Voices in the Dark (2 page)

“Something like that.”

“You could’ve called.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t convenient. Harley was in and out.” Harley was her husband. The marriage, which was not working, was her first, her husband’s second. She shifted her weight over the bar of the bicycle and said, “Did you wait long?”

“No,” he said and wondered what it would be like to be greedily in love again, to wear his whole heart on his sleeve. She had turned thirty, which he knew from a check of the voting list, and he was well into his forties, but with no gray in his hair, he was proud of that. And proud too that he still had his looks, though his nose played slightly too large a part in his face.

“But you’re angry.”

“Maybe it’s all just as well,” he said without meaning a word of it. His truths he told with a smile, his lies with solemnity. “Still friends, aren’t we?”

“I hope so, James.”

“And no reason we can’t bump into each other at the library.”

The library was where they had got to know each other, where she read out-of-town newspapers and borrowed biographies. Fitting herself back onto the bicycle seat, one foot on the ground and the other poised on a pedal, she said, “No reason whatsoever.”

He did not want her to leave, not so quickly. The anticipation of loss was with him always, the chill rooted in childhood when his father was killed in the war and reinforced tenfold when early in his marriage his wife was killed on a winding road.

“I suppose you have to go somewhere,” he said.

“A party,” she replied. “The Gunners.”

“Paul and Beverly.”

“You know them?”

He knew what they looked like, he knew they were rich as God, and he knew they had had a loss of their own, two, maybe three years ago. “Not really,” he said, watching a monarch wobble in an errant breeze, its flight redirected. “I don’t suppose you’ll be at the library on Monday.”

“Let’s not plan anything, James. That way neither of us will be disappointed.”

Too much truthfulness in her face. He would have gratefully accepted a lie, the sort he told, which gave hope and fleeting comfort. He watched her pedal away, her torso flung forward, her bottom arched over the tiny seat, and her legs shedding light. Then he was on his feet.

“Kate,” he called. But she did not hear him.

• • •

Mary Williams lived one flight up in a brownstone on Beacon, near Charles, near the Public Garden, a mere walk from the Ritz, where her grandmother used to take her to breakfast and taught her to eat her egg from a porcelain cup, the continental way; where her grandmother had read the
Times,
which had no comics she could borrow, though waiters had occasionally amused her and dowagers had made much of her. On days such as this, it did not seem that long ago.

Light streaked through the tall front windows and struck ceramic vases and crystalware, picking out the prettiest. The apartment was spacious, airy, with many rooms, the furniture her grandmother’s. The paintings on the walls of the wide passageway were her own creations, the ones she felt she could show: a meadow imbued with the calm of a Corot, a maiden with a Modigliani neck, a street scene reminiscent of Hopper, nothing that would upset her friend Dudley.

In the kitchen she made herbal tea in a pot smothered with delicately etched forget-me-nots, the tints not as striking as when her grandmother was alive. As she poured the tea into a chipped china cup, she pondered the dynamics that would impel one woman to throw the cup out and another to keep it. It was, she felt, as worthy of study as anything else.

Carrying cup and saucer with her, she passed through the dining room, where a bowl of potpourri emitted a strong fragrance, and into her reading room, where walls of books threw out titles in a learned way. The rolltop desk had been her great-grandfather’s and still sheltered some of his papers. She paused only to trail a hand over the humps of an open Oxford dictionary, as if her fingers absorbed words.

She glanced into her studio, where like bad children, canvases were stacked with their faces to the wall. Her mother had called it her therapy room. In the works was a sketch of a nude male, the model an ex-soldier with a shaved head and a quilt of belly muscles.

Her bedroom faced her friend’s. She went into hers. The bed was an old-fashioned four-poster of dark oak and fretwork, beneath which, for effect, was a chamber pot. On the night table were pencil stubs, a wind-up clock, and a candle rising from a tarnished wreath of gilt. Small ornately framed photographs of family members lined a mantelpiece, her father and her grandmother in the forefront. Sitting on the window seat with a partial view of the street, she sipped her tea and waited.

