33

Nicole’s father died, quite suddenly one rainy Thursday afternoon, and the Selby family went to Charleston to his funeral, Frank hardly understanding more than the idea that he was supposed to be still, stand up straight, and say nothing, and Gail blessedly sleeping. When the ceremony was over, Walter took the children back to Tennessee, while Nicole stayed for a few days.

All these things, all these things, said Nicole’s mother in a daze. My Lord, did you ever see a man who was such a saving fool? He never throws out anything, your father. They were going through his possessions, closets, boxes, drawers, chests, shelves, corners of the garage, files, albums, all these things. She could hardly explain them, Nicole understood, and often her mother would simply take some object up— a commemorative plaque, a photograph of college friends, a suit he hadn’t worn since he’d retired—turn it over in her hands, and put it precisely back where she’d taken it from. A bitter marriage will still end in bewildered sorrow.

Later that afternoon, Nicole went for a walk around town; it had been a very long time since she’d been alone in Charleston, and it was the strangest feeling. The day was bright but it felt overcast, and all the sidewalks and houses, the gardens and the walls, were vibrating at some strange frequency, as if she were tuned all wrong: she had changed, they were the same, the city on its peninsula was some demi-Atlantis, isolate and preserved in time by the ocean.

She met a man in a tea shop. She was sitting at a table by the window, relaxing, and this fellow walked in, maybe a few years younger than she was. He had kind brown eyes and a strong mouth, and he wore his hair a little bit long, the way they did those days, but on him it looked nice, it looked romantic. All the other tables were full, and he came up and sat down across from her, asked politely if he could join her—though he already had—and then, all of sudden, they were talking. The man was easy, comfortable, interested in her, so that she really couldn’t leave, not for quite a while.

Are you from around here? he asked.

From around here? I guess you could say that; I was raised here. I was a little girl here. I don’t live here anymore.

He made the question with his eyes, he had already taken note of the ring on her hand.

Well, Memphis, she said. My husband works for the government down there.

And your children? he asked.

Now, how did he know she had children? Did her body make it plain? She blushed. Does it show that bad? she said. Here she was, only twenty-seven years old; did she look like a matron already? A mother of two?

No, he said calmly. It doesn’t show at all. I just figured, a woman like you, you look good at taking care of other people. —Now wasn’t that a nice thing to say? So they sat for a while, and she felt fine about it. He was a student, he said—no, a scholar—of plants and flowers from around the world. He worked at a university in Philadelphia, dissecting, analyzing, reading reports.

Is there something so exotic in Charleston? she asked him.

He laughed. I’m sure there is, but that’s not why I’m here. I had a week off, and I came down to visit a friend from college.

She asked him, and he told her, about what there was growing in the world: a flower with poisonous petals, for which only the petals of another flower were the cure; bamboo that could grow a foot in a single day; a species of orchid that bloomed every year on Easter; trees with bark that burned a vivid shade of blue. She listened to him with unfeigned interest, until she remembered that her mother was home alone, and she took her leave with a nice-to-meet-you smile. Later she would wonder how, after all, she had accumulated so much debt, that just talking to a man she didn’t know would begin to pay it down.

That evening she called home to Memphis, and even then her temperature was a little bit high, and each breath was a transfer of heat from within to without. Everything all right? she asked.

Everything’s fine, said Walter. Gail learned the word refrigerator today, she just up and said it when we were in the kitchen. Frig-er, she said. Other than that . . . I took Frank to his ball game yesterday afternoon. Can’t say he did so well, but that’s O.K., he’s working at it. How are you doing over there? How’s your mother?

Oh, she’s all right, I suppose. She cries a lot. Nicole paused. I have a favor to ask of you.

Yes, he said. Whatever it is.

I want to stay here a little longer. There was a short silence, and then she said, I think my mother needs me right now.

Sure, of course. Stay there, he said. He didn’t tell her that he could hardly sleep without her, that he hadn’t slept in days, because the bed was cold and dry. Give her my love, tell her I’m thinking about her, and stay as long as you want. (I miss you and I’m going insane.)