Leap Year (14 page)

She awoke an hour later, hot, her clothes and skin damp. The pond, she remembered, there is supposed to be a pond. She got up and looked out the window. There seemed to be a glossy glint of water through the trees, at the bottom of the lawn. She went downstairs and out through the French doors, crossed the patio. The hummingbirds dipped and flew away. She walked through the garden, inhaled basil and mint. The lawn was hot and dry. She trod on the ceilings of gopher tunnels and followed a path into the forest of birch and pine trees, toward the coolness of the pond. It was small, rock-ringed, the water green. Lillian removed her sandals and waded into the weedy shallows. Fish appeared and nibbled her flesh. She kicked them away. She wished she had brought her bathing suit, and then, realizing that she was perfectly alone—the woods seemed to stretch away forever, there wasn’t another house around for miles— she decided to go in anyway. She undressed, laying her clothes on the grassy bank, and in what she hoped was a fish-frightening maneuver, charged into the pond and dove into the green water.

It felt wonderful. She swam out to the middle, where icy currents bubbled up from some primordial spring. She lay on her back and floated, spinning under the sun. She kicked a little when fish nibbled. Then she let herself sink into the water, as far as she could fall into the dark coolness. When she surfaced she saw a man standing on the bank, next to her abandoned clothes, watching her.

“A
RE YOU DROWNING?”
the man asked. “Do you need help?”

“No,” said Lillian. She sunk back under water. She stayed submerged as long as she could, hoping he would go away, but he was still there. In fact, he had moved closer—he had waded out a ways into the water.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Swimming,” answered Lillian.

The man seemed to ponder this response and find it acceptable. “I came to water the garden,” he said. “I come every day when the Loessers aren’t here.”

“I want to get out,” said Lillian.

“Out of what?”

“The pond.”

“Oh,” said the man.

“I can’t do it while you’re standing there.”

“Why not?”

“I’m naked,” said Lillian.

“Oh,” said the man. He looked down at her clothes. Her bra lay like a dead bird, shot from the sky, fallen to earth. He looked back at Lillian and smiled. “I’ll go up to the house,” he said.

“Go anywhere,” said Lillian. “Just go away.”

“Do you want me to go home?” he asked.

“Where do you live?”

The man pointed across the pond, into the woods. “Over there,” he said.

“Yes,” said Lillian. “Go home.”

“You must be Lillian. Mrs. Loesser told me you’d be coming.”

“Yes,” said Lillian.

“If I go home, what about the garden?”

“I’ll do it,” said Lillian.

“Oh. After I water the garden, I usually have a cocktail, on the terrace. A gin and tonic.”

“I’m getting cold,” said Lillian. “The fish are eating me.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “It’s just that you look so pretty.”

Lillian didn’t respond to this compliment. She didn’t reject it, either.

“Maybe we could have a drink together.”

“I don’t drink,” said Lillian.

The man looked perplexed.

“I mean, I don’t drink alcohol.”

“There’s cranberry juice.”

“No,” said Lillian. “I’ve got to get back to the city. Lickety-split,” she added, for some unknown reason.

“Why?”

“I have things to do,” said Lillian.

“Oh.” He stood there for a moment, looking dejected. He was rather sweet, Lillian decided, in an odd, dim sort of way.

“What do you do?” asked Lillian. “Over there?”

“Where?”

“Over there, where you live. What do you do?”

The man looked into the woods. He thought for a moment. “I’m learning to play the piano,” he said. “I’m teaching myself.” He held his hands in the air and fingered an imaginary keyboard. He seemed to lose himself in this charade. He stood there, transfixed, in the pond’s shallow water, caressing the air.

“Fine!” shouted Lillian after a moment, in an effort to awaken him. “Very good!”

The man opened his eyes. “Do you know what I was playing?” he asked.

“Mozart,” Lillian guessed.

“Yes.” He smiled. “Are you sure about the drink?”

“Yes,” said Lillian.

“Yes, you mean no?”

“That’s right.”

“But you won’t forget the garden?”

“No,” said Lillian.

