The Carousel (34 page)

And Amanda knew that her innocent-seeming question had gone too far. Sally was on guard. Nevertheless, she had to press further.

“And how is Tina?” she asked.

“Oh, fine. I’m sorry you saw her just when she was in an ornery mood. But as you said, we all have them now and then.”

“That’s for sure.”

“I’ll give Dan your wonderful message. It’ll be very welcome, especially now with everything that’s happened, and Clive so ill. I know you’ll hear from Dan once he starts feeling like himself again. He’ll be very, very grateful.”

So, politely, the conversation closed. Amanda had learned nothing. Still, she couldn’t very well
have expected Sally to burst out with
I killed Oliver Grey
, could she?

One Saturday, on a brilliant afternoon, she sat alone with a book. The day was too fine to be spent indoors, but a mood had come over her, not of melancholy exactly, but tinged with it, a feeling of loose ends, that something significant had been left undone.

She had no intention of pursuing any man, least of all Todd, and that simply because, paradoxical as it might seem, she had really loved him. For all she knew, he could be married by now. But somehow it mattered to her that he should have a good opinion of her. It was shameful to think that in the future, if ever by chance he should be reminded of her by someone’s mention of her name, he would recall their last few hours, which had certainly not been among the best hours of her life. She wanted him to know that her lawsuit against the family firm had been dropped, exactly as he had advised. And so she sat down and wrote him a simple letter, merely half a dozen lines, in which she told him so.

Two days later the answer came by telephone. When she heard his voice, that rich, actor’s voice about which she had once teased him, her own almost failed. But she had not lost her pride.

“I didn’t want to intrude on you,” she began.

“You’re not intruding at all! That was a very beautiful letter. I want to thank you for it.”

“Well, it was just something that needed to be said.”

“Well, it was a very beautiful letter.”

Here they were, connected across the city by a complex mesh of wires and unable, apparently, to disconnect with grace. Having said this much, there seemed to be nothing more to say.

In bumbling haste she came up with a dull question. “Everything going well with you, I hope?”

“Oh yes, work as usual. And I took a trip to Mexico with my brother and his family last month. That’s about all.”

Then he was not married, and probably didn’t have a serious commitment either, or he wouldn’t have gone on vacation with relatives. Then she felt a sudden flush of embarrassment: What could she be thinking of? A year had gone by. It was long over, dead and buried.

“What about you? Has anything interesting been happening?” Todd asked.

Interesting. Rage. Crisis. Murder.

“Yes, rather. But it’s a long story, too long and boring for the telephone.”

“I don’t bore easily. What if I were to come over tonight to hear it?” And before she was able to get her reply out, he added, “I don’t know how you feel about seeing me again, so if you don’t—”

“No, no, come over. I’ll be glad.”

Amanda was never one to agonize over what to wear. “Take me as I am,” she would have answered anyone who brought up the subject. This
evening however was different, and it was almost time for the doorbell to ring before she had gone over all her sweaters and skirts of various colors (too schoolgirlish), a velvet housecoat (too seductive and in the circumstances, all wrong), a smart black silk shift (too formal), and a pink woolen shift (no, it’s candy-box pink). Then the doorbell did ring. And there he stood, bearing a little pot of pink tulips in one hand.

“They were selling these on the corner,” he said. “Something told me you might be wearing pink.”

“Angelicas, my favorite.” A lovely pink, they matched her dress exactly.

In the living room, facing the famous view, they sat down. They were so stiff and awkward, it was almost funny. Or else you might say, it was sad that this had happened to two people who had once been so close—but not close enough.

Todd opened the conversation, “Sheba looks fit and sleek, I see.” For the cat had come in, and wound herself around his ankles.

“Oh yes, the best of care. All the vitamins.”

For a moment again, there was nothing to say. Or perhaps, Amanda thought, too much to say.

“You had a long story, too long for the telephone.”

A year ago, she reflected, she would have almost died rather than disclose such ugly shame to Todd, to him of all people. That thought flashed, and then, taking a long breath, she began courageously,
quite simply now. “After my parents died, when I went to live at Hawthorne …”

He did not stir. She was aware that his eyes never left her face, although her own eyes were fixed beyond his head on the bay and the bridge.

“That’s what it was all about, you see,” she said when she had finished the story. “I wanted to ruin him, to cut up his beloved forest, take a piece of his company and throw everything into turmoil. Everything.”

Todd had been listening with great concern. Now he said gravely, “I wish you had told me sooner. It would have explained many things.” He reached over and held her hands. “Don’t you think you need some help? Need to talk to somebody? It’s not so simple that you can do it alone, I think.”

“I believe I can. If I need help, I’ll get it. But it’s incredible how, the moment I told Sally, I felt that the monkey had fallen off my back. I hadn’t been free since it happened to me and then all at once, I was. I didn’t feel
wonderful
, but I felt free.”

“You deserve to feel wonderful, Amanda.”

The lowering sun had laid a broad band of silvered gold over the mirror on the opposite wall. And glancing there, she saw a tableau: woman seated, and man leaning toward woman in a posture that might be one of interest, or solicitude, or could it be of desire? And she thought, now that I am ready to
belong
to a man, to belong in the best way, the only good way without inhibition or fear, I hope so much that it may be desire.

“I have to make a confession,” he said abruptly. “You’ve been on my mind almost constantly these last few months. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to the telephone, put my hand out to call your number, and then withdrawn it. I wanted so much to be in touch, to
touch
you again. But something held me back. I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” she asked.

“That I would only be asking to be hurt again. That last time was so final. I didn’t think you’d want me.”

