Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence (8 page)

A Sad Way to End the Evening

_____

Catherine understood there were only so many places to look for a man in Winslow. In the past, when she wanted to find Wyatt, she used to check for him in his study. If he wasn't there, she called him at the college. If she didn't find him in either place, she went to Tint, the bar next to the Tweed & Twining Arms hotel. If he wasn't at his typewriter, in his office, or drinking, then she figured he simply didn't want to be found. She knew her husband. Henry, however, she no longer knew, so looking for him would not be so easy. Still, she had to do it. It was no longer just a matter of the lease or even the way he treated her. No, something unfortunate had taken place, and though she continued to dislike and distrust him she was alarmed at the thought of violence.

As she wandered across the campus, searching for signs of him, she again pictured what she thought had been a spot of blood, his office in disarray. She thought about Antonia, then, and when she did, she was shocked to feel herself angry with the girl. She wanted to tell her that if she'd just spoken to her father, then none of this might have happened. The hot sun streaked through the trees, pummeling the air and the earth. She passed a boy holding a burning cigarette and pictured him tossing it absently into the dry grass, the campus going up in flames. After the college had hired Henry, she'd often imagined such scenarios—a terrible fire, an awful flood, an earthquake—the ruination of Winslow College and everyone associated with it. Perhaps she was crazy to care anything at all about what might or might not have happened to Henry, or to this place, she thought. Perhaps it was better to leave it all behind, as she had after Wyatt's death.

As the bell in the clock tower sounded, Catherine rushed across the campus and jumped in her car; she didn't want to be late for work, just in case Harold was already there, waiting. Instead of going straight to the bookstore, she found herself heading back to Rhapsody Drive, though she wasn't sure why until she pulled up to the green house at the end of the block, Antonia's house. She stayed in the car, peering through the open windows to see if Henry were inside. Of course, this is where he'd go, to his girlfriend's, she thought. Well, let her take care of him. He's her problem, not mine. Just as she put the car into drive, it lurched and died. As she pumped the gas, just like Wyatt had taught her to do, the car finally coming back to life, Catherine understood that complaints about the lease, and everything else she wanted to say to Henry, would once again have to wait until a more opportune time.

A
S IT TURNED
out, Catherine was only fifteen minutes late to work, yet as she walked into the store, Jane was already on her, saying, “You're never late. Is everything all right?”

“Car trouble,” she said, which was only half a lie. She didn't want to go into the morning's business with Henry and the lease, and his likely mishap. There were certain things Catherine couldn't share with Jane, not because she didn't want to share them or because Jane couldn't be trusted to keep a secret, but because everything, somehow, eventually got back to Louise. The last thing I need, she thought, is any more of Louise's advice, or pity. I'm a grown, single woman and grown, single women are not like grown, married women. It was the first time since Wyatt's death that she referred to herself as single, and the shock of the thought startled her. Single. Unmarried. Alone. The last word was worse than the others, enough to bring tears to her eyes. She thought she'd gotten past the worst of it, but the worst of it kept returning, one nauseating wave after another, until she turned away from Jane, saying, “Much to do,” and went around the store, alphabetizing the shelves.

When a shipment of boxes came in, she took care of them, unloading the books in the storeroom, while Jane worked the floor. No, there were certain things she could no longer share with anyone, the enormity of her grief being one of them. So she let her mind roam, hoping to think about any and everything other than Wyatt. She replayed the scene at Mead Hall, thinking about Bertrand, who she hoped was all right. After unpacking the last of the books, she called him at the college to see how he was faring, remembering only on the fourth ring that he'd gone home. Yet, even as she hung up without leaving a message, she realized that besides wanting to find out how he was, she'd also just wanted to hear his voice, a voice that had spoken some of the kindest, most flattering words at Wyatt's funeral. Then she was back to thoughts about Wyatt, always back to him, apologizing again for defiling the cottage by allowing Henry into it. She spent the better part of the afternoon justifying this breach of trust, though she knew, without having to be told, that her only real justification was no justification at all.

