The Widow's Season (14 page)

She watched in silence as he washed the blood from his hands.

“I saw the paper’s announcement,” he continued. “About the exhibit. How did that happen?”

Sarah shrugged. “Judith came out to the house on a condolence call. She saw some of your paintings and seemed genuinely impressed. So I took her into the basement and let her look through everything. She said she had no idea you were so talented.”

He laughed. “I suppose it’s flattering.”

Sarah turned her face away, toward the river. He had no right to be pleased with himself, this man who ran away from his commitments, who snuck into houses and listened to other people’s conversations.

“What is your plan?” she asked. “Are you going to come back?”

He turned off the water, took two beers from the refrigerator, and placed one in front of her. “I don’t know if I could come back at this point. I know I couldn’t get my job back. They wouldn’t want a doctor who takes a three-month sabbatical without asking anyone. And I don’t know about the neighbors. I guess we could tell them that I had some sort of nervous breakdown.” He twisted the cap and took a long swallow. “But you’ve already got the insurance money, right? And the college’s death benefit? We’d have to return all that. I suppose we might be accused of insurance fraud.”

Sarah winced. It had never occurred to her that she might be blamed for this, that she could be viewed as anything other than a passive victim.

“I’m giving half the insurance money to the college. To set up a scholarship fund in your name.”

David laughed again. “I don’t think that will satisfy the Allstate men.”

Her nails dug thin crescents into her palms. “So what is it that you want?”

David peeled a thin strip of label from his bottle. “I thought we might go kayaking, the way we used to. Or go biking up into the hills.” He paused to look into her eyes. “I’d like to go back to the way things were ten years ago. Or not back really, but forward to someplace different.”

Sarah merely stared. “You’ve set us up for insurance fraud because you’re feeling nostalgic?”

“No one will ever know,” he said, “unless you tell them.”

When Sarah didn’t answer, he rose from his chair. “I don’t have any plans beyond this week, or even this afternoon. I just wanted to see you.”

He walked out to the deck to turn on the grill, and all the while her eyes followed, impressed with his aura of health. David no longer seemed to have the pallor she had noticed when he sat in her kitchen. Here, his cheeks were bright, his face rough-shaven, his arms muscular. To the left of the hearth a two-foot log pile testified to his major pastime; he must have started chopping when the power went out.

It would serve him right, thought Sarah, to go home and turn off the electricity, change her bank account, cancel his ATM card. Let him see how long he could survive on his fishing rod. But much as she wanted to hurt David, to crush his arrogant soul, a part of her still loved him—loved him now even more than in the past twelve months, because now there was nothing predictable about her husband. Nothing was left of the old routine. He had endowed their marriage with a sense of mystery.

David served the grilled trout with a slice of wheat bread and a thick chunk of Cheddar cheese, and Sarah ate in silence, appreciative of the meal’s simplicity. A few times she thought to say something conciliatory, but no words came. When he was done, he pushed his plate aside and looked out toward the river.

“I can’t describe how it felt to rise up out of that water and be able to breathe. It was like I was a new person. I’d been given a new life, and I couldn’t go back to the old one. Staying here seemed like the best option. Maybe it was a mistake, but it’s done, and now I’m trying to deal with it.”

Sarah carried both of their plates to the sink. “I understand your motives. I just don’t know if I want to be a part of this.”

An hour later, as he helped her pack the paintings and sketches into her station wagon, she tried to speak lightly: “You know, there are better ways to get a marriage back on track.”

And then she was in the car, starting down the driveway. It occurred to her that she had never touched David, never tested whether her fingers would meet solid flesh. When she looked into the rearview mirror, he was gone.

Ten days later Sarah stood in the Walker Street Gallery, watching Judith’s bracelets slide down her forearms as she perched on a stepladder, adjusting the track lighting that fell on one of David’s river scenes. Judith was inching the light toward the precise angle where it could shine on the water, making dabs of gold and silver paint glitter like sinking coins. Three centimeters to the right, one to the left, and Judith stepped down. She glanced at Sarah, who smiled and nodded.

This space of white walls, blue carpet, and movable room dividers had come alive over the past three days. Charcoal sketches filled the garden alcove; the opposite wall blazed with oils. Each corner had a distinct mood which Judith planned to complement, on opening night, with matching hors d’oeuvres—caviar to echo the charcoal, lemon tarts beside the watercolors.

Margaret, who had volunteered to do much of the cooking, scoffed at Judith’s culinary schemes—“How about smoked weenies next to the nudes?” But Sarah trusted in Judith’s vision. Enveloped in these walls of shifting color and form, she felt newly appreciative of David’s talent. Here she could walk from piece to piece and trace the evolution of her husband’s obsessions.

“What do you think?” Judith walked to Sarah’s side and examined the space, wall by wall.

“You’ve done a wonderful job.”

“I’ve done nothing. Here I’ve spent a decade imagining myself as the local talent scout extraordinaire, and I never even noticed David.” She put her hand around Sarah’s shoulder and gave an awkward squeeze. “Some of these are really good, you know. I’ve kept five of the best ones for myself. I’m going to take them to my Georgetown gallery in December.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows. Exposure in Washington was a compliment granted only to Judith’s favorites. It was typical of her not to ask permission; Judith preferred announcements over inquiries. But Sarah nodded her approval. “I was wondering where that charcoal sketch of myself had gone.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to bare your breasts in such a small town.”

“Yes. Much better to show them off to strangers.”

An electric bell chimed, and Judith glanced at the door. “My, my, what have we here?”

