Random Hearts (18 page)

She hung up and lay back on the couch, looking at the
ceiling, fighting off the phantoms of guilt. Of course, she had Orson's memory
to help her with that.

Edward was thankful that the streets leading back to the
Rayburn Building were deserted. It was not danger that concerned him. He was
already a victim. Inexplicably, his principal fear was that others would notice
his shame. He had to see Vivien. Only Vivien could share this new knowledge.
Only Vivien would understand. He passed a phone booth, started to dial her
number, then aborted the call.

The information was too raw. It needed time to be sifted,
mulled over, sorted out, perhaps softened. He did not want to overburden her
with both the hurt and the complexity of dealing with it. It might have too
many implications that would associate the pain with
him
, the way he now
felt about McCarthy, who was, after all, only the bearer of the awful message.

There was also something terribly personal about the
information—all those biological implications, the phenomenon of procreation.
He had always been put off by the clinical details of conception. Yet between
couples, he and Lily included, the subject and practice was unavoidable. Wasn't
creating life, progeny, a central issue in a marriage?

By the time he reached his car in the parking lot, he could
not bear the thought of going home. Home was no longer a concept that existed;
it was hardly even a place. Tomorrow, he decided, he would give notice, sell
everything but the clothes on his back. In his heart he felt a malevolent
desire to set the place afire, obliterate all evidence of his life with Lily.

What McCarthy had told him had to be shared with Vivien.
She could not, nor would she want to, be spared the knowledge. It was part of
the truth. And wasn't the truth going to be the ultimate cure? He called her
from a phone in the parking lot. She answered on the first ring, as if she had
been waiting.

"I must see you," he said.

"Of course."

He was greatly relieved. She gave him careful directions to
her house.

"Have you eaten?"

"No." Swallowing, he tasted the sour backwash of
the Scotch.

"I'll pull something together."

"Brace yourself," he said before he hung up. It
was unfair, gratuitous. She had offered no response. Brace herself for what? It
seemed a male dilemma. Whose child was it? He searched his mind for answers,
some definitive certainty. Finding none, he concentrated on his driving,
observing that he had not yet reached the edge of sobriety.

In the dark there was not much he could see of the outside
of the house, except that it was rather large, set back, and surrounded by
tall, dark evergreens. He felt a twinge of jealousy. Orson was more successful
than himself, obviously wealthier.

Before he could ring the bell, she opened the door and
ushered him in. She seemed to survey him purposefully, inspecting him for hints
of information. He let her do it, offering a shrug and a smile.

"It doesn't ever end," he said.

"Someday, maybe."

He took off his coat. Entering the living room, he looked
for the bar. Some bottles stood on a cart.

"Help yourself."

"I've been on Scotch tonight. With an Irishman in an
Irish bar, drinking Scotch."

He felt like blurting it out. Instead, he drank half of
what he had poured.

"I've been separating the wheat from the chaff,"
she said, explaining what she had done about Orson's things, his clothes, and
the dog.

"The dog, too!" he exclaimed.

"It was more his than mine."

"I know what you mean. I'm giving up the
apartment."

If she had heard, she gave no sign, absorbed in her own
enmity.

"Also the insurance. I've declined the insurance and
everything that comes out of any suits. I'm going cold turkey."

It hadn't occurred to him as yet.

"It makes me feel cleansed," she said. He sat
down. From the kitchen came the pungent odor of food cooking.
"Meatloaf," she said, noticing his interest. "I'm sorry. It's
all I had in the freezer." She had poured herself a sherry and sat
opposite him, waiting. "I've braced myself," she said, offering a wan
smile.

He plunged ahead. There was no point in small talk. First
must come the overriding consideration. Finding out. Knowing. A relationship
had been built on this mutual purpose. On that alone. Hadn't it? His
questioning surprised him. He felt an odd tremor of longing, which he
dismissed. Longing for what? For whom?

"I was with McCarthy, the detective. I wanted to know
how to go ahead with this thing with the keys. You know—to find out how one
goes about it." He was stumbling, inarticulate, feeling her eyes on him.
He felt ashamed and wanted to tell her to look away.

