The Book That Matters Most (6 page)

When Jim didn't answer, Ava followed his gaze to the television, where a reporter stood beneath the statue of Roger Williams that overlooked the city from Prospect Park.

“What is that?” Ava asked. She narrowed her eyes to see the screen better, her glasses only good close up these days.

Jim was grinning.

“Someone has dressed him up,” he said, amused.

The screen came into focus. Sure enough, Roger Williams had on a blue and white scarf with a matching hat and gloves.

Ava picked up the next quiz. Already she could tell that the student had completely confused the
-er
and
-ir
verbs.

“Kind of a waste of time, isn't it?” she muttered as she lifted her red pen and began marking Xs. “Dressing statues?”

“Wait a minute,” Jim said, leaning forward enough that Ava's feet dropped from his lap. “I know her.”

“Of course you do. That's Hayley Morrow. She's been reporting forever,” Ava said.

But Jim wasn't listening. He was leaning forward, his eyes shining, as if to get as close as possible to the television.

“My God! It's Delia Lindstrom!”

Ava looked at the television again, this time taking her glasses off. Beside short, squat Hayley Morrow, wrapped in a dowdy wool pea coat, stood a tall auburn-haired woman wearing a fake leopard coat and very high black boots.

“Ms. Lindstrom,” Hayley Morrow was saying, “some people believe you dressed Roger Williams here.”

Delia Lindstrom did not look at Hayley Morrow. She did not look at Roger Williams. No, she looked right at the camera. Later, Ava would remember it as she looked right at Jim.

“Well,” she said, “he did look cold.”

“I
slept
with her!” Jim said, as if he'd done something truly marvelous.

Years ago, back when they'd first started sleeping together, they'd told each other everyone they'd had sex with. The lists were woefully short, and Ava was certain she'd remember a name like Delia Lindstrom.

“You did? When?”

“In Greece, of all places. The summer of my Eurail pass.”

“Yarn bombing is a type of graffiti,” Hayley Morrow was explaining to the viewers, “that uses colorful displays of knitted yarn rather than paint or chalk. Although these may last for years, they're considered temporary, and, unlike other graffiti, can be easily removed if necessary. Nonetheless, the practice is still technically illegal, isn't it, Ms. Lindstrom?” she added, gazing up the full length of Delia Lindstrom.

“Technically, yes,” Delia said. “Though one would have to be caught and then prosecuted.”

“Ms. Lindstrom,” Hayley Morrow said in her serious reporter voice, “other forms of graffiti are considered political commentary or self-expressions or even vandalism. What is the point of yarn bombing?”

“Yarn bombing is about reclaiming and personalizing sterile or cold public places,” Delia answered, again looking straight at the camera.

Those words still replayed in Ava's mind, even all these months later.
Yarn bombing is about reclaiming and personalizing sterile or cold public places
. That was just what Delia Lindstrom had done with Jim—reclaimed him.

A
ged Oaks had gone overboard with the decorations. Everywhere Ava looked she saw smiling Santas and snowmen, shiny gold or silver garlands, twinkling multicolored lights. The staff all wore Santa hats with their names written in glitter across the front, and Muzak Christmas carols played nonstop over the intercom.

Ava was relieved to get away from the holiday assault and inside her own house. At the last minute she'd relented and bought a pre-decorated tabletop tree with small gold balls hanging from its branches and a string of tiny starburst-shaped white lights. As she entered the dark house, those lights glowed at her. The sight of that little happy tree made her sit down right there in the front hall and cry.

For some reason, her father had given her a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream for Christmas, something she'd never liked. It came in a decorative gift set, with two shot glasses with green shamrocks on them. Once she'd composed herself, she opened the box and pulled out one of the glasses and the Bailey's, poured it and took a sip. Chalky. Too sweet. But oddly comforting. She unbuttoned her winter coat, a tweed one that Jim had always liked.

“Merry Christmas,” she said out loud, holding the ridiculous glass up in a toast.

Ava sighed. How had she ended up here on the floor in her foyer, drinking Bailey's Irish Cream alone on Christmas night?
She should get up, make herself some dinner, have a glass of good wine, for God's sake. But she seemed frozen to that spot, as if her broken heart weighed her down, made it impossible to move.

