Sometime later, Francie heard a sound outside the window, a sound she couldn’t identify at first, then realized was the beating of heavy wings. An owl, perhaps. There was at least one on the island; she’d watched it, flying by day, minutes before she saw Ned for the first time: August, only a few months earlier.
Francie sat on the floating dock, her feet in the river’s flow. She spent an hour or so studying slides before putting them away and lying back, eyes closed to the sun. The slides lingered in her mind—images of cold-hearted children, alienating and unsettling—then faded. Francie was close to sleep when she felt a shadow pass over her body. She opened her eyes and saw, not a cloud over the sun, but an owl flying low, something white in its beak. The owl spread its wings, extended its talons, disappeared in the high branches of one of the elms. Turning back to the river, Francie caught sight of a kayak, gliding upstream.
A black kayak with a dark kayaker, paddling hard. As he drew closer, Francie saw he was shirtless, fit without being muscle-bound, hairy-chested, gleaming with sweat. He didn’t see her at all: his eyes were blank and he seemed to be paddling with all his might, as though in a race. He flew by, into the east channel of the river, and vanished behind the island.
Francie lay back on the dock, closed her eyes. But now they didn’t want to stay closed, and she didn’t want to lie down. She rose, toed the end of the dock, dived into the river. The water was at its warmest, warmer than she liked. Francie swam a few strokes, then jackknifed her body as she’d been taught long ago at summer camp, and kicked easily down into the cold layers beneath.
Francie had always been good at holding her breath.She swam on and on close to the bottom, ridding herself of sun-induced lassitude before rising at last, clear-headed, to the surface. She broke through, took a deep breath—and saw that the kayak, having rounded the island, was now bearing straight down on her, only a few strokes away.
The kayaker was paddling as hard as ever, eyes still blank. Francie opened her mouth to yell something. At that moment he saw her. His body lost its coordination instantly; his blade caught a crab, splashing water at Francie’s head. The splashed water was still in midair, a discrete body, when the kayak flipped over.
The paddle bobbed up and drifted beside the upside-down kayak, but Francie didn’t see the man. She dived under the kayak, felt inside; he wasn’t there. She peered down into the depths, saw nothing, came up. A second later, he burst through the surface, right beside her, gasping for breath, bleeding from a gash in his forehead.
“Are you all right?” she said.
He looked at her. “Unless you’re planning to sue me.”
Francie laughed. Their legs touched under the surface. He called her—at work—the next day. She hadn’t been looking for love, had resigned herself to living the rest of her life without it, and perhaps for that reason had fallen all the harder.
Ned awoke. Francie knew he was awake right away, even though he hadn’t moved at all. She was opening her mouth to tell him about
oh garden, my garden
when he stiffened.
“What time is it?” he said.
“I don’t know.”
He rolled over, checked his watch. “Oh, Christ.” In seconds he was gone from the bed, gone from the room, and the shower was running. Francie got up, put on the robe she kept in Brenda’s closet, went down to the kitchen, finished her glass of red wine. All at once, she was hungry. She let herself imagine going out with him, having dinner somewhere, feasting, then coming back, back to the little bedroom.
Ned came downstairs, knotting his tie. A beautiful tie—all his ties, his clothes, the way he wore his hair—beautiful.
“Hungry?” she said.
“Hungry?” he answered with surprise. “No. You?”
She shook her head.
He leaned over, kissed her forehead very lightly. “I’ll call,” he said.
She tilted her face up to his. He kissed her again, this time on the mouth, still very lightly. She licked his lips, tasted toothpaste. He straightened.
“Rowing back is another matter,” he said.
Then he was gone, the door opening and closing softly. The draft reached Francie a few seconds later.
Driving fast toward the city, Ned realized how hungry he really was. Had he eaten at all since breakfast? He considered stopping somewhere along the way but kept going, one eye on the radar detector; he liked eating at home.
Ned switched on the radio, found their only affiliate, a weak AM station that replayed the shows at night. He heard himself say: “What do you mean by looking him up?” a little too sharply; he’d have to watch that.
“You know,” said the woman—Marlene, or whatever her name was. “Finding out where he is. Giving him a call.”
“To what end?”
“To what end?”
He should have gotten rid of her right there; he had so much to learn about the entertainment part. “For what purpose?”
“I guess to see what happens.”
“Marlene?”
“Yes?”