B
Y THREE O'CLOCK,
she was hungry and tired, so she went to the deli for snacks and drinks. When she returned, Antonia Lively was at the counter, chatting with Jane. After handing Jane the soda and candy bar she'd asked for, Catherine said, “I guess you two have met.”

“We were just talking about her novel,” Jane said.

“Our novels,” Antonia said, smiling. “Who knew there were so many writers living in this little town?”

“More than you think and less than you'd ever want to know,” Jane said, grinning. “No, really. You think New York City is full of writers until you come here. I can rattle off a dozen Winslow ‘writers' on the spot, young, old, and everything in between.”

“Everyone thinks he's a writer,” Catherine said flatly. “Everyone thinks he has something important to say.” Of course, she was only quoting Wyatt, who often taught summer fiction workshops and private instruction to would-be writers.

“Everyone does have something to say,” Jane said, frowning. “Don't you think so, too, Antonia?”

Antonia paused thoughtfully before answering: “I think there's something to that, yes. I also think it's important to see that as writers we have an obligation to give our voices to those who can't speak. We have to speak for the living who might not be able, and for the dead who can't.”

“Exactly,” Jane said. “Brava.”

“Are you just browsing, or is there something we can help you find?” Catherine asked Antonia.

“Well, first, I was hoping to talk you into coming over for dinner tonight,” she said. “Second, I really do want to talk to you sometime about Wyatt's novel. He was such a great writer.”

“Is a great writer,” Catherine said, anger edging her voice.

“Catherine,” Jane said.

“No, she's right. He is a great writer,” Antonia said. “I just want to tell you that your loss is the loss of everyone in the literary community. Wyatt was—is—a genius. I love
The Last Cigarette.
”

“That's very gracious of you to say,” Catherine responded, thinking the remark a little unctuous and ill timed. Still, just like that, Antonia had stolen another piece of her.

“So you'll come to dinner, then?” she asked.

Jane raised her eyes from the register, and said, “I thought we—”

“We are,” she said, turning to Antonia. “I'm sorry. Another time?”

“Sure,” she said sweetly, though her face held an unaccountable scowl. Something about the scowl, the suddenness of it, the way it darkened her face, reminded Catherine of her much younger self, the scowl she herself used whenever she didn't get her way. She doesn't take rejection well, Catherine thought, and for the first time this summer felt sorry for Antonia, whose loneliness emanated from her in unending waves. From a distance, one might not have noticed it, but up close, the girl throbbed with it. Why shouldn't she? A new place, a new life—Catherine understood it all too well.

She wondered whose idea it had been to invite her to dinner, Henry's or Antonia's, deciding finally on the latter. Then she wondered why it was so important to Antonia that she come. Was she misreading the girl's stab at friendship as mere politeness, or was she being her usually cool and restrained self? Wyatt sometimes accused her of having a cool restraint, a trait, he said, better suited to writers than to wives. Catherine knew that it took a great deal to get her involved, but once she was, she was utterly committed. So here was this girl, a stranger and yet not a stranger at all, reaching out to Catherine, and there was Catherine, inadvertently turning away from her. She thought again of the short story she'd read, and the novel she couldn't wait to read, the novel that had already been called wise and graceful, even though the girl who stood before her appeared to be neither. The scowl now gone, Antonia said, “I really think it'd behoove you, Catherine, to at least stop by for dessert.”

Though she found Antonia's manner surprising, even aggressive, Catherine said, “I'll think about it. Thank you.”

After reclaiming a smile, Antonia said, “Don't think. Do,” then rattled off her address as if Catherine didn't already know it. With that she said good-bye to Jane and left the store, lighting up a cigarette the moment she stepped out on the sidewalk.

“She's kind of pushy,” Jane said, after she'd left. “And hello? Wasn't I standing right here when she invited you to dinner?”

“I'm sure she meant nothing by it. I'm sure you'll be invited the next time,” she said, and felt a sudden compulsion to tell her everything, about Linwood Lively and about the morning at Mead Hall, but didn't.

