Dr. Logue was not at all confident. That’s what he said later. Such a sudden shift is a terrible sign. As Jean was wheeled to the operating room, and the anesthesiologist got right to work, Dr. Logue stopped for a minute, as a courtesy to old friends, to tell Clyde Boll and his wife, Doris, to prepare for heartache. Jean’s young, he said, as explanation or compensation they couldn’t tell, and then he was racing down the hall.
The coldest day, and the electricity was fluctuating and the lights faltered and if he’d been thinking about it, there’d have been hell raised in every department, but the baby was under his hand, he could feel her now and her chest still shivered, he could feel it, the tiniest shiver and he made himself lift her slowly, slowly so not to shock that tiny shiver into stillness. The suction to her mouth, then the blow, delicate, a pat, a second pat, and the lungs cleared and she whimpered. Only a bit of a cry, he kept her close to his chest, as if teaching her heart to keep going. There, little girl, he said over and over until the operating nurse said, She’s fine, Dr. Logue; she’s a good one.
When she became pregnant again with Cubbie, Dr. Logue watched her like she might jump bail. Every month, sometimes more often, he’d do a full checkup with blood work and take an X-ray just to be safe. She took special vitamins. Let’s get this one right, he’d said. And everything went perfectly.
A few weeks before the move to London, she was clearing out a gutter jammed with pine needles over the back door, high up on the ladder when the phone rang. She scrambled down and into the house, panting as she picked up. Hello?
It was a woman who apologized immediately. She was part of a research team, just a secretary she corrected, but one of those making the first calls to the mothers.
Excuse me?
She’d start over. They were doing research on the mothers whose children had died of certain kinds of cancer. Mostly blood and brain. It was a small group affiliated with the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia but if the early findings had merit they’d go nationwide.
What can I do for you? Jean asked. She felt herself begin to tremble, but she had a voice for this, professional, helpful, and she used it.
We’re studying the correlation between prenatal radiation exposure and particular cancers.
I see.
And we really have only the one question to begin.
How did you find me?
I’m so sorry! I’m new. That’s the first thing on the card. Your son’s doctor, Marvin Erlandson? He gave us your name. He said he was sure you’d be happy to help.
Well, he’s right, said Jean.
So, there’s really only the one question to begin and that is: Did you receive any radiation of any kind during your pregnancy? And if so, how often?
You mean X-rays?
That’s right. Even at the shoe store or the dentist. Anywhere.
Only for the baby, to make sure he was all right.
I see. The woman sounded like she was pulling a whole new set of papers across her desk. Excuse me, she said, and then, All right. And would you say that happened more than once?
Several times, said Jean. Oh, at least ten, or maybe twelve, maybe more. There was some worry toward the end he might be breech, so right before the delivery I had two, about five hours apart, but everything was fine, so it was all just precautionary.
Mrs. Devlin?
Yes?
Are you sure about this? I’m just writing down ten to twelve now, possibly more, and you think that’s right?
Of course I’m sure.
There was a very long pause. Jean said, Hello?
Yes, said the woman, as if she’d been roused out of a sad dream. Thank you for your time and patience, she said.
Not at all.
After that, Jean couldn’t go back up the ladder. Days went by before Doris stopped over and said, What’s that ladder doing there? Someone might get hurt.
When Jean came home from London, she arrived quietly, no fanfare. The old airport pickup service from New Jersey met them at JFK. She and Nick were in a flexible moment, that’s what she’d called it in the end. You’re the flexible one, sweetheart, he’d said. Hardly, she said and booked the flight.
At last, the car crept down the steep driveway. It was still only noon. The sun winter bright on the windows. Lily wanted to see the water and the dock first, no doubt to sneak a cigarette. They’d had twelve uninterrupted hours of each other’s company, and Jean let out a deep breath as she paid the driver. She told him to leave the bags in the driveway. That was fine. She’d enter her house alone.