“In your description of your husband’s good points, I think—correct me if I’m mistaken—you omitted any mention of your sex life.”
“I’ve tried, Ned. To make it more exciting. Nothing works.”
“What have you tried?”
The car phone buzzed and Ned missed the woman’s answer; he didn’t recall it being interesting anyway, although he suspected the question was the kind the syndicators liked.
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
“Dad? Hi, it’s me, Em.”
“I recognized the voice.”
“You think you’re so funny. Where are you?”
“On my way.”
“There’s no dessert.”
“What would you like?”
“Rocky road.”
“Consider it done. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
Ned stopped at a grocery store near his house, bought two pints of rocky road, a jar of chocolate sauce, almonds. At the cash register, he noticed some nice fresh flowers: irises, always a safe choice. He bought some for his wife.
2
H
is mind on those moans and cries that Francie made, Ned parked in the garage beside his house, sat for a few moments in the darkness. There had to be some evolutionary purpose for those female sounds, some reason important enough to outweigh the risk of attracting predators in the night. Did it have anything to do with the bonding of the couple, its positive consequences for the next generation? Ned rubbed the spot on his forehead, an inch above the right eyebrow where the headaches began, as one was beginning now, picked up the grocery bag, went into the house.
Em was at the kitchen table in her pajamas, busy with her paint set. The next generation. “Guess what this is going to be.”
“The solar system.”
She nodded. “Guess how many moons Saturn has.”
“A lot. Ten, maybe.”
“Eighteen. Which one’s the biggest?”
“That’s a tough one. Triton?”
“Triton, Dad? Triton belongs to Neptune. I’ll give you one more chance.”
“Rocky road?”
“You’re not funny.”
Ned scooped ice cream into two bowls—three scoops in his, he was so hungry—spooned out chocolate sauce, sprinkled on almonds. He raised his first spoonful.
“Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Em rolled her eyes. “Why do old people always fall for that stupid movie?”
“Old people?” He took a bite and almost winced at the pain; ice cream was the fuel his headache had been waiting for.
Anne came into the room, carrying an empty laundry basket. “You’re late tonight.”
“It’s Thursday, Mom,” said Em, before he had to reply.
“When Dad stays late to plan next week’s shows.”
“I forgot,” said Anne.
Ned turned to her. “You look tired.”
“I’m all right. How was the show?”
Did she never listen to it? “Not bad.” He reached into the grocery bag, handed her the irises.
“These are lovely,” said Anne. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.”
“For God’s sake, Mom,” said Em, “where’s your sense of romance?”
Ned flossed his teeth, brushed them, took two ibuprofen and a Nembutal, and went to bed. His brain shut down, compartment by compartment, until finally there was nothing but the headache between him and sleep. Then it was gone, and he sank into a dream. A cottage dream: he was lying in the red boat but somehow looking out the window of the little bedroom; Francie reached around him, ran her fingers, those soft, beautifully shaped fingers, up the front of his thigh, higher. He was hard at once, groaned, rolled over, reached for her, almost said, “Francie.” But it was Anne; his hands had known right away, had saved him. The dream broke up in fading pieces, the image of the red boat last of all.
She fondled him. It was nice, familiar, homey. But Anne coming on to him? This was unusual. He tried to remember the last time—her birthday? his?—but couldn’t. As though reading his mind, she said, “I do have a sense of romance, you know.”
That got to him. “I know.” The words thickened in his throat; he almost confessed everything, right there. But he mastered himself, said no more; she misinterpreted the catch in his voice, taking it for lust; slipped him inside herself without ceremony; moved her hips in lithe comma-shaped motions, efficient and pleasing; ended in a silent shudder, like an express elevator reaching the top floor.
She lay on his shoulder. “Was that good?” she said.
“Of course.”
And after a minute or two: “Did you come?”
“What do you think?” He squeezed her arm.
She said nothing. Not long after, she rolled over and went to sleep. The compartments in Ned’s brain reopened. The headache returned. His eyes stayed open.
Francie showered, dressed, made the bed, went downstairs. She washed her wineglass, corked the wine, turned off the generator. Then she stood unmoving in the darkness. The silence was complete, Brenda’s cottage under a spell, as it so often was.
