An Act of Love (27 page)

The night air was cold, fresh, and full of the scents of crushed leaves, clawed loam, pine, and the sweet rot of apples hidden in the high grass of the old orchard, waiting in winy knots for the animals. The sky was overcast, the stars hidden. But they knew their way.

Over the years the children and Owen and she had worn a trail through the meadow to the pond. Now they followed its sinuous channel past the fenced pasture, the occasional boulder protruding from the ground, and the various sudden hollows and dips, which in wet weather became mushy or slick. On either side of them the hills rose up, dark with forest.

By the pond a boulder protruded, making a perfect bench. Linda and Owen eased onto it and sat staring at the gray water, which looked in the dim light like a soft shadow spreading across the land. Something rustled on the other side, a fox or skunk. Deer came to drink from the pond; she’d seen them often, and tracks of other creatures, too, raccoon, possum, rabbits. It was possible they were accustomed to her after all these years. She’d like to think so. She’d like to believe that in some deep beast way they had come to accept her, to consider her one of them, an occasional night creature. Certainly she had come to feel at home here. She’d learned to let go of the world here, and to listen to whatever lessons the wind and water and earth and air brought. Patience. Acceptance. Gratitude. An appreciation of the variety of acts and accidents that befell even an isolated pond on a cold, cloudy night.

For a long time they stared out at the water. Gradually the black of night shaped itself into different streaks and stripes of gray as Linda’s eyes became accustomed to the lack of light, and she thought that perhaps this was how she should see her daughter, not as a golden child, a sunshine, but as a person suffused, like everyone, with a spectrum of radiance and blackness and shadow, and only deepened, not diminished, by her darkness. She should see her stepson that way, too. And Owen, what was Owen thinking?

“Nice,” he murmured.

“Mmm,” she agreed.

He took her hand in his. “You’re cold. Ready to go back?”

She nodded.

They held hands as they walked through the dark back to their house. As they entered, Maud, rumpled and grumbly, staggered out to meet them.

“I’ll let her sleep with me tonight,” Linda said, lifting the old dog in her arms.

Together they put out the lights and made their way through the house to the second floor and their separate bedrooms.

Linda pulled on her flannel nightgown. She was just sliding into bed, taking care not to knock Maud, when Owen came into the room and climbed into bed next to her, as he had thousands of nights before. He smelled clean and fresh, and his body was like a warming fire. He yanked the covers up and socked the pillow as he got comfortable. He rolled toward her. He reached out his arms.

She moved into his embrace, welcoming his warmth, but when she felt his heavy leg on hers and his erection pressing like a club against her belly, she was startled.

Usually after an argument both she and Owen needed to make love, to share the wordless affirmation of their unity before surrendering to the separation of sleep.

But tonight her body recoiled. She could not do it. She could not even pretend.

“Owen.” She pushed him away. “Not tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t … Owen, I can’t make love now. Not now.”

“Because of Emily?” Owen asked. “You mean you can’t make love because of Emily?”

“Because of Emily and Bruce.”

“Great.”

“I’m sorry, Owen. I don’t know why … I just don’t feel right. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“How long is this going to last?” He was very angry and punched his pillow hard as he sat up again.

“I don’t know.” She sat up, too. “Owen,
what if we never know
? What if we live until the ends of our lives with Emily insisting that Bruce raped her, and Bruce insisting that he didn’t?”

“Then we’ll have to live to the ends of our lives standing by our children.”

She felt her breath stop for a long moment. Then with a kind of hopeless sorrow she said, “I love you for saying that. Without hesitation.”

“Great,” Owen said again. “Ironic, isn’t it.” Throwing the covers back, Owen rose and strode from the room.

Chapter Twenty-one

The next morning
they had just finished breakfast when the phone rang.

“Now what,” Owen growled.

Linda waited tensely, unable to move, until Owen mouthed at her, “Celeste.” He listened a few moments, then said, “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

“What’s up?” Linda asked.

Owen went out to the porch and returned with his work boots. “Black bears. Celeste was riding in her back pasture and found lots of fence down. Black hair caught in the barbs.”

“That must be by her forested land.”

“Right. She doesn’t feel brave enough to try to mend it herself, even if she takes her gun with her.”

“I don’t blame her,” Linda said.

“It’ll probably take most of the morning and some of the afternoon, too. She’s always helped us out when we needed it, and besides, I didn’t think I was going to get much writing done today anyway.”

“Would you like me to make you a thermos of coffee or a sandwich to take along?” Linda asked.

“No, thanks. She’ll have stuff there.”

He kissed Linda’s forehead, then grabbed his old farm jacket and leather gloves and jumped into his trunk and drove down the road toward Celeste’s farm.

Celeste was out by the barn, hitching the wagon to the tractor. “Hey, buddy,” she called. “This is great of you.”

“No problem. I need the exercise.”

The day was windy and cold and vivid. Overhead waves of clouds rushed past the sun, smudging the ground with flickering bands of shadows. Owen turned up his collar and jumped on the wagon while Celeste settled herself on the tractor, started the engine, then steered away from the buildings and toward the hill. The land spread out around them, rolling toward the horizon in the dulled golds and browns of late autumn. He knew
this land almost as well as his own. The rocks and hollows held memories of childish games, pleasure, secrets. But he hadn’t been out here for a while, for years, he now realized, not since he’d married Linda, really, partly because with his enlarged family he had more responsibilities and less time, partly because Linda didn’t understand his relationship with Celeste. He was glad to be back here now. The land was pleasantly familiar, yet made no emotional demands on him, and today he was glad to be free of that. It was good, hard labor. After a while Owen took off his jacket and still, in spite of the cold air, he was sweating. They worked steadily, not talking.

