While Marika lay down for a nap and Adam continued to clean out the gutters, Lorna decided to go for a swim and fetched her bathing suit from the trunk of the car, where she’d tossed a few things into a bag that morning, including a change of clothes. The air had grown heavier as the afternoon advanced, until the shadows under the pine trees looked almost solid.
She was tired and hot, still upset over the incident in the car, and her headache was back. Why had she reacted so childishly to Marika’s silly remark? Stamping on the accelerator the same way she used to hurl herself at Wade when he teased her by chanting her nickname, LaLa, LaLa, over and over, in a babyish voice. Shoving him for the sheer physical release of it, though she always got shoved back twice as hard. Ridiculous, to get so wounded. Yes, it was frustrating to have her offer rudely dismissed, but to be fair, she had sprung the idea on Marika suddenly, when she wasn’t feeling well. An idea about which Marika would, of course, have conflicted feelings. An idea Lorna had sprung on herself. No wonder something unreasonable had taken place.
She changed quickly in the bathroom, and then paused to open the medicine chest to look for aspirin. Inside was the expected collection of creams and ointments, stool softeners, a mentholated salve, and some ancient Band-Aids, the wrappers gone nearly transparent. On the top shelf sat a squad of prescription bottles. Pain medications, in different strengths—though no aspirin—and something for acid reflux. But nothing that would indicate high blood pressure, or a heart condition.
Lorna closed the medicine chest and stared at herself in the mirror, at her flushed skin and windblown hair. By contrast her expression was composed. Eyebrows slightly raised, eyelids slightly lowered. She recognized her “listening look,” one of neutral inquiry, worn to mask when she was not actually listening. Adopted from years of hearing clients retell anecdotes she’d heard many times before. A look she wore with Adam when he complained for too long about a school friend or a teacher he thought was unfair. Worn, also, in her early days with Roger whenever he started describing in detail one of the viruses being researched in his lab.
Stop, she would finally have to say. Please. I don’t want to hear any more. And genuinely perplexed, he’d say, Why not?
Forgetting, of course, about Wade, who had died of one of the worst viruses of all time. Though Roger wasn’t being insensitive when he talked for too long about antiretroviral therapy and the progressive depletion of T cells; he was just excited about his or a colleague’s research. He had never met Wade.
Being careless without meaning to be careless was no more typical of Roger than it was of anybody else. He was a kind man. Whenever she was sick, he used to bring her tea and toast on a tray. How are you feeling? He’d meant it just as solicitously the other night when they were talking about Adam. How are you feeling? It was of interest to him, how she was handling what Adam was going through. Undoubtedly he was also interested in how she felt about Angelica, now that they were living together. Though generally speaking, what mostly interested Roger was whatever he was working on.
There had been a time, however, when Lorna was what interested him. For their honeymoon, he’d taken her to the Bow River, in Canada, for a few days of fishing. Their cabin was dark and full of spiders, but the sun came out every day and Lorna was happy to watch Roger fiddle with his gear, his rods and lures and collection of dry flies, and to applaud the trout he caught for dinner. They ate the trout with little boiled potatoes and butter, bought from a store a few miles away, and drank white wine they cooled in the river, and talked about whether they should try to have children.
Their courtship had been relatively quick. Both were at an age when one tried to be realistic about whether a relationship was “going anywhere,” and then acted accordingly, and their amazement at finding themselves together, of having life leap one track into another, was still fresh. Roger had been married once before, briefly, unhappily, and figured that was it for him. After several failed romances, Lorna had worried if she was somehow unqualified for marriage. Young women felt differently now, thank god, but she’d grown up believing (while pretending otherwise) that not being married by your late thirties denoted a failure of character as well as of attractiveness, and worse, some sort of fundamental lack of warmth. So it had seemed, on principle at least, that if the opportunity presented itself by that point, one should seize it. And Roger was intelligent, maybe even brilliant, and kind, and nice-looking, with thick curly dark hair and large melancholy dark brown eyes that had reminded her of Omar Sharif’s eyes in Doctor Zhivago, and also, just slightly, of her father’s. Roger had wanted to marry her by their fourth date, saying that no one had ever understood him as well as she did. This had touched her, though she didn’t feel that she did understand him. And now here they were, on their honeymoon in Canada.