Francie opened the door, letting in the river sounds, then closed and locked it behind her. Brenda’s key hung anonymously on her key chain, one of many. The moon had risen and in its light she saw mist along the bank, rising with the temperature; the ice had melted away. Francie climbed into the dinghy, cast off, rowed across the west channel to the stone jetty, reflected moons bobbing in her wake. She tied up, redid Ned’s knot—he’d taken
Prosciutto
, as always—substituting two half hitches for his series of lubberly grannies, and glanced back at the cottage: a geometric shadow under the free-form shadows of the elms. The owl rose into the sky, its white wings flashing like a semaphore in the night.
She drove to the gate, got out, locked it, went on. For five or ten minutes she was alone with dark woods rising on either side, shutting out the sky. Then headlights of another car appeared. That broke the spell; she stepped on the gas like any other exhausted commuter hurrying home, although she wasn’t tired at all.
The house—on Beacon Hill, but heavily mortgaged and in need of sandblasting and a new roof—was dark, except for the light in the basement office, a big, private space that would have made a perfect bedroom for a teenager, if one had ever come along. Francie let herself in, turned on the lights, checked the messages, checked the mail, opened the fridge, found she was no longer hungry, drank a glass of water. Then she went downstairs, through the laundry room, and stopped outside the closed office door.
“Roger?” she said. No reply. Was he sleeping on his couch? Francie thought she heard the tapping of computer keys but wasn’t sure. She went upstairs, got into bed, and was almost asleep herself when
oh garden, my garden
took shape in her mind, with those rotten grapes and that skateboarding girl. A teenager, of course. She tried to stop herself from going on in that direction but failed, as she always did. To come into the house, to see a skateboard lying in the front hall and a backpack slung over the banister, to hear strange music rising up from that basement room. Think about something else, Francie.
Em. She thought of Em. Em would soon be a teenager, although Francie wasn’t sure of her exact age, didn’t know her birthday. Ned almost never talked about her, never at all unless Francie asked, and of course Francie had never seen her, not even a picture. From the absent picture of Em back to
oh garden, my garden
wasn’t a big jump, and from there to an idea: what a present the painting would make for Ned! Was there any way of giving it to him? In some ways they were like spies, governed by the rules of their trade. She was never to call him, he called her, and only on her direct office line; no letters, faxes, E-mail; they met only at the cottage. Preserving his marriage was the reason, and Em was the reason for that. Francie understood. She could keep a secret, in the sense of not telling another person—and in any case had no desire to shout her love from the rooftops—but she hated the spycraft.
Still, presents were a gray area; he did bring her flowers once in a while when he came to the cottage. Always irises, probably because she had made such a fuss about them the first time. She didn’t particularly like irises, although it didn’t matter much. They had usually wilted by the next time she saw them, the following Thursday. Francie fell asleep, turning over schemes for getting
oh garden, my garden
into Ned’s hands.
Roger knew she was there, outside the door. He glanced at the time on the upper-right-hand corner of the screen: 12: 02
A
.
M
. Was it gratitude she expected for working these late hours? He was the one who had paid for the M.F.A., those summers at I Tatti, the accumulation of all that useless knowledge she had found a use for. He went back to his résumé.
Exeter, first in his class. Harvard, summa in economics, captain in tennis. Twenty-three years with Thorvald Securities, beginning as an analyst, ending as senior VP, number three man. Number three on the chart, but the brains behind everything, as everyone knew—everyone with any integrity. “Wow is all I can say,” as the counselor at Execumatch had told him at their first meeting. “Let me guess—you got sixteen hundred on your SATs.”
“Correct.”
“And in the old days yet, before they started monkeying with the numbers.”
“Old days?”
“Sure. Now you can make mistakes and still be perfect. Is that indicative or what? But this” —tapping the résumé—“this is the real deal.”
Then why was he still looking for something suitable a year later?
Roger loosened his tie, closed his résumé, clicked his way onto the Web, logged on to the Puzzle Club.
>
MODERATOR: Welcome, Roger.
Roger made no reply; he never said anything on the Web. The next day’s
Times of London
crossword was up, and beside it in the Puzzletalk section some live-time discussion was taking place. Roger checked the time—12: 31—and began the puzzle. One down: a six-letter word for disorder. He typed in
ataxia
. Two down: seven letters, pugilist—
bruiser
. Three down: nine letters, to cut an X—
decussate
. So one across must be
abduct
, and four down . . . he tapped away at the keys, completing the puzzle at exactly 12: 42. Not his best.
