by Sue Miller
But then she thinks of her relief when she got free, of her hunger to be gone. That mean eagerness to be solitary, insular, that rises again and again and again in her life.
She’s on the expressway by now, approaching Boston; and she decides abruptly to get off at East Berkeley Street, to check Cameron’s apartment once more on her way home. She signals and exits. She circles back to Cameron’s building and parks.
She rounds the corner and goes into Cam’s dark entryway. She begins the long climb up the concrete stairs again. Behind the door on the second floor a woman is crying steadily, a hopeless drone of despair that recognizes no possibility of comfort. Lottie stops momentarily, her own throat clotting. She remembers abruptly a little boy she saw on the train in Chicago one day, crying like this. He was black, he was maybe two and a half or three, and he was with his mother, who couldn’t have been more than a child herself, seventeen or eighteen. He was sitting on her lap, and as Lottie watched, he began, simply, to cry. His mother was wearing a Walkman so she couldn’t hear him — not that he made much noise over the clatter of the train anyway. But Lottie watched as the tears landed on the girl’s hand, as she lifted it and looked at the drops; then she wiped the wet off on her jeans and looked out the window. She never bent to the little boy, she never said anything to him. And after five minutes or so, he stopped. He just stopped crying. Lottie had thought at the time she had rarely seen anything so terrible in her life; and the sound of this crying, which follows her as she climbs the stairs, brings the memory of it back to her. She has to stand for a minute or so outside Cameron’s door to compose herself before she knocks.
She knocks several times, louder each time. There’s no response, so once again she goes down the hall and gets the key. She lets herself in and again, absurdly, checks everywhere in the apartment for him, in case – she supposes this has to be the reason – Cam is hiding from her.
As she’s standing in the bedroom doorway, the telephone rings. It knocks her heart, and she’s almost breathless as she picks it up.
‘Yes?’ she says. ‘This is Cameron Reed’s residence.’
There’s a startled silence. Then: ‘Is Mr Reed there?’ It’s a woman’s voice, a woman probably around her age. Not Elizabeth.
‘No. He’s not right now. Could I –’ she reached for the pad and pen by the answering machine – ‘could I take a message?’
‘Well. Actually. When will he be in, do you think? When do you expect him?’ The voice is cultivated, very New Englandy.
‘I can’t really say. I … This is his sister, and I don’t really know his schedule that well. I could leave him a note.’
‘No. I think I’d rather not do that.’
Lottie waits, but the woman offers nothing else. Finally Lottie says, ‘Well, I’m sorry not to be more helpful.’
The woman says, ‘I have this other number for him. Maybe his work number? Do you think he might be there?’
‘He might. It’s probably his store. He owns a bookstore. But he wasn’t there earlier today. I’m not sure where he is at the moment, actually. He’s had a kind of … crisis in his life. But you could try there, certainly.’
She can hear the woman sigh. She says, ‘You’re his sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know about … this accident he was involved in?’
‘Yes. Who is this, please?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Dorothea Laver. I’m Jessica Laver’s mother. You know, the girl …’ She trails off.
Lottie experiences a sense of helpless shock that seizes her speech for a moment. Then she says, ‘Oh. I am sorry. I’d met Jessica. I was just so … so sorry to learn about her death.’
‘Well. Thank you. I appreciate that. Thank you. But you know, I was calling … You see, Mr Reed had told the police I might call. I wanted just to talk to him, to ask him a few things.’
‘Yes, I talked to the police too, when they were trying to reach him, and they told me you might. Call Cameron.’ Lottie’s talking too fast. She’d do anything to help.
‘Did your brother … ? Did Mr Reed, by any chance, talk to you about it? About the accident?’
‘No. I haven’t … actually –’ she slows herself down, willfully – ‘had time to talk to him at any length about it.’
‘I see.’ Lottie can hear the woman’s controlled breathing for a few seconds. ‘Well … I don’t mean to be ghoulish, to make him dwell on it, or anything. Or to intrude on what must be very hard for him too. Just that it’s, of course, it’s much on my mind. I felt I needed to know … how it was for Jessica. And he was the only one with her, you know. And he did say. To the police. He wouldn’t mind.’
‘No, I know that.’ Lottie is astonished at the woman’s politeness, her graceful composure. Her concern for Cam and his privacy. Perhaps it’s a form of shock, she thinks. It makes Lottie pity her even more than tears would.
‘Well, maybe … you could tell him I called. I would appreciate that. And maybe I will leave him my number. It’s … do you have a pen?’
‘Yes. I’ve got one.’