“You aren't thinking about going there for dessert, are you? I mean, it's bad enough you have to see Henry Swallow every—”

“Okay,” she said. “I promise if I decide to go, I won't tell you about it.”

“Catherine,” she said, “if you decide to go, you have to call me the second you get home! Maybe then you can explain to me what she sees in him. You don't think he's serious about her, do you? She's about ten years old. A smart, precocious ten-year-old, but still.”

“Ten is better than five,” Catherine said, heading to the storeroom for two cups of ice for their warming sodas.

When she returned, Antonia was back and rummaging through the bin of used books. “I forgot I needed something to read,” she said. “I just finished
Anna Karenina.
Do you think Tolstoy knew when he finished it that he'd just written the Great Russian Soap Opera? Oblonsky, Vronsky, Dolly, and Anna. Is it cheesy of me to admit I was both laughing and crying by the last page?”

She pulled out
The Brothers Karamazov, Goodbye, Columbus,
and
Another Country,
replacing them when she discovered a copy of
The Last Cigarette,
which had apparently arrived without Catherine's noticing it. Antonia turned it over, gazing at Wyatt's photo, then flipped through the pages of the novel, reading silently to herself, emitting faint sighs. “I love it, just love it,” she said. “Henry loves it, too. He thinks it's one of the best novels of the last thirty years.”

“Excuse me?” Catherine said, shocked. Her face went bright hot, and she blushed against her will.

“People change their minds. Even Henry,” Antonia said. “You should look through his new collection. He mentions it there. I'm not sure which page, but it's easy enough to find.”

As Jane was helping a customer locate
How to Cook a Wolf
by M. F. K. Fisher, she rang up Antonia's purchase. “Come tonight,” the girl said, more emphatic this time, as Catherine slid a bookmark into the book and the book into the bag. “See you later,” she added, moving to the door.

Catherine remained at the register, still aghast. Had she heard Antonia right? Had Henry told her he thought Wyatt's novel was one of the best of the last thirty years? It seemed improbable, even impossible, that Henry could change his mind so radically, especially since he'd hated the novel with such vehemence. Still, Antonia's declaration stunned Catherine, and she left the register, moving toward the “New Arrivals” table. Here she searched for Henry's collection among the other titles, only to remember she'd sold the last copy yesterday. She pictured Henry's book still at home on the credenza, still untouched. She was happy not to have gotten rid of it, though at the same time she was terrified of what she might or might not find in its pages. What have you done, Henry? Catherine thought, going back to the register to finish out the rest of her shift.

A
FEW DOORS
down from the bookstore, Thai Palace III was still crowded when the three women were finally seated forty minutes after arriving. Louise, who occasionally reviewed new restaurants for the local paper, commented on the minimal decor, the posters of Thailand stuck on the walls, the small brass Buddhas perched on the tables, each Buddha holding a tiny daisy in his hands. “Plastic, of course,” Louise said. No one wanted to say what each was thinking—that the Thai restaurant was located in what had once been the pet store, a place that held associations for all of them, a place that Catherine and Wyatt had often visited, looking at puppies but never buying one.

So here she was, thinking about Wyatt again, Catherine realized with chagrin. She willed her thoughts back to the table and her friends. Though the restaurant was long and dingy, absent of any charm or character, she was happy to be present for the grand opening. Happy to have at least one more option of places to dine, anything other than what had become a rather mundane experience at Maddox Cafe. Except for the food, she knew the experience here would be the same. She'd never tell her friends about this boredom of hers, because she loved them. Sometimes, like tonight, as the waiter took their order and served them complimentary glasses of plum wine, Catherine wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. As she glanced around her, she saw the same familiar faces she'd seen for years, the bookstore regulars, the college professors, her letter carrier and his girlfriend, her dry cleaner and his boyfriend, even the man who delivered her newspaper. All were in attendance and all smiled and nodded when they saw her.