13
There were fewer people at the breakfast table the next morning. Kathryn ran through the guests who’d departed the previous day or who’d eaten early and departed that morning, pointing out that it would be a full house again by the evening.
It was Lenny and Dee’s last day too. JJ went through the ritual of tea and coffee in the lounge with them, though without the papers this time, the couple talking instead about the trip home and how they couldn’t wait to see the kids again.
He saw them off when they were leaving, Dee hugging him, Lenny giving him a business card with their address and phone number written on the back, an open invitation to visit, all for someone they’d known perhaps four or five hours in total.
Once they’d gone he stood there for a minute, trying to decide whether to walk down to the village but not moving, preferring to enjoy the moment, another blue sky and the faint hollow chill in the air, the winter’s promise that was loaded into autumn mornings.
Suddenly Jem walked past wearing jeans, heavy boots, a flannel shirt, her hair hanging down over the back of it, almost flaxen in the early sun. After a few paces she stopped, as if realizing who was standing there. She turned and looked at him, covering her eyes against the sunlight. “Hey, JJ.”
“Good morning.”
“Are you walking?”
“Just to the village.”
“Me too. I mean, if you wanna tag along?”
“Sure,” he said and walked with her, saying, “No school today?”
“It’s Saturday,” she replied, looking at him like she couldn’t believe how out of touch he was. It was a shock to him too, that he’d visited Viner that Sunday and then lost himself afterward, time blurring, life blurring, a week falling away from him.
“So shouldn’t you be, oh, I don’t know, at the mall or something?”
“I hate malls. Honestly,” she said, glancing at him. “I’m like, so untypical of your average American teenager. I mean, what is this teenager thing anyway, right? It’s just like some kind of marketing thing.”
“I think the whole of life is a marketing thing.”
“I guess you’re right.” She pointed at a knotted old tree and said, “We used to have a tree house up there. One winter when I was like, ten or something, it just fell apart.”
“I had a tree house when I was a kid.”
“What happened to it?”
“It’s still there,” he said, thinking of it now, thinking how it didn’t even seem that long ago. There were still remnants visible in the tree Jem had pointed at too, hidden to strangers but there all the same, just as the whole of the surrounding area was probably filled with the markers of her childhood, places that were significant to her alone.
“So what’s it like,” she asked, “where you live?”
“Where I live now? Geneva. It’s a city but it’s okay. It’s on a lake.” For the first time since flying to London he thought about going back there, what it would mean, whether he still wanted to be there. He was pretty certain now that one way or another he’d have that option of return, that sooner or later it would be safe again, but the city itself suddenly seemed alien in his memory. “I’m thinking about moving sometime soon,” he added, the thought spilling out as it occurred to him, “maybe to the mountains.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No. I just broke up with someone, after two years.”
“Oh. That sucks.”
“Yeah,” said JJ, knowing that breaking up wouldn’t have sucked, that what sucked was Aurianne being beaten, abused, bruised with the cold metal of the barrel, a bullet thumping her down into the carpet; that was what sucked.
Suddenly he heard Jem say, “Are you okay?”
He laughed, responding, “Sorry, I’m fine, I was just thinking about something.” She smiled back at him, a smile that looked tinged with admiration somehow, a look he didn’t quite understand.
“I know how you feel,” she said. “I guess I’d feel the same way if me and Freddie broke up, which we will I guess but, you know, it’s like we’ve been together for, well, kind of forever really.” He returned her smile, amused more than anything by the stumbling delivery, by the perception of time. Yet as she talked on about Freddie he felt his earlier envy returning, a sense that for all the hassles of being a teenager, and despite the loss of her father, she was still living through halcyon days. He had a sense that she knew it too, a level of self-knowledge that constantly evaded him in his own life, a life that was lived blind, forever stumbling from one piece of furniture to the next.
They passed the first few houses, a woman waving at Jem from an upstairs window, Jem waving back like she hadn’t seen her in months. There was more traffic on the roads, more people too than there had been during the week, an occupying army that probably left the locals ambivalent about how picturesque their town was.
Jem stopped when they got to the church, set back from the road but with a handful of tourists wandering around on the lawn, staring, photographing it like it was an architectural wonder.
“Where were you heading?” she asked JJ then.
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Oh, right, only, this is where I’m going.”
“To church?”
