The Widower's Tale

by Julia Glass

  I sat on the stool beside the fire screen, longing to be hot after the chill of the kitchen. “Maybe it’s high time I let go of this place. Take the money and run. Prices are so high these days, it makes you wonder if someone discovered oil under this swampy town.”

  Sarah looked appalled. “Percy, this house is you.”

  “Now that’s an absurd notion, isn’t it?” I said. “And think of all the cash I’d have to fling about.”

  “What a wonderful image. You, of all people, flinging cash. You who dress in the same clothes you wore when the Beatles were learning to walk.”

  I looked down at my attire. “I beg your pardon. These pants were obtained at TGO no earlier than the year of poor John Lennon’s death.”

  But that was when it occurred to me: if I sold the house, I could cover Sarah’s treatment no matter what it cost. I could cover trips to foreign countries for treatments involving rare botanicals or sutras bestowed by monks in holy places accessible only by pack burro or parachute drop. If that’s what Sarah needed. Or wanted.

  I could move to a rental cottage like the one on Dorian Van Otterloo’s little estate on Quarry. I could overrule my absurd phobia and buy a loft overlooking the river in Packard, with buckets of lucre to spare—only, of course, if Sarah and Rico would join me.

  Forget Maurice; I could put the house on the market and cause a commotion. Since the tour (and Mandy Pinkerton’s fawning column), I’d begun to notice cars slowing at the foot of the driveway, windows rolled down, arms pointing. All of a sudden I was “on the map.”

  “I don’t think I ever got to have a midlife crisis,” I said. “Can I do that now? Is there an expiration date on such essential rites of passage?”

  Sarah laughed. How I loved that sound. Her lips were caked with crumbs; she was halfway through eating the scone.

  Her delivery of my mail notwithstanding, Clover had become elusive. In some ways, I was relieved not to know what she was up to other than working diligently (thank heaven) at E & F, planning the gala auction the little school held every spring to raise big bucks from sentimental parents, entry to their mutual funds lubricated with cocktails passed on trays of sustainable silver.

  I did not wish to bring up Maurice’s letter with anyone other than Sarah, but I was vexed at Clover. I ambushed her at last when, three days later, I saw her striding along the driveway.

  “Daughter,” I called out the back door, “come in, would you?”

  “Daddy, I have a million calls to make—”

  “Won’t take five minutes.”

  As she stood in the bright kitchen, she had the nervous look of an animal cornered in unfamiliar surroundings.

  “So then,” I said, “when you gave that stealth tour of the house to Master Builder Fougère, which was his favorite room?”

  “Stealth tour? You mean, the house tour? I wasn’t here.”

  “I refer to the private tour you gave Evelyn’s husband last summer.”

  “Daddy, I’m confused.”

  “As to whether you live here full-time and have my permission to traipse your friends and acquaintances up and down stairs as you please? Through rooms with unmade beds and underdrawers scattered about and—”

  “Daddy! What’s made you so mad?”

  I sighed. Why was it hard to stay angry at Clover? Was it her fawnlike demeanor or her endlessly resurgent sense that life would go her way?

  “I have tried, amid the upheaval here”—I swept an arm toward the back of the house, the barn—“to maintain my treasured privacy, just a morsel or two. Now I learn, through a very odd letter from Maurice, that you gave him a complete tour of this place, on which he’s apparently had a covetous eye.”

  “I’m sorry if it’s pissed you off,” said Clover, “but I thought I had sort of a right—I’ve lived here, too, after all—to show the place off when somebody we knew admired it and was, like, eager to have a peek. He’s an architect. Houses are his business. Honestly, nobody noticed any messy sheets or anything like that.”

  “ ‘Nobody’?” My ire rose again. “So how many other people joined in? I hope you charged admission.”

  Clover’s mouth became a vise. “I don’t have to listen to you get hysterical about something this silly, Dad. I know you’re going through a rough time with Sarah, and I can understand if you feel a little on edge. Is she doing okay?”

