How long the telephone has been ringing he cannot tell. Harry tries to sit up, but his head is heavy. The bedside clock’s red digital numbers glow: 5:00. Who would call so early on a holiday morning? In an instant he bolts into wakefulness: he should not have let Kay drive home. They had certainly consumed a great deal of wine. He did want her to stay, but once they reentered the house, her mood seemed to change. She gathered up and shoved her dishes, dirty, from the sink, counter, and refrigerator into the bags she had brought. When Harry urged her to stay, citing for his case drunk drivers on the highway, moving toward the spare room to clear the bed there for her, she held him back, announcing, “I’m not ready, Harry. I’ll stay when I’m sure.”
Unprepared to handle bad news, he grabs the receiver, hesitates before putting it to his ear. “Harry? Is that you?” the caller tentatively utters. He sits upright and squeezes the telephone as he blurts, “Yes. This is Harry. Who is this?”
“It’s Cassie, Harry. Cassie Bihar.” The pitch of her voice is exactly that of her mother’s. He is perplexed: why is Cassie calling him at five o’clock in the morning?
“I know it’s early. I’m sorry to wake you.”
Kay’s cologne, still permeating his house, has made its way into his bedroom. He can see little in the darkness of the room. Had Cassie called half a day ago, he would have been delighted to hear from her, from anyone with connections to Rose. He closes his eyes. “What’s up, Cassie?”
“Harry, I should have called you yesterday.” She hesitates before continuing. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I’m at the airport.”
In the few words she has spoken, he hears not Cassie but Rose. Even Rose’s daughter’s voice can cause him to feel skinless and raw. He notices that they have not exchanged New Year’s greetings.
“I’m going home, Harry. Something has happened.”
His head spins. He rubs the open palm of his free hand against his cheek and lethargically moves his feet off the bed. He shuffles about in an effort to find his bedroom slippers. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. My father telephoned last night. Something about my mother. He won’t say, exactly. Except that I need to come home.”
Harry switches on the reading lamp beside his bed and stands unsteadily. A fleece shirt hangs on one post of the bed’s footboard. He pulls it on, the motion seeming overblown and weighted down.
“I called Jeevan. But he, too, says don’t ask questions, that they all need me, and that I must return, and everything will be clear then. I don’t really know why I’m calling you. I’m sorry. But I’m kind of scared.”
Harry’s heart races. During the summer Cassie wordlessly acknowledged her mother’s and his affair; she had lied to her father several times when he telephoned wanting to speak with Rose, saying on one occasion that she had gone to the library, on another to a quilt-making session at the community center.
He thinks of the night just passed, of Kay. In the instant of a Bihar’s voice in his ear, that evening’s contentment, his closeness to Kay, is diminished. The entire evening suddenly seems irresponsible, an act of disloyalty.
In response to Harry’s silence, she mutters, “Well, I just thought I should let you know.” In the background he hears the public-address system announcing the boarding of a flight. Feeling a little stunned, he tells her to call him when she arrives, and feebly wishes her a good flight before she hangs up.
Unsettled, he is fully awake, his head feeling one minute like a lump of lead, and then the next weightless. He walks to the window and parts the curtain. Elderberry Bay is asleep in darkness. He makes his way down the dark hallway to the kitchen. By the light of the opened refrigerator door, he whisks a raw egg into a glass of tomato juice. He sips the reviver and contemplates.
New Year’s Day, full of unanswered questions, seems interminable. Restless in the living room, he cradles the telephone in his lap, all but prepared to ring the Bihars’ house and risk being answered by Shem. But he holds back. It is, too, with some difficulty that he resists contacting Kay.
The following morning he is awakened, again early, from a fretful sleep. It is Cassie. She is calling from Guanagaspar. There is much static on the phone. He can barely hear her. She seems reluctant to speak loudly, her words guarded.
“I wanted to catch you before you headed off to work. Have you heard from my mother?”
He is perplexed. “I haven’t, Cassie. Aren’t you there with her now? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I can’t talk long. Can you come? Just say you will.”
A surge of rage engulfs him, and as quickly as it came, it subsides. He is on the verge of asking why, without the courtesy of an explanation, should he? Instead, resigned to the pull of a Bihar, he says, yes, he will come if it is necessary, he will come right away. Instantly Cassie retorts, “I have to go now, but I will arrange for you to be picked up at the airport. Just call to let me know when your flight is arriving.”