She dictated the number, and Lottie wrote it down. ‘And please, be sure to say that I don’t blame him. That I understand completely that Jessica … well, perhaps you don’t know this part, but she’d had a lot to drink, I’m afraid. That it was … that while it wasn’t her fault, exactly …’
‘Oh no!’ Lottie cries. She feels undone at this. It’s too much.
‘But, genuinely, an accident. And I know that. I want to assure your brother I understand that. I simply don’t hold him responsible, and that won’t be any part of our conversation.’
‘I’ll tell him that.’
But Jessica’s mother seems to want to go on, to keep talking. ‘Apparently she had a crush, I guess you’d say, on some boy in the neighborhood. Elizabeth – Mrs Butterfield – do you know her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Elizabeth said she thought it was possible Jessica was going down the street, maybe going to see him. She’d been writing a letter about him, to a friend, a letter we found in her room. So you see. And I had just wanted to ask Mr Reed, to ask your brother, if he could tell. What she was doing out there. And to be sure she didn’t have any …’ Her voice pinched down. ‘Well. Pain.’ She cleared her throat.
‘I understand. I’ll leave him your number. I’ll tell him all this.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘No. No, not at all.’
‘Well, thank you, then.’
‘Of course.’
Lottie sits for a while on the bed. She’s heartstruck for Jessica’s mother; but, after several minutes, suddenly nearly breathless with anger too, at Elizabeth. For lying, for offering Ryan to this woman as the reason for Jessica’s death. He was not, she wants to say.
But of course, she wouldn’t have said that. She won’t. How could she? And what would it matter to Dorothea Laver anyway? Maybe it’s better, actually, for her to believe Elizabeth, that Jessica was outside because of her crush on Ryan, rather than to know that she was there at Elizabeth’s bidding, carrying her tawdry message to Cam.
Suddenly it all seems so useless, so horrible. And Lottie is aware again, as she’s been able to be only sporadically, that someone has died, that Jessica is dead.
She feels angry again at Cameron too. All this should be central to him. He should be helping this woman. Where is he? She writes a quick note on the pad and sets it down by the machine on the bedside table. She looks for a moment at the machine, turned off now, the dark dead eye of the message signal. She reaches over abruptly and flicks it on. The dot lights up, ruby. It begins to blink steadily. After a few seconds, she pushes the button for messages. The tape winds back for a long time, then clicks several times and begins. It’s Elizabeth’s voice, sounding hard and urgent. ‘Cameron. Cameron, this is Elizabeth. I just want to say to you—’
Cameron breaks in: ‘I’m here. It’s me, Elizabeth.’
There’s a sharp intake of breath.
Then: ‘You shit!’ Her voice is low but holds great rage. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I knew you saw me.’ Cam’s voice is oddly buoyant – a kind of bitter exultance.
‘Of course I saw you. Of course I goddam well saw you. I’m just thankful Lawrence didn’t. What is wrong with you? How could you do such a thing?’
‘I just wanted to see it. You with him. To make myself look at it.’
‘At us in bed?’
Lottie leans forward, toward the machine. Her heart is pounding.
‘You with him, yes.’
‘What, you didn’t believe me? You couldn’t take my word? What is it with you? I can’t believe it. I just find you … You are preposterous.’
‘Am I?’ His voice loops higher. ‘I don’t think so, Elizabeth. I don’t think I’m the preposterous one. Not at all.’
Elizabeth’s voice, too, has risen, and now it drops again. She’s nearly whispering. ‘Look, I wrote you. I told you. I explained everything. It’s done. It’s over.’
Where was she, saying this? Lottie wonders. In the little hallway with the telephone table off the kitchen? Upstairs somewhere?
‘I was concerned about you,’ Elizabeth says. ‘I was very, very nice. But I will not have you sneaking around my mother’s house in the dead of night, do you get it? That’s beyond the pale. Do you understand me?’
There’s a silence. Lottie can hear Elizabeth’s shallow, fast breathing. Her own mouth has dropped open.
‘That’s not a good way to talk to me, Elizabeth.’ Cam has made his voice calm again, but Lottie can hear the strain in it.
‘How do you expect me to talk to you? There’s no other way to talk to you.’
‘We need to talk reasonably.’
‘We could, if you knew how.’
‘I want to see you.’ He sounds almost tearful.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You just said if I behaved reasonably …’
‘But you haven’t. You’ve been absolutely … wacko! Nuts!’
‘I need to see you.’ His voice is urgent.