• • •

The grandest house on the Heights belonged to the Gunners. Built on the converging lines of an English manor and a Dutch colonial, it was approachable through a stone gateway. The driveway was an avenue of tapered arborvitae, which concealed video scanners. The cocktail party was at five, and on the hour automobiles of note began arriving. In a foyer of rosy marble the Gunners greeted guests, who gradually would include nearly everyone from the Heights and many from Andover.

Beverly Gunner’s hair was a golden shell perfectly in place, Paul Gunner’s collar bit into his big neck. He shook the hands of the men and planted kisses on the cheeks of the women. His heavy face was wadded with an importance he deserved. A graduate of MIT, he had worked for a software company only long enough to form his own, which he sold seven years later in a deal spectacular enough to put his picture in
Forbes
and
Fortune.
Later he made killings in commercial real estate and got out before the market collapsed, for he heeded the signs the greedy ignored, among them Myles Yarbrough, whose hand he was now pumping with a superior grip. Phoebe Yarbrough, a willowy elegance in waist-cinching silk, he slobbered with a kiss.

“You’re lovely,” he said. Pleasure enlarged his face and further fattened his whole look.

Beverly Gunner greeted people warmly but tentatively, her manner shy and uncertain. A gift from her husband manacled her wrist and embarrassed her when it drew the attention of Regina Smith, who was shrewd enough to guess that she would have chosen a small packet of understanding over a diamond bracelet.

“It’s stunning,” said Regina, whose steel smile was a sullen force. Her own jewelry was minimal, exquisitely noticeable by degrees. Her dress left her shoulders bare. Paul Gunner, who had once likened her to a frozen delicacy, suddenly corralled her, but with a subtle shift she avoided the full weight of his kiss.

By six, the foyer clock striking the hour, the party was in full swing. Guests numbering nearly a hundred thronged the long dining room, where high windows stood deep in the walls. Breezes delivered fragrances from the garden, and trimly uniformed Hispanic women served hors d’oeuvres and wine. Stronger drinks were available at the bar in the billiard room, where a crowd surrounded Crack Alexander, the former ball player who stood five inches over six feet and had gained thirty pounds since retiring. Gripping an imaginary bat, an elbow cocked behind him, the big fellow demonstrated the legendary stance that had earned him super salaries with the Boston Red Sox.

His wife, Sissy, stood by herself in a short flare of chiffon, her lurid legs fleshy above the knees, her mouth stiffened into a smile to last the evening. She knew she was an afterthought, an insignificant addition to the gathering. Put a drink in her hand and forget her. Only a pretty Hispanic woman with a tray of delicacies took pity on her, pausing frequently to feed her. Then a small semibald man came up to her on springy feet.

“Excuse me,” he said and reintroduced himself. She had met him before, briefly, another party. He was a mathematics teacher at Phillips Academy, brainy and bespectacled, though in no way intimidating. Inside his neat little beard his grin looked like a woman’s. “What’s it like, Mrs. Alexander, being married to a famous athlete?”

An anchovy glued to something hot went down hard. Ginger ale, which she drank fast, pricked her nose. Behind her someone was telling a joke, and she flinched as if each burst of laughter were at her expense.

“I suppose you’ve been asked that a thousand times.”

Her face, round and wholesome, seemed to contract. “Please,” she said, “could you get me another ginger ale?”

Kate Bodine, her blond hair negligently bundled back, arrived late, shot smiles at those she knew, and was surprised to glimpse her husband. He was deep in conversation with Paul Gunner, their posture stiff. Harley lacked an eye for art and an ear for music, but he had a sure head for business, and he was Gunner’s lawyer.

They broke away, and she, lifting her wineglass high and dodging elbows, went to him.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” she said.

“I came here directly.” He was tailored tight in a sober suit uncompromisingly correct. Inside he was diffuse, never one thing she could put her finger on but always a series of hedges, a reservoir of suspicions.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“I got tied up. I didn’t see him.”

“He must be very disappointed.”

“I’ll make it up to him.”

“I don’t see how, Harley.”

“Don’t make me feel more guilty than I do,” he said in a tone to remind her the boy was his son, not hers. His gaze roved; his dark, supple face changed expressions. “I’m going to the bar, do you mind?”

“Do as you like, Harley.”

