by Owen Sheers
It had been a lie, what he’d told Cathy. But also not a lie. He was feeling better, and he had been getting help, just not the kind she’d meant. But it was still help. The combed vineyards patching the hills. The river mists and sea fogs. A red-tailed hawk lifting from a tree. He’d got as far as finding out about the local veterans’ charities, and he’d seen their bumper stickers too, advertising their work with “heroes.” But Daniel didn’t feel like a hero. And he didn’t feel like a veteran either. That was the problem. The military was like a family, that’s what they told you. Until you left. One minute you’re on the inside, the next you’re out. Ever since college it was all Daniel had known. He’d spent a third of his life flying, and now suddenly he’d found himself grounded. Like Colonel Ellis had said, he’d upheld the American Airman’s Creed—My Nation’s Sword and Shield, Its Sentry and Avenger. And what had they done in return? Pushed him out the door as fast as they could.
Without flying Daniel felt lumpen, clumsy, as if deprived of one of his senses. He felt stripped, too, of everything else it had brought: authority, identity, purpose. Even through his time at Creech when he’d flown from a ground control station, not a cockpit, he’d still thrived on the sensation. Which is why he’d kept the veterans’ charities at bay. Because if he couldn’t have his military life then Daniel wanted to forget it, and he knew those charities would mean talking, remembering. And remembering would mean seeing too. Which was also why he’d fashioned his own kind of help in Sonoma rather than seek it elsewhere. Because of what he might see again if forced to remember. He’d seen too much already, of that he was sure. He’d looked for too long, until he’d wanted his eyes to rot. So yes, he’d lied to Cathy, but it was for the right reasons. If he wanted to get back to her, to the girls, then he knew he’d have to find his own route. For now, that meant staying out west, Sonoma, working at Sally’s. And it meant the letters too, the letters he’d been writing to Michael.
―
“Okay, reckon that’ll do.” Sally pushed herself off the fence and began walking back to the farmhouse, her two dogs lifting themselves from the dust to follow her. “There’s some pellets in the feed bin,” she called to Daniel over her shoulder. “Give her a handful. But not too much, now.”
―
Daniel had picked up other jobs, other routines, during his time on the coast—working on the grape harvest, helping out in a fishing harbour—but it was only when he’d come to Sally’s that he’d felt ready to write to Michael. When the words had finally come, they’d come quickly and he’d written that first letter in one sitting; Dear Mr. Turner, I understand this is a letter you most probably do not want to receive…When he’d finished it, he’d read it through, put it in an envelope, addressed it to Michael’s publishers, then got in his car to mail it from San Francisco. He wanted to make contact. He wanted to be known. But that hadn’t meant he’d wanted to be found.
The only address Daniel put on his letter was that of a mailbox in the Bay Area. Not that he expected Michael to reply, at least not in the form of a letter. Perhaps he’d publish Daniel’s name online, or go to the papers. It would be a story, after all, his writing to him. But whatever he did Daniel found it hard to imagine Michael would write to him directly.
This uncertainty about Michael’s response meant in the weeks after he’d written to him Daniel had woken each morning washed through with a nervous anticipation. What were the consequences if Michael went public? What would be the military’s response? But at the same time he’d also woken feeling relieved. Because he had finally done it. He’d completed the circle, and it was the only way forward, he was sure, regardless of what it might bring.
When, eventually, Michael did write back, Daniel wasn’t just surprised to receive the letter, but also to open it and read his asking him for more. There’d been no blame, no recriminations, no anger even. Just questions. In a list. About himself, his family, his work. And about the day he’d killed his wife.
At first Daniel hadn’t understood. He had confessed, he’d stepped out of the shadows. Wasn’t that enough? But as he’d worked at Sally’s that day, clearing out the stables, restocking the kitchen, cutting back the ferns along the brook, he’d come to see that no, it wasn’t enough. To confess and leave was easy. But to confess and stay, to remain circling over your deed, to hunger after the detail of it, that was something else. He of all people should know that. So perhaps it was a form of punishment, these questions? Michael’s way of making him pay through recollection, through offering up his life for dissection? A way for him to reap some kind of a victory from his loss; a victory through knowledge.
―
Opening his fist to reveal a handful of pellets, Daniel flattened his fingers and let the mare nuzzle into them, working her lips against his palm. As she did he ran his other hand along the muscle under her mane. The sun was warm against the back of his neck. He could hear the sound of a shower through the open window of one of the guest rooms. For the first time in what seemed like years, he felt content, calm.
―
Today Daniel would send his third letter to Michael. Having replied to his first Michael had sent Daniel another set of questions. Some asked for clarification or more detail. Others, though, were entirely new. Daniel understood Michael was a writer, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine what he might do with the answers he was giving him. But despite this uncertainty, or perhaps because of it, Daniel had still decided to reply. And now, in response to a third letter from Michael, he would reply again today. Partly to pay his dues to the husband of the woman he’d killed, but also for himself. Because that’s who else Daniel was writing these letters for now, himself. As a form of focused remembering, of purposeful recollection, and as a way to trace, through his answers to Michael, the convoluted paths that had led to what happened.
―
“I said not too much!”
