A Slender Thread (37 page)

He could imagine Margot filling vases with flowers, draping a scarf over a chair, arranging pears on a plate. Among the many things that he missed about her were the small ways she made a place feel like home. Her nightgown on the hook behind the bathroom door, her hairbrush and other mysterious feminine accoutrements that lay cluttered on her dresser, around the sink, on the night table—all the small, personal things were missing in this house. One night as he sat reading on the sofa, he half expected her to wander in, sit at the opposite end, and tuck her feet under his legs, the way she used to in New York on winter nights. But it was summer, and he was alone.

In the early evening he drove into Santa Louisa, the nearest town, to do his errands and eat a quick dinner. By now he was a regular at Marconi's, a Sicilian restaurant in the center of town. Some nights he met up with a few other artists, colleagues of Grant's, and he had become friendly with the couple who owned the vineyard next to his house. They were in their late sixties and had bought the winery after retiring from jobs in the city.

He liked living in Sonoma. The country felt a bit more rustic than the adjacent Napa Valley, but there were pockets of sophistication. He could buy good coffee, the restaurants were terrific, and on Sundays he could find a copy of the
New York Times
.

Oliver took a last sip of coffee and looked around. He liked this museum. The light in the modern building made the artwork seem energetic and fresh. While he gravitated to his longtime favorite painter, Richard Diebenkorn, he enjoyed the visiting exhibitions. Most days he loved locking himself away from the world, but he needed a periodic dose of other artists' inspirations, much the way he sometimes hungered for a hamburger after too many vegetarian meals.

“Would you like another?” the waiter asked, eyeing Oliver's cup. The café was almost empty. An older woman sat writing postcards a few seats away from him, a pot of tea and a half-eaten cupcake beside her. Two younger women were nibbling at salads, a late lunch after a morning spent looking at art.

“Just the bill. Thanks.” He watched as the server nodded and reached in his apron for his pad. He was a young man with green and purple stains on his hands—probably an artist too, working this job to cover the rent.

“Pay the cashier up front,” the waiter said, placing the bill on the table next to the envelope that held the one postcard Oliver had purchased from the shop.

Before reaching for his billfold Oliver removed the postcard and stared at the picture, his favorite Diebenkorn:
Woman in Profile, 1968.
The colors weren't quite true to the original, but the brushwork was powerful even in this reduced size. The woman in the painting sat in profile in front of a window. Light fell across her face and lap. Her right hand rested on the table, but her left hand was lifted, making her seem about to speak. The view from the window was abstracted, vast planes moving into the distance that created a tension with the window frame itself. Something in the reflective nature of the figure, the slope of her shoulders, the level gaze, reminded him of Margot—one of those Margot moments when she would appear lost inside herself. He slipped the postcard back inside the bag.

Not now
, he thought, coming to his feet. He headed to the exit to pay his bill and drive home to Sonoma. Could this place, this countryside that kept him engaged in his work, ever be truly home? He had begun thinking about moving here permanently and bringing Margot. What was holding them in New York? They could get married and start over. He imagined her all the way across the country, some part of her mind on Lacey, as if perennially attached by an unbreakable slender thread.

Oliver walked toward the door, then remembered the skinny server with paint on his hands. He returned to his table to leave a hefty tip.

 

Alex stood at the kitchen sink with the faucet running, waiting for the water to cool. He had returned from his business trip to Texas an hour earlier. His meetings had not gone well. He had made a presentation to a potential new client, but he sensed that he had not connected. He turned his head from side to side, trying to release a crick in his neck. He'd slept briefly on the plane with his head bent at an awkward tilt. The vent above his seat was stuck and had shot icy air directly onto his head.

It was rare for him to be alone in the house and he was unaccustomed to the stillness. After dropping his bags in the hall, he had gone from room to room, opening the windows to let in fresh air. Without the familiar sounds of female voices, footsteps on the stairs, the periodic opening and closing of doors or the echoing noise of movement from other rooms, the afternoon itself seemed to have paused.