Nate was standing in the entrance, pinching at the fingertips of his dark leather gloves. Sarah walked over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I wanted to see the exhibit without the crowds.” He stuffed his gloves into the pocket of his navy overcoat. “It’s hard to appreciate art at an opening, with all the people and the conversation.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Judith came forward with her hand outstretched.

“This is Judith Keen. She owns the gallery.” Sarah helped Nate out of his coat. “This is David’s brother, Nate.”

“The resemblance is striking.” Judith shook Nate’s hand. “It’s like having the artist himself walk into the room.”

Not quite, Sarah thought as she hung Nate’s coat in the closet. David had never inspired the sort of fawning attention that Judith now lavished on Nate. She was steering him to the best paintings, speaking with a knowledgeable flirtatiousness, “Of
course,
watercolors aren’t in
vogue,
but look at
this
one.” Each time Nate leaned toward a canvas, Sarah could see Judith’s curatorial eyes assess his silhouette. There was something almost chemical about her brother-in-law; when he entered a room, women changed their posture.

Sarah walked into the foyer, where a polished walnut table held a silver-framed photograph of David. He was leaning against a poplar tree, wearing a white collared shirt rolled up at the elbows. She had chosen the photo as his most characteristic pose, arms crossed and eyes intent. When she held it in the light he seemed to grin at her. What was he doing now? Fishing? Drawing?

She hadn’t visited the cabin in the past two weeks, and the time and distance had transformed David back into a shadowy figure. Once again she wondered about her husband’s spiritual and physical state. The river had transfigured him beyond the mental rebirth that he acknowledged. Something material and essential had changed.

But wasn’t that to be expected? Sarah examined the lines on David’s two-dimensional face. What would Eurydice have been like, if Orpheus had managed to lead her into daylight? Would she still have been so fragile as to disappear at a wayward glance? And what about Lazarus? What was he like after Jesus left? Did his sisters notice an unsettling change?

Behind her, Nate and Judith were inching past the oils. Nate looked back and held up a finger, mouthing the words “Wait for me.”

She placed David’s photo back on the table. What was missing? Here was the gold-trimmed guest register, with a ballpoint pen in a velvet case. And here was a small brass lamp, amber beads dangling from its shade. She stared at the table for another three minutes before she heard Nate’s voice nearby.

“It looks like a terrific show.”

“You were wise to see it early.” Judith’s fingers had migrated into the crook of Nate’s elbow.

“This also gives me a chance to take you out to lunch.” He smiled at Sarah. “If you’re free?”

She glanced again at David’s picture. “I’m always free.”

“Take him to Il Trattoria,” Judith insisted as she withdrew her fingers from Nate’s arm. “It’s the
only
place for lunch.” She opened the closet and handed Sarah her long coat, then held Nate’s open at the collar, momentarily resting her hands on his shoulders as he stepped into the silk lining. “I’ll see you both on Friday.”

“Judith.” Sarah turned back at the door. “Some flowers for this table?”

“Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

Twenty minutes later Sarah was sitting over a plate of chicken piccata, sorting the capers with the tines of a silver fork. She had made a polite remark about the economy, and now Nate was mulling the possibility of a market rebound. His words were distant, as if he sat two booths away, while in her own mind she wondered whether to tell him the truth.

As David’s closest living relative, Nate had certain rights. He had a right to know whether his brother was alive or dead, a right to be spared unnecessary grief. But David had rights as well, a claim to his own secrets, and although he had not solicited any promises of silence, Sarah felt inclined to grant him this chance at a new life. Besides, she doubted whether Nate would believe her, if she told him about the cabin, and the ghost in the basement.

“What are you thinking?” Nate asked.

“I was admiring your skill with the spaghetti. David always got a drop of sauce on his tie when we came here.”

“David could get away with it. I never could.”

True. Beauty entailed responsibilities—an obligation not to disappoint.

As Nate reached for his wineglass, Sarah was surprised to see his father’s wedding ring on his right hand. She hadn’t expected such a sentimental gesture. Beneath that placid face, was he mourning his lost family?

She had witnessed Nate’s grief only once, at Helen’s burial in Vermont. As the casket descended into the grave, he had given way to convulsive sobs, his head drooping like a wilted rose. He might have sunk to his knees, had David not wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulder, pressing him to his side.

After the ceremony she and Nate had left David at the grave with a shovel in hand. David always fought sorrow with physical labor, and he insisted that his mother’s burial should not be left to strangers. Nate wanted to help, but though the soul was willing, the flesh was weak. On their return to Helen’s house, riding in the funeral home’s silver Buick, she had held Nate’s head against her bare throat. It was the most maternal experience of her life; his sobs muffled against her skin sounded like a nursing baby.

“Do you want dessert?” she asked when he put down his fork.

“Will you share something with me?”

“A slice of tiramisu?”

“With coffee?”

“Tea for me.”

“Of course.”

She could not recall a moment since David’s disappearance when Nate had seemed distraught. On the morning after the flood, when he arrived at her door, his hair was uncombed and his face unshaven, but his voice had remained calm. She remembered sitting on her couch while he held her head steady against his collarbone. There, with the beat of his heart murmuring in her ear, she had told him everything. How she had waited for an hour by the muddy river, standing under an umbrella while the branches and leaves swirled by. How she had driven to the Jackson police station and filed a missing-persons report. With two girls already drowned that day, and less than two hours of daylight left, the police had dispatched a helicopter to scan the river. They had also alerted the volunteer rescue squads—mostly local boys in pickup trucks with flashing lights on their dashboards—to search the riverbanks for whatever washed ashore.