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When they got into the street Evie turned to him and said, “Okay. Evelyn Peabody tried to kill herself. Last week.”
“Really?” Artie slowed down.
“Yes, keep walking. She took an entire bottle of pills. Klonopin. A whole bottle, along with half a bottle of whiskey. Turned her phone off. Lay down on her bed.” Evie took a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped her nose, then she continued: “I mean, it was a serious attempt. But an old friend came over and found her.”
“She hadn’t locked the door? So it wasn’t a serious attempt.”
“Completely serious attempt. This old friend wasn’t even supposed to be there, she’d come in from California that day and thought she’d surprise Evelyn, so she walked into the house—through the back door, the front door was locked—and found her. The friend said she figured that Evelyn was there because her car was there. Anyway, Evelyn was in the hospital for three days, and now she’s in a loony bin.”
“A loony bin?”
“Yes. Some very fancy place down there, they’re trying to stick her back together. Honest to God, Artie. The things people go through.”
—
The fact that Evelyn Peabody had tried to kill herself sat with Artie for the entire evening and into the next day. He thought of writing her a card: I know what that feels like. But in truth, he could not find within himself what it was exactly that he had felt when he had wanted to do such a thing. Though it did come to him, as he and Evie got ready for bed that night, that after the Merrills’ party (which seemed years ago now, though it had been only a few months) he had said to Evie when they came home—he had said something like “Why don’t people ever say anything real?”
And now he knew why. Because to say anything real was to say things that nobody wanted to know. Or if they wanted to know, they would not care in the right way. Or even understand.
It was a private thing, to be alive. He understood this now.
On Christmas Day, Artie sat on one end of the couch and Evie was on the other end; her legs were lying on Artie’s lap. The day had been okay. But Artie understood—with a finality—that he was simply never going to tell Evie that he knew about Rob’s father. He had understood this as the day progressed; it was not going to happen.
Years earlier, after Rob’s accident, Artie and Evie had decided not to give each other presents anymore on Christmas, but today he had wrapped for her a potato ricer and she had wrapped for him a new sweater.
Now he said—they had been chatting about a variety of things—“You know, I think maybe my best friend…” He paused.
“Who is it? Your best friend? Tell me.” Evie was interested.
“Ken Moynihan.”
“Really? You’ve only met him a few times.”
“I know. Well, he saved my life. Just saying: I like the man.”
“That’s interesting. And that’s nice.” Evie seemed to think about this. “I’m a little surprised because he’s such a supporter of our incoming president. But good for you, Artie.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Did he say he wasn’t?” Evie asked.
Artie thought about this. “No, I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about politics. Not national politics.”
“What’s his wife’s name? Lucille?”
“Yeah, that’s her name.”
Evie shrugged. “Well, yes, then, he’s a big supporter of our next president.”
Artie sat up straight, and Evie had to take her legs off his lap. “Wait,” he said. “How do you know this?”
“A client told me. Ken’s her uncle, and she said there were family breaks because of politics. Apparently, they’re very Catholic. Lucille and Ken.”
“Your client told you this?”
“Yeah.”
“And you never told me?”