“Okay,” the man said. He began to walk around the pond, to the far side, where a path disappeared into the woods. Lillian watched him. From the back he didn’t look half so dim: He had a groovy little pony tail and a great ass. He paused and looked back at Lillian. “Are you going to rent the house?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Lillian.

He smiled. “Good,” he said, and disappeared into the trees.

When she was sure he was gone—she listened to the sound of him fade—Lillian swam to the bank, tried to dry herself by shaking like a dog, and dressed. She sat on a rock, in the warm leafy sunlight. It was time to go, she knew, but something detained her. If she could have articulated what this something was, she would have said to herself, He may come back, but this thought remained cloistered, unacknowledged, one of those fish that skulk at the bottom of ponds, far from daylight, waiting.

Henry Fank was sleeping. He made quiet, not unpleasant snoring noises. Judith lay awake beside him on her waterbed in the dark bedroom. She was feeling a little desperate. Simple—or not-so-simple—desire had carried her through much of the evening; it had flooded her body, possessed her, wavelike, and then retreated. And here I lie, she thought, high and dry. For now that it was over she could not embrace Henry. He had been a strong, sweet lover, but now, afterward, he was not someone she could lie down with. That was the pity of it. She wanted someone who knew her to hold her, wanted to hold someone she knew. Ultimately, she realized, it is not about love: It is about knowing and being known. And it was Leonard, and Leonard only, who knew her. How wonderful that was, but also how confining. And how impossible to escape.

Henry woke up. Or perhaps he had never been sleeping, the transition was that graceful. He leaned on his elbow, above her.

“Are you thinking of your husband?” he asked.

How could he have guessed that? Judith wondered. “Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded odd, broken. Unused. She tried to smile up at him, without success. He lowered himself and embraced her, but she did not make it a mutual gesture. He sensed this, unfixed himself from her, and got out of bed.

“I’ll go,” he said.

He began to dress in the darkness. Judith lay quiet, paralyzed. I should say something, she thought, anything—I can’t let him leave in silence. But she could not speak. He dressed quickly and paused for a moment, looking down at her. She forced herself to meet his gaze. The look they exchanged meant nothing. It was mute.

He walked out of the room, into the kitchen. She heard him turn on the tap. She got out of bed, found her robe. He was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of water. She sat down beside him. Neither of them had turned on a light.

“Do you feel remorse?” he asked.

Remorse, she thought. What a complicated word. “How do you know that word?” she asked.

He glanced at her, then looked away, out the window. A woman was walking a dog down on the street and paused while it sniffed a tree.

“When I came here, when I learned English, I was very unhappy. As I told you, my wife, she died on our way here. So I think I learned all the sad words first.”

The woman walked away with her dog. Judith stood up. “Please,” she said, holding out her hand, “come back to bed.”

“Meet me at the polar bears,” Amanda commanded.

“I don’t think they have polar bears,” said Anton.

“Of course they do. What’s a zoo without polar bears?”

“Well, what if they don’t? What if they phased the polar bears out?”

“Then we’ll meet at the largest white mammals. Can you handle that?”

“I don’t think the zoo is a good idea. Why don’t we just have lunch?”

“No,” said Amanda. “The zoo is perfect. No one we know will be at the zoo. Everyone we know goes out to lunch.”

“That’s true,” said Anton.

“Plus I’m wearing a disguise,” said Amanda.

“How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be the beautiful woman at the polar bears,” said Amanda.

There were, in fact, polar bears—two—who sat on rocks looking hot. Amanda was wearing sunglasses and a picture hat. Her face was powdered white. Her lipstick was the color of blood.

“What kind of disguise is that?” asked Anton.

“Finally,” said Amanda. “What took you?”

“The doctor called. They think Solange may be coming out of her coma.”

“Then we have to act fast,” said Amanda. “Let’s sit down. Those bears give me the creeps.” Little did she know the feeling was mutual.

They found a bench in the shade. “What did the doctor say?”

“A lot of doctor talk. You know. About her vital signs. And brain waves. Stuff like that.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t kill her. All that target practice for naught. I should sue them.”

“I just want to get this over with,” said Anton.

“As do I. So we’ve got to move fast.”

“What do you mean?”