Daniel, his hand already digging in the bin for more pellets, turned to see Sally behind him.
“It ain’t about reward, remember. You want her instinct to work for you, not her goddamn hunger.”
She was leading another horse out of the yard into the field. “Feels good, though, eh?” she said, as she passed him. “To have that connection? Without even touching?”
Daniel held the mare’s jaw as she nudged under his arm, searching for the pellets.
“Yeah,” he said, although Sally was too far away to hear him. “It does.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT WAS TWO months after Michael and Josh had gone jogging on the Heath that Samantha told Michael her husband had left. They were in a café in South End Green, its French windows drawn open to the pavement. An overcast day had broken, its vanilla sunlight suggestive of autumn. A couple of buses were parked up nearby, casting shadows over their table.
Josh, Samantha told Michael, had moved out the day before. They’d talked for several hours, Samantha said, and agreed that for the time being it was the right thing to do. She was going to come round and tell Michael at some point, but as she’d bumped into him now, well, he may as well know.
Michael didn’t know what to say. He offered her his sympathies, asked if she was all right. He hadn’t expected them to break. He’d thought, in these last quiet months, they’d been holding each other closer, not coming apart. “God, Sam,” he said, “that must be tough.” Samantha nodded, her jaw tight, holding back. Then, suddenly, she laughed. A short, manic burst that made Michael think she might cry, too.
“It’s amazing, really,” she said, through the tail of it, “that we’ve lasted this long.”
―
Michael had seen hardly anything of either Samantha or Josh since Lucy’s death. The funeral had been for close family only, conducted just two days after the coroner had returned a verdict of accidental death. In the week afterwards Michael had gone for a coffee with Samantha, in the same café in which they were sitting now. She’d cried through most of their time together and left while her coffe
e was still warm. He’d seen her only a couple of other times since then and usually like this, unplanned, crossing paths around the shops, the supermarket. He’d found it almost unbearable, this sudden distance between him and the Nelsons. Having decided upon his course of action and justified his choices, the only outlet for Michael’s guilt—the possibility of his helping Josh and Samantha—had been denied him with their absence. In the wake of it he’d been left, distracted and hollow, with the hauntings of what he’d done, of what he’d seen.
Since that run on the Heath a couple of months earlier Michael had seen Josh just the once. Michael had been gardening at the time, working on the borders along the hedge that divided his building’s strip of lawn from theirs. It was evening and Josh had come out to smoke a cigarette down by the willow. On his way to the pond he’d only nodded at Michael, but on his way back up to the house he’d come over to speak with him. He was sorry, he’d said, about the other day, on the Heath. He shouldn’t have gone off like that. Michael told him it was fine, that he understood. Which is when Josh had looked at him as if he didn’t know him, as if someone had just reminded him of how recently this stranger had entered their lives.
“See you around,” Josh had said, as he’d turned to go. But Michael hadn’t. Since then, Josh and Samantha had kept themselves closer than ever. The house, when he passed it, betrayed little sign of being lived in. Rather, it was as if they were held within it, the way a box filled with tissue paper holds a blown egg, or a single, almost weightless, filigreed gem. Their loss had become delicate, and it seemed to Michael this was why they’d stayed inside, fearing any exposure or disturbance that might further its fracture.
Rachel, too, he’d seen only once, in a bookshop in Hampstead with her mother. He hadn’t approached them. There’d been something in Rachel’s expression that had stopped him. She’d always been a serious girl, but this was different. As he’d watched her, she’d moved through the shop as if a trick had been played on her, one that no one had told her about. A truth the rest of the world had always been in on, but about which, until now, she’d been kept in the dark. With a sullen slowness, she’d picked a couple of books off the shelves, flicked through their pages, then put them back. She was disengaged, her curiosity defused. And yet Michael was sure, had he gone to her, she would have known. In the way that cats or horses know. She would have sensed his falseness, the ugliness of his endeavour.
For much of the summer Rachel had stayed at Martha’s in Sussex, in the company of her cousins. This was where Samantha was going when Michael had seen her on the street. To pick up Rachel and bring her home. But she had some time, she’d told him, before her train. Would he join her for tea?
“I didn’t want Rachel to be there,” she explained to Michael, as she stirred in her sugar, “when Josh left.”
“Does she know?” Michael asked. “That he’s moved out?”
Samantha looked into her cup, as if she’d been caught stealing. “Not yet,” she said. “But I’m going to tell her tonight. Explain.”
“It would be best,” Michael said. “Before she comes home.”
“It’s the right thing,” she said, looking up at Michael. “You have to believe me. It’s all been so much worse since…He’s been so much worse.”
One of the buses started up and pulled away from its stand. Samantha watched it edge into the road, dislodging a wedge of sunlight onto the pavement.
“Worse?” Michael said.
“He’s been drinking.” She was still watching the bus, as if Josh was on it. “All the time. In the morning, before bed. He’s always had a temper, but…”
“Has he gone back to work?”
She raised her eyebrows and let out another little laugh. “Oh, yes,” she exclaimed. “As soon as he bloody could.”
“Isn’t that good?” Michael said.