Myles Yarbrough, his nerves shot, his stomach deranged from money losses, sneaked away early. Free of his jittery eye, Phoebe Yarbrough mingled with the weightless gait of a dancer. Voices rose rich and bubbly, eroding an inhibition or two, and she recklessly started a conversation with Ira Smith, his face owlish behind horn-rims, his voice warm.

“I saw Myles leave,” he said.

Her eyes absorbed him. Here was a man she could love, perhaps deeply, perhaps forever, but she knew he would not have it. Nor would Regina allow it. They were, if appearances counted, a happy couple. She said, “He has a lot on his mind.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Like her husband, Ira Smith was a Boston lawyer but without the greed that might have propelled him into precarious situations. He headed the firm his grandfather had founded, his life laid out for him the day he was born. “Myles is a big boy,” she said. “Big boys take care of themselves, or at least they should.”

“Everybody can use help now and then.”

“I’ll buy that.” Her smile brought out bones while a melancholy twinge made her wonder what he would think if he knew that in her youth she had conducted business out of a Manhattan apartment. Her clients were corporate executives who booked her in advance, flowers arriving before they did. “But I’m not sure Myles would. His pride would get in the way.”

“I can understand that.”

His horn-rims reminded her of a client who at Christmas time had given her a glossy catalog of jewelry, no prices listed, and told her to choose something. The order form was in back, coded, so that his company would get the bill.

“In tough economic times, Phoebe, you learn to live smaller.”

“As long as others don’t notice,” she said and privately brushed his hand, which had the whiteness and dry hairs of a scholar or a minister. Her fingers latched on to three of his.

He pleated his brow and spoke softly. “This isn’t wise.”

“It’s not even possible,” she agreed.

Lighter on her feet after a second drink, Kate Bodine glided into the company of two bankers from Andover, subtly balanced her attention, and charmed them both.

Near a marble mantel graced with silver candlesticks, she joined a clutch of aging men and full-bodied matrons. A white-haired man in a cashmere jacket stared at her without restraint, and she edged away to sample a serving dish of choice little meats. Dick English, under an abundance of silver-streaked hair, gave her an extravagant smile, stepped in, and whispered, “When?”

“Get off it,” she said and moved away.

Someone stepped on her toe. New arrivals shifted patterns and rearranged scenes, and she sought her husband through a whirligig of heads and faces. Young Turks — go-getters in managerial positions at Raytheon, Gillette, and the like — surrounded him, held him in an eddy of talk.

Angling out of the drawing room, Kate sought a bathroom and found it occupied. Another was close by, but she went off track looking for it, the heels of her pumps tapping the oak floor of a passageway that abruptly deposited her into a room of period pieces. A large gilt-framed mirror displayed the tarnish of authenticity, chairs looked appropriately fragile, and Germanic faces from another time peered out of photographs. A solitary figure stood near a baroque lamp. Beverly Gunner was smoking a cigarette.

“Don’t tell. Paul doesn’t like it.” Under the golden shell of hair a smile worked loose. “Is everything all right? Is there enough food?”

“Everything’s fine,” Kate said quickly.

“Paul wants it to be perfect.”

“It always is.”

“He’ll find something.” The cigarette held high, the smoke escaped like a ghost going out on its own. “He’s too smart for me, Kate. He’s too smart for all of us.”

“No man is that smart.”

The cigarette was snubbed out. “He’ll smell the smoke, he always does. Is my face all right, Kate?”

The skin around the eyes was worn, exhaustion written into it. The thin lips looked as if they had been stamped hard with permanent red ink. Kate said, “You look lovely.”

“Then we must get back. Let me go first.”

Kate found a bathroom off the kitchen and used it. The seat was cold. A wall mirror faced in on her, and with a bit of a start she discovered what she looked like sitting on a john. In the lighting, the ivory curve of her hip was bone. The roll was down to its cylinder, and she ripped away the last tissue, more token than whole. At the sink the water ran cold, then too hot. She took out a tube and hurriedly made a mouth as if a camera awaited her.

Returning to the party, she did a double take. Chief Morgan was standing at the edge of the crowd. Despite a wineglass in his hand, he looked very much an interloper with his searching air and the queerness in his expression. A bit of tattered lining hung loose from his sports jacket. She went to him with a challenging smile.