“No,” she said, laughing. “My dad’s grave. I mean, if you wanna come, it’s okay and everything.” JJ felt his system grind up a gear as he got it, a sudden hammer-blow awareness of the obvious, that Bostridge was buried there, that there had been a funeral, that they visited his grave.
Surprisingly until now, even being among them, the link between him and the Bostridges had hardly seemed to matter, like it was nothing more than a metaphysical exercise to pass the time, no basis in reality. And in the family too it had seemed like no one was missing, that there were no gaps, but there was a gap and here he was facing it. “Perhaps I won’t,” he said, stumbling a little over the words. “I’m sure you’d rather be alone.”
“Okay,” she replied breezily, seeing his discomfort maybe. She laughed then and said, “It’s okay, you know. I won’t be like, overcome with emotion or anything. I just like to visit.” He could see that she wanted him to go with her, and felt embarrassed that he’d come across as so retentive, like he couldn’t have dealt with the possibility of her being upset at her father’s grave.
They walked along the side of the church, passing a few graves; most of them were to the rear though with trees among them, the leaves catching the breeze. As at the front there were tourists, studying the headstones, their voices occasionally audible against the papery rustling that rose and fell on a wind too slight to be felt.
Bostridge’s headstone was simple, understated, the barest facts and the simple quote “So we’ll go no more a-roving.” JJ recognized it, a poem by Byron, and wondered if it spoke of a man he couldn’t have imagined from their brief programmed encounter, a romantic, someone in whose imagination the world had been colored by his dreaming. That sounded more like the person Holden had described too, a person who, had he been removed from the visceral truth of it, might even have found his own death romantic. Perhaps if JJ hadn’t been there he’d have been able to see it that way too.
There were flowers in front of the headstone but Jem didn’t touch them or the stone itself, just stood at the foot of the grave, praying perhaps or speaking her thoughts to him or simply lost in thought, her face serenely composed, like time had suspended itself around her. JJ stood to the side and back a pace, conscious of intruding.
He studied her as she stood there, struck again by the way she looked, the way she was, the kind of prettiness that was hard to reduce to specifics. She was still a kid, beyond reach in his own way of things, but he was drawn to her all the same, drawn at a level hidden beyond reasoning, neurons firing along unfamiliar pathways. And maybe the way she looked was only part of it anyway, because there were plenty of young girls who were as beautiful, a shallow swell of beauty that was everywhere with girls of that age.
Briefly he wondered if the attraction was in the connection with Bostridge himself or even with the girl in Moscow, a girl who’d drawn him just as much, tapping into his psyche, burying an image of herself there, a girl he’d thought of too when he’d first seen Jem. It was a simpler attraction than that though, the kind of subconscious recognition of compatibility that happened all the time in ordinary lives, the fact that she was David Bostridge’s daughter merely a cruel trick of fate.
She turned and smiled, signifying that she was finished, and as they walked away said, “Would you like to go for a coffee or something?”
“Or something would be nice; I don’t drink coffee.”
“Me either,” she said, like it was a massive coincidence.
“Oh, and as long as it isn’t the Cheese Press or the Old Maple Tavern.”
“No, there is another place.” She laughed then and added as if to herself, “This town is so weird!” They went to a small cafe that also sold local crafts, pottery, carved ornaments; people browsed around them, looking at the goods on display as they talked and drank lemon tea.
They talked for a long while, background filling, getting to know each other. It was something he was used to, used to lying his way through, a lie that was like his own life but off-kilter, an information drift that left his real existence in the shadows. Even Aurianne had known only a rehearsed version of himself.
But as easily as all of that came to him, it wasn’t what he did with Jem; the real JJ spilled out instead, devoid only of the death and the killing that usually dominated his life but here seemed to leave no readily apparent blank spaces, Jem satisfied that she was talking to a full, rounded person.
It was only in the innocuous detail of his life that he was being open with her, but those had been the details he’d been most cagey about in the past, like they were the key to cracking him open and getting the rest. And he didn’t know why he was choosing to be open with her like that, perhaps because of having met Jools again or because of the easiness he’d found in Holden and the rest of them, perhaps only because the last week had taught him that being cagey didn’t deliver very much.
Whatever the reasons, it was liberating to sit there with her and share stories of their childhoods and families, and of love, relationships, of the common ground they had between them. It was liberating for once to meet someone new and feel only an unhindered desire to share personal histories, with no caution, no uneasiness, and, maybe most ironic of all, with no baggage.