As she pushed wide the back door, something, a bat, dove down at her head. Cringing, Jean forced herself to unwrap her arms away from her face. She’d seen bats before. The house had been empty for weeks now and a window must be cracked or broken somewhere. But when she opened her eyes she saw it was great deal more.
The stove, the refrigerator, the oven were all burned to black and ash. Walls streaked and caked with something dark and fetid, mud and maybe even shit as she looked closer. Her lovely pale violet walls. The cabinets had been set on fire, too. The floor hacked to splinters.
She moved through the house as if pulled by a string. Tiles shattered in the bathrooms, fixtures yanked from the walls, the floor. In the master bath the subfloor had been soaked and had swollen up in waves, creating a smell like cat urine no scrubbing would ever get out. In the living room someone or something had pissed on anything that would soak up the odor. Every window that looked out onto the water shattered or missing. Doors ripped off hinges, carpets shredded. The staircase, their beloved staircase, had missing treads. Every other spoke of the banister was broken. In the garage some of the treads, some of the furniture, was piled up high, charred and reeking, as if someone had made several fires drenched with gasoline.
She ran down to the water and told Lily to stay right where she was. Then changed her mind and said she wanted her where she could see her, to just wait in the driveway, while Jean made some calls. She’d had the wit to ask the tenant to keep the phone connected and strangely, given all this, he’d complied. The first person she dialed was Lionel, sobbing, because who else would understand. Lionel said, Angel girl, you broke an agreement; he had a deal. He’s angry.
Angry? Angry?
Look, you just need to bring in a crew, he said. And presto, everything brand-new. Better than ever. Right?
No, said Jean and put the receiver away from her face when she felt the sobs coming again. She lifted her head and took a long slow breath. She watched Lily through the smashed kitchen window. Lily, arms held wide like a child playing airplane, wandering around the backyard as if nothing had happened. Jean felt a jolt of fury. How could she be so oblivious? This was her home, too. But then she realized she hadn’t let her inside.
Look, said Lionel. If you want, I could probably pull a few of the guys from here. How’s that? And I’ll send Mrs. Ivy along to terrify them into action. Anyway, don’t worry. The insurance will cover everything. I’ve got just the adjuster for you. But let’s do it fast. We don’t want the place to depreciate.
What are you talking about?
Fuck. Junior’s crying.
By the time she dialed Doris she’d collected herself. She told the story almost as a joke. But Doris didn’t get it, and said, My god. Come right over here, right now. Just come here. And you stay as long as you like!
Oh, I don’t know.
I’ll send Ruby.
This is much too much for Ruby.
I mean to pick you two up, now. I’d come myself but I can’t at the moment.
Why not? Jean said.
I sprained my good driving ankle. It happened—
Jean stepped closer to the shattered glass of her bay window. Out near the end of the dock, a structure of some sort teetered like a squat unstable totem pole.
Sorry, said Jean. I couldn’t hear you. Now Lily was dragging her long coat through the half-thawed mud. All the way across the Atlantic, she’d been sullen and when Jean did let
her in the house, she’d barely said a word besides wow. All right, said Jean. Thank you, send Ruby, and in the meantime I’ll call the police.
Hey, Mom? Lily said, banging up the back steps. Mom? Someone’s piled all of Cubbie’s stuff out behind the garage.
Which meant someone had broken into the locked storage closet in the attic. Ten minutes later Anthony Moldano made a slow awkward reverse down the driveway, lights spinning blue through the trees. He had the window of his cruiser down, his head half out as if he were driving a combine. The radio was still squawking when he parked. He was much fatter than the last time Lily had seen him and when he came into the kitchen he carried the meaty bready smell of a meatball sub.
Hey, little buddy, he said. Welcome home!
Hi.
Jean came in from the dining room still in her coat, carrying a notebook. Mrs. Devlin, now don’t you worry about lists. That’s our job.
Do you think it could be vandalism and not the angry tenant? I just called him and he says he’s shocked.
