A Slender Thread (14 page)

When Lacey was in high school, their grandmother no longer picked the girls up from school. They were old enough now to manage at home, and Lacey wanted to be closer to activities in town: her volunteer job at the hospital, the school yearbook committee, painting sets for the school plays. While Lacey went to friends' houses or remained after school for her special clubs, Margot would stay in her room, knowing that above all she must keep quiet. There were fewer and fewer afternoons for her near the piano.

Gradually, more people found their way to this part of the museum. When Margot went back outside, it seemed as if all of New York and most of the people from the suburbs had spilled out onto the city streets. The sidewalks were teeming. She headed east and then north to Eighty-ninth Street. Since she had moved in with Oliver five years earlier, she rarely came over to the East Side and she decided to take the opportunity to check on her old apartment. She didn't have to be at work yet. Mario, her assistant, was covering at the gallery this morning and Carl had told Margot she could have the morning off.

A few minutes later she stepped into the vestibule of her old building and rummaged for her keys. She took the elevator upstairs and entered the apartment. A thick layer of dust covered everything. The day was overcast, but the light in the living room was good. Margot remembered Teddy telling her this space would be a great place for her to paint. Why was she thinking of him again now?

Margot tossed her coat on a chair and went to the far end of the living room, where French doors led to the tiny terrace. She looked out at the empty flowerpots and beyond at the rooftops punctuated with the ubiquitous water towers that marked the city skyline. Besides the living room there was one tiny bedroom, just big enough for a double bed and a chest of drawers, and next to it, a bathroom with a claw-footed tub. The kitchen was an alcove off the living room.

Oliver had urged Margot to sell this place, saying it didn't make sense to keep an apartment she didn't live in. She could afford the monthly maintenance fees by renting it out now and again. Oliver told her that the stock market would make a better investment, and yet she had put off selling it, partly to honor her grandmother's wishes and partly to have a refuge. She would never have been able to buy this apartment in the current market. More than just an investment, it reassured her to have her own place.

Margot turned her back to the terrace. Teddy had accused her of being messy. Once he was gone, she took great pleasure in surrounding herself with the objects she loved. She began going to the flea markets in the Village and picking up colorful bits and pieces that made her happy: the sage green pottery vase with the crack that faced the wall, the marble bust of a young girl, tortoiseshell boxes, a collection of walking sticks, hatboxes from department stores long out of business. And books—art books, books on botany because of their illustrations, and antique children's books. Some of these had come from Grandmother Winkler's library. Her shelves here were filled to overflowing.

That first year on her own after Teddy had been a struggle. She gave up her job at the advertising agency where she had worked and took a job as a receptionist in a gallery in Chelsea, glad to be in a different part of town from Teddy. That job paid poorly, and after another nonchallenging position, she met Carl Van Engen at a party given by her former painting teacher. Carl needed an assistant in his art gallery. He quickly saw that Margot was capable and eager to learn. To her delight, Carl became a mentor as well as a boss. She slowly became more confident, and she enjoyed getting involved in the art world, though she had never gone back to her own painting.

Margot remembered her failure to draw the bittersweet on the dresser at Lacey's house. She pulled one of her old sketchbooks off the shelf and leafed through until she reached a blank page. Sitting in the club chair by the window with the light at her back, she began to draw the other side of the room: the Victorian love seat, the maple end table, the lamp, its flowered shade, the footstool piled high with books that didn't fit on the shelves. She pretended that the apartment belonged to somebody else and tried to see this interior as an unknown landscape. Her hand was steadier today.

Later, when Margot looked up from her drawing, she found that the morning had slipped away. The zone. She had reached that magic state when the minutes and hours blurred. She looked down at the paper. Not bad, but not interesting either. Certainly nothing she could show Oliver. To him this would be like the scratching of a kindergartener. And yet he was always encouraging her to paint.