Fly-fishing was something Roger had loved since boyhood, and eager to please him, Lorna agreed to let him teach her how to cast. Every morning Roger would hand her a rod and they’d stand in the river for a lesson. Roger would demonstrate how to lift the line, the leader, and the fly from the water’s surface and fling the rod backward—not too far, or she’d snag the bushes onshore—and then snap the rod toward the water, carefully, to avoid making a splash and scaring away the fish, or tangling the line, or losing the leader. She would grow colder and colder, standing in the river in her rented pair of waders while Roger had her practice a simple cast, which was not simple at all, but required focus and coordination and instinct, and also a kind of relinquishment. She could not manage it, and the more he tried to help her the less she wanted to keep trying.
One evening she sat on a rock while he fished, glad for a little time to herself, watching him cast. On the opposite bank the fir trees were already black and jagged against the sky, but the sun still shone strongly on the water. Roger had waded five or ten yards into the river, far enough that she could no longer see his line. The lowering sun lit up one side of him and every time he lifted the rod, his arm was lit, too. Again and again he made those dramatic, arcing movements with his rod, like a wizard trying to summon something out of the river. Even now, as she closed her eyes, she could see the glowing shape of him, absorbed in his unanswerable gestures.
MARIKA’S BEDROOM DOOR was still closed when Lorna returned from her swim to change back into her clothes, refreshed by the cold water and hot sun. She’d swum back and forth past the dock, looking at neighboring cottages and their flagpoles. Small waves had sparkled around her, each catching a point of sunlight so that it had been like swimming through diamonds.
The kitchen was hushed and shadowy and smelled of rusting aluminum screens. On the counter sat the box of doughnuts she’d bought that morning, empty save for a few crumbs. So Adam hadn’t minded her buying them, after all. She threw the box away and then stood looking through the screen door at sun-dappled branches and leaves and shining green needles.
It was still too early to start making dinner. She drank a glass of water and considered trying to fix the dripping kitchen faucet; then suddenly unable to bear that hushed house any longer, she carried her wet bathing suit outside to hang on the line strung from a corner of the deck to a pine tree, where a bird feeder lay at the base of the trunk amid a scatter of birdseed. A few yards away, Adam was raking up the leaves and twigs he’d pulled from the gutters into black mounds.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “Did you have any lunch, besides doughnuts?” He ignored her and began raking with more energy.
“Okay,” she said. “Well, then I think I’ll go for a walk.” Knowing that he expected her to add “Want to come?” and was already preparing a monosyllabic refusal, Lorna instead whistled for Freddy until he emerged from under the deck, garlanded in dirt and cobwebs. “See you later,” she called to Adam, picking up Freddy’s leash from the back of the Adirondack chair.
Ranks of spruce and pine, maples and oaks lined the road that ran along the Neck, broken every so often by a half-hidden dirt driveway and glimpses of the glittering lake. Patches of Queen Anne’s lace stood out amid tangles of bull thorn and blueberry bushes, and swords of sunlight crossed the road whenever there was a break in the trees. It was very quiet. No cars passed by, though voices could be heard now and then from the direction of the lake, mixing with the breeze creaking through branches overhead and the occasional questioning cry of a mourning dove. As she walked along, Lorna occupied herself by reading last names painted crudely on boards nailed to pine trees at the ends of driveways, sometimes three or four, one above the other, indicating an invisible cluster of cabins. She was trying to make out a faded name painted on the remnant of a gray oar, when she realized that someone was standing in the deep shade beneath it.
A tall, heavyset man in a blue cap set low over his eyes, wearing a black T-shirt and dusty-looking jeans. Late sixties or early seventies, with a gray beard that reached down his neck and up the sides of his cheeks. He was leaning to one side, one arm resting on top of an aluminum mailbox. Beyond him, visible through the trees, were a cabin and a dock. Tied to the dock was a skiff with an outboard motor.
