Far-Flung (19 page)

“It’s late,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“Out,” I said. “Around.”

“Don’t be too specific,” Topsy said.

“I was over at Elsa’s,” I said. “And at Ransom’s with John Calvin.”

“Actually, I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come home,” Topsy said. “After deserting me like that. Thanks a whole lot.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Kittery just wanted me to go with her.”

“Kittery is spoiled rotten. She’s too used to getting what she wants.”

“I know,” I said. I rolled away from Topsy and faced the wall. She had peeled the wallpaper off, but there were still bits hanging on: the green stripes, and beneath that, patches of other, less recent papers. It was like looking down a well. I could hear Topsy smoothing the paper to the wall, squeezing out the pockets of air and lumps of paste. There was a musty bedspread on the bed, and I crawled under it. I remembered about Rocky.

“Guess what?” I asked.

“What?”

“You ran over Rocky.”

“Who’s Rocky?”

“You know Rocky,” I said. “Duane’s cat.”

“I did no such thing,” Topsy said.

“Yes, you did,” I said. “Duane told Kittery: You backed over him or something.”

“No,” said Topsy. “Really?”

“I swear,” I said. “At least that’s what Duane said.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Lord,” Topsy said. “I knew something terrible was going to happen. I could just feel it.”

I could tell she had stopped working by the quiet. I had my head under the bedspread and I lay there for a while, waiting for Topsy to say something. I was thinking of Kittery and Duane driving the mobile home into the night. Maybe they were on the highway by now. In a way I thought they were crazy but in a way I didn’t. In a way I wanted to be driving somewhere fast on the highway, but in a way I was glad to be there near my grandmother. For a long time we were both quiet. And then she said, “If you’re going to fall asleep, you should get into your own bed.”

I didn’t answer. I was too tired to respond, let alone get up and go downstairs. Plus, I knew Topsy would wake me up when she finished wallpapering the room, so I could admire it.

W
HEN
B
ERTHA
K
NOX DIED,
Knox Farm was developed with “luxury” homes and renamed Norwell Estates. They were the first split-level houses in that part of Indiana, and for a while it was a big deal to visit someone in the Estates to see how the kitchen and living room and bedroom were all on different levels. All that remained of the farm was the house and a couple of acres of cornfields, which belonged to the Methodist Church. Bertha Knox had been a Presbyterian, but the Presbyterians had hired a woman minister, so Mrs. Knox left her house to the Methodists, after her lawyer told her she couldn’t leave it to her dog, Mr. Jim.

A man from Gaitlinburg eventually bought the farmhouse and the fields fronting the Range Road from the Methodist Church. His plan was to get the zoning changed and open a Dairy Freeze, but when the selectmen proved uncooperative, he stopped paying his mortgage. The Norwell Valley Savings Bank (the only bank in town) was forced to foreclose on the property. The furnishings of the house had remained in Methodist ownership, and anything that wasn’t junk was being sold at the Winter Bazaar.

One morning in early October, Walter Doyle, who was the president of the Norwell Valley Savings Bank, stopped at the farmhouse on his way to the Rotary lunch at McGooley’s Tavern, over in Hempel. He only intended to have a quick look around, but something about the abandoned, sunlit rooms entranced him. He went upstairs. The bedrooms were tidy and poised, as if awaiting guests. He couldn’t remember when he was last in such a quiet, peaceful place, and the thought of lunch in the basement of McGooley’s—the smoke, the sticky floors, the gelatinous beef stew—repulsed him. So he took a bath, a decadently long bath, in the large porcelain bathtub, and then he lay down on one of the beds in his boxer shorts and T-shirt.

When he woke up the sun had passed from the window. For a moment he didn’t remember who or where he was. This feeling of disorientation was so rich and transporting he lay still and let it linger. But slowly it faded; his life filtered back into place, familiar and intact. He got dressed and went downstairs.

Mrs. Topsy Hatter, the chairman of the Winter Bazaar Committee, was standing in the kitchen with a carving knife poised in front her. When she saw it was Walter Doyle coming down the stairs, she said, “Jesus, Walter, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” Walter said.

“How long have you been here?” Topsy put the knife back in a drawer.

