Woman in Black (6 page)

She thought back to when they'd first met, in their junior year at Duke. Her first day of a class in Shakespearean literature, she was scribbling notes when she happened to glance up and see a dark-haired boy gazing at her unabashedly. She was used to being stared at by boys; what made this one different was that he didn't look away when she caught him at it. His lips curved up in a faint smile instead, as if he and Lila were in on a private joke. Lila was intrigued. For the remainder of the hour, she found herself sneaking glances at him. He was different in other ways as well, more mature-seeming. Also refreshingly clean-cut, in a reverse-cool sort of way, in his snug-fitting jeans and polo shirt, his dark hair cut short but not too short, compared to the boys around him—the sons of the privileged who went out of their way to look as derelict as possible.

In the days that followed, she found herself noticing other things about him as well. Like the fact that he seldom took notes, yet whenever he was called on in class, he made the most intelligent, incisive remarks. It was obvious that he hadn't just studied the material; he'd given it a great deal of thought. Lila found herself shying from raising her own hand after Gordon had delivered one of his brilliant insights, fearing that she'd sound stupid in comparison. Thus, she was taken off guard when he approached her after class one day to comment, “I liked what you said about Julius Caesar. About its being no less of a betrayal because Brutus felt conflicted.”

“I'm not so sure Professor Johns agreed with me,” she said as she gathered up her books and notepad. “I just happen to have my own views on the subject.” She had a Ph.D. in the subject of betrayal, after all. Hadn't she betrayed her best friend and the woman who'd practically raised her? Even all these years later, Lila was haunted by the memory: Abigail mutely beseeching her as Lila had stood rooted in place, unable or perhaps unwilling to speak up in Rosie's defense. And even when she could have made amends, had she lifted a finger to do so, written a single letter? No. That she would have to live with for the rest of her life.

“‘O pardon me thou bleeding piece of earth!'” Gordon intoned in a stagy British accent before adding in a normal voice, “Do you think he was appealing to God or Caesar, or both?”

“Maybe he was asking forgiveness from himself.”

He cocked his head, eyeing her with keen interest. She found herself noticing the little flecks of gold in his wide-set hazel eyes and the whorl at his hairline, above his right eyebrow, like a thwarted cowlick. “I like the way you think.” He paused to stick out his hand as they made their way out of the lecture hall. “Gordon DeVries,” he introduced himself. “Listen, if you don't have another class to get to, do you want to grab a cup of coffee?”

As it happened, she was on her way to another class: a course in quantitative analysis, which she was semifailing and could ill afford to skip. But she found herself replying nonetheless, “Sure, why not?”

They lingered in the cafeteria for the next hour or so. She learned that Gordon had grown up poor, in the hills of Tennessee, the eldest of three boys, all with different fathers, and that he'd been raised by his grandparents after his mother had run off to join a commune when he was just six. “I don't even know who my father is.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

“Aren't you at all curious?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not really. You don't miss what you never had to begin with.” His expression turned thoughtful as he sat idly running his thumb over the edge of his Styrofoam cup. “Though every now and then I'll be passing a strange guy on the street, someone who looks a little like me, and I'll think, ‘Is he the one?' How weird would that be, coming across your own father and not even knowing it was him?” He wore a small, contemplative smile.

Thinking of her own parents, whom she'd loved dearly but who were the source of much grief and aggravation in her life, it was on the tip of Lila's tongue to reply,
Trust me, you're better off
. But she knew it would come across as insensitive. All she said, when Gordon asked about them, was, “If you've read Tennessee Williams, you know the story.”

Gordon's upbringing made hers seem idyllic in comparison. As if being abandoned by both his parents weren't enough, his grandfather had died when Gordon was sixteen, after which his grandmother had had a debilitating stroke. “We couldn't afford outside help, so it became my job to look after her,” he went on in the same matter-of-fact tone, clearly not wishing to paint himself as any kind of hero. “My brothers did what they could, but I was the eldest, so most of it fell on my shoulders. It wasn't easy, I'll admit. I was holding down two jobs at the time while busting my ass to keep my grades up in order to qualify for a scholarship. But I wouldn't have had it any other way. It would have been awful, Gran's being in some state nursing home. At least she got to spend her last days at home, with me and Billy and Keith.”

