On the port side, Linda saw Robert Seizek grasping the rails as if he were the captain of the ship. Perhaps he was studying the horizon as people do who are about to be seasick. She doubted he would remember his reading the night before, or even that she had been there. On the ferry’s benches there were teenagers, underdressed for the outing, small silver rings catching the sun at their navels, despite the chill. Their presence reminded her that it was a Saturday. Each girl wore her hair parted in the middle and pulled tightly against the head into a ponytail. Her own hair dating her because she herself couldn’t manage the current, sleeker style. The ponytails flicked in the wind like their namesakes.
—
Whatever happened to Peter?
Thomas asked, lighting a cigarette. The question took her by surprise.
—
I don’t know exactly. He went back to London. Once when I was there, I looked in the phone book, but there was no one by that name in the city.
Thomas nodded, as if the disappearance from one’s life of someone to whom one had once been married were commonplace. The sunlight that was reflected from the water was unforgiving, showing every imperfection in his face, never perfect even in his youth. She didn’t want to think about her own face and struggled against the urge to put herself in shadow.
—
Have you ever been back?
Thomas meant to Africa.
—
No. I would have liked to take my children there. But it was always so expensive, and somehow I never did.
—
It’s a dangerous country now.
—
We thought it was dangerous then.
—
It
was
dangerous then. But it’s worse now. I’m told tourists need armed guards.
Inexplicably, it was warmer on the island, and, after they had landed, they had to take off their coats. Thomas removed his blazer, and she found herself studying his hexagonal shoulders in his white shirt. She was conscious of her blouse, of the weight of her breasts, that familiar heaviness. Lately, she’d occasionally had the sensation of milk letting down, and thought it must be hormones run amok.
They walked up a street between wooden cottages, Thomas with his jacket folded over his arm, like a colonial improperly dressed in the heat. It might have been Nairobi or Lamu after all. She wore her coat over her shoulders, not wanting to imitate that masculine gesture.
—
Was there a baby?
she asked.
—
False alarm.
For a moment, the street spun, and Linda struggled to reclaim her bearings.
—
What an irony,
she whispered.
—
What?
She wouldn’t, couldn’t, tell him of the ordeal at the Catholic hospital. Of the hostility of the nuns. Of the kindness of the Belgian doctor who had declared the abortion a necessity. Nor of the undisguised malice of Sister Marie Francis, who had brought the fetus in a jar for Linda to see. She would not be the one to cause Thomas any more pain.
—
You must keep writing,
she said breathlessly after a time.
However difficult.
For a time, Thomas was silent.
It’s a struggle I lose more often than I win.
—
Does time help?
—
No.
He seemed to have the conviction of long experience.
They walked up a hill and left the road and sat upon a boulder. For a long moment, she put her head against her knees. When she looked up, her hands were still trembling. She was better dressed for this occasion than Thomas and was reminded that they’d missed, together, the great dressing-down of America. She’d never seen him in a T-shirt, and, not having seen it, could not imagine it. His dress shirt, she saw, was crisp, of excellent quality. She had a sudden longing, instantly disowned, to put her hand to his back. Desire sometimes came to her in the night, unannounced and unwanted
—
an intrusive presence in her bed. It made her restless and fretful, causing her to realize with renewed finality what she’d lost.
(Vincent and she, lying face-to-face, the surface of their bodies touching at half a dozen places, like electrodes. Maria and Marcus out with friends on a Saturday afternoon; the luxury of time and sunlight on the bed. Vincent saying, his eyes dark and serious, as though he’d had an intimation of mortality,
I hope I die before you do.
Her eyes widening: this from Vincent, who was not a romantic.
I’d have to destroy the bed,
he’d said.
I couldn’t bear it.
)
And she, who had once been a romantic, now slept alone in that very bed and couldn’t imagine wanting to destroy it.
—
Why did you do it?
Thomas asked.
He was looking resolutely toward the skyline of the northern city. He would have been wanting to ask this question for years. Twenty-five of them, to be precise.
She could not, at first, answer him. They watched together a movie of pleasure boats and tankers going into port.
—
What difference did it make,
she asked.
In the end?
He looked at her sharply.
We might have worked it out.
—
How, exactly?
—
Maybe with time, we’d have found a way.
—
You delude yourself.
—
But the way it happened,
he said.
You left no possibility.
Perhaps he felt his daughter’s death entitled him to be accusatory, she thought.
—
I was drunk,
she said. She who did not normally look for excuses.
—
Well, yes,
he said.
But it was more than that. You meant to hurt.
—
Who?
she asked sharply.
Myself? Regina?
—
Regina, certainly.
But she hadn’t meant to hurt; she’d meant only to convey what seemed like some great truth, as cosmic in its way as the laughter that would shake her years later. That she should have been so appallingly cruel had always shocked her.
—
It was the most selfish moment of my life, Thomas. I can only think I must have wanted it over. All of it.
—
Oh, Linda,
he said.
Of course, I’m just as guilty as you. More so.
Her face burned with the memory of that terrible evening.