  “Sarah has nothing to do with this.”

  “Daddy, I have a billion phone calls to make before five. I promise never to show the house to anybody ever again.” She laughed. “Well, a little moot now that it’s already been a museum. Maybe you worried that Maurice was casing the joint, for a theft of some kind?”

  “That remark is uncalled for.”

  “I’m sorry.” But she didn’t look sorry in the least. She looked ready and eager to bolt from my company.

  “Don’t let me keep you from your job,” I said, feigning forgiveness. “Are the children up next weekend? Can I take you all out for dinner?”

  “They were here this past weekend. You just missed them. But the weekend after. I’ll take a look at our plans.”

  “Please do that.”

  I watched her walk down the hill toward the barn, pulling her coat close, inching her way along the icy path. She wore shoes that were utterly inadequate for winter footing in New England.

  15

  When you wish for something too hard and too long, against God’s intentions for you, the wish may come true after all—but not in the way you would like. Celestino’s mother would say this to his sisters whenever they complained about wanting a bigger house or a car or finer clothing.

  So it was that Celestino finally saw Isabelle face-to-face.

  It was an unusually warm Sunday for February, the sky a summery blue, the sun melting the last of the snow remaining from a recent storm. This meant that the earthen driveways and the lawns in Matlock would quickly turn to mud, that Monday’s work would involve, for most of the guys, sanding and towing, the pruning of broken limbs; Celestino would spend the day checking on a dozen or more empty houses. Loud’s “vacation care” service had caught on, and this week the children of Matlock were out of school—many of them away with their parents, skiing in the north or playing on beaches far to the south.

  Celestino had decided that he would go to her apartment. If he telephoned, his voice would fail him. (Had he ever spoken to Isabelle on the phone when they lived together? Not that he could remember. He had wanted to call her from New York, but he would have had to get past her mother.)

  Irving Street was lovely—not quite as lovely as the street on which she had lived with her parents, but the trees were tall and sturdy, the houses large. Several were painted in three or four colors, a fanciful tower here, a stained-glass window there.

  He stood on the sidewalk a few doors down from the house where Isabelle lived. Once, it would have sheltered a large family in great luxury, but you could tell even from where he stood that it had been divided into apartments. Behind the windows hung curtains and shades of too many different kinds. On the porch were stacked several blue recycling bins; four bikes were locked to the long, battered railing.

  He was gathering courage to approach the house when Isabelle walked out the front door. There she was, no mistaking her for anyone else or anyone else for her. She stopped in the sun to close her eyes and savor its warmth. Then she walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk, straight toward Celestino.

  Her head was bare, her hair long and loose over a red wool coat. The coat ended just above her knees, knees in yellow tights, beneath them tall black cowboy boots. She fussed with a heavy-looking satchel, adjusting it on her left shoulder; she scowled, talking quietly to herself. As she came closer, she noticed him, looked him briefly in the eye. “Morning,” she said, a greeting to a stranger, and she walked around him without hesitation.

  Celestino, stunned by the ruthlessness of the moment, turned quickly to look after Isabelle. He saw her, an instant later, sto
p and do the same. They stared at each other. He struggled to speak, at least to smile.

  Isabelle pressed her hands against her mouth, then shaded her eyes. “Celestino? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Isabelle, it’s me.”

  When she did not move, he approached her instead, though he sensed there would be no embrace, no touching.

  “Here?” she said. “You’re here?”

  He could not tell if she was angry or simply confused.

  She said, “Have you been, all this time, here?”

  “No. I was in New York for years. Now I live …” What should he tell her? Because he had been here, approximately here, a long time now. She spared him a quick decision by interrupting.

  “New York? New York City?” Her voice rose. She squinted at him, against the sun. “Good God.”

  He allowed himself to breathe. He had to breathe to speak. “I’ve missed you. I was sorry that I ran away. But I didn’t know how to … run back.”

  “My God. Celestino.”