I’m not ruling anything out just yet, said Anthony, with a wink to Lily. And you shouldn’t be calling anyone. Leave that to us. They left the telephone connected? That’s interesting. That might be helpful. By the way, have you heard the news?
Jean stared.
It’s all true. The old lady is having twins. Anthony grinned and made his fists dance like happy puppets. Not faking you out. Turns out they run on her side of the family? She’s got a cousin with twins already, identical, too. They need to actually tie different colored ribbons around their wrists so someone besides the mother can tell who’s who. Are you seeing this? Two exact replicas of yours truly?
What? said Lily.
Jean put down her notebook. Lily, sweetheart, get my purse please. It’s in the living room.
When she left the room Jean said, I don’t think you understand what’s happened here.
Anthony nodded toward the scorched cabinets. Pretty wild stuff.
Yes, so, maybe you could make a report and take some photographs?
Got the Polaroid in the vehicle for just that purpose. Really, Mrs. Devlin, no need to worry. Now, who’s this approaching? We’ll monitor all that for you, any odd comings and goings, starting immediately.
That’s Ruby.
You know your floorboards are dodgy here. Anthony bounced the toe of his boot against the wood and it gave. Feels like the joist below is completely shot. Careful how you walk. Jeez, that’s a bit dangerous.
Lily, Jean called out. What’s taking so long?
I just need to make a phone call.
Not now. Ruby’s here. Let’s go. We’ll be at Doris Boll’s, she said to Anthony.
Probably for the best. You just don’t know how this is going to fly.
Against her better judgment she called Nick that night after Lily and Doris had gone to sleep. She sat in the wicker rocker she’d had as a teenager, feet on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette, the window cracked an inch, cold air blasting her toes. She could be fifteen, except her bones felt half on fire.
Hello, darling! he said.
Don’t even start, she said.
What is it. His voice went cautious and flat, and that was a small relief; she could tell him without giving him any ground. She just needed to tell him. So she talked and talked about every detail, ending with the pile behind the garage, the terrifying, nauseating pile of Cubbie’s things. Someone had poured gasoline and lit up what was left of his baby furniture and his toys.
I feel like I’m dying, she whispered.
Nick was quiet for so long she thought she’d lost the connection. Honey? she said, by mistake.
Let me come.
No, absolutely not. She stubbed out the cigarette and shut the window with a slam. Damn, I’m cold. Wait a second. She pulled the eiderdown from the foot of the bed. Doris must have done some emergency laundry the moment Ruby went out to fetch them, because it smelled just like all her linens smelled, washed a moment ago, some mix of ocean and rose in the scent. I’m back, she said. Wrapping the quilt tighter, feeling the knot in her spine give a tiny bit.
I’ll fly over in the morning.
She sighed and lit another cigarette, reopened the window.
I know what this is, Nick said.
How could you? But she sat up straight. What could you know about this?
Let me come and see what’s going on. I’ll call you when I land. Tomorrow.
Jean took a long drag and tried to settle her thoughts, to calm the ramping dread. She didn’t think she could do all this alone. She waited another minute before saying, Very flashy. Very hotshot.
Maybe, he said, but sounded relieved. How’s Lily?
Impossible.
It’s her job.
Well, she’s good at it. Jean didn’t say good night, just hung up the phone and dragged herself to the bed and fell into a dead sleep.
25
Lily wore her long green London maxicoat, which she made sway like a ball gown as she stepped over the painted rocks that now kept cars from driving down the lane between the courts at the tennis club. Her grandmother insisted she bring a red ski cap and mittens, but she’d stuffed these into her pockets. It was a beautiful coat and when Margaret saw it, she’d want one, too. Lily thought she could just beg her dad to find one for Margaret, but in a different color, then at the Clury School they’d look good. Because Margaret was going there, too. Just like Lily she’d be starting when the new term began.
Tommy answered the phone at the Foley house after breakfast. Lily who? he asked. Tally ho?
