Banishing Verona (27 page)

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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Banishing Verona
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“I'd rather you stayed.”
“I'll go over by the window and practice my yoga. May I use one of your towels?”
Then he had to ask her how to telephone London and she wrote out sixteen numbers. I don't want to do this, he thought. Jill emerged from the bathroom with a towel and lowered herself to the floor on the far side of the bed. He heard a
huh
sound and her legs in their black leggings appeared above the edge of the bed, toes pointed toward the ceiling. He picked up the receiver and dialed, twice fumbling a digit and having to begin again.
“Took you long enough,” said Gwen. “What if your father had had a relapse?” She was off, like a greyhound after a rabbit. When finally he could get a word in, he begged her to slow down. Maurice had delivered an ultimatum; meanwhile Don, thanks to Zeke's warning, was being nice as pie. “Why couldn't he have been like this all along?” she said. “Cooking meals, taking me to the cinema.” And then, the day Zeke left, she had found something while checking her breasts.
“Something?”
“A lump, a lump that wasn't there before. I don't know what to do.”
“Go to your doctor.”
“I meant about Maurice. I worry he'll do a bunk. It seems too much to ask. I'm married, I'm forty-five, I've kept him waiting all these months, I have a husband who's ill, and now this. Though I won't really know anything until they do a biopsy. The doctor did say most of these things turn out to be benign.”
Even over three thousand miles, he could feel her longing that this should apply to her. From the floor came a series of
huhs
; the black legs dipped out of sight. And in the midst of his despair he had a moment of illumination. His condition, which sometimes
made him feel so different from other people, was only one bend on a winding road along which many other people wandered. “I'll be back soon,” he said.
“What use is that?”
“Well, you phoned me. You seem to want my opinion or something. So I'm asking, can you wait for a few days? Tell Maurice you don't want to do anything that might upset Dad while I'm away.”
“How long is a few days?”
By the weekend, he promised, and said he had to go. For several seconds he luxuriated in the silence. Then he crawled across the bed until he was looking over the edge. Jill was lying on her stomach with her head and feet raised, bowlike. He could hear her rhythmic breathing. Presently she lowered her head onto her folded arms.
“Did you finish?” she said. Slowly she rolled over so that she was looking up at him from a distance of a couple of feet. Her eyes were large and dark, like those of some nocturnal animal.
“I had an idea while I was on the phone,” he said. “I wanted to tell you.”
“Go ahead. I am, as they say, all ears. Which is just as well given that, without my glasses, you're a blur.”
“I'm not sure if I can put it into words.” He told her about Gwen and the lump and how he had problems recognizing people, especially people he knew well, and that while Gwen was talking, he had had the thought that maybe he wasn't so different from other people. They might behave as if they could walk through all the rooms of their brains and everything was in plain view, like the fruit and vegetables in the shop, but in fact lots of things were hidden from them: lumps, feelings, ideas. “So I'm not the only one,” he concluded, “who sometimes mistakes A for B.”
Jill blinked, twice. “Of course not. I hope you can remember that.” She sat up, stretched her arms above her head, and yawned. “Has your mother seen a doctor?”
“Yes. She's having a biopsy. It's funny, first my dad getting ill, now her.”
“You'd be surprised how often I've seen these kinds of coincidences in hospital.” Her face was so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. “You meeting Verona, your dad having a heart attack, your mum having a scare.”
“My meeting Verona is quite different.” He moved away, swinging his legs to the floor.
“Still, it's an upheaval. Do you want me to read her letter?”
In the confusion of Gwen's news he had forgotten their original plan. His first thought now was to refuse. Jill no longer seemed the ideal, sympathetic friend; besides, he didn't want to betray Verona by showing her private letter to someone else.
“You don't have to,” she added. “I'm only trying to help.”
She too turned away and, rising to her feet, bent to retrieve the towel. She is trying to help, he thought, as she returned it to the bathroom. He could not recall a single occasion when she had been less than encouraging about Verona. “What's today's word?” he said.