Her cell phone buzzed, deep in her coat pocket.

“Merry Christmas!” her daughter's voice rang out.

“Maggie!”

“Did you have a good one?”

“I spent it with Gramps.”

“I hope you gave him a big smooch from me,” Maggie said.

“What did you do to celebrate?”

“Oh, they gave us a big dinner and like, a little party. Secret Santas. You know.”

“What did you get?”

“What?” Maggie said, distracted.

“What did your Secret Santa give you?”

“Oh. Um. You know, one of those wooden Pinocchios that are all over Florence. We had a five-euro limit.”

“Remember in third grade when your Secret Santa was that boy? His father was a famous actor or something? And he gave you a Game Boy? Everyone else was getting holiday socks and Beanie Babies and—”

“I'm so glad you had a great day, Mom! I'll call on Sunday.”

“Oh. Okay,” Ava said. In the background she could hear party sounds, happy sounds. “Send me some pictures?”

“I put them on Instagram,” Maggie said.

She blew a noisy kiss, said “Ciao,” and was gone.

Ava sighed again and reached to turn off her phone when she saw that she had two voicemails.

The first one was from Will. It always surprised her how clearly his voice came through from so far away, and in such a remote
place. “All is well, Merry Christmas, I love you.” She smiled at her son's no-nonsense tone.

The next one had a number she didn't recognize.

“Hi, Ava,” came Jim's voice. “Sorry I missed you. Just wanted to say Happy Holidays. We're in Peru until after New Year's, finally getting to hike up to Machu Picchu.”

There was a pause long enough to make Ava wonder if he'd hung up.

Then his achingly familiar voice again.

“Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

And a click.

Peru?

She thought of the casual
we
he'd used. And had he actually called her
kiddo
?

Forgetting it was Christmas, Ava called Cate.

“You are not going to believe this,” Ava began without even giving her friend any holiday wishes. “Jim actually called me. From Peru. He said
we're
in Peru. He called me
kiddo
.”

“Ew,” Cate said.

“He said he's finally getting to hike up to Machu Picchu. Finally? He never once mentioned wanting to hike up to Machu Picchu. I mean, did you ever hear him say anything like that? Ever?”

“I'm sorry, sweetie,” Cate said.

Ava heard the sounds of people laughing, distant strains of music.

“You're having a party,” she said.

“No!” Cate said. “Not a party. It's just . . . well, it's Christmas. And Gray made his eggnog.”

Gray's eggnog. Last year—every year—Ava and Jim had gone over and drunk Gray's eggnog. Too much bourbon. Gray in a ridiculous
Christmas sweater with a reindeer whose nose lit up red. The disgusting dip Cate made in her crockpot with cream cheese, Rotel tomatoes, and breakfast sausage.

“You got the invite, didn't you?”

Ava's eyes drifted to the pile of unopened mail sitting on the bottom step.

“We'd love to have you. Really,” Cate was saying.

“I have a date,” Ava said. “With Jane Austen.”

“Are you sure?”

Ava squeezed her eyes shut. She could picture Gray in that stupid sweater, his shaggy hair, his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. And Cate urging that dip—mommy crack, she called it—on everyone. And couples, wives with their husbands, arms crooked together, ironic eye rolls, jokes, snipes, private signals, all of the intimacies of marriage.

“I'm sure,” Ava said.

T
he afternoon of New Year's Eve, Cate convinced Ava to walk downtown for Bright Night, the city's way of ringing in the New Year with live performances and fireworks. Without hesitating, Ava agreed. She and Jim had hated New Year's Eve, with its forced gaiety and resolutions and silly hats. They'd always stayed home together and cooked something complicated: cassoulet or duck à l'orange or beef Wellington. Sometimes Cate and Gray joined them for dinner. Last year Will and Maggie had both still been home, and Cate and Gray's kids came too, the eight of them moving through the kitchen, chopping and tasting and stirring. After they ate, they'd played charades, a game choice that struck Ava now as both ironic and fitting. Jim had been fucking Delia Lindstrom for over a month by then.