He liked being with her, liked the way she spoke, the way her eyes came alive when she was talking about something, the way she broke into an easy smile, becoming bashful then when he asked what she was smiling about. He liked simply sitting opposite her, being able to look into her face.
It was just one of those rare encounters, a language quickly emerging between them, and it was something again that reminded him of being her age, of the growing teenage awareness that there were other people out there to connect with, the feeling of no longer being isolated.
They walked back to the inn together afterward, a sense of having come to know each other well in the hours since they’d walked out together, and as they passed the church she said, “I’m glad you came to my dad’s grave with me.”
It was a strange thing to say, even now, and he let a note of confusion creep into his voice as he asked, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “It’s just like, kind of cool that you came.”
“You must miss him,” JJ said, thinking maybe she’d shared the same closeness with her father that Jack had with Susan.
“Not really,” she said, answering casually, backing herself up then. “It was Thanksgiving when it happened.” That was right; it had been a Thursday, Thanksgiving, and Bostridge had chosen to spend it there, inadvertently choosing the day of his execution, inadvertently tainting every future Thanksgiving for his family too.
“So?” asked JJ, questioning the statement as a matter of form.
“So it wasn’t like, unusual for him to be away for Thanksgiving and stuff. I guess what I’m saying is, it’s hard to miss someone who wasn’t there that much.”
“I suppose you’re right. A lot of people are in the same position though. You know, business.”
She looked at him earnestly, as if he needed to be reassured. “Oh, I don’t like, blame him or anything. And I guess I miss what we might have had together but ...” She trailed off, adding then, “Let’s not talk about my dad. I’m glad you came to his grave, that’s all.” She seemed bored by the subject rather than uncomfortable with it; she’d probably spoken about it a lot in the time since, everyone wanting to talk about it with her, demanding catharsis the way people did.
So they chatted about other things for the rest of the way, talking less though. And when they got back to the inn they stood in the lobby and said bye to each other, dwelling a little over it, stilted pauses before she said finally, “Am I keeping you? I mean, do you have plans or anything ?”
“No, not at all,” he said quickly, the signal clear. She smiled again in response, an edge in her eyes he couldn’t quite read.
“Good,” she said then. “There’s something I wanna show you.” She led him into their side of the house, a stillness in there, of stopped clocks, nobody else home. As he followed her up the stairs he realized they were going to her room, the one where he’d seen her lost in sleep with Freddie; a low-level buzz of anticipation caught him at the thought of it.
It meant nothing to her though to be taking him there. She casually cleared some discarded clothes from the bed as she led him in, saying, “Take a seat,” as she threw them into a closet. There was a small armchair in one corner, a chair too in front of the desk where she had books open, half-finished homework, but he sat on one side of the large bed and took in the teenage clutter, the way the whole of her life was jumbled into that space.
His room at home was still similar in that respect, very much the room of the younger JJ but without the presence that had made it, like he’d died in his late teens and his parents had kept it as a shrine. His sister’s room was different, altered in some way or other every time she was home, a room that was still alive, the one too into which guests were put when space was running short, his nearly always left empty, frozen, waiting for him to return.
Jem was rummaging in the bottom of the closet, opening different boxes, standing up then with a large shoe box in her hands. She walked over and sat cross-legged farther up the bed from him, putting the box down between them.
He hadn’t noticed her taking her boots off, but they’d gone, the sight of her feet in blue woolen socks suddenly giving him a feeling of enticing intimacy, a subtle marker to show that things had changed imperceptibly. He’d been with her all morning, but he was in her personal space now, the place where she felt most at ease, sitting together on the bed where she slept, close enough that he could almost feel her presence, his mind subconsciously registering her scent.
She opened the box and then smiled at him before saying, “This is what I wanna show you.” She handed him a photograph, kept smiling as he looked down at it, like she couldn’t wait to see his response.
It was a photograph of two young guys, students, facing the camera with big full-of-life smiles, the pair of them lean and all clean-cut exuberance. The slightly taller of the two had his arm over the other’s shoulder but was pulling it in against his neck as if about to choke him, the smaller guy’s smile even bigger because of the horseplay. It was a good picture, poignant somehow, a moment of pure laughter captured intact.
It looked like it had been taken in the late sixties maybe, the time frame suggesting itself because the smaller guy was David Bostridge, an uncanny prediction of how Jack would look in just a few years.
JJ looked up and said, “Your dad?”