She raised her hand and called out hello. Without changing his posture, the man raised his hand in return, but as she stopped at the driveway he shifted his gaze to his boots as if he had dropped something.
“Met your boy earlier,” he said. “And your dog.”
Startled, she said, “You must be Dennis.” As often as Dennis had been discussed today, she had not actually expected to meet him, or not in this way, by chance, while he was out checking his mail. She reached up to touch her damp hair. “I’m Lorna, as I guess you already know. It’s nice to meet you in person.”
She waited for him to say something in response. When he continued to stare fixedly at the ground, she gave him a puzzled look before continuing. “I’ve wanted to thank you for calling to let me know about Marika’s ankle, and for doing so much to help her out. I don’t know what she would have done without you since she stopped driving.”
He said nothing, but seemed to lean more heavily against his mailbox. She began to wonder if he might be drunk. Worrisome, given that he’d been driving Marika back and forth to town. Though he didn’t seem drunk, she decided, more like uncertain, noting the intent way he seemed to be studying the ground, like a man gauging the distance before trying to leap across a creek.
“It’s good to know Marika has some friends up here.” Lorna smiled. “Though I understand from Adam that you’re moving soon to Florida?”
A curt nod. Again she waited for some further response. Maybe he had a cognitive impairment, or a speech impediment? He’d greeted her readily enough as she was walking down the road, had acknowledged meeting Adam and Freddy, but now would only stare at his feet and nod. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Not another one. Not another person who was going to make her do all the talking.
“So will you be selling the cottage she’s renting?” Despite her sunglasses, the sun was in her face and she regretted not wearing her hat.
Still staring at the ground, he said, “She can stay as long as she likes.”
“Well, that’s very generous of you.” Relieved that he’d at last said something, she added, “It does seem like it would be hard for her to leave such a beautiful place, where she’s lived so long. Though I’m worried about her being so isolated. Actually, I’ve just offered to move her near us, to an assisted-living facility.”
Once more, no response. His reticence had begun to seem judgmental. He must disapprove of her, the neglectful daughter, swooping in only now, pretending to take charge. Claiming to be worried about Marika’s isolation after not visiting her for nearly twenty years. No longer smiling, she said, “You’re probably aware that Marika and I don’t see each other often.”
A slight shift in his weight, his head tipping an inch or so to the side so that his nose, bulbous and pink above his gray beard, became more visible.
“Not to make excuses,” she continued, watching him, “but she doesn’t exactly encourage visitors. Except, apparently, you.”
Definite change in posture now. He straightened up and leaned away from his mailbox, leaving a large hand planted on it. With the other hand, he pushed up the bill of his ball cap. A series of movements that seemed destabilizing, given his earlier stillness, so that Lorna had the impression of something coming untethered, like a boat drifting away from a dock.
“Anyway,” she concluded, “this is my first visit up here in a long time.”
“How’s it going?” His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. A southern accent? She’d taken him for a native New Englander, maybe because of the Red Sox cap.
“Well, her ankle is giving her some pain.” Encouraged, Lorna smiled again. “But she won’t see a doctor. And she insisted on doing errands with me all morning. She’s a pretty tough old thing.”
Then, afraid she’d overstepped by making light of Marika’s toughness, she added, “By the way, I hear you and she play chess.”
Dennis ran a hand over his beard, for the first time meeting her eyes. “People have been saying she’s beginning to wander. But for what it’s worth, that’s not my impression.”
The anger in his tone was so undisguised and so unexpected, especially given the softness of his voice, that it took Lorna a moment to register what he’d just said: “People” had observed Marika wandering. Maybe losing her way in the supermarket or roaming the aisles of the CVS, unable to recall what she had come in to buy. Further evidence of what Lorna already suspected, and yet Dennis seemed to be warning her not to believe it.
“Why isn’t that your impression?”
“She takes care of herself.”
