14

Before the snow had begun to fall, Richard Parrish watched his wife leave. He blinked down at her from the upstairs window, assured that she couldn’t see him. If she didn’t come back in for a last goodby, he wouldn’t have to hit her. He didn’t want to hit her, because, almost certainly, he would have to keep hitting her, and he didn’t want to do that, because he had more important things to do.

He watched her put the suitcases in the trunk. She was wearing a big, black fur coat that made her appear broad-shouldered and ungainly. Goddam skinny broad, not his type, full of thin suffering. A woman should have some flesh on her bones. Like Anna Shockley—the woman he had always loved.

Jane Solomon looked up and Parrish stepped away from the window.

She stopped looking at the window and got in the car and drove away. Parrish watched the car turn a corner, then he went downstairs.

He poured himself a drink and looked up at the ceiling. He gulped down the drink. Time to get on with it. He hauled the trunks down from the attic and carried them out to the backyard. He opened the trunks and spilled the notebooks and black volumes into the crumbling fireplace. He went back into the house, into his study, breathing rapidly, sweating from exertion, and brought the last of the diaries out. He poured kerosene over the books, his hands shaking. He was nervous but resolute. Time to put away childish things. He struck the match and it seemed to leap of its own accord, flames bursting over his past.

His heart was rocked by a blast of panic when, momentarily, the books defied the flames, went untouched by the sheath of fire. Then they began to writhe, to curl and explode, exhaling black, evil smoke.

Parrish watched the smoke roll toward the sky. His wife was divorcing him, and old Solomon was no longer an ally—the son of a bitch had suggested that Parrish take a leave of absence.

“We can settle this thing out of court,” Solomon had said. “I realize that you’ve done nothing wrong, but they’ve documented their side of it, blood tests, doctors’ affidavits, even someone on the hospital staff. Jenkins says they can make it unpleasant, and in this business, allegations alone can ruin us. The public is a hanging jury.”

At the time Solomon had said that, Jane hadn’t yet announced her intentions to leave. This new development would simplify matters for her old man. The next phone call from Solomon would, Parrish knew, dispense with tact. It would be an ultimatum.

The son of a bitch never did like me, Parrish thought. Tears filled his eyes, surprising him. He just wanted to be liked; that’s all he ever wanted. The sons of bitches.

One thing Parrish knew: Walker wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t settle out of court. He couldn’t. He was under Anna’s spell.

“Oh, there is a sorry lot of us,” Parrish said. The alcohol had offered him a profound insight. He wasn’t Anna’s only victim. There were others. Stopping her, putting her down as though she were some sad, maimed wild thing, would rescue others. He loved her, loved her even though she had made a wreck of his life, but there were other considerations. She had violated a natural law, come back from the dead like a monster in a fairy tale.

Now, leaving the past to burn, he walked back into the house. He fixed himself another drink, noticed that his legs were shaking. He felt unmoored, naked, but he knew that the feeling would pass. He was alone. It was a terrible thing to be alone (the curious tears pressed under his eyelids and he clenched his teeth).

He walked down to the basement, then upstairs, roaming the house, confirming his solitude. He had an urge to record his latest insight but he had left the realm of solitary journals and inaction.

He had been in a dream.

Burning the diaries had made him stir in his sleep.

Anna’s death would waken him. She would be free from suffering. The malpractice suit would evaporate and Solomon would see that Parrish was not a man to be dismissed so cavalierly.

A single bold, swift stroke and things could be made right. That was the secret of it: Boldness.

Later, Richard walked outside again. The fire had died down, meditating redly over the ashes. Snow was beginning to tumble from the sky—a good sign, cleansing whiteness. The alcohol had wrapped him in warmth. He smiled, poked the ashes with a stick.

He would have to plan carefully. This time his plan would be seamless.

He went back into the house, finished his drink, and refilled the glass. He was not a drinker, but today he felt that alcohol was part of his declaration of freedom. It let his mind roam, allowed him to reflect objectively on the problem of Anna Shockley. Where was she? In Virginia with Livingston? Or, as Solomon thought, right here in Newburg? She would be easy enough to locate.

If she were in Virginia, it would be inconvenient, but he was confident that he could solve the problem.

“Oh, Anna,” he said, speaking out loud, “it’s all over. You’ve stayed up too late and you know how cranky that makes you. You were very naughty, staying up so long past bedtime. Time for Daddy to tuck you in.” He raised his glass, finished it with a flourish.

He awoke to a dull, thumping sound and squinted through gluey eyelids. The room was dark except for the end table lamp which glowed weakly—Jane had an infuriating pocket of frugality when it came to buying low wattage bulbs—and the furnace had kicked on, throwing a great, suffocating heat into the room.

Someone was at the door. “Be right there,” Parrish shouted, pushing himself out of the armchair where he had fallen asleep. Never should drink, he thought, rubbing his face, confused and disoriented.

He swung the door open, and a gust of snow spun around him, the cold stinging his face, startling him.

He snapped the porch light on and Anna, wrapped in a full-length coat and clutching a bottle of wine in gloved hands, smiled at him.

“It’s me,” she said.