“No,” she said, like he didn’t get it, then qualified her reply, “I mean, yeah, but it’s not just Dad. It’s Dad and Ed, when they were at Dartmouth.” He looked at the picture again, seeing the resemblance now in the bone structure, despite the dark hair, the fresh face.
And more now as he looked at it he could see the closeness between the two of them, a bond apparent even in that snapped moment. It brought home to him, too, the magnitude of the place Holden had finally come to with that friend, the ceremonial sanctioning of his death.
Holden probably found it hard even to look at pictures like that now, the whole sweep of their friendship caught up in those youthful smiles, the knowledge of how it ended seeming hidden somehow in the grain of the photo, in the blurred sunlight. Even as it was, and for all his professionalism, there must undoubtedly have been times when Holden castigated himself for having done so little on Bostridge’s behalf, that he hadn’t tried to tip him off, that he hadn’t questioned Berg’s operation.
Jem began to talk as JJ looked at the picture. “I think my dad was happier there than any other time in his whole life. I mean, he was such a hero and everything, I’m sure nothing else ever lived up to it.” She was right; he had the look on his face of someone who knew it was his time, popularity worn lightly, a life lived easily. Maybe it was the feeling he’d been trying to recapture in Russia, a reminder for himself of who he’d once been.
“There are different kinds of happiness,” JJ said, looking up. “I know what you mean though.” He glanced briefly back at the picture and added, What about Ed? He looks pretty happy too.”
“Ed’s different. I think he’s had more, you know, balance. I’d guess he’s as happy now as when that picture was taken. Well, except for the business over Dad and everything, but then, those things happen, don’t they? It’s just life.” JJ nodded, not saying anything, and Jem took another picture out of the box, swapping it for the one of Holden and Bostridge. “My mom when she was my age.” He looked at it, a posed picture, a portrait maybe or a yearbook photo. Her hair was longer but she didn’t look like Jem, as he’d expected, and looked only vaguely like herself as she was now, a pretty girl but with none of the woman’s poise.
“Oh,” he said, registering his surprise. “I thought the two of you looked alike but Susan doesn’t look like you at all here.”
“She’s prettier,” Jem offered, her tone completely serious.
“Different, not prettier.” She smiled as if dismissing his flattery, a glimpse again of her age, the fact that, in spite of the obvious evidence, in spite of people telling her constantly, she still didn’t have the measure of her own beauty.
He smiled too and said, “You don’t dare believe it, and maybe that’s a good thing too, but you are beautiful.” Her smile almost broke into a laugh but she blushed slightly too. “And now I’ve embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”
“No, you haven’t,” she said, reassuring him. She hesitated then, her mouth poised like she wanted to say something else, the thought unformed though, as if she couldn’t put the words together in the right order. He thought of saying something but waited silently instead, eager to know where she was heading, and then the phone rang next to her bed. Jem ignored it at first, looking visibly frustrated as she finally leaned over and picked it up.
“Hello?” Her tone shifted as she added, “Hey.” Whatever she’d been thinking about those few seconds before had slipped back into the depths, JJ left tantalized by the thought of where the conversation might have gone. Perhaps it was best that it was lost though, and that she was smiling now to the sound of the voice at the other end of the phone, a voice he guessed was Freddie’s.
He put the photo back on top of the other in the box and stood; Jem looked troubled in response. “Hold on,” she said into the phone and looked up at him. “You don’t have to leave. I mean, I don’t mind if you stay.” She looked frustrated again that the phone call had interrupted them.
He smiled apologetically and said, “No, I should make a move. Thanks though. I’ve enjoyed today.”
“Me too.” He made his way out, Jem continuing into the phone, “Oh, JJ, you know. I was like, showing him old photos and stuff.” It seemed strange that it had meant only that to her, looking at old photos, a sentiment on her part that was painful to think about, because it meant that all of what he thought had developed between them in the previous hours was corrupted, all the sense of connection, of belonging, of finding someone important.
He doubted anyway that his company had meant as much to her as hers had to him. Because he was left wired by it, a feeling he’d left behind long ago, back in those old photos he’d looked at with Jools, maybe even before. It was as if being with her had reminded him temporarily of who he’d once been, reminded, not as he had been with Jools, by memories, but by finding it still within him.
For a while there, sitting with Jem on her bed, already familiar, it had been like the previous ten years had never happened. That was the remarkable thing about her, that in her company his own history seemed erased, of no importance, and yet it was a history in which she herself was inextricably linked, part of the fabric in a way she’d never know.