‘Cameron, look. There is just no way … Look. I came to see you. I wrote you a letter. I made every effort to end this thing kindly. Reasonably. And look what that produced: this. You! Crazy. Sneaking into my bedroom, for what?’
‘I told you, to look at you.’
‘To look at me? That is nuts!’ Her voice shrills, then she drops it again. ‘See? That’s what I mean. That’s absolutely crazy.’
‘I need to see you, Elizabeth.’ Lottie grimaces at his pleading voice.
‘No! If you needed to see me, you could have. I was calling you. For hours yesterday. I came over. I already did that. Where were you? Yesterday, where were you? Hiding? I mean, Christ!’
‘I was watching you.’ He’s almost whispering.
There’s a beat. ‘Don’t tell me that. That’s too sick.’
‘It’s true.’
‘When I came to your place, Cameron, yesterday morning, where were you?’
‘I was out then.’
‘Out! Where?’
‘I was out all night. Christ, Elizabeth.’ There’s some percussive sound behind him, he’s hit something. ‘Think about it, will you? I killed someone. And then you … you pretended I was sort of … some acquaintance. A distant friend, or something. So, yes, I was out. I was out. In the first place I was with the police for about four hours. I had my blood taken. I must have sat in the emergency room for … And then I just lost it. I walked around awhile. I thought I’d get the car. I was there, at your house, when I realized I didn’t have the keys; I didn’t know where I’d left them. For a while I just sat in the car. I watched your windows. When it was light, I took all the change from the car and went to Mass Ave. I had some coffee. I waited awhile. Then I came back. The car was moved by then. Your shades were up. I thought I could get in touch with you, I needed to see you. I went back to Mass Ave and I called. I got him. I called again after a while, and I got Emily this time. So I had some more coffee, I walked around, I came back to your house, I don’t know, I went back. I must have called four, five times.’ He ends, exhausted.
‘And then hung up?’ she says, after a second.
‘I only wanted to talk to you, Elizabeth. I had nothing to say to him, or to Emily.’
‘I knew that was you.’
‘In the afternoon I came home. I slept.’
‘So you got my letter.’
‘No.’
‘No, what? Did you get my letter?’
‘No; Charlotte has your letter.’
‘That’s ridiculous! Why would Charlotte … ? This is absurd. Why would Charlotte take my letter?’
Lottie shifts on the bed.
‘She did.’
‘Why?’
‘Ask Charlotte. I just know she took it.’
‘That’s absurd. It’s preposterous. How do you know that?’
‘She left me a note. She said she had it. She wanted me to call her. I don’t know. Maybe she took it so I’d call her.’
‘That’s crazy.’
‘What difference does it make anyway?’
‘Because, Cameron. Look. I explained everything to you in the letter. I think you should—’
‘It’s self-evident, isn’t it, what you wrote in the letter? You said goodbye, right?’
‘Cameron, I explained to you—’
‘You said goodbye. You told me to kiss off. You said, in effect, that if I came for you, I’d find you in bed with someone else, right?’ His voice cracks. After a few seconds he says, ‘And I did, and you were.’
‘Jesus Christ, Cameron, Lawrence is not someone else. He’s my husband.’
‘Remember what you said when you gave me the key, Elizabeth?’ His voice has dropped, suddenly. It is gentle, urgent. He is desperate, wooing her. Don’t Lottie thinks. ‘Do you remember?’
There’s a silence.
‘Do you? Do you remem—’
There’s a light click, then the quick empty fizzing of blank tape for a few seconds, and then the machine turns off. No more of this. And no more messages. He must have turned the machine itself off completely just after they finished talking.
Lottie sits on the bed for a minute, staring through the open doorway into the light-filled room beyond. She finds herself wondering if he played the tape back for himself before he turned the machine off. If he listened to himself and to Elizabeth, to the venom, the desperation, in their voices. She wonders what else they could have talked about after the machine stopped taping. Where could they have gone from where they were?
She sits motionless, unsure of what to do next. She thinks about calling Cameron at work again, but then thinks, why? He’s gotten her messages. Probably every one. And chosen not to respond. He might even be there. Or driving around. Or watching Elizabeth again. The point is, there isn’t any need, anymore, to worry. He has rarely sounded so alive as he does in this telephone conversation with Elizabeth. What was it Larry said about him last night? That he was full of life.
But not a kind of life Lottie has sympathy for. She feels distanced from him. For the last day and a half she has thought of him as mostly focused on Jessica, on the accident, on her death and his responsibility for it. For Lottie – and for the Cameron she’s been imagining over these hours – the news that Elizabeth was abandoning him was incidental. Sad