She clapped a hand to her mouth. “I'd forgotten all about it. So much for improving my vocabulary. We could choose one together.”
“Let's, over supper.” He stood up, fetched the letter from its hiding place, and handed it to her.
Verona stood at the front of the ferry from La Guardia Airport into Manhattan and held on to the throbbing handrail. Beyond the windows the water—fresh or salt, she didn't know—shone darkly, and along the shore tall feathery rushes bent in the wind. The air smelled of diesel oil and bitter coffee and, just occasionally, the expensive perfume of the woman standing next to her; all the other passengers were either talking on the phone or reading. Verona couldn't see her face, the woman was several inches shorter, but from her posture and the way she watched the shoreline, she had the impression that her companion might be on the verge of tears. A lost lover? a lost job? a deviant child? All tragedies, Verona suddenly understood, that might befall
her
at any moment. My hostages to fortune have tripled, she thought, and was amazed at how swiftly her life had changed.
A plane, coming in to land, passed overhead. As she followed its journey, Verona pictured Zeke perhaps even now flying toward her. What would he do when he found her gone, leaving only an awkward letter to welcome him? But how could she explain the complexities of the situation with Henry when she barely understood them herself? Turning back to the water, she saw a wooden
crate floating toward the boat. She braced herself for the collision but, at the last second, it disappeared without a sound. I'll see him tomorrow, she thought, trying to raise her own spirits and, through some miracle of telepathy, Zeke's. In the anonymous hotel room she would tell him everything: Henry's crimes and misdemeanors, Nigel and George's relentless pursuit, her own disheveled romantic history, which had made her so stupidly reluctant to pick up the phone. She was still pondering the list when, off to their right, beyond the rushes, a throng of tall glittering buildings came into view.
“Magnificent,” said the woman beside her. “I love being reminded that Manhattan is an island.” She raised her face, and Verona saw dark eyes made darker by the careful use of makeup, a small pert nose. “Forgive me asking, but are you all right?”
“I'm fine,” said Verona, and nearly added that she had been wondering the same thing about her interlocutor. “I didn't expect the city to look like an illustration for
Pilgrim's Progress
.”
“I'd say Kafka's Castle, the place always in view that you can never reach.”
“Well, I hope we'll be an exception. I'm just over from London for a few days.”
The woman remarked that she looked quite far along to be traveling abroad. And then—perhaps she made some gesture of encouragement—Verona began to pour out a muddled version of what she had imagined telling Zeke: Henry, debts, ruthless creditors, lies.
The woman listened, wide-eyed and silent.
“You know,” she said, when Verona paused, “you can only do so much. Your brother isn't your responsibility. If he's an adult, if he's clinically sane, it's up to him how he lives his life. Your responsibility is to yourself and your baby.”
It was exactly what Verona had been thinking, but as soon as she heard the words spoken aloud she disagreed. “Actually,” she burst out, “I hate all that putting-yourself-first American nonsense.
I think the main reason we're here is to take care of each other.”
But her rudeness was lost in the sound of the loudspeakers announcing the first stop. The woman reached into her handbag. “This is where I get off. If you need any help while you're in New York,” she said, holding out a card, “pick up the phone. Unlike almost everyone else in the city, my husband and I have two spare rooms since the kids left home.”
And that too, thought Verona, was so American, the openhanded generosity. When they were once again sailing along she read the card:
Marcia Hirsch, psychotherapist: individuals, couples, and family counseling.
Children welcome. She tore it into twelve tiny pieces and dropped them in the rubbish bin.