“You must have loved her very much.” Lila, moved by his story, wondered if she would have performed as admirably under the same circumstances.

He smiled, his expression turning tender. “She was the only mother I knew.”

Lila thought once more, with fleeting sadness, of Rosie, who had been far more than their housekeeper. She'd been like a second mother. “Well, I'm sure she'd have been proud of you,” she said.

Gordon shrugged once more. “All she ever wanted was for me to be happy. She used to say, ‘Gordie, if playing the banjo on street corners was what you felt you were born to do, I'd be the proudest granny of a banjo player you ever saw.'”

“You don't strike me as the banjo-playing type,” she said.

“Couldn't pick a tune to save my life,” he freely admitted.

“So what
do
you want?”

“Oh, the usual. To make my first million by the time I'm thirty,” he replied with a lightness that belied the steely intent behind his mild, smiling gaze.

Later, Lila thought that if she could pinpoint the exact instant when she fell in love with Gordon, it would be that moment, as she'd sat across from him in the cafeteria, nursing her coffee and listening to him talk about his dreams for the future. Dreams shaped out of molten desire, by the anvil of hard circumstances, like those of the great men of history who'd triumphed against adversity.
A biography will be written about him someday
, she remembered thinking. She couldn't have known how eerily prescient that thought was, except she'd been wrong in one sense: Much would be written about Gordon at the end, but none of it good.

Within days they were lovers. By the time they graduated, they were engaged. They were married the summer after graduation. By then Gordon was already on his way up the ladder, recruited by Vertex right out of college and rapidly making his mark. When Neal came along two years later, Lila felt she was leading the charmed life that had eluded her parents.

Now, alone amid the flotsam and jetsam of that life, she was engulfed by a flood of sorrow. Love wasn't something you could turn off like a faucet, and in spite of all that had happened, she still loved Gordon. He might be a thief, and he was most certainly a convicted felon, but he was still her husband and Neal's father. Guilty or not, there was a part of her that would always see him as the idealistic man she'd fallen for that long-ago day in the cafeteria. She knew that her friends, as well as the vast majority of the public, judging from the mail she'd received, thought she'd be better off divorcing him, but Lila couldn't do that. A long time ago she'd turned her back on people she'd loved in their time of need, and she'd never forgiven herself for it. She wasn't going to repeat that mistake.

Swept up in the tide of memories, Lila rocked back and forth on her haunches, moaning softly to herself as tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. With Gordon and Neal she kept up a brave front, and she would have died rather than shed a tear in public. It was only in private moments like these that she allowed herself to fall apart.

When she felt she could move again without crumbling, she resumed packing. She was sorting through a box of loose photos when she came across a recent snapshot of Gordon, taken at Neal's high school graduation. No one could have mistaken them for anything other than father and son, they looked so alike, both tall and lanky, with the same dark curls and seawater eyes. They shared other traits as well. They had the same quirky sense of humor and intense drive. They were harder on themselves than on anyone else—like his dad before him, Neal sweated over his grades as if his very life depended on it. But what struck her most now, looking at the photo, was the proud expression on Gordon's face. All the love that would have been spread among other children, had they been so blessed, was channeled into his only son. She knew it had to be tearing him up inside, knowing that the next time he laid eyes on Neal, it would be under the watchful eyes of guards, where he would be allowed only limited physical contact.

As if on cue, Lila's cell phone trilled. It was Neal.

“Hey, Mom. You'll never guess where I am.”

At the sound of her son's voice, Lila felt her heart break all over again. “I don't know. Where are you, sweetie?” she replied in what she hoped was a normal tone.