  “I’m sorry to startle you. I should have called.” How foolish, just to show up at her doorstep. Foolish yet again.

  “Come here,” said Isabelle, her voice urgent. She walked past him, back toward her building. “Come here. I can’t stand in the sun like that.”

  She sat on the bottom stair—in the center, setting her bag beside her, leaving no space for Celestino. He faced her, standing. He realized that when they had both been standing, she was taller. She’d grown by inches since they had been together. She had, after all, still been a child. Her mother had been right about that.

  “Celestino? Oh my God.” What if this was all she could say? She leaned back, elbows on the stair behind her.

  He had to say something. “I should never have gone away, I know that. That was a mistake.”

  “Jesus, we looked for you. You know? We drove everywhere. We called your school, everyone we knew who’d met you. After a week, Maman sent a telegram to your father. We never heard anything from anyone. Do you know what a nightmare it was? For me especially?”

  Celestino’s mother had never mentioned a telegram. When he’d finally called, all she wanted was for him to come home. Later, it occurred to him that maybe she had never shared his father’s desire to move the family away from their simple home. Certainly, if she had heard stories from some of the cousins, the ones who did return, she’d have had reason to believe it was a foolish dream. Everybody knew someone who’d paid a fortune to get in, then came home anyway, poorer than ever, especially in spirit.

  “I was scared,” he said. “Young and scared.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “I was terrified. And younger than you. Maman was … For a while, I thought she’d lose her mind.”

  “She would have kicked me out on the street. She had reason to do that.”

  “Jesus, Celestino, she’d have made you move out—move somewhere else. Put an end to our seeing each other, I’m sure. But did you think she’d, what, deport you?”

  He did not answer. Had he really been so stupid? But why should Señora Lartigue have wanted him anything other than gone, forever? “I did not think she could forgive me. Or should.”

  “This is … Okay, this is surreal.” She looked at her watch.

  “Isabelle, I was so …” Celestino squatted on his heels. He couldn’t stand talking down to her this way.

  “Sorry?” she said.

  “In love. I was in love with you.”

  Isabelle looked at her feet, the sharp toes of her boots. “I thought you’d vanished. I thought you might be dead. And then … I went to college and you faded. Like so much else. You were part of the past I was planning to shed like a snakeskin.” She smiled quickly. “That’s how we all felt. Then.”

  She glanced up and down the street, as if worried that someone might witness their reunion. “I’m supposed to be somewhere.” She stared at him, her expression neutral. And then something seemed to cross her mind. “Celestino, just now—were you coming to see me? Is that why you were here?”

  “Yes. I found out your address only a month ago.”

  “Well.” Her eyes filled with kindness and concern, but not the tenderness he wished for. Then she blushed and looked away. “Oh boy.”

  Isabelle reached into her bag and took out her phone. “Hang on, okay?” She went to the far end of the long porch and made a call. She spoke for a few minutes.

  “Let’s go down the street,” she said when she returned. “I’m hungry. Do you remember Fido’s? Didn’t we go there together?”

  They walked beside each other, Isabelle’s bag between them. She asked him where he lived now; hadn’t he mentioned New York? He told her that he lived in Lothian, that he had a job in Matlock. At the door to the café, she stopped to face him. “Matlock? That’s fancy terrain, out there. Horses, woods, mansions.”

  The café was crowded, but the hostess knew Isabelle and took them to the one open booth in a back room. Isabelle threw her bright coat onto the bench and sat. She combed her hair back, impatiently, with her fingers. It was darker, more reddish, than he remembered.

  Around her neck, inside the crevice of her blouse, she wore the same gold cross, the one she’d inherited from her grandmother and had never, when he knew her, taken off. He had touched it, held it, licked or kissed it, dozens, maybe hundreds of times.

  Isabelle caught his gaze. “Yes, and I’m still a heathen. But then, Maman still goes to the watered-down Congregational church, so she’s a heathen, too.”

  She examined the menu, as if food was her most important concern.