He filled his glass, carried it to the kitchen table and stared out into the backyard. Lacey had been away for a week and the garden had already become overgrown. The view from the window no longer resembled a well-tended garden, but a chaotic jumble of plants. An overgrown climbing rose was pulling the trellis away from the wall. Maybe there had been a storm. He would go out later to see if he could fix it.

No sooner had he imagined his family elsewhere—Lacey off with Toni and a few of Toni's friends at the Bow Lake cottage and Wink with a group of her pals hiking in the White Mountains—than he heard a car in the driveway. A moment later a key turned in the back door and a heavy bag hit the floor with a thud.

Wink came into the kitchen. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

“Hey, Miss Winky.” Alex stood and gave his daughter a hug. “I live here too, remember?” He smoothed her hair away from her forehead. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I just got home. Believe me, Houston's not the place to be in August.” He stepped away. Her tired-looking T-shirt hung loosely from her shoulders, making her look too thin. “I thought you were off with your friends until next week.”

She slipped out of his arms and sat down at the table. “I got a ride home early. Kristen had to be back for field hockey, so I came with her.”

“How come?” he asked, taking the seat opposite his daughter.

“I haven't been sleeping. Try hiking when you're totally shot.”

“So what's keeping you awake?” Alex knew that Wink was the worrier of the twins. He hated seeing someone so young seemingly so burdened. Both girls were upset by their mother's illness, but Toni was better at setting her worry aside and living in the moment. Once they had returned from Italy, she had resumed seeing friends and went out frequently in the evenings after work. Wink received her share of calls and invitations, but it was hard for her to join in and act as if her life was still the same.

“I can't do it, Dad.”

“Do what, honey?”

“I don't want to go away. Maybe next year. Right now I want to be with Mom.” Wink began to cry.

It always came back to Lacey, the mother, the wife, the one person on whom everyone's happiness seemed to hinge.

Alex reached across the table and took her hand. “Mom won't let you give up college. She's so proud that you got into Cornell. And the scholarship from the astronomy department—that's pretty amazing.”

“I know the money's important.”

“It's not just the money. It's the opportunity to be part of their program.”

“Dad, you're not listening. It's making me crazy.”

“I am listening, but we talked about it earlier,” he said. “Mom thinks you'll feel different when it's time to leave for college.”

“I don't feel any different. I don't want to go.”

“Didn't you talk to Mom before you left?”

“She doesn't understand.”

“Did you try to explain? If she knew how unhappy you were about this . . .”

“How can I argue with her? She starts stumbling over words. Then her speech gets worse. Shit, Dad. It's awful.” Wink drew her arms across her chest and continued to cry. She had an angry red mark on her arm, a bug bite she had scratched. His sweet daughter, the one the mosquitoes loved to attack.

Alex got up and came behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Winky, I don't know what to tell you.”

“Can't you just talk to Mom? Tell her I'll have a breakdown or something. Anything. Please.”

Alex massaged Wink's shoulders gently, trying to think. He had no trouble talking to clients. Even when his projects weren't going well, the problems were concrete, definable. He could illustrate his reasoning with detailed spreadsheets, projected sales figures, product research, demographics. He had answers ready before the expected questions were posed. At work no one burst into tears.

With his family, his decisions came from his gut. He knew that Wink's delaying school might be a good solution, and that in the long run it would hardly matter. But how could he explain that to Lacey?

Suddenly Wink jerked away from his touch and got up. “No one can say anything in this family anymore.” She wiped at her face with her hand, grabbed for a tissue on the counter, and blew her nose. “It's hard for Mom to talk. You won't talk. You're either away or leaning on Aunt Margot to bail you out.”

“Wait a minute,” Alex said, suddenly defensive. “Aunt Margot is worried about your mom. She loves our family and only wants to help.”

