Woman in Black (32 page)

Vaughn shook his head in shared disgust. “I never thought being an infidel would come in handy in that part of the world,” he said. “Though I wouldn't want to try my luck nowadays. Times have changed.”

Karim nodded, wearing a somber look. “Not for the better, I'm afraid. These terrorists, they care nothing for the true spirit of the Koran. They look only at the strictest interpretations of Islamic law while ignoring its true, spiritual meaning. But this is nothing new. A hundred years ago, it was the followers of the Wahhabi movement seeking to cleanse Islam of all those who weren't ‘true' believers. Much as we might like to blame modern-day forces for the current state of affairs in the Middle East—Israel, the war, political forces here and abroad—what it really boils down to is the age-old struggle between the fundamentalists and those who seek true wisdom and understanding.”

“It's certainly not limited to Islam,” Vaughn said, thinking of countries like North Korea and Myanmar.
And let's not forget the good old U.S. of A., where they blow up abortion clinics
. “Other religions have their share of fundamentalism taken to extremes. I once met a Hasid who explained why it was that he didn't eat meat. It seemed that one of the three rabbis who were in charge of inspections at the only triple-glatt kosher butcher shop within walking distance was known to tipple now and then, and he feared that this tippling rabbi would be too hungover to do his job properly. Mind you, this was a man who thought nothing of charging me double the going rate to replace a cracked lens on my camera.”

“I count myself lucky just to have made it out of the Bible Belt with my mind and soul intact,” interjected Gillian as she sipped her wine.

“As a Confederate son, I take offense at that,” Vaughn protested lightly. “We're not all Bible-thumping bigots. And let's not forget that some of our country's greatest freethinkers were Southern Democrats. Thomas Jefferson, for one. Thurgood Marshall, for another.”

“Politics and religion are two subjects that should never be discussed at dinner parties,” Lila scolded playfully as she squeezed past them on her way to the table, carrying a steaming casserole. “And somehow you've managed to work them both into the same sentence.”

“Isn't that why you invited me, Sis, to stir things up?” teased Vaughn. He felt better than he had all day. Or maybe it wasn't so much feeling better—the nausea was still there—as feeling
alive
. Discussing world affairs was a refreshing change from talking about his white-cell and ANC counts, how his platelets were clotting, and whether or not he was in danger of becoming anemic.

“Enough stirring,” Lila said. “Time to sit down and eat.”

They all squeezed in around the table, Neal seated next to Vaughn, with Karim wedged in between Gillian and Lila. It was a lively group, except for Neal. His efforts to join in seemed forced, and he all but shut down whenever Karim attempted to engage him in conversation.

“So have you decided which classes you're going to take?” Karim asked him at one point, in reference to the community college Neal had enrolled at.

“Not yet.” Neal kept his head down as he shoveled a forkful of stuffing into his mouth.

Karim looked a bit puzzled. “Unless I'm mistaken, your mother told me the deadline for spring enrollment is one week away.”

Neal shrugged, studiously avoiding Karim's gaze. “I'm keeping my options open.”

“Well, if I can be of any help, please let me know. I was a teacher in my other life, so I'm familiar with curriculums,” Karim offered.

Neal only grunted in response.

Lila flashed Karim an apologetic look, but Karim seemed to take it in stride. For the most part, he had eyes only for Lila. Throughout the meal, even while engaged in animated conversation with the others, he surreptitiously tracked her with his gaze. It was apparent to Vaughn, if not to Lila, that Karim was smitten with her. It must have been apparent to Neal, too, because more than once Vaughn caught him giving Karim the fish-eye.

Lila wasn't blind to it, either, and Vaughn could see that it had her rattled. In close proximity to Karim, she'd become flustered, talking more animatedly than usual and at one point almost choking on a bite of food when his elbow accidentally brushed against hers. Given her earlier denials, Vaughn guessed it was she felt guilty for being attracted to him. Knowing Lila, she'd think it was far too soon to be so much as looking at another man, with her husband barely cold in his grave.