“Well, she has been able to,” Lorna agreed cautiously. Dennis continued to gaze directly at her. She was suddenly aware of how hushed it was on the road, how empty.
“But from what I’ve seen,” she went on more firmly, “that’s no longer true. You called me because she has a sprained ankle and can’t get around on her own. Whatever comes next could be worse.”
Was he blaming her for the help he’d given Marika? Or blaming Marika for accepting it? Something rustled in the bushes nearby. Freddy gave a low growl.
“Stop that.” Lorna reached down to touch his warm, reassuring fur. Freddy quit growling and began chewing a stick that had been lying in the road.
“Well, I guess it’s time to get back to start dinner.” Anxious to put some distance between herself and this large man and whatever it was that had made him so angry, she turned toward the road. “Thanks again for everything you’ve done for Marika. And good luck with your move to Florida.”
She had already taken a few steps, when she heard him say, “Sorry,” and clear his throat. “Sorry,” he repeated softly. “I thought Marika might have said something, or you might have recognized me.”
“Recognize you?” She turned around.
He pointed to the pine tree and the oar with its faded letters, of which Lorna could make out ACK, then OUS E. “Worked for a while at your grandma’s place. Used to see you and your brother playing around the stables.”
A memory flared at the back of her mind: a tall, towheaded teenager in dungarees and a flannel shirt standing by the wheelbarrow. Angular face and light-colored eyes, ropy forearms. The one Wade had called Igor. Special agent from the Kremlin. Identified by the excessively casual way he sauntered out of the stables to smoke, afterward flicking the butt onto the dirt to grind it out with a superb twist of a boot heel, which Wade said was a torture technique. Also called Dennis the Red Menace. And then her grandmother’s drifting voice: That Stackhouse boy? Went in the army? Heard he lost a leg over there. Nineteen years old. Such a shame.
“Dennis?” Lorna said hesitantly. “Dennis Stackhouse?”
“I’ve changed some,” faint suggestion of a smile, “since then.”
She stared at him. Why hadn’t Marika said anything? For the last twenty years she’d been renting a house belonging to someone from Lorna’s own childhood. Someone who had worked on the farm, who had watched Lorna and Wade run through the stables, and known those same low stone walls fronting the road, the turf-green pastures and white board fences. And never said a word about it.
“Yes,” Lorna said slowly. “I remember you.”
“No reason why you should.” Dennis was once more looking at the ground. “You were just a kid.”
Another memory, this time of herself standing on the veranda amid wicker chairs, still and empty in the afternoon heat, watching a tall figure on crutches haltingly cross the far edge of crisping lawn, by the boxwoods. He continued downhill, past the kitchen garden with its huge wilting squash leaves and dried up tomato vines, past the rusty swing set, heading toward the shaggy stand of cedars that surrounded the old pool.
It was the fieldstone kind you never see anymore, spring-fed and smelling of muddy nickels. At one end, mossy stone steps led into tea-colored water. In summer the surface was covered in green duckweed, rendering the pool almost invisible within that deep cleft of shade. Nobody had used it in years except Lorna and Wade, daring each other to put a foot in, a whole arm. A swamp creature was hiding down there, Wade claimed, waiting to snatch you under and suck out your eyeballs. And yet twice that summer, they had gone down to the pool to find that someone had been clearing away the duckweed. Clumps of twigs and black leaves were piled up by the side.
Who could have done it? The creature! Wade cried the second time, before pushing Lorna in. That had been a couple weeks earlier.
By the time she arrived at the cedars, breathless from running down the hill, the figure she’d seen crossing the lawn was already in the pool. His clothing in a heap, crutches leaning against a tree. His long pale body thrashing back and forth in the dark water like a white eel trapped in a tank. Though what had shocked her, she remembered now, was not his nakedness. It was who was also there, sitting on the stone ledge, smoking a cigarette, skirt pulled to her knees, bare ankles in the pool.
“Yes, of course,” Lorna said, shading her eyes to look up at Dennis. “I recognize you.”