He can feel her grin, the sun shifting over her ankles, his knuckles. The car fills with a superficial calm, a skin over the voice in his mind screaming:Tell her now!
He had thought he might say something last night at dinner, both of them enjoying fresh fish at a cozy harborside nook, the sea only a smell and a calm lapping sound somewhere below them. But it had been impossible, looking at her. Sure, he could justify it as the savoring of a happy moment, but in his heart, he knew—he knew—it was cowardice. It would feel like telling Susan herself. Instead, they reviewed their favorite crime drama, the latest death in a bucolic British shire. They’d developed a habit of pausing halfway through episodes to hash it out.
It’s the taxi driver, she’d insist.
It can’t be, he would counter.It’s too obvious.
Yes, he’d become reliant on television in the evenings, sacrificing his attention to the bright screen, quieting down his own thoughts. But mysteries hardly count as junk food, right? They keep the mind active. And period dramas have historical value. Maybe he is getting soft. But his daughter shares his love of sweet, cathartic resolutions, the pair of them as fitting as any detective duo; the opinionated stalwart and the precocious upstart. It’s satisfying, premeditation, the idea that someone (even if a murderer) has planned out the when, where, and how of death.
“Heard from Sebastian?”
“No.”
“Has he… Have you talked at all…”
“No.”
It’s embarrassing, relying on her like this. But he can’t help but feel stability in this child, dependence on her judgment.
“It will be fine,” she says. “He’ll get over it.”
She did not ask him to explain about the tapes. Perhaps she can picture it. Perhaps she understands the weight of the wife he never knew.
“He hasn’t said anything about college stuff, has he?”
“Not really. He’s been working harder.”
“I noticed. It’s good he’s being realistic about the art.”
“I just don’t think school interests him. Not in an intrinsic way.”
“Not like it interests you.”
She looks out the window. Viola has never liked to be compared directly. She’s sensitive about fairness.
“Would you want to stay close to him?”
“Like go to the same college?”
“I’m not suggesting that.”
“No. I don’t know.” And between them sits the fat, silent fact that her brother also needs her. Without her, he might fall into an abyss.
“Viola, I need your help with something.”
He exhales deeply and begins.
Last month, at Dan Dunning’s anniversary party, he saw her again: Tillie Summers. Well, Tillie Hancock, since the separation. Her handshake came with a strange awakening, cauterized pathways sprouting new growths. She spoke about everything she was learning to do now that her husband was gone. For the first time, she figured out how to work the lawn mower. She lit the barbecue. After a storm downed power on the whole street, she finally discovered where the fuse box was. She started sleeping with a golf club under the bed.My swing’s improved, she laughed,I’ve been practicing in my sleep. As she spoke, he observed the ways that she took care of herself: her tidy, manicured hands, the floral moisturizer that she rubbed into them almost unconsciously as she spoke. He had never understood the attraction before in carefulness, in precision.
Despite the unsubtle encouragement from Dan and his mother, Al has avoided dating. The thought of sitting across from a person and summarizing himself—a package of diplomas, offspring, and emotional baggage—is nauseating.
He wants someone who will understand intuitively how it felt to grow up in his world. To wander through the woods with a group of boys, parents caring too much and not enough, collective abandonment and resourcefulness. Someone who would understand these intangible moments forged him as much as anything else: losing his way, a small bridge collapsing behind him. The water was cold and the current strong in the middle, and Al remembered the strange recognition of his own power to alter an environment, of the very fact of a journey making it impossible to repeat.
And so with women. He could not take Tillie Hancock to the quarry and ask her to cast off her shirt. He could not kiss her suddenly, or propose something reckless—these ideas would not titillate her. He is too old for these moves anyway.
“I asked her to drop by tonight.”
For a moment, the car is silent.