She was wrapping glasses in yellowed newspaper. All the cabinet doors were open, arms reaching into the room. The kitchen table was crowded with stemware.

“I fell asleep upstairs,” Walter said. “I just stopped by to check things, and I fell asleep. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re probably just tired.”

Walter didn’t know Mrs. Hatter very well, but he had always been a little bit in love with her. He had baby-sat for her kids, Ellen and Knight, twenty-five years ago. Mr. Hatter had died sometime after that. Mrs. Hatter had worked for the phone company, and brought up Ellen’s two kids after Ellen fell apart, but they were pretty much grown up now. She still lived in her big old house out on Cobble Road. She was active in the town, but she didn’t really fit in with the other ladies. There had always been something competent and independent about her, a way of dismissing things she found irrelevant, that frightened people. Topsy Hatter did things like wear pants and let her black, black hair hang long and loose, back when other women were wearing dresses and getting what they called hairdos at Joanie’s every week. Walter was sure Mrs. Hatter had never set a foot inside of Joanie’s.

“Are you taking those for the bazaar?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “You know, Bertha Knox had some nice things. It’s kind of sad, her not having anyone to give them to. A stupid dog.”

“Can I help?”

“Oh, no,” said Topsy. “This is my job. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“They will survive without me.” Walter sat down at the kitchen table. He picked up one of the glasses, got up, and filled it at the tap. The water was rusty, but he let it run till it turned clear. It tasted fresher and sweeter than the water at home. It must be well water, he thought.

“You’re doing this all yourself?” He sat back down. “Don’t you have any helpers?”

“No,” said Topsy. “I like it, coming out here. It’s nice and quiet. I’ll let the ladies take care of the rest, but I like being out here alone.”

“It doesn’t scare you?”

Topsy laughed. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t scare me.”

“I like being here, too,” Walter said.

He watched her swaddle a glass. Her dark hair was gray now, but he couldn’t tell how long, since it was in a bun. “You used to have such long hair,” he said. “It was beautiful. Is it still?”

“It’s still long,” she said, “but I don’t think it was ever beautiful.”

“Can I see it?”

“No,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because.”

He picked up a sheet of the newspaper. It was the
Norwell Bulletin,
ten years old. “Old news,” he said.

“I found it in the basement. There are stacks and stacks of them.”

“You went down into the basement?” That was where Bertha Knox and Mr. Jim’s bodies had been found.

“Apparently.”

“You weren’t scared?”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Scared to go down there?”

“No,” said Topsy. “I wasn’t. I don’t scare easy.”

The next day he was there when she arrived. She recognized his car behind the hedge and she thought about backing up and leaving, but she didn’t. She parked beside it and went inside. He was packing the glasses she had wrapped in a cardboard box.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m not here,” he said. He smiled. “I’m in Gaitlinburg. I’m meeting with Mr. Angelo Carmichael in Gaitlinburg.”

“Who’s Mr. Angelo Carmichael?”

“The Dairy Freeze man. We’re having lunch.”

For a moment Topsy just stood there. She was trying to think things out, think of everything, be logical. But she had trouble concentrating. Walter stood up. He was a handsome man. He opened the refrigerator. From the back he was a large handsome man. The only thing in the fridge was a bottle of wine. He took it out and looked at it as if he were surprised to find it there.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked. He held the bottle out to her, like a waiter in a restaurant, so she could see the label. Only she couldn’t see it; she had trouble seeing anything. She sat down.

“Some wine?” Walter asked.

“Don’t you think it’s a little early for wine?”

Walter looked disappointed. He shrugged. “I guess so,” he said. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe,” Topsy said.

“Do you mind that I’m here?” he asked. He sat down beside her. Topsy didn’t answer. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Maybe I will have a little wine,” Topsy said. “Just a touch.”

The next day his car was there, and she turned around and drove home, but when she got there she realized she wanted to see him, so she drove back to the farmhouse. But his car was gone.

She didn’t think he’d be there the next day, and she was right. She started to sort through the pots and pans. After about half an hour she heard a noise upstairs. It sounded like a bird. She stopped and listened, but she didn’t hear anything.

“Walter?” she called.

The noise again: an owl.