“But it was the same for me! Even when I wrote that note a few days ago, and the minute after I put it in the mailbox, I thought I shouldn’t have sent it.”

“But why?”

The only way now, she knew, was total honesty. “I thought,” she said, “you had surely found someone less complicated, easier to be with than I was.”

He shook his head. “No. There were plenty of people, and there was no one.”

Their eyes made contact, his the remembered ocean blue, so astonishingly soft in the angular face.

“You’ll find I’m different,” she said.

“Not too different, please.”

“Only in one way.” She stood up. “I’m going to say something I wouldn’t have been able to say before now.”

“Darling Amanda, say it quickly.”

“I would like to make love to you. If you want
me. If you don’t, please tell me right out and I shall never bother you again.”

He did not answer, but putting his arms around her, led her into the bedroom and laid her down, kissing her throat, her mouth, and her eyes; then he leaned over her, took the phone off the hook, and possessed her.

February 1991

E
ver since his father’s funeral Clive’s mind had been turned toward death. That was nothing to wonder at, Roxanne thought; the murder of Oliver, with all the rest of his suffering, could squeeze the strength out of a stronger man than Clive.

“What the hell difference does it make whether I live or die?” he demanded. “I’m not going to leave anything behind. Lovely house—a shell. Lovely pregnant woman—not mine, neither the woman nor the child.”

What consolation could she give? It was unspeakably tragic, all of it. Sad too, she thought, that a person had to be sick before receiving so much attention: Happy had made a Japanese bonsai garden in a jade-green dish; even Amanda telephoned from California, and Sally, all unknowing, had given him a photograph of her, Roxanne. She had made her look angelic in three-quarter profile,
with head bent over a tight bouquet of rosebuds tied to ribbon streamers, and had placed it in its silver frame on the table where Clive, from his recliner, could not help but see it every time he looked up.

“You don’t want to keep this here, do you?” Roxanne asked him.

“Leave it. I like looking at the frame.”

His tongue, which had once spoken only the softest words to her, now cut like a knife. And she understood that he was trying to make her feel what it was to be cast aside, thrown away, without hope.

One day she said timidly, “Ian would like to see you.”

“Oh, so you’re in touch with him?”

“On the telephone only. He wants to talk to you.”

“I can’t imagine what about.”

“About what’s happened.”

“There is nothing more to say about it. And tell him not to try coming here, because I’ll have him thrown out. Do you understand?”

“Yes. You said that night—you said you were going to throw me out, and you haven’t done it. So do you want me to go?”

“Suit yourself.”

“You need care, you need to be built up, I can cook for you,” she said, aware that her tone was humble, although she had not meant it to be.

He gave her a derisive look. “It’s not so hard to hire a cook, you know.”

She hung her head. It was a new experience to feel so humbled.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is Ian through with you?”

“Yes, he’s finished.”

“I don’t believe it. Has he told you so?”

“No, but I can tell. A woman can tell a lot of things.”

“Oh yes, a woman can tell a hell of a lot of things. What are you crying for?” he taunted as she wiped a tear with the back of her hand. “You may stay. It won’t be for long. You’ll all be at the cemetery again before summer.”

Since that awful night and through the days that followed she had scarcely cried; no doubt she had been too shocked and terrified to cry. But lately, tears were always hovering just behind her eyes. He stood watching her wipe them away.

“I’m not crying. Why should you? Maybe I’ll do some good with my death. My body, what’s left of the wreck, is going to science. Maybe some clever brain will find a clue in some piece of Clive Grey. ‘Aha!’ it will say, ‘here I am, the answer to the riddle of cancer, and it’s about time you found me.’ ”

“Ah, don’t!”

She burst into weeping and ran out, up the stairs and into the room where she now slept alone. It was cold; she was cold. The chill seeped into her bones, and she took a thick sweater from the closet.
Hand knit
, read the label, and
Made in France.
One of Clive’s presents. But wasn’t everything
Clive’s gift? And now she turned hot with shame. It was all so ugly. Ugly.

At the window she stood looking out at the snow-covered garden, the place where the rose bed lay, and wondered where they would be when it next came into bloom. Perhaps it was true that he would be dead by then, his wretched, pitiful life over. Really, really he didn’t deserve such an end. And I, she thought, and I didn’t mean things to turn out this way. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of, or whether I was thinking at all, but only feeling, wanting …

From the stair landing the tall clock chimed the half hour. She remembered the day they had bought it, remembered Clive’s delight; “a gem,” he had called it. Every Sunday morning he wound it and every Sunday morning explained again how one must be careful not to overwind it. He was such a good soul! If only she could have loved him in the way he wanted! He loved me so, she thought. I was for him what Ian was for me.…

Through the fog of tears she stood gazing into the dark afternoon. Presently she heard Clive coming up the stairs and into the room, but she did not turn until he touched her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have spoken like that just now,” he said gently. “I’m terribly sorry. Terribly ashamed.”

“That’s all right. I understand.”

“The trouble is all these thoughts. I try to drive them away, and mostly I’m able to, but every few days they’re back again. I ask myself whether you
and Ian can possibly have known each other before we were married. He behaved so strangely that day I brought you to meet Father. Then I tell myself that’s so far-fetched it’s ridiculous.”

She said nothing. What good would the truth do him now?

“If only I could wipe out of my head the picture of you two in bed!” Closing his eyes, Clive shook his head as if he were actually trying to dispel the picture. Then, opening them, he said ruefully, “But this sort of thing won’t help either of us. I know that.”