“Here, in the lobby.” He broke away briefly to give a muffled greeting to Carlos, the doorman. “I decided to come in a day early. PJ was driving into the city, so I hitched a ride with him.” Neal's roommate at Wesleyan, a Pakistani boy named Prakash Johar, lived nearby with his parents, on Lexington and East 72nd, and the two boys had often exchanged rides. That is, until Neal had had to give up the brand-new Jetta she and Gordon had leased for him. Now PJ did all the driving.

Lila felt herself tense up. The one thing Gordon had been adamant about was that Neal be spared tomorrow's emotional farewell. He wouldn't be happy that Neal was here. “Don't you have school?” she asked.

“Relax, Mom. I can afford to cut a few classes. You didn't really think I was going to miss seeing Dad off?” He struck a breezy tone, but Lila wasn't fooled. Neal never cut classes if he could help it. Growing up, he'd been the opposite of the stereotypical kid, insisting he wasn't sick even when running a temperature so as not to miss a day of school. “Where are you? I tried the apartment, but all I got was the machine.”

“I'm in the basement, cleaning out the storage room.” Lila wondered briefly why Gordon hadn't picked up. Probably because he wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, even Neal. He'd been so depressed lately. All these months he'd kept up a good front, holding out hope until well into the eleventh hour, but he was finally cracking under the weight of despair. He had no appetite these days, and he didn't sleep more than a few hours each night. “I'll be up in a sec. I just need to clear away some of these boxes.” Lila glanced at her watch, surprised to see that she'd been down here for several hours. “I'm not sure what there is to eat, but you can check the fridge.”

“Not to worry. I picked up bagels and cream cheese on my way over. And some of that Scottish salmon Dad likes.” Lila's eyes misted over. Wasn't that just like Neal? He was like his dad in that respect, too. Gordon never forgot an occasion. Every birthday and anniversary, he'd gone to extraordinary lengths to get her the perfect gift. Like on their tenth anniversary, when he'd whisked her off to the airport for a surprise trip to Morocco, a place she'd always wanted to visit. Without her knowing it, he'd had her bags packed, arranged for a babysitter, and rescheduled all her appointments. Now it was his father's voice she heard as Neal said, “I brought a bottle of wine, too. The good stuff.”

“What are you doing buying liquor? You're underage!” She tried to sound like a concerned parent, but it was painfully obvious, to her at least, that she was only going through the motions. She hadn't been much good to Neal or anyone since this whole ordeal had begun.

“I never told you about my fake ID?” Neal gave a wicked laugh. “I just hope you haven't packed up all the glasses.” From his tone, it might have been a celebration he had planned, but she heard the underlying cracks in his voice, the faint warble of fear.

“We're in luck. I left the kitchen for last. I was going to tackle that tonight,” she told him. “In fact, you can help.”

Tomorrow morning the movers would arrive to cart off all their stuff. Then she'd be on her way to Hopewell, about two hours' drive north of the city, where she'd rented a small house, not far from Fishkill and near enough to Gordon so she'd be able to pay regular visits. It wasn't fancy, but it would suffice. In fact, relocating to more modest digs was the part she minded the least. As their income had dried up, she'd learned to make do on less and had found, to her surprise, that she didn't miss the luxuries she'd once thought essential. In some ways, too, it would be a relief to get away from the city, where she was surrounded by uncomfortable reminders of a lifestyle for which they'd all paid dearly.

After she hung up, Lila finished stacking the boxes and tidying up before she locked the storage bin. Moments later, waiting for the elevator, she happened to catch her reflection in the mirror by the laundry room. It was with a small shock that she recognized the haggard face looking back at her as herself. Gone was the sleek, stylish woman who'd once graced
New York
magazine's society pages. She'd lost so much weight her bones jutted like those of a famine victim and her eyes appeared sunken. She hadn't been to her stylist in so long that the layers of her hair had grown out; they lay flat against her head, frizzy with split ends, as if she'd been caught in a downpour and it had been left to dry without the aid of a blow-dryer. In the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescents, her once porcelain complexion was the chalky white of toothpaste.