Somebody Else's Daughter (6 page)

Nate stood there for another moment. His heart was beating very fast. He could hear the wind sweeping across the field. He tried to imagine what it must be like, living here in this place. He could never have given her this life, he thought. And it was what Cat had wanted for her, he understood that now. Cat didn't want their child growing up poor and she had doubted his abilities and he had not proved himself to her. He would have liked to have done that, but never got the chance. That place they'd lived, that awful apartment, roaches big as his thumbs. There had been other babies in that building, he recalled. The Cubans downstairs, the Samoans on the ground floor. He could have done it; he could have raised her—somehow. He could have been her father. But the truth of it was he hadn't wanted to.

He had made her—he and Catherine had made her together—and it had been miraculous, yet he could not appreciate the miracle. He had no claim to her. She was a splinter in his heart, too deep to retrieve no matter how cunning the tool.

Back in the apartment, he fixed himself a drink and sat at his desk and began to work. He had only a small light and it cast an orange glow around the room. The window was open to the quiet street and occasionally he'd hear a couple pass by on the sidewalk below, talking softly to each other. Moths drilled their bodies into the screens and every so often he'd flick them off, sending them reeling into the night. He wanted very badly to write. He had things to say. His journey back from heroin had taken years and it had been an important journey. The madness of that time lingered still. He had decided that writing about it would somehow free him of it. He wanted to write about a man like himself, who had come to a point in his life. He wanted to dig a hole and put the past inside it and cover it back up again. He didn't know if flowers would grow there or not. He hoped they would.

Suddenly tired, he lay down on his bed, admonishing himself for snooping around the Goldings' property like some kind of pervert. He didn't want to think what might have happened if he'd gotten caught. It had been a stupid thing to do. He closed his eyes, trying to revise in his mind his justification for coming back here, for taking a position at the very school the girl attended where he might very possibly be her teacher—the idea that he would come to know her and, yes, perhaps, even become a mentor of sorts, consumed him with both guilt and longing. Yet, he reasoned, he saw little real harm in it, as he would never reveal to her who he was.

In those early weeks before school started he found himself caught up in a routine. He would work on his book most of the day, then explore the neighboring towns in the afternoon. He always took his breakfast at the café across the street. The waitress was named Hazel and she recognized him when he came in now and always poured his coffee without asking if he wanted it and he always thanked her. In a matter of weeks, his status had been apparently raised from tourist to local, which was substantially better as Hazel generally neglected the tourists, who would shift and careen their torsos in an effort to get her attention. The locals were an odd assortment, an interchangeable collection of artists and madmen and a group he called the ex-people. The ex-people generally had money, and some had plenty of it. They had moved from someplace else with the intention of disappearing off the face of the Earth. They wanted to blend in and pretend to be anonymous, although they weren't generally the sorts of people who could tolerate anonymity at all—those people went to places like Idaho and Montana. In Nate's estimation, the ex-people liked to give the impression that they had relinquished the comforts of suburbia for a higher cause—as if they were living on the tundra as opposed to in a community that deprived them of absolutely nothing. Their concept of living the life of the rugged individualist was driving around in a mud-splattered Range Rover affixed with leftist bumper stickers—he had to admit they had a certain appeal. More than once, while hiking in the Berkshire wilderness, he'd heard a voice drilling through the trees like a woodpecker, signifying the approach of an ex-person on his cell phone.

One afternoon, Maggie Heath called and invited him to a concert at Tanglewood, a Mahler symphony. He was to meet her outside the gate. It was a lovely afternoon for a concert, nearly the last of the season, and Nate was glad to go. The sun was hazy, the air humid, the sort of weather that made him want to sleep. Maggie was dressed in a white eyelet sundress, her skin so pale it looked almost lavender. “Well,
hello
there,” she said, standing on her tippy toes to kiss him. She stood back, appraising him with motherly concern. “You look neglected.”

“Don't be silly.”

“The apartment? Is it all right?”

“It's very,” he hesitated, “musical.”