By one the sky was completely overcast.

“Want to stop for lunch?” Celeste called.

“No. Let’s get this all done before the rain hits.”

As they headed
back to the buildings, the wind picked up, and they found the horses tossing their heads and bucking. Thunder rumbled overhead. Celeste and Owen shut the horses in their stalls, then kicked off their boots at her back door and entered her house.

Owen loved Celeste’s kitchen. Large, with two rump-sprung armchairs in front of a fireplace, it was the heart of her house, and always completely cluttered. The stove was blotched with spilled sauce and spattered oil. Cobwebs laced around the plates on the shelf near the ceiling. The slate floor was gritty beneath his feet. The long table where Celeste cooked and ate and polished her boots and did her necessary correspondence was covered with catalogues and mail, unpacked bags of groceries, dog medicine, a bowl of apples, stacks of books, a box of envelopes, dog leashes, dirty plates and mugs, and now, as she entered, she tossed her work gloves onto the pile.

“Start the fire,” she suggested. “I’ll make lunch.”

Soon they were settled with sandwiches and coffee. The fire threw off golden light and welcome heat, and to make it all perfect, the rain started, lashing at the windows, making the room cozy, safe.

“You’re a pal,” Celeste told him, sighing and stretching her long legs toward the fire. “I owe you a big one.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was glad to do it. Needed a diversion today.”

She looked at him. “Oh, yeah?”

He stared at the fire. The coffee and sandwich sent a satisfying heat through his belly. If he’d had to bet his life on it, he would have bet that Linda had told Janet about Emily and her accusation that Bruce had raped her. He knew Linda told Janet just about everything. He knew she’d told her what kind of lover he was and even the size of his penis.

So he told Celeste about Emily. “Look,” he concluded. “Don’t let Linda know I’ve told you. She’d be furious. We want to keep this quiet.”

“ ’Course you do,” Celeste murmured.

“I shouldn’t have told you, except, well, I sometimes think I’m going to lose my mind. I just can’t see Bruce—”

“Bruce didn’t rape Emily.” Celeste’s voice was rough with indignation. “How can you even doubt your son for one single second, Owen? Jesus Christ.” She slammed her plate down on the slate floor so hard it cracked. Rising, she paced around the kitchen. “This sucks. Jesus Christ. Poor Bruce. Poor you. Owen, listen to me.” She knelt by Owen’s chair and stared up at him. “Listen to me
good
. I’ve known Bruce since he was a baby. I’ve watched him grow up. I’ve seen him and Emily play games over here; he’s told me secret stuff he hasn’t told you, I mean really dumb dirty jokes and stuff. There is just
no way
that boy is a rapist. He is a good boy, Owen. He is a
wonderful
boy. Don’t you even think for one second about not standing by him. He needs your support now. You give it to him. You give it to him all the way.”

Owen’s chest filled with gratitude and to his chagrin, his eyes blurred with tears. “But Emily …” he began.

“You’ve only known Emily since she was, what, six? You don’t know what could have happened to her before you met her. Lots of shit happens to infants and little kids that works its way out when they’re older, and this is exactly what’s going on here.”

“Linda—”

“Linda may not even know what happened. Hell, think of all the baby-sitters Emily had when Linda worked. Maybe one of them molested her and this is the way Emily’s working it out.”

“I have a responsibility to Linda—”

“Your first responsibility is to your son, and don’t you ever forget that!” Celeste snapped. She rose and settled herself on the arm of Owen’s chair and wrapped her arms
around him so that his head rested on her breast. “Go on and cry, honey. God knows you deserve to. I won’t tell anyone. It’s not like I’ve never seen you cry before.”

“We’re caught in such a hideous mess,” Owen admitted. “I don’t know how we’re going to find our way out.” And feeling like a traitor, he relinquished his pretense of bravery and gave himself over to his tears.

Linda watched Owen
drive away from the house. The morning was hers. She could work, or pretend to. She could clean the house. Or make jam. Or spaghetti sauce.

She forced herself up the stairs, intending to head for her study door. Instead found herself entering Bruce’s room.

And why not? Owen had searched Emily’s room.

Bruce’s room in many ways hadn’t changed since Bruce was a little boy. The same wallpaper, a tan background with colorful
Batman
characters, covered the walls, and his carpet was the same noncommittal tan. His bunkbeds were ugly, chunky, reproduction Early American, as was his desk. Over the years Owen had built shelves on all the walls for Bruce’s books and general stuff, and Linda sighed as she looked around, wondering when last she’d dusted in here.

Seating herself at Bruce’s desk, she began methodically to go through the drawers. What did she expect to find? A diary describing in detail how he raped Emily? No, but something, some sign. He was her stepson, she knew him well, she
thought
she knew him well. He had always been a good, sensitive child. Perhaps something was in the desk, in the room, anything, that would indicate how he had changed.

The top middle drawer held what one would expect: old pencils with the points snapped off, crumbling rubbery erasers, dry ballpoint pens, a ruler, a pair of scissors, a snarl of Scotch tape, some felt-tip pens, and, sweetly, a box of Crayolas. The side drawers were stuffed with junk: tennis balls, a broken Walkman, batteries, pieces of a magnetic chess game Linda and Owen gave him years ago to occupy him during the ride into Boston, packs of baseball cards neatly contained by rubber bands, a Hedden mug with a chipped handle, loose change. Three years of the Hedden facebook, a small paperback with pictures, names, and addresses of all the Hedden students and their parents’ names
and home addresses. And some letters in lavender envelopes.