“That was a delicious meal,” Karim complimented her after the last plate had been cleared away to make room for dessert. “You're a woman of many talents, Lila.”

“I don't know about that,” she said with a self-effacing laugh, “but I guess I can still pull it together in a pinch.”

“A toast to the world's greatest hostess,” said Vaughn, raising his glass of sparkling apple cider—he was off booze these days, due to the chemo.

“The second greatest, you mean.” Lila cast him an arch look as she was setting out dessert plates. “I'm sure I can't compare to Abby.”

Karim was quick to change the subject. He turned to Neal to say, “Your mother tells me you're looking to buy a car. I know of one that's for sale—a '98, but with low mileage and a recently overhauled engine. It belongs to a friend of mine. I could get him to give you a good price if you're interested.”

“Thanks, but I already have something lined up,” Neal replied none too graciously, his eyes studiously trained on the table in front of him.

“Really?” Lila seemed surprised; this was obviously the first she was hearing of it. “Weren't you just telling me there was nothing in your price range?”

“It's not definite yet.” Neal kept his head down. “Just … well, there's this buddy of mine from school who's looking to upgrade, and he thought I might be interested in his old car.”

“What kind of shape is it in?” she asked.

“I don't know. I haven't looked at it yet,” he admitted.

“In that case, it wouldn't hurt to check out Karim's friend's. At least then you'd have something to compare it to.” She grabbed a knife and began slicing wedges out of the pumpkin pie she'd just set down on the table, seemingly oblivious to Neal's discomfort.

He flicked her an irritated glance, saying, “I've got it covered, Mom. Okay?”

Lila wisely let it drop.

After dessert, everyone helped wash up, and then it was time to open presents. Lila apologized as she handed Vaughn his gift, saying, “It's not much, I'm afraid. My budget isn't what it used to be.” He opened the box to find a knitted scarf and matching cap, obviously homemade, though not by Lila, he knew—she couldn't knit to save her life. Still, he was touched.

Neal gave him a collection of fisherman's flies that he'd scored at a garage sale. They swapped a few reminiscences about the times Vaughn had taken Neal fishing, and Neal seemed to lighten up a bit. Vaughn could only hope that eventually the happy memories his nephew had of growing up would come to outweigh the more recent, tragic ones.

Vaughn's gifts to his sister and nephew, while equally modest, had also been chosen with care. Lila expressed genuine delight at the hand-carved teak box he'd brought her from Namibia, similar to the one he'd given Gillian back at the loft. For Neal, there was a carved tribal mask and an African thumb piano, which made eerie music reminiscent of the plinking of raindrops on a tin roof.

Gillian presented Lila with a gift basket of soaps and bath oils. For Neal, there was an autographed CD put out by an edgy new rock group that one of Gillian's friends was in. In return, she received from them a vintage postcard of a covered bridge set in a rustic birch bark frame.

But it was Karim's gift to Lila that was perhaps the most thoughtful of all: a collection of poems by the thirteenth-century Afghani poet Jalal ad-Din Rumi, translated from the original Persian, in an ancient, leather-bound volume. “Rumi was our country's greatest poet,” he told them, explaining that it hadn't been Afghanistan then but part of the Byzantine Empire. “Which is ironic, since he spent a large portion of his life in exile.”

Lila was clearly touched, though she also appeared somewhat embarrassed—the book was obviously a rare edition that must have been worth a lot. The necktie she'd given him must have seemed painfully prosaic in comparison. She opened the volume and read aloud at random.

In the ocean are many bright strands

and many dark strands like veins that are seen

when a wing is lifted up
.

Your hidden self is blood in those, those veins

that are lute strings that make ocean music
,

not the sad edge of surf but the sound of no shore
.

She stumbled over the last words, growing a little teary-eyed, and Vaughn knew that she was as moved by the meaning contained in those words as she had been by the gesture of the gift itself. For a long moment after she'd closed the book, she sat fingering its tooled binding, gazing off into space, before she roused herself and bent to retrieve the last remaining gift from under the tree: a slim white envelope with Vaughn's name printed on it.