Teddy had liked the idea of Margot being an artist. He used to introduce her by saying, “My wife's an artist,” never “Margot's an assistant to a nameless vice president in marketing.” Yet he was never supportive of her work at home. Once she had been painting on a Sunday afternoon and she had left her tubes of paint out on the table. He had just gotten home from a movie and had lashed out at her: “Do you have to leave your crap out everywhere?”

Margot stood abruptly and tossed her pad on the floor. Why was she thinking again about Teddy? In the bright noon light the dusty apartment looked worse. She really needed to clean it and think about finding another renter. Maybe she should sell it, like Oliver suggested. He was right about so many things. No time to think about that now. She needed to get to work. She leaned over to retrieve the pad, and carried it to the table near the window. On second glance her drawing wasn't that bad. The perspective was accurate, the details convincing. Lacey's recent urging to resume painting sounded in her ears. Maybe she should come back and try again.

 

“I don't have the answer.” Alex reached for the glass of Shipyard Ale on the table in front of him. The city of Portsmouth was the home of several microbreweries, each producing myriad beverages, some with names that didn't sound like beer at all.

Hugh had asked Alex another question about Lacey's diagnosis. They were having lunch together at the Port City Brew Pub the Friday before Christmas. Hugh was on winter break and he had come over to Portsmouth to shop for a present for Kate. When he arrived at the restaurant he told Alex about his triumphant find: a blue pottery vase from the same gallery where Lacey had sometimes shown her work. Once they were seated and Alex had told Hugh about Lacey, Hugh's body almost visibly deflated.

“I can't believe it,” he said once more.

“Has Kate talked to Lacey recently?”

“Not that I know of. It's been wild on campus. You know, end-of-semester stuff. The usual. Kate would have said something if she knew about it.”

“Lacey doesn't want anyone to know.”

“Jesus.” Hugh sat still, stunned by the news.

“Neither of you noticed a difference in her speech at Thanksgiving?”

“No. It surprised me when she didn't want to run in the Turkey Trot, but Kate told me Lacey was just busy, with the holidays coming up and trying to make weavings for the auction. She did say she thought Lacey seemed awfully stressed about college. Kind of crazy when your kids are great candidates for any school.”

“At first I didn't want to believe the doctors,” Alex said. “None of it makes sense. It just can't be happening to Lacey.”

The pub was packed. A line of people had gathered at the door, hats pulled off, gloves shoved into pockets, the cold from their jackets dissolving into the heat of the dining crowd.

“You ready to order?” A heavyset waiter in khaki pants and a green polo shirt stood before them. A scrim of sweat across his forehead, he held his pencil poised to write.

Alex ordered a cheeseburger, not wanting to bother with the menu, and Hugh chose the Reuben sandwich, his usual. They had been meeting here for lunch periodically since the restaurant had opened a few years before.

The waiter nodded toward their glasses, now half empty. “Another round?”

“Sure,” Hugh said.

Alex wasn't inclined to drink another beer. He planned to spend the rest of the afternoon in his office, catching up. He'd gone to Chicago for a few days to meet with a possible new client and had returned yesterday to a backlog of e-mails and phone messages. Still, with these crowds, lunch might be a while. He ordered a second beer.

It was a relief to talk to Hugh. He had to unload to someone. Lacey had always been the one he turned to, the person he could tell anything to. For the first time he couldn't automatically tell her what was on his mind. What if he upset her more? Could he share his fear without making hers worse? Would talking about her illness exacerbate her symptoms? He felt on tenterhooks every waking moment. Still, how could Hugh truly understand the circumstances they were in?

Alex stared down into his empty glass. “I saw my mom last week,” he said.

“The same?” Hugh's forehead wrinkled in concern.

Alex nodded. “Yeah. I hate seeing her like this.”

“That's rough.”

“It could be like that for Lacey.”

“What? You said it could be years.”

“There's a difference already. She's talking less, like she's afraid of making mistakes.”

