it belonged in a dank, dark basement. It smelled unaired and musty, and she threw open the blinds and cracked the windows, the heated air rushing in and tussling some loose manuscript pages. Were these Henry's own pages, from something he was working on, she wondered, or was he editing them for someone else? As she gathered up the loose pages, she thought to read a few lines but then saw a spot of blood on one of the pages. Oh, Henry, she thought as Bertrand reappeared.

“Security,” he said. “I have just called them, but what fools! Since I do not know the man, I am not allowed to lodge a formal complaint? I do not think I will ever understand this place or this country. Everyone here is such an idiot.” And with that, he collapsed at his desk, face in his hands.

“Where is Henry?” Catherine asked urgently.

“I do not know,” he said. “He left after the argument. Forgive me, I am not feeling too good. I think I shall give myself the rest of the day off.” He stood up and left the room, while Catherine returned to Henry's office.

She replaced the spilled pens and pencils in the Mason jar and set the jar in the exact spot where it had been, on a dusty ring at the edge of the desk. She stacked and replaced the loose manuscript pages, all the while thinking about the last time she'd been to Mead Hall. She gazed at the desk, remembering the way it had shimmered a pale green. She knew the color could have been a trick of the light, but somehow she doubted it. If I'm right and I saw what I saw, she thought, then what exactly was Henry doing with all of that money? Why did he have it spread out across his desk?