Happy to get out, she put on enough layers to make the buttons on her coat strain. Before she left, unable to keep from worrying about Maggie, she checked her email. Just Maggie's usual cryptic messages.
The Uffizi is always so crowded!!!
Followed by a row of angry red faces. And:
Someone told me in Naples they throw all their old furniture out the window on New Year's Eve. Should I go to Naples? #wearahelmet
. Ava sighed and went to Maggie's Instagram page. Maybe she had gone to Naples. But no. There was only shot after shot of the Duomo from every possible angle. A photograph of a group of girls standing in front of it, arms draped around one another's shoulders and mugging for the camera, was taken too far away for her to make out Maggie from the others, especially with their winter hats and oversized sunglasses. Will's Facebook page proved just as disappointing. A trek to see the mountain gorillas had produced closeups of the gorillas and none of Will.

Ava tucked her phone in her pocket, pulled on her gloves, and headed down the street to meet Cate. The clouds hung low and gray, heavy no doubt with the snow the weatherman had promised. Ava shivered despite her layers, and hurried to Benefit Street where Cate was already waiting for her, stomping her feet to stay warm.

“Thanks for suggesting this,” Ava said, her breath leaving a trail of puffs of cold air. “The thought of being home alone—”

“It'll be fun,” Cate interrupted cheerfully. “Who doesn't want to hear a klezmer band and watch giant puppets terrify children?”

“Before I left I was remembering how last year—”

“They're going to have food trucks too,” Cate interrupted again. “I've been dying to try Mama Kim's. Korean food.”

Ava stopped abruptly.

“I get it,” she said. “Your mission tonight is to get me to stop
talking about Jim, or how my life has fallen apart, or anything related to those topics.”

Cate sighed. “Sweetie, it's been almost a year.”

“It doesn't work that way,” Ava said. “Your heart doesn't have a calendar that turns the page at a year and then, voilà! you're over it.”

Cate kicked at some dirty black snow with the toe of her boot.

“Why, I'm still not over—” Ava stopped herself, surprised at what she'd almost blurted.

“What?” Cate said, looking at her.

Ava shook her head. She didn't talk about that summer. Ever.

“I just mean that grief is more complicated than you think,” Ava managed.

They continued on in silence, but Ava's mind was anything but quiet. She worked hard the rest of the walk, trying to push the terrible noises away. Trying to avoid the still, lifeless face of a little girl that threatened to appear.

I
t was Ava who suggested they go ice skating.

They'd listened to the klezmer band, and the all-trumpet concert. They'd found Mama Kim's truck and eaten bulgogi sliders and a pork kimchee rice bowl. They'd watched a modern dance performance and a tap dancing show. There was really not much left to do, which meant that they would have to head back up the hill toward home.

Then Ava saw the skaters gliding across the outdoor rink, scarves flying behind them like a postcard-perfect winter scene. In one corner, a teenaged couple skated a routine together, with fluid spins and twirls.

“I haven't skated since I was a kid,” Cate grumbled as she laced her skates.

The line to rent them had been long, and the line to get on the ice even longer. For Ava, the wait was a relief, another way to stall her inevitable night home alone. But she did see Cate glance at her watch several times.

It was almost their turn to enter the rink when a man appeared beside them, grinning. He had on an enormous plaid fake fur hat with earflaps.

“Shouldn't you two be home reading?” he said.

“I've finished already,” Cate said. She pointed her thumb at Ava and added, “This is the one we have to watch.”

“I've been standing right behind you, but didn't recognize you with all the cold weather gear,” the man continued.

Ava almost admitted she didn't recognize him still, when Cate said, “Ava, you remember Luke, don't you? From the book group?”

Ah! Mr. Porkpie Hat. He'd traded that one in for another ridiculous one.

“I wanted to ask you,” Luke was saying, turning his full attention to Ava now, “you said your mother owned a bookstore? On Thayer Street?”

“A long time ago. Before you were born,” Ava said, caught off guard.

“Cool. And a writer too?”

“No, not really,” Ava said. “I mean, she wrote stories but nothing really ever came of it.”

“By the way,” Luke said, “that book you picked? I can't find it anywhere.”