 
 
Yesterday, in Boston, after she had telephoned Zeke, she had spent the remainder of the afternoon going for a long walk through the snowy city and avoiding Henry. She was fully aware of her promise to Toby to make one more attempt, but first she needed to recover from the quarrels and revelations of the last twenty-four hours. This morning she had woken to clear skies and the conviction that today everything would be resolved. She had gone downstairs, hoping to find Henry in the hotel restaurant, but there was no sign of him. After a leisurely breakfast she had finally broken down and called his room at 9:45, 10:02, and 10:13 and each time reached the voice mail, which could, she reminded herself, mean he was talking on the phone. At 10:20 she had walked down the corridor. The door of his room was open. Inside, two women in striped uniforms were making the bed. Where's the man who stays here, she asked.
The older woman smiled and nodded. No English, she said.
For a moment Verona was sure she'd mistaken the room number. Then other excuses leaped in. He was doing an errand. They'd missed each other coming and going to breakfast. There was his shirt draped over the chair; there were his papers on the
desk. But the swath of white material turned out to be a towel; the pile of papers, restaurant menus. She stepped farther into the room—the woman uttered some sort of protest—and pushed open the bathroom door.
Empty, gone.
She raced down the corridor. When the lift came it was already full, but she pushed blindly forward. At the ground floor she was out and striding across the lobby while her fellow passengers were still reconstituting themselves. Ignoring the queue at the front desk, she went straight to the clerk and asked if he had any messages for her. At least this time she didn't faint when he held out the envelope, but for a few seconds she could not bring herself to take it. Whatever its contents, its existence once again signaled Henry's absence. Please, she thought. Within the last forty-eight hours, he had demolished most of her ideas about him and about herself, so why did she feel as if she still had so much to lose?
Dear Verona,
Do you remember Adrian Lepage? He was at university with us, or at least with me. Now he's a businessman in Manhattan. I called him a couple of hours ago, and I'm catching the first train tomorrow to New York. It would be excellent if you could follow.
Why, you may ask? Because I need help.
What sort of help? Strategizing on how best to present unappealing facts. (Do you use bullet points in radio?)
Please, V, you've come all this way. Why not a little farther?
And why the rush? Let's just say that I'm desperate to leave for the same reason you came, difficult visitors. Capisce?
I will be staying with Adrian on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He's expecting you too. Please phone 212-555-5125 when you get in.
Love, Henry
PS I plan to check out by phone after I get to New York so I won't get any messages this morning. Be sure they give you my company discount on your bill.
At the phrase
difficult visitors
she had stopped reading to search the lobby. Useless to pretend she was calm when she could feel sweat prickling her face and chest. She had gone upstairs and crammed everything back into her suitcases; only then had she thought to phone Zeke. She dialed three numbers, both of his and Emmanuel's, and listened to three recordings. He must be on his way to the airport, perhaps already waiting in those interminable lines. Just in case, she left a message on his home phone: Something came up and I have to go to New York for the day. I'll be back in Boston this evening or first thing tomorrow. She and Zeke could spend the day in one of the enormous hotel beds, and fly back to London together. Meanwhile, every noise she heard made her start.
Downstairs she checked out and reserved a room for Zeke. She told the clerk she'd be in the lobby for the next half hour. If anyone rang, could he call her to the phone? Sitting at a table so small that it barely accommodated a sheet of hotel stationery, she had at first been unable to write a single word beyond
Dear Zeke
. She tried her customary trick of silently mouthing sentences. Think before you speak, Mr. Sayers used to say, unable to grasp that for her speech was thought. Now her lips remained frozen. I should kiss his shoes, she thought. I should spread my coat over the snow for him to walk on. What use were a few paltry excuses in the face of her abominable departure?
At last she stammered out a note that did little more than repeat her phone message. Then she had taken yet another taxi and caught yet another plane. At La Guardia she had seen signs for the ferry and decided, on a whim, to take this more romantic form of transport.
The last stop was announced and she disembarked with the remaining passengers. A young man wearing a jacket covered with badges insisted on carrying her suitcases and hailing her a taxi. As it trundled north, she studied the crowded sidewalks with relief. Here, surely, she could be anonymous; here, she and Henry could talk in safety. She had phoned the number he'd given her from the
airport and got only an answering machine. Now she asked the driver to drop her near a coffee shop. She dialed Adrian's number from a pay phone and left another message.
She had been sipping mint tea and skimming
The New York Times
for almost half an hour when a pair of hands covered her eyes. She uttered a small scream and wrenched them away. “Christ, Henry. We're not five years old anymore.”
He stepped into view, smiling, palms raised as if to show he had no further tricks up his sleeve. He was dressed like an American, with a blue shirt over a black polo neck and pleated black trousers. “Sit down,” she said. “What the hell's going on?”
“Let me get some coffee. Do you want anything?”
Several answers sprang to mind, but she shook her head. She watched him approach the counter. He must have made a comment or asked a question because the young man behind the espresso machine laughed. He reached under the counter and held out something that Henry leaned forward to study. As he smiled and talked, Verona had to struggle not to rush over and drag him back to the table. None of this—Nigel and George's threats, his own dire situation, her pursuit—had made the slightest impression on him.
“You'll never guess,” said Henry, setting down his cappuccino. “That boy used to work at my friend's restaurant in Notting Hill. I thought he looked familiar.”
Too angry to speak, she glared.
“Oh, God.” He took a sip of cappuccino and licked the foam from his upper lip. “Are you back on your Trappist kick?”
“Henry, I came all this way because you're in trouble. I'm not going to pretend that everything's fine and we're here for a nice holiday.” Even in the midst of her fuming she managed not to mention Zeke; she wanted to protect him from Henry for as long as possible. “If you're not interested in sorting this out, I'll get the next plane to London.”
“And conveniently, you're already packed. I'm sorry, I'm an idiot. I do appreciate your efforts. I just can't stare into the abyss
twenty-four/seven, as Neal”—he motioned toward the counter—“so aptly phrased it.”
She had chosen a table by the window, happy to find one free. Now, in the street, two men strolled by so close their jackets almost grazed the glass. Was that—? Before she could formulate the question, they had disappeared into the crowd. Across the table Henry too was staring after the men. Beneath the smooth mask of charm, she glimpsed the jagged edges of his anxiety. He set down his cappuccino and began to explain what had transpired since he threw the miniature whiskey bottles at the window and left her room. He had spent the day after the blizzard dealing with business matters in London. In the evening he had gone downstairs to the bar. He was talking to two women from Santa Fe, in Boston to promote their jewelry, when the bartender asked if he was Henry MacIntyre and held out the phone. The next thing he knew, Nigel was yelling at him.
“The last straw,” he said, snapping a wooden coffee stirrer in half, “was that just before he hung up he said hadn't I better buy my lady friends a drink; they were looking at the bottom of their glasses. When you told me about coming home to find Nigel and George, I didn't understand.” He shredded an empty sugar packet. “After all, they didn't hurt you. But it isn't what they actually do that's so frightening. It's the feeling that they could do whatever they please.”
She let his words hang there for four seconds. “So why are we here?” she said.
“I'm hoping I can persuade Adrian to lend me the money as an investment.”
“Which means you'll still have a huge debt.”
“But he won't come after me with a blunt instrument. I'm fairly sure I can pay him back in eighteen months.” He drummed the table. “Two years tops.”
“Why don't you sell your house?”
“That house is my only asset.” His voice rose so that even the boy at the next table, who was listening audibly to heavy metal on
his Walkman, glanced over. “If I lose it, I'll be starting at the bottom, the very bottom.”
The place you've never actually been, she thought, but didn't say. Henry was holding forth about London house prices, how the market was out of control, how everyone had to keep moving up not to lose their place, and with every phrase he seemed more like his usual buoyant self, which in turn, she supposed, made him seem more like a man to whom you'd want to lend half a million pounds. “So what are the chances of Adrian saying yes?” she asked.

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