“Maybe.” She took a deep breath, exhaling it as a sigh. “He stays out,” she said, returning her attention to Michael. “Or in the office. I never know which. Until one, two in the morning.” She took a sip of her tea. Michael could see this was no longer about discussing a decision. Samantha had come to her choice some time ago, and this was already the aftermath, the resolution.
“Everyone has their own way of coping,” he offered. “That might just be his.”
“I know, I know. But…” She paused. Then, with a small collapse of her shoulders. “To be honest, we’ve been heading this way for a while.”
“Really?” Michael thought of the dinners they’d shared, the walks, the parties. He’d often sensed a strain about them, and he doubted Josh had ever been faithful for long. But at the same time he’d never thought they might split, and he’d always found it difficult to imagine them beyond their marriage.
“What happened,” Samantha said, her face tensing with even this vague reference to Lucy’s death. “It’s just…accelerated.” She took another drink of her tea. Michael did the same. He didn’t speak. He could tell Samantha was weighing up whether to tell him something. When she put her cup down, she did so carefully, like placing the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle, then leant forward, bringing her face closer to his. “I can’t be sure,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But I think Josh has been having an affair.”
“Josh?” Michael said.
“With Maddy.” Samantha said her name as if admitting something herself. “I think he’s been screwing Maddy.”
Michael thought of that night in the lap-dancing club, Josh pointing his finger at him as the dancer, Bianca, led him towards the private rooms. It had been so brash, so immature. It felt a country away from Maddy’s buttoned-down eroticism, her held reserve. But then there’d been that meeting at the wine bar in Belsize Park—Josh’s air of discomfort when they’d gone for their run the day after.
Samantha sat back in her chair, her definitive point made. There’d been no anger in her voice, no jealousy. Just the certainty of her choice. The drink. Maddy. She’d weighed the accumulating factors, all, he knew, in the light of Lucy’s death, and decided her course. Her life was changing, altering by the second. It was both terrifying and exciting to witness.
“Christ,” Michael said. “Do you think Tony knows?”
“I don’t know,” Samantha said. “And I don’t care.” But as she said those words a softness in her voice betrayed her. “I want him to be okay, Michael,” she said, leaning forward again. “I really do. But…” Her eyes began to well. “I’ve got to think of myself, Rachel.”
Michael reached out and laid a hand over hers. “Of course,” he said. “Of course.”
―
Samantha was twenty-five when she’d met Josh, on a train pulling out of Wandsworth Station. She was six months back from New York and had just moved in with some old school friends down the road. It had been her first week in a new job, as a PA in an architect’s office in Victoria. She was still getting used to the routine, the early starts. If she hadn’t been, there’s every chance they’d never have met.
They’d both been late. As they’d come up the stairs to the platform the train doors were already closing. Samantha was a little ahead of Josh, so it was she who made it onto the carriage first. As she did, he jumped on behind her, clipping the back of her heel as he landed.
Samantha turned to see her shoe falling from the carriage and onto the track. The doors slid shut, and as the train shunted forward she’d found herself standing two inches shorter than she’d been on the platform. The man she was facing was only an inch or so taller. “Shit,” he said, looking horrified. “Holy shit. I’m so sorry.”
There was something about the earnestness of his alarm that made Samantha laugh. And something comforting, too, about his accent, which spoke of the streets of her student days. His name was Joshua, and yes, he confirmed, as he took her to buy a new pair of shoes in Victoria, he’d been brought up in New York. “Well, New Jersey,” he’d said, as they’d entered an outlet of L.K. Bennet. “But who’s counting, right?”
She�
�d been impressed with his confidence in the store, giving his opinion as she’d tried on various pairs of court shoes. He, in turn, had been impressed by her calves when she stood to look at her selection in the mirror. And by her enjoyment, too, of what had happened. Before they’d parted, he’d given her his card and then watched as she’d walked through the doors of her office, hoping she’d look back. She’d waited as long as she could, then glanced over her shoulder as she’d passed reception. He was still there, smiling at her through the revolving doors, his hand raised in a wave.
Josh had always wanted to visit Europe. It was, as he liked to remind people, where he was from. His father had traced his great-great-grandfather to Lancashire. So after college he’d inter-railed around the continent. He’d visited Lancaster, walked in the Pennines, camped on archipelagos off Denmark, slept in train stations in Brussels and Bologna, and went surfing in Biarritz. When his ticket had expired, his enthusiasm for Europe hadn’t. So he’d stayed, working where he could, before enrolling in an MBA in London.
Despite his job in the city, he’d managed to hold on to a visitor’s enjoyment of the capital. After New York, and the nature of her return, Samantha had been able to see London only as second best, a concessionary place to live. But Josh changed that. On the weekends he took her on open-top bus tours, to the John Soane’s Museum, boating on the Serpentine. He wanted to see Stonehenge, to visit Edinburgh during the festival, to catch the ferry to Ireland. He was expansive, just when it felt as if her life was contracting. She’d sworn no more bankers or moneymen. No more trading nights. But this felt different, that’s what she’d told herself and her friends. And it was. He made her laugh. They had good sex. He made her come and then afterwards wanted to talk. To know who she was, and why.