“Baby, when Solange wakes up from her coma, it’s good night for us. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Anton.

“So it’s imperativo that she doesn’t wake up. That’s your job.”

“I don’t know,” said Anton. “Maybe we can reason with her, or something. Maybe she’ll go along with the Heath Jackson story.”

“Darling, don’t be stupid. You’ve got to send Solange to dreamland, pronto.”

“Me! Why me? This was all your idea. You’re the one who started it.”

“And you’ll finish it. I can’t visit her in the hospital. That would look too suspicious. You’re the only one who has access to her.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. It shouldn’t be so very difficult. She’s in a coma, for God’s sake. She must be tube city! Just, you know, unplug something.”

“I can’t,” said Anton.

“Baby, you have to. We haven’t much time. I know it’s hard. But it’s, well, it’s worth it! If Solange dies, you’ll be a very rich man. And I’ll make you a very happy rich man. I promise you.”

“Yeah, but if Solange lives, I’ll still be rich.”

“Darling,” said Amanda, “look at me. We’ve been through all this. We made a decision. We acted on that decision. We can’t have second thoughts now. That’s how things get fucked up. We have to stick to the plan.”

“But the plan’s not working.”

“It will work. It’s just taken a detour. An intermission. Think of this as intermission. And the next act depends on what you do this afternoon. It can be a good ending or a bad ending. It’s up to you.”

Anton looked around. “I liked the old zoo better,” he said.

And yet one must be reasonable and remember that falling in love is never ordinary to the people who indulge in it. Indeed, it is perhaps the only thing that is being done all over the world every day that is still unique.

Barbara Pym,
Crampton Hodnet

ORCA
:      Good afternoon, and welcome to “The Orca Show.” Some of the most interesting shows we’ve done in the past have been with celebrities, and today’s guest is New York’s newest and most controversial addition to that category. You’ve heard about him, you’ve seen him on the news, and this afternoon we’ll have the chance to chat with him—we’ll even take some of your telephone calls. So stay tuned, because when we come back we’ll be talking with Heath Jackson, the talented and handsome photographer accused of the point-blank shooting of his patron, the wealthy and influential Solange Shawangunk. We’ll be speaking with him right after this important message.

FIRST COMMERCIAL BREAK

ORCA
:      Okay, welcome back. Ladies and gentleman, it’s my great pleasure to introduce to you, in his first talk-show appearance, Mr. Heath Jackson. Hi, Heath! Welcome to “The Orca Show!”

HEATH
:    Thanks, Orca.

ORCA
:      Heath—may I call you Heath?

HEATH
:    Sure.

ORCA
:      It’s such a nice name. Anyway, Heath, before we proceed, I think it might behoove us to nail down some facts about your case. Are you game for that?

HEATH
:    Sure, that’s what I’m here for.

ORCA
:      Good. Now, you’ve been accused of the point-blank shooting of Solange Shawangunk. The story, as I understand it, goes like this: During the opening reception of your show of photographs, “Out of Control,” at the Shawangunk Gallery in SoHo, New York City, witnesses claim you disappeared into an office with Ms. Shawangunk and were found moments later, holding a gun, standing above the woman’s crumpled body. Is this true, Heath?

HEATH
:    Well, it’s true, but it’s not the whole truth.

ORCA
:      Well then, by all means, tell Orca, the live studio audience, and our several million home viewers the whole truth.

HEATH
:    Well, Ms. Shawangunk had asked me to accompany her to the office.

ORCA
:      For what purpose?

HEATH
:    TO talk.

ORCA
:      Talk? Come on, Heath! A good-looking guy like you? Talk? Why would she want to talk to you, in the middle of the reception? Witnesses claim there was some ‘tension’ in the air.

HEATH
:    She wanted to warn me about Amanda Paine. She thought Amanda was…misusing me.

ORCA
:      Misusing you? How so? Sexually?

HEATH
:    NO. AS I told the police, before Solange could explain it to me, Amanda burst in…

ORCA
:      It’s your assertion that Amanda Paine shot Solange Shawangunk?

HEATH
:    Well, Orca, my lawyer has discouraged me from making any specific accusations. We feel that’s best left up to the police.