He’s a turd, said Margaret when she came on the line. You should see his face. It’s an emergency zone.
So I saw Anthony Moldano, said Lily. He was at our house.
Who? said Margaret, yawning loudly. Tommy’s been sleeping with his face on a cheese grater. Don’t touch me. Touch me and I’m telling Mom about her rabbit hat.
Are you okay?
He’s in a romantic situation with Mom’s hat.
Gross.
Exactly.
What are you doing? asked Lily.
You mean now?
Yes? I think so.
They made a plan to meet at the old beach club by two o’clock. Lily’s mother would be at their house all day. Lionel was pressing to send down Mrs. Ivy and the workmen for an assessment, but her mother said no, not until she really saw everything for herself. And Momo agreed, talked about not disturbing the crime scene. But Jean waved her off, as if dismissing what Doris said automatically made things better.
The old schoolyard was empty and full of black ice drifts left in big piles just anywhere. It was the long break now and the Clury School would start even later. They need to dull our pencils so we won’t stab each other, said Margaret on the phone. She was still hoping she could get to Star of the Sea by Easter. Margaret’s mother said, Why not? But her father was mysterious in his firmness. As far as he was concerned, Margaret could spend the rest of her life at the Clury School, but he wouldn’t say why.
Lily fake skated across the tarmac. She looked at the basketball hoop hanging crooked with no net and thought of Russell Crabtree and his beautiful neck. She tried to see him in her mind and could smell his smoky breath almost and feel his hands dropping the pink parka over her face and she held on to that for a moment, but it was Lawrence who she wished might turn up just around the corner. A shocking surprise, he’d come all the way to New Jersey because, because, but she couldn’t really carry this dream for long. She knew already that Lawrence had fallen out of her life.
Crossing the bridge, the winds blew sharp on her face and bit her cheeks. She almost put the red cap on but what if Margaret saw her? She did dig out the mittens so her fingers wouldn’t freeze right off. The winds lifted the coat away from her body and something in the slap of cold made her feel ashamed, as if she deserved this. Stupid brain.
You don’t need to believe every blessed idea that goes through your head, as if God himself planted it there
. This was Sister Maureen. You can decide for yourself, dear. What’s worth holding on to, and what’s just nonsense passing through. We all have a world of silliness and sorrow mixed in all together. You can decide what’s true. For yourself. You have that power of discernment.
They’d met the one time by chance. Lily skipping typing class, hiding in the library. And Sister Maureen finding her in the back carrel, as if she just happened to be strolling by. They went to a tiny kitchen that smelled like cooking gas. Sister Maureen gave her biscuits on a flowery saucer. Then she sat down, facing Lily, her knees almost touching and she told a story about her family in Ireland as if she’d been waiting all day for Lily to arrive so she could tell her all about her brother who died in near infancy of nothing that couldn’t have been prevented. It was too cold that winter, the house was ticky-tack and useless against the freeze, and he was too little to endure. After he went, and there were many of us, ten in all, it was a frenzy of who was to blame. Who didn’t hang the blankets, and who didn’t seal the windows shut, and who let the fire bank too low. My mother nearly went mad with the rage of it, did go mad for a while. Sister Maureen smiled at Lily as if this was a memory she was glad to be telling. She nodded. My poor mother. And Lily listened closely, waiting to hear the end. My poor mother, said Sister Maureen. And that was it.
Lily imagined the mother still blocking out the cold wind, as cold as today, as if she could never stop. Never. She wanted to tell Sister Maureen that her own mother wasn’t that way. If that was the point of the story, she was wrong. But this was more an idea than a feeling, and the warmth of the kitchen and the dry sweet bite of the biscuits, was what stayed, and Sister Maureen’s wide blue eyes looking right at her, then touching her hand and saying, Now here are some typing fingers if ever I saw some. Before she knew it she was back in class and not in trouble for once.
The Loved Ones Page 22