She handed it to him, saying in a neutral tone, “It's from Abby. She asked me to give it to you.”

Inside the envelope was a receipt for season tickets to Yankee Stadium. For two. Box seats. Vaughn was so blown away he didn't react at first; he just sat there, staring at it. Nobody gave season tickets to a dying man, he thought. It was Abigail's way of letting him know that she had no doubt he'd be well enough to use them when the time came. The note clipped to the receipt was equally thoughtful. It read simply,
I hope Gillian likes baseball
.

Gillian was equally dumbfounded when he showed it to her. All she could say was, “Wow.”

She passed it around so the others could see. Lila regarded it without comment, wearing an odd look, and Karim nodded in appreciation. It was Neal who broke the silence, saying jokingly to Gillian, “If you're not a fan, I'd be more than happy to go in your place.”

“Forget it, buster,” she growled, wearing a look that said she'd sooner give up one of her kidneys.

At last Vaughn's sister roused herself to remark, “Well. That was certainly generous of her.” He couldn't tell whether or not she was being sarcastic.

He rose to his feet. “I should go thank her.”

Gillian darted him an anxious look. “You don't want to wait? Like you said, she's probably busy with her family.”

Vaughn ignored her, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. “I won't be long,” he said.

Outside, he was met by a blast of wind that was bitter cold. The temperature had to have dropped a good ten degrees since they'd arrived. As Vaughn made his way through the shadowy darkness, guided by the glowing windows of the house, which cast their light across the wide strip of lawn separating it from the garage, a host of conflicting emotions arose in him. He imagined the cozy family scene behind those windows—Abigail with her husband and daughter, gathered before the fire, the smoky-woodsy smell from which wafted on the wind, a haunting reminder of a life he'd never known. Never before had he questioned his loner existence or envied those of his friends who'd taken the well-traveled road of marriage and fatherhood, many of whom he viewed as slaves to their nine-to-five jobs and mortgages. If anything, they had only reaffirmed his choice to remain single and unencumbered. It was only lately that a little worm of doubt had wriggled in. He'd begun to wonder if he might indeed be missing out, as his married friends were always insisting he was. Not so much on the life he might've had with a wife and children but on the comfort he'd have known in dying surrounded by loved ones.

He could always count on Lila, he knew. But she had her own life, her own problems to deal with. She couldn't be expected to always drop everything to be at his side. And Neal—the poor kid was in such a bad place himself, he wouldn't know what to do with a dying uncle. Right now, like it or not, the only constant in Vaughn's life was Gillian. She would be there for him as long as he needed her. It was just that he wasn't about to let her abdicate her life for a man who didn't love her in return—it wouldn't be a fair trade-off. Gillian didn't know it yet, but should the chemo prove no match against his disease, if palliative care was all that was left, he planned to go somewhere far away—that little village in Bali where he'd spent one gloriously indolent winter nursing himself back to health after an attack of malaria … or the Marianas, where smiling faces were as prevalent as the mangoes and bananas growing everywhere—so he could die in peace, without inflicting it on her.

The one person he would have wanted to have near him at the end, he realized, was Abigail. She was close to his heart in a way that made him reflect, as he approached her house, not just upon what might have been but on what might still be—if he were lucky enough to live out his life, and if she were ever to decide to divorce her husband and run away with him. The latter notion brought a smile. Abigail would no sooner choose a free-spirited (and, at the moment, income-less) vagabond over all
this
than a kid who talked of running away to join the circus would actually do so.

The path he was on led through a side yard toward the back of the house, ending in a patio bordered in ornamental shrubbery dramatically lit from below. Stepping onto it, he caught a movement within the shadowy recesses of the cabana by the pool, and he moved in for a closer look.

There, seated on a bench, bundled in a fur coat, was Abigail.

With her body angled away from him, she didn't spot him at first. “Abby?” he called softly. She jerked around in surprise, and he quickly moved into the dim glow cast by one of the recessed uplights so she could see him. “Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I just came over to—hey, are you okay?” He caught the silvery gleam of tears on her upturned face as he sank down beside her on the bench.