It’s hard to believe that anything could have meant so much,
she said.
She’d been drinking scotch straight up. Against a wall, Peter had stood, not comprehending at first what the fuss was for, but knowing something irretrievable had been said. He’d seemed a minor player then, only a witness to a larger drama. That, too, had been unforgivable on her part. Not to have seen how shamed he’d been. How good he’d been not to make himself the point. Until later that night, in the privacy of their hotel room, when he’d wept for her betrayal, so absolute, so public. And she’d sat mute beside him, feeling only terror that she’d lost her lover.
It was better not to remember.
—
A comedic writer would make of it a farce,
Thomas said.
The confessions in different rooms, and so on.
—
The comedic writer might not be a Catholic,
she said.
They negotiated a path that ran between low scrub. The cottages were boarded up, waiting for summer owners to return. No cars were allowed on the island, and she wondered how such houses were built. Did walls and tiles and chimneys come across by boat?
—
Islands always remind me of the Isles of Shoals,
Thomas said.
A hellish place.
It was a moment before she remembered and understood. The realization stopped her on the path.
He turned to see where she had got to.
It doesn’t matter. I’ve been back there any number of times.
It was a kind of bravery, she thought, the ability to look the worst in the face. Would there be a grave, a marker? How could such a sight be borne?
—
What happened to Regina?
she asked when they had walked on.
—
She’s in Auckland now, and has two children.
—
Auckland, New Zealand?
—
We write occasionally. She works for a pharmaceutical company.
The difference in air pressure between the disastrous and the mundane was making Linda light-headed.
—
Her husband owns a sheep farm,
Thomas added.
—
Not permanently scarred, then.
Thomas began to roll his shirtsleeves.
Well, who would know?
They stopped at a small white house with bright blue shutters that had been turned into a teahouse for those who had made the journey on foot across the island. Linda, surprised that she and Thomas had walked as far as they had, was perspiring inside her silk-like blouse, its synthetic material seeming considerably less clever a purchase in the unseasonable heat. She untucked the blouse and let it billow over her jeans. She felt a coolish breeze stir around her midriff. Her hair was sticky at the back of her neck, and she freed it with a swipe of her hand.
—
Hungry?
Thomas asked.
The choices were a table with a cloth inside the shop or a bare picnic table outside. They took the latter, anchoring napkins with glasses and a ketchup bottle. They sat side by side, looking out at the water, which was brilliant apart from shadows cast by a few scattered benign-looking clouds. Thomas sat close to her, either deliberately or having no awareness of private space. Their arms touched here and there from elbow to shoulder, a proximity that distracted her. She saw the interior of a car, a Buick Skylark convertible, white with red leather interior. She would not have known the year. The top up, the windows steamed, a policeman shining a flashlight through the wet and opaque glass. Did every teenager of that era have such a memory?
—
I’m supposed to be on a panel,
Thomas said.
I’m playing hooky from an interview right now.
She did not have interviews, apart from a phoner in the morning.
—
When is your panel?
Thomas looked at his watch.
At four o’clock.
—
There’s a ferry at two-thirty,
she said.
What’s it on, the panel?
—
“The Phenomenal Ego of the Contemporary Poet.”
She looked at him and laughed.
He turned slightly and raised a foot to the picnic bench, leaning an arm on his knee. Thomas had always had trouble with leverage, had developed back problems, even as a boy. Something to do with the ratio of his height to the width of his bones. His slouch had always given him an appealing lankiness.
A teenage girl came shyly to the table to take their orders. The menu was limited: cheeseburgers, fish burgers, and hot dogs. Linda didn’t trust the fish. She ordered a cheeseburger.
I haven’t had one of those in years,
she said.
—
Really?
Thomas asked, genuinely surprised.
Did you ever have a lobster again?
—
Oh sure. You more or less have to in Maine.
She wanted to move apart from him, simply to dispel the tension. She was aware of physical flaws: her own, which didn’t bear thinking about; nicks in the table; a support that was slightly loose; a crust of dried ketchup below the white plastic cap. Boats that had come around the lee side of the island were hitting boisterous waves, the spray explosive, jarring. She noticed that some sort of predatory birds seemed to be reproducing themselves even as she watched, creating a phalanx at a discreet distance, waiting for scraps. Canny birds with long memories.
—
If you want to talk about your daughter,
Linda said, understanding the risk of her invitation,
I’d love to hear about her.
He sighed.
Actually, it would be a relief. That’s one of the problems with not being with the mother of the child. There’s no one to bring her alive. There was Rich, but we’ve exhausted his memories.
Linda moved away, on the pretense of crossing her legs.
—
But what’s to tell?
Thomas seemed defeated before he’d even begun.
She looked at his long back, the shirt disappearing into the crescent of his belt. For a moment, she longed to run her nails along the cloth, up and down his spine. She knew for a certainty that he would groan with pleasure, unable to help himself. Possibly he would bend his head forward, an invitation to scratch the top of his backbone. Knowledge of another’s physical pleasure never went away.