She watched the train carrying William away until it disappeared around the bend. She didn’t want to go home, to deal with her mother and the disappointment that hung in the air, so she left the station and headed over to St. James’s Park. It was a pleasant day, the sun occasionally peeking through the clouds, the rain held at bay.
Three days earlier, life was different. Mr. G was still alive. William was in America. Her mother was in Spain. Now, everything had shifted. The phone call. The knock on the door. She wasn’t sorry to have seen William, and she wasn’t sorry to have slept with him. It still felt like the right thing to do, the right way to close things out. It was hard to separate her grief from losing Mr. G and her grief at losing William. They seemed connected, and it felt final, as though the two things happening at the same moment were a necessity, a wall between the past and the present. As she sat there, watching the people as they hurried by, she saw this time as an inevitable moment in their story. They had to come together in order to move apart.
With her eyes closed, she could hear Mr. G singing that hymn that he so loved as he washed the dishes after dinner, his shirtsleeves rolled up, an apron tied around his middle. And Gerald, running down the stairs to ask her: But are the mountains green? Are the pastures pleasant? What are the dark Satanic mills? Go away, she says, laughing, but not really wanting him to leave, so they could be together in that moment with Mr. G, his marvelous tenor singing those beautiful notes. She joins in for the second verse, standing next to him at the sink, each of them holding a wet utensil in the air and singing as loudly as possible.
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
He sings the final verse alone as she listens, conducting with a fork and a knife. Mrs. G—who always claims she can’t sing but is the loudest of them all in chapel each Sunday—is leaning against the door to the dining room, smiling, her arms wrapped around Gerald’s shoulders. William’s not there. Was he out of the house? Was he in his room, rolling his eyes?
She pulled the postal card out of her bag. She’d decided, finally, on a good move, one that would ensure the game would go on. No end in sight. She walked over to the Thames, as she had planned. She folded the card into a little boat, just as her father had taught her, and then she descended the stairs to the river. She’d come here once, late at night, with a man she’d met at a dance. He told her they could get access to the river, and she didn’t believe him. This isn’t Paris, she had said, and so he had to prove her wrong. They didn’t stay long but they drank half a bottle of red, and she stumbled home, her clothes smelling of wine and river.
She bent down and placed the boat on the surface of the water. It was calm, without much wind, and it sat there, hardly moving, for a few moments, until it slowly started floating downstream. She called after the little boat, not caring who might hear her.
“Safe travels, Mr. G,” she said. “You’re heading for the North Sea. I thought you might like to see it. Then you can choose where you want to go: France or Belgium. Holland. Or go north and visit Scotland, if you like. You always said you wanted to visit, to see where your ancestors came from.” She stood and brushed out her dress as she lit a cigarette and watched the little boat meander through the water, utterly at the whim of the current. “Be safe,” she called. “I will miss knowing you’re in the world.”
On the walk back to the Tube, she thought of when she first met Mr. G, on the dock that morning so long ago. She meets William first, and then Gerald, and then Mrs. G. Mr. G deals with that horrible paperwork woman and then he walks over to where they are all standing. He’s tall and very thin, his pants belted high and tight. His hair is copper, just like Gerald’s, and when he walks, it’s with such purpose, his head down, his arms swinging at his sides. Oh, Ethan, Mrs. G says to him, her hand on his arm. This lovely girl is Beatrix. The boys found her! He nods his head at her, so formal, really, and then he extends his hand for her to shake. She hadn’t shaken hands with anyone before that moment and so she extends her hand to his and, without even thinking, she curtsies just a little, bowing her head. Lovely to meet you, sir, she says.
Welcome to Boston, he replies. We’re mighty happy to have you with us. He looks about the dock. Your luggage? Beatrix nods. Just one small case. It’s brown, it’s right over there. William, he says, pointing, go grab Beatrix’s case. We’ll meet you at the car. Mrs. G takes her arm and begins prattling on about this and that, about Maine and the traffic and getting ready for school and a box of toys from the cousins. Beatrix nods and smiles and says almost nothing. Then they arrive at the car, where William’s waiting, and Mrs. G goes around to climb in the front seat, and William and Gerald climb in the back after they hoist the case into the boot. Mr. G opens the back seat door for her. Beatrix, he says, his voice low, right before she climbs in. You’ll get used to the chatter. Oh, she says, it’s fine. You’ll get used to it, he repeats. She has a heart of gold. Yes, sir, she says. In the car, Gerald can’t stop smiling at her.
Mr. G was dead. William was gone. It was time for her to move on, too. She thought back again to the knock on the door, just two days ago. The old code that Gerald had thought up. She could never keep the code straight. For the slightest of moments, she’d been disappointed. She’d opened the door hoping to see Gerald.