  Celestino realized that he had isolated himself so much in recent years that his habit was to think far more than speak. But now he had to speak. “I’ve thought about you all this time,” he said.

  She laid her menu down. “And only now you let me know?”

  “No excuse except fear. Many fears. Forgive me.”

  She stared at him. “Fear is forgivable, Celestino. But years of total silence … vanishing? I don’t know. Is this supposed to be a romantic reunion? I’m not laughing at the notion, but don’t you think—”

  “Then don’t forgive me.”

  “But if I don’t, what’s left?”

  Celestino had removed his coat as well, and he could feel her assessing his plaid shirt, noticing his gray hairs, his nicked hands and battered nails.

  “To let me be with you, like we are now. Know each other again.”

  Isabelle raised her eyebrows. What did this expression mean? Her face was so much the same, even if it was older—yet it seemed to convey emotions he’d never seen there before.

  The waitress came. Isabelle ordered a bowl of soup, Celestino a chicken sandwich. “And a glass of the house red,” said Isabelle. “I don’t care if it’s not even noon.” Celestino shook his head when the waitress glanced at him.

  Isabelle took hold of the salt and pepper shakers, one in each fist. She rolled them around each other, then apart, then together, as if they were dancing partners. “So what do you do in Matlock?”

  He thought about his answer. “Care for trees and houses.”

  “Trees, that’s good,” she said. “Lots of trees in Matlock. A whole lot more trees than houses. It’s nice out there.”

  “And you are here as a student?”

  “Psychology. I’m studying PTSD,” she said. “Traumatized children from abusive families in cultural isolation. In a nutshell.” She pushed the shakers aside, unfolded her napkin. “I’m going to France in three months. I’m going to work in an Algerian community in Marseilles.”

  “France.” The word, in Celestino’s mouth, felt as if it were made of glass.

  “Cut the umbilical cord, only to return to the womb. Absurd and ironic. But my French turns out to be my biggest asset. Merci bien, Papa et Maman.”

  The waitress brought Isabelle’s wine and a basket of bread. Immediately, Isabelle tore a piece off the loaf. She pushed the basket toward Celestino.

  “I can’t believe
I’m looking at you across this table.” She chewed as she spoke. “Celestino, I was so crazy about you. My friend Ceci—remember her?—she thought I’d die of a broken heart. Losing Papa, then you. Etienne clueless and snotty about it all, Maman in this personal cone of anger. That’s what I called it, the cone of anger. I was so totally grounded after you vanished. For months. She must have thought I’d run away and find you, or maybe you’d climb a trellis and spirit me away. Ceci came home with me after school almost every day. Sometimes I wonder if Maman bribed her to keep an eye on me.”

  She said all these things cheerfully. “I guess it sounds like I have forgiven you, doesn’t it? You know, there’s this saying I remember from Grand-mère. L’absence au coeur, c’est comme le vent au feu. ‘Absence to the heart is like wind to the fire.’ A little fans the flames; too much puts them out.…

  “I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting herself. “I’ve eaten all the bread. I was at the library practically all night. I skipped dinner.” Standing slightly, she waved at the waitress and pointed to the basket. Then she said, “I can’t figure out if I should tell my mother I’ve seen you or not. I think she’d have a heart attack.”

  Celestino knew he should ask about Señora Lartigue. But he said, “I’ve never fallen in love with anyone else.”

  Isabelle stopped what she was doing (gathering the crumbs before her into a small, neat pile) but did not look at him. Was she hiding her face?

  He would have to ask, because he had to know. “Are you with someone now?”

  When she looked at him, he could tell she was anxious again, the way she’d been back on her doorstep. Her voice had tightened. “I’ve been with a few guys. After you left, I was at college, Celestino, not a convent. But right now—no. No one now. I work too hard. I figure the love part has to come later.”

  All this talk began to make him feel miserable, trapped, yet what could he do? Invite her to his drafty attic in Lothian? Take her to a movie?

  “Can I ask you something, Celestino?”

  “Anything, Isabelle.”