"Dammit, Viv," he said impulsively, "Lily
was pregnant. Six weeks with child."

To dispel her doubts, he went on, haltingly, to describe
McCarthy's attitude, which could only be characterized as hateful. He was
convinced the man's information was correct, despite the way it was proffered.

Her face registered the same total incomprehension as in
her reaction to McCarthy's first revelation. Her body seemed to stiffen as she
took the blow. But as he continued to talk, the outward tension eased, and her
eyes narrowed, squinting at him as if some psychic myopia were inhibiting her
comprehension.

"He really thought that by telling us about the
possibility of their having an affair, he was doing us a favor," Edward
said. "I guess when he saw we were going to peek under the rug anyway, he
decided to show what else was swept under it. Something like that."

Without comment, she stood up and went into the kitchen. He
heard the clatter of dishes and the refrigerator door open and close. When she came
back, she brought tiny frankfurters on a plate, each skewered with a toothpick.
A tremor betrayed her anxiety. She put the plate down on a cocktail table and
sat again, in the chair farthest from him. Don't blame me, he wanted to say.
She had clasped her hands on her knees.

"Whose child?" It was, unmistakably, a hard
inquiry.

"I don't know," he said, the words choking.

He felt a squirming sensation, stood up, and began to pace
the room. He felt her eyes following him. "Maybe if the Medical Examiner
had taken blood tests. The real question is: Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," she said, lifting her
clasped hands and banging them emphatically on her knee. He stopped his pacing
and looked at her. Was it possible that a child he had conceived had died?

"It gets us one step closer to the truth." Vivien
said.

"Except that the real truth is hiding under a ton of
earth."

It was another thing to hate them for—creating this
uncertainty.

"Unfortunately," he said hesitantly, "it
raises rather intimate and distressing questions."

She averted her eyes, looking down at her hands clasped
around her knees.

"I'm a big girl, Edward."

"Well, then," he said haltingly, "we weren't
planning a family. As a matter of fact, Lily was rather adamant. Very
cautious."

"Was she on the pill?"

"No. She was afraid of side effects." To spare
her further inquiry, he said, "She used a diaphragm."

"She could have forgotten. It happens sometimes. I'd
forget to take my pill sometimes. But Orson was always there to remind
me." Her lips tightened. "I would have been happy to have more
kids," she said wistfully. "Five years is a long time."

"Lily never forgot," he said, feeling again the
full fury of her betrayal. He remembered her sleep-fogged plaint, which he
mimicked in his mind, "Not now, Edward. It's not in." At those times
he had assumed that her thoughts were elsewhere. Sex was not one of her
priorities. He had blamed that on her job and its increasing demand. A cold
shiver shot through him. The last year was not a banner year for sex, he
thought, his anger rising.

"If you'd rather we didn't discuss it..." Vivien
said.

"No," he said, turning away, bending down to pick
up a frankfurter. He didn't eat it but revolved the toothpick in his fingers.
"We made love on Sundays. Then we read the papers." He emitted a
snickering contemptuous laugh. "I won't dignify the term. We fucked on
Sundays, quick, like dogs." The image riled him. "Like missionaries,
if you get my drift. No pleasure at all for her. She did her duty. It wasn't
always like that. Never quite like that. God, this is difficult." His eyes
misted. "Probably my fault as well. You see, you can't summon up much
enthusiasm when the other partner just endures it." He turned toward her.
"You know what I mean?"

"Yes," she said. "I know."

He inspected her cautiously.

"You felt that, too? I mean, the same way as
Lily?"

"Sometimes."

"Him too?"

"I always showed"—she swallowed hard—"some
enthusiasm."

"But you did have a child?"

"What has that got to do with it?"

"I don't understand."

"Conception doesn't need ... enjoyment."

Was there a tone of ridicule in her voice?

"What I mean is," she said quickly, "it
could have been your child. A diaphragm isn't perfect." She instantly
regretted blurting it out.

"No, I suppose not," he sighed.

"So you see, it could have been yours."