“Come on, Dad, I love Aunt Margot. You know that. It's just that when she's around it's not the same. It's like we're not our real selves.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Face it. Whenever things get bad you bring her in—like to get yourself out of a bad situation. Don't you remember? You couldn't even tell us about Mom's illness until Margot got here. Then you have her talk Toni into Columbia. Gram dies. What happens? In a nanosecond she's here.”

“That's because you were worried about Toni and I couldn't get home.”

“I know, but then she stuck around.”

“She helped Mom with the funeral. Remember?”

“I know. I guess what really makes me crazy is that you and Mom aren't the same. You never talk like you used to.”

“You seem to be forgetting your mom has a problem.” Alex regretted his words as soon as they shot out.

Wink winced, then shook her head. “Dad, what you call ‘the problem' isn't only that. Think about it. It's about communication. Don't you see? It's not only the not talking. It's like you guys have totally disconnected.” Wink turned her back to him and stared out the window at the abandoned garden. Her shoulders drooped.

“But if you stay home, what will you do? Mom doesn't need taking care of now.” Alex felt his throat constrict. He knew that Lacey would need care someday. In three years, five, maybe ten if they were lucky. The doctors could give them no definite answers. He pushed these thoughts aside.

“I just want another year at home.” Wink bent her head and blew her nose again. “College will be there. Mom won't.”

“Don't say that.” Alex felt tears burning his eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “Sorry. Would you get a job?”

Wink turned to face him. “I want to go see the admissions person at UNH. I know I turned them down, but if I lived at home, maybe I could take some classes and defer going to Cornell. I want to see what my options are.”

“I don't know,” he said.

“Please, Dad.”

“You're serious about this?”

She nodded. Wink had always been a thoughtful child.

“Will you talk to Mom?” Wink twirled a strand of her hair.

One evening at dinner in Italy, Wink had worn her hair swept up on her head. Toni had put eye makeup on her sister before they left the hotel and Wink had worn a new sundress that flattered her shoulders and long neck. There, in the candlelight, she had looked as if she could have been thirty. This afternoon, with her tearstained face, his daughter looked like a tired twelve-year-old.

“Please, Dad.”

Alex sighed. “I'll talk to her.”

“When?” She eyed him dubiously.

“Soon. I've got to go to New York for a few days.”

“How come?”

“I'm hoping to finally close the fertilizer deal.”

“Dad . . .” she said.

“Look, Wink.” He heard annoyance creeping into his voice. He swallowed and went on. “I need to think about this. Don't worry. I'm going to talk to your mother.”

“You think you can make her understand?”

“I'm going to try.”

Wink sighed. “I'm telling you, Dad, I need to be home. Please help me.”

Alex came over and hugged his daughter. Despite her height, her shoulders and spine had a fragility that made her still seem like a little girl. He kissed the top of her head.

She pulled away. “I'll go unpack my stuff.”

Alex dropped his arms to his sides. It used to be so easy to solve his daughters' problems: wiring the head back onto a broken doll, running beside a two-wheeler, helping to solve a math problem for homework. He carried his water glass to the sink. Convincing Lacey to let Wink stay home in the fall would be difficult. Lacey had been adamant. She wanted everyone to go on as if nothing had changed.

 

New York was a different city in August. All those who could afford to had escaped. Tourists still clogged the streets and the large buses with open upper decks continued their rounds with their loudspeakers belting out a litany of facts about the Big Apple. Margot pulled her nightgown on over her head. She had been painting in her apartment all day. It was nearly ten, and rather than make her way back to Oliver's apartment, she'd decided to stay at her place for the night. She put the kettle on to make tea.

The Van Engen Gallery had shorter hours in summer. Carl decamped to the Cape for all of August, and Margot and Mario were covering the few administrative duties between them. After a few hours in the morning working in the office, she returned to her apartment to paint. With Oliver gone, she had started spending several nights a week at her old place. Their apartment on the West Side had begun to feel huge without him.