Roger scanned the discussion in progress.
>
MODERATOR: But what do you mean, Flyboy, by a
quote perfect crime????
>
FLYBOY: One they cant finger you for it, of course.
>
MR. BUD: Finger you? Sounds like a bad EdGRobinson flick
.
>
REB: No such animal. But perfect crimewise you cant
be anywhere near the scene, not w/DNA and all that shit
.
Flake of dandruff falls off your head, you fry.
>
MODERATOR: So you get someone to do it for you, is that it?
>
FLYBOY: Right
=
and they get busted for some other caper and rat you out rotb
.
>
MR. BUD: You are a bad movie Flyboy
.
>
MODERATOR: rotb????
>
FLYBOY: right off the bat
.
>
MR. BUD: Jesus
.
>
REB: But he’s right. A perfect crime
=
it’s got to be absolutely unconnected
=
like someone in China pushed a button. Click. You’re dead
.
>
FLYBOY: Or a penny drops off the Empire State Building. Goes right through your skull to the sidewalk
.
>
MODERATOR: A penny drops off the Empire State Building????
Roger left the Puzzle Club, switched off the screen, removed his tie and shoes, lay down on the couch, pulling a blanket over himself. He laughed aloud. The vulgarity, the ignorance displayed on the Web for everyone to see: had they no self-awareness at all? He closed his eyes, called up the image of his completed
Times of London
puzzle, word for word, perfect, done. Ataxia: that was the problem with the world these days. Perhaps he could slip it in during his breakfast interview.
A window table at the Ritz.
“Roger?”
“Sandy?”
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
Roger made himself say, “Neither have you.”
“That’s a crock,” said Sandy, sitting down. Roger hated that expression, hated when men patted their paunches and said “What do you call this?” as Sandy was doing now, especially since he didn’t have much of one. The waiter poured coffee; Roger left his alone, afraid that his hand would shake.
“Still playing?” asked Sandy. Sandy had been number two on the tennis team, thrashed by Roger in challenge matches every spring. Now he ran the third-biggest venture capital firm in New England.
“Infrequently,” said Roger. Perhaps he should ask Sandy whether
he
still played, but that might lead to some sort of loathsome rematch twenty-five years after the fact, so he reached for his coffee cup and said nothing. The cup clattered against the saucer; he put it down.
“Can’t remember the last time I had a racquet in my hand,” Sandy said. “Fact is, we’ve taken up rock climbing, the whole bunch of us.”
“Rock climbing?”
“You should try it, Roger. It’s a great family activity.”
Roger had nothing to say to that. He tore his brioche into little pieces.
“How’s Francie, by the way?”
“You know my wife?”
“Slightly. She gave a talk a few months ago on this new sculpture we’ve got in the lobby. I don’t pretend to understand the sculpture, but your wife had us all eating out of her hand.”
“Did she?”
“That combination of looks and brains, if I can say so without being politically incorrect . . . but I don’t have to tell you, do I, you lucky devil?”
Roger picked up his butter knife, dipped it into a bowl of raspberry jam, spread some on a scrap of brioche, trailing a glutinous spill on the white tablecloth. Sandy gazed at the red stain for a moment, then said, “I hear there’ve been changes at Thorvald.”
“Yes.” How to explain it to Sandy? Sandy wasn’t very bright; Roger retained a memory of him frowning over some tome in the Widener Library. No doubt best to say something vague and diplomatic, and move on. Roger wiped the edges of his mouth with the napkin and readied something vague and diplomatic. But the words that issued were: “They were very stupid.”
Sandy sat back. “In what way?”
“Isn’t it obvious? They were such idiots, they—” He smothered the end of the sentence:
fired me
.
“They what, Roger?” Sandy asked.
It occurred to Roger that in the past year Sandy might have begun doing business with Thorvald, have his own sources inside. “It’s not important,” he said.
What’s important is giving me a job, if you’re not too dim-witted to see how much I can help you
.
Sandy sipped his coffee in silence. Did Sandy resent him for those weekly drubbings, so long ago? Was it possible he didn’t understand that there’d been nothing personal, that it was simply how the game was played? This was a negotiation to be handled with care.
“Sandy?”
“Yes, Roger?”
“I could use a job, goddamn it.” Not what he’d meant to say at all, but Sandy was one of those pluggers—a baseliner, as he recalled, with no imagination—and pluggers exasperated him.