“I know, I know. The goddamned piano. But it was really
cheap.
You can't
find
apartments around here in August. And you have to admit, it's big on charm.”

“No argument there,” he said.

“He was a very good pianist, you know. Back in the day.” She smiled, and the sunlight brought out the pale blue color of her eyes. She was the kind of woman who was constantly accused of being cute, he thought. Her strawberry-blond hair was pulled back under a pink headband and her skin was covered with freckles; it looked as though someone had sprinkled her with cinnamon. “I've brought a picnic.” She held up a little basket.

“Marvelous.”

“Come, Jack's waiting. He's over there.” She pointed far into the distance, across a sea of blankets. He followed her to their spot on an Indian tapestry and Jack Heath stood up to greet him. “Hello there, Gallagher.” They shook hands. “Welcome to the Berkshires. Help yourself to a beer.”

The concert was just about to start. Nate took a bottle of beer out of the cooler. It was Guinness, and he was thirsty and it tasted good. Maggie gave him a lawn chair and they all sat down as the music began. Nate stretched out his legs and looked around. Many people had brought picnics; some were already drinking wine. Some of the women were wearing dresses and straw hats. Several people were napping, newspapers spread across their chests, hats across faces. Children ran barefoot throughout the maze of people, jumping from blanket to blanket. There was a large tree in the distance with low-hanging limbs that seemed to beckon the children; Nate counted seven perched on its leafy boughs. There were parents and babies and teenagers and old people and there were lovers, rolled together under the late sun. The symphony had a tone of longing that filled him with a momentary despair and he had to make a conscious effort to smile, wanting to reassure Maggie that he was enjoying himself immensely. He was glad for the fact that he was not required to talk. In dutiful silence, Maggie opened her basket and began to fix him a plate. The basket was neatly packed. He noticed a thin volume of poetry, Sylvia Plath, tucked in alongside the plastic containers. He watched as she fixed him a plate of fried chicken and bean salad and corn bread. Everything about her, the deliberate way she moved, her small body efficient as a gymnast's, her solicitous gaze, the white dress, her prim pink mouth, made him feel somehow lost. It seemed to him that something was being established between them that he felt he had no control of. It unraveled between them while binding them up. He sensed her wanting him to like her, to trust her. He sensed her needing him too, perhaps even desperately. She seemed intent on gaining his approval, in the way that a child would—but perhaps he was just imagining it.

When it was over, he thanked them and said good-bye and Maggie squeezed his hand, gazing up at him. “Don't be a stranger.”

7

The Heaths lived in a small clapboard house on the outskirts of campus. Maggie had called to invite him over for dinner to kick off the school year, which started tomorrow. He turned onto the Pioneer campus then pulled up a narrow dirt driveway that led to the house. Originally one of the guest cottages, it was situated on a secluded bluff overlooking the lake. Under a canopy of ancient oaks, the house had a storybook quality with its lovely stone chimney, green shutters, and bluestone terrace. It was a warm evening and he'd begun to sweat under his blazer. Maggie Heath opened the door with a smile. She was dressed all in pink down to her painted toenails, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, girlishly tied with a ribbon. “You've got some catching up to do,” she said, holding up her drink. “What do you like, gin?”

“Whiskey, if you have it. I'm not much of a drinker,” he said, wanting to dispel any suspicions she might have based on his infamy at Choate, but it was a blatant lie and she probably knew it.

“Oh, you'll come to value the pastime. The winters here are very long.” She poured him a generous glass of scotch. “Come, come sit down. Jack's washing up. He's been at the club all day, playing golf. Do you play?”

“Not well.”

“You should go out with him sometime. You'd have some fun.”