The waiter returned with two more beers. Hugh pushed his empty away and took a sip from the new one.

“She doesn't want the girls to know,” Alex said. “She'd be furious if she knew I was telling you. I'm also trying to decide about this next job.”

“Chicago?”

“It's a fertilizer business. Called Wingate. The usual problems with a family company—the patriarch who's too old, trying to micromanage, and in this case the idiot cousins they can't fire. Some environmental issues, too. I'm going to do a proposal. It's similar to a situation I dealt with in Louisville.”

“Keeping busy is good.”

“Yeah. I need it. Haven't had a big client lately. College tuitions for the twins. Anyway, with a reorganization this company could be worth a bundle. Some of the family are interested in selling and I'd earn a good cut.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” Hugh said.

“It would mean being gone a lot. I worry about Lacey.”

“Kate and I are around. We'd check on her. We both have lighter loads during the winter trimester.”

“She won't want checking on. You don't know about this. Remember?”

Selfishly, Alex wanted the job in Chicago. He longed to put his mind and all his energy into a new project. Work, the pull of it, could distance him from this emotional quagmire. He thought guiltily of a hotel room, where at least some of the time he could escape, like he did on his bike. He hated himself for even thinking that way.

The waiter appeared with their lunch. Hugh's Reuben steamed on the chunky white china plate, cheese oozing out the sides. Alex squeezed a hearty dollop of ketchup onto his hamburger. The cheese on top remained congealed in an orange blob, not having been under the broiler long enough. When he bit into the burger, he felt the juices dripping down his chin. He grabbed his napkin. “So much for well done,” he said.

“Send it back,” Hugh said.

“It doesn't matter.”

“I think you need to take the Chicago job. Move forward.”

Alex sighed heavily and bit into the opposite edge of his cheeseburger. It was underdone and tasted off. He poured on more ketchup.

Hugh went on. “I think Wink and Toni need to know. I mean, if anything should happen.”

Alex put his burger down and pushed his plate away. “Lacey's adamant. She doesn't want to tell them.”

“What if they notice something while you're away?”

“Lacey refuses.” Still hungry, he pulled his plate back and grabbed a French fry. “It's so ironic. Lacey has always stressed the importance of telling the truth. She's totally honest with the girls. This is so unlike her.”

Hugh nodded and started on the second half of his sandwich. “Maybe . . .” He ate for a moment, then wiped his mouth. “Get Margot involved.”

A memory of Margot early that morning in the kitchen at Thanksgiving shot into Alex's mind. For one quick moment she had been so eerily like Lacey; she had caught him off guard. Yet Margot wasn't anything like Lacey. He thought of the many times they had spent together at Bow Lake. He'd thought he knew everything about her then. And then there had been that one summer. He shook his head. That was ancient history. What did he know now? He shifted in his chair. The crowded restaurant had become too warm, steaming over the windows facing the street. The man behind him got up, knocking into Alex's chair.

“See what Margot says,” Hugh went on. “She might convince Lacey it would be better to tell the girls. Margot's part of your family, don't forget.”

Alex said nothing, thinking deeply of the past.

“Seriously,” Hugh said, “she'd do anything for you.”

T
he digital clock read 2:17. Alex was awake. Lacey slept deeply, her back to him, with barely a rising and falling of breath. Before he could think, a wave of nausea hit him hard. Saliva rushed into his mouth, and not even feeling the sharp cold when his feet hit the floor, he stumbled to the bathroom. He was violently sick. The hideous noise of his body turning on him roared in his ears. Thinking he was finished, he splashed water on his face and clutched the edge of the sink with a shaking hand. The cool porcelain made him shiver. He felt awful.

He vomited a second time, followed by heaving over and over, as if a demon inhabited his body. His stomach felt wrung out, aching. The hard tile floor, icy on his knees, seemed to rise up before him. A moment later he felt a hand softly stroking his shoulder and then another on the back of his head.