"Technically."

"And biologically."

He shook his head.

"She'd get up, get out of bed, go to the bathroom. Go
through the whole routine. That was a ritual. She was always careful about
that. I feel certain—"

"But you weren't there. You didn't see her do
it."

"No, I didn't. Wouldn't that have been ... well,
indelicate?"

"I'm merely stating a possibility."

"You didn't know Lily," he said. "She was
totally organized. From the beginning. Even long before, when we first knew
each other that way, she was cautious."

There was an air of unreality about what he was saying. He
had never discussed such details. Even with Lily he would be circumspect,
deliberately preserving the mystery, as if to discuss it clinically would
brutalize their affection and detract from the spontaneity. But there had never
been spontaneity. Again, he felt the gnawing shame of it.

"She could have been distracted. All the heavy
pressure of knowing two men at once," Vivien said.

"But he also knew two women." He wondered whether
it had sounded aggressive. "I mean, at the same time."

"I don't deny that," she responded defensively.

"Which proves that they weren't even faithful to each
other. If they really cared, they would have ... cut us off completely."

"Don't you see? That would have made us
suspicious." She shook her head vigorously. "Maybe in the state they
were in it didn't count. Not for them. More like a placebo for us. To lull us
into feeling secure."

"Another deduction?"

"Yes. But it doesn't explain the child."

"No. It doesn't explain that," he said.

"I suppose we'll never know."

"How could we?"

He fought for control and discovered that he had crushed
the little frankfurter, which he tossed back on the plate. "I'm
sorry," he said.

"It's all right."

She went back into the kitchen. While she was gone, he
poured himself another drink and drank it fiercely. Inside of him, the anger
seemed indestructible, ready to burst out without notice.

She called from the kitchen, and he came in. She had set
the table in the breakfast area, overlooking the rear lawn. Through the window
he saw the snowman.

"I built that with Ben," she said. "It seems
to be shrinking."

He had carried in his drink, upended the glass, and smiled
at her across the table.

"Tough stuff," he said, "discussing this."

"It has to be said."

He ate compulsively while she picked at her food. A dimmer
had softened the lights, leaving her face in shadow.

"But McCarthy did have a suggestion about the
keys," he said after he had gulped most of the food on his plate. While she
ate, he explained McCarthy's suggested method.

"Ingenious," she said with a faint note of
sarcasm.

"It could take forever."

She looked up at him, but her eyes were lost in darkness.

After dinner she brought out snifters of brandy, and they
sat in the living room. Sipping the brandy, his eyes searched the room.

"Seems like a pleasant place."

"It was."

They sat on either ends of the couch, her legs curled under
her, his crossed in front of him. Their eyes met, and she quickly looked into
the snifter while he continued to inspect her.

"You'd think he had everything: a nice house, a pretty
lady to come home to, a son, a good living."

She looked up. This time it was he who turned away.

"Her life wasn't without its compensations."

"I'm not sure. Orson might have been a better
bargain."

"Like Lily."

He put his snifter on the cocktail table and turned to face
her.

"From the beginning," he stammered, "I
wanted to ask."

"Ask away."

"Did you love him?"

"Did you love her?"

"You can't answer a question with a question."

"I certainly don't love him now," she said
thoughtfully. "I don't even know who he was."

"I mean before."

"You mean the man that I thought he was?" She
grew vague, as if she were suddenly rifling through some index file in her
head. "Maybe. Maybe there was a moment."

"Only a moment?"

"You wanted an honest answer. I can only think in
moments."

She settled back, took a sip of her drink, then put the
snifter down beside his on the table.

"We were at my parents' house in Vermont, Orson and I.
It was Christmas. No, the day after Christmas. Snow was falling, white and
silent, a soft clean white blanket." Her face flushed. Was it too private
for her, too intimate, to confront the vividness of the old memory? "You
have to understand that Orson was a very proper young man, the model Ivy League
gentleman. And you have to imagine the setting: the Christmas lights, the scent
of burning pine logs, the sweet sound of the wood splitting and crackling, the
feel of caressing fingers."