He doubted that; he wasn't terribly fond of the game. She led him into the living room and they sat on adjacent couches. On the coffee table was a tray of cheese and crackers. A wall of windows overlooked a stone terrace and the lake. The room seemed to simmer with disorder. It had a certain “make-do” quality, as if, any minute, the Heaths might pick up and leave. The couches were covered with Indian tapestries, the sort college students hung on their walls, and books were recklessly shoved on the shelves as if with contempt. There was a goldfish bowl on the table, the water in which had evaporated, only an inch or two remained. A green slime clung to the rim and the poor, lone fish seemed to be struggling for air, tilting onto its side like a slowly sinking boat. Nate had grown up in a house like this, with cheap furniture and books all over the place, and there was something about being with Maggie that brought it all back to him. She was a kindred spirit, he thought hopefully, a sister he'd never had. Looking at her now, he could still see the girl he remembered, serious and determined, but she was thinner these days, and there was something vulnerable about her that hadn't been there before. She looked almost breakable.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“You're going to love it here,” she assured him. “There's just something about the Berkshires.” She delivered the comment like advertising copy. “I don't know what it is, exactly. It's a feeling, I guess.” She seemed lost in thought for a moment as she looked out at the lake. He followed her gaze. The surface of the lake sparkled in the sunlight.

“That's some view.”

“It
is
nice,” she said. Her forehead tightened. “We
do
love it here.”

Somehow he wasn't convinced. “You've got some good books. Who's the Pound fanatic?”

“Oh, that would be Jack. At one point he was writing a dissertation on him. He's got a stack of papers someplace.” She got up and went to the bar and came back with the whiskey and the gin.

“I didn't realize Jack had his doctorate.”

“Oh, he didn't finish.” Her voice swelled with doom. “We had our daughter, Ada.” She frowned, attempting to explain, pouring more gin into her glass. “He left his program to work.”

“He can always go back to it,” Nate said, encouragingly.

She nodded politely, but Nate could tell it wasn't in the cards.

“What about you?”

“Me?” She blushed.

“Aren't you some kind of poet?” She'd been editor of their high school literary journal. “You rejected me, in fact,” he complained.

“Did I?”

“I've never quite gotten over it.” He smiled. “You were good.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” she said. “I write occasionally. When I'm inspired.
Or
depressed.” She said it as a joke, but he found himself believing that depression might be routine for Maggie Heath.

“Inspiration is a fickle enterprise,” he said, sounding suddenly like his father. “Depression is a far more reliable source of motivation.”

“Sad but true.” She laughed.

“I'd love to read them sometime, if you'd let me.”

“No you wouldn't. They're awful.”

“My favorite kind. Have you published any?” He knew she hadn't.

“Don't be ridiculous.” She made a face. “Speaking of which, I loved your stories. Jack too. We're really thrilled to have you here. I hope you're working on a book.”

“I'm actually writing a novel.”

“That's wonderful. Do you have a publisher?”

“No. Not yet.” He looked down at his hands. “Hopefully, one day.”

“Of course you will,” she said. “You're very talented.” She was curled up on the sofa, her bare feet tucked beneath her. “I'm not surprised you turned out to be a writer. It must have been fascinating growing up in that house. All those famous people coming and going.”

“Rarely fascinating,” he said. “But I'll admit it wasn't typical.” In truth, he'd resented his parents' open-door policy—his mother endlessly doting on guests, cooking elaborate meals. As a boy he'd felt somehow in the way. The poets were the worst of the lot. Drunken freeloaders who'd stay up half the night reciting their tortured verses while Nate and his parents squirmed on the couch. There'd been one man—his name was Stevens—a bald, chain-smoking academic in a black turtleneck who was forever posing like his book jacket photo— he'd won some tony poetry prize—who'd turned him on to heroin. Nate remembered the man's convertible, some party in New Haven where they'd scored and the reeling euphoria afterward, under the stars. Once he'd had a taste, there was no good enough reason to stop. Unlike his fellow classmates, the people he got high with were real, flawed just like he was. And there were girls—all kinds of girls; girls who sat at his mother's dining room table in their thrift shop Pucci dresses or the college girls in their little tweed jackets, who'd come back to campus for alumni weekend—some had begun to publish what Stevens had called horny-girl poems—his father found them appalling—who'd ride his hips all night on his narrow bed and slither out like rodents at dawn, knowing he had to be up for school in the morning.