She went upstairs and found Walter in the back bedroom, in bed, apparently naked. She stood in the doorway.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” she asked.

“Waiting for you?”

“You’re a married man, Walter,” she said. “What would your wife think of you now?”

“I don’t think Virginia is thinking of me now.”

“What if she were?”

He looked down at the sheet sloped over his stomach and legs. “She’d think I looked silly,” he said.

“She’d be right,” Topsy said. She went downstairs.

In a little while he came down. She had spread the pots and pans all across the kitchen floor, and he stopped at the door, looking at the display.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You didn’t embarrass me,” said Topsy. “You embarrassed yourself.”

“You think so?”

“Yes,” said Topsy. “I do.”

He picked his way through the maze of pots and sat at the table. “I’ve never been unfaithful,” he said.

“Do you want a medal?”

“No,” he said. “Just so you know. I mean, I’m not a Don Juan.”

Topsy smiled. “I didn’t think you were.”

“Have you ever been unfaithful?”

“I’m not married,” said Topsy.

“I mean when you were.”

“It’s none of your business,” said Topsy.

“That means yes,” said Walter. “What about since … well, since he died? Have you had … affairs?”

“I don’t think one has affairs in Norwell.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I’m sure I would.”

Walter stood up. “Well, I guess I better go.”

“I suppose so,” said Topsy.

“I guess I shouldn’t come back, either.”

“It would probably be better.”

“O.K.,” said Walter. He put his topcoat on, picked up his keys. “Good-bye,” he said.

Topsy nodded good-bye.

He got his car out of the garage and drove away. Topsy returned to the pots and pans, scrubbing their heat-stained copper bottoms, but after a while she went upstairs, up into the room. He had made the bed, but badly. Men can’t make beds, Topsy thought. She started to remake it, and realized the sheets were still warm from him. She put her hand, palm down, on the bottom sheet. She felt as if she were doing something dangerous. She was standing like that, touching the warm spot, when she heard a car in the driveway. She looked out the window and saw Walter come in the back door. He made owl noises. She stayed still, knowing he would find her.

He did. She stood by the bed, and he stood in the doorway.

“I’m back,” he said.

“I see,” she said. “I was just … making the bed.” But she wasn’t making the bed. She was standing there, looking at him.

“Are you glad I came back?” he asked.

Topsy waited a moment. She couldn’t speak, so she nodded yes.

“Good,” he said. He came closer, touched her hair. “Well?” he said.

“Wait,” said Topsy. “There have got to be rules,”

He took his hand away. “Of course,” he said. “Rules. What rules? Tell me.”

Topsy tried to think of rules. What would good rules be? “Well,” she began. “We can stop whenever we want. Either of us. We can just say ‘Stop’ and it will be over.”

“O.K.,” said Walter. “Sure.”

“And we both have to remember that you’re married. That that comes first. That I don’t want you to leave your wife. Is that understood?”

Walter nodded.

“And this is between us. Just us. This is private.”

“Of course,” said Walter. He sat down on the bed. “Sit down,” he said.

“Wait,” said Topsy. “I’m still thinking.” For a moment neither of them said anything. “I guess that’s all,” said Topsy. “Can you think of anything else?”

Walter shook his head. “I can’t think of anything,” he said.

They never made plans. They never called each other. They’d just go, and if the other person showed—well, then. Whoever got there first turned on the electric space heater and waited. If it was Topsy waiting, she continued her bazaar work: cleaning out closets, washing sheets, rummaging in the bookshelves.

They made love and ate sandwiches and drank coffee or wine and talked. As it got colder, they spent more time in bed and less in the kitchen. They listened to squirrels in the attic. They made love.

Walter often fell asleep, and if he did it was Topsy’s responsibility to wake him at three o’clock. One afternoon she was lying in bed between warmth from the space heater and warmth from Walter. She had her eyes closed and was making an effort to stay awake, although she wanted very much to sleep simultaneously with Walter. She could feel him dreaming, his big body pressed against her, his mouth wet at the back of her neck, and she felt that if she slipped into sleep she would find herself in his dream: something about a beach, hot sand, hot sun, water, sky, and birds clamoring in trees. After a while she felt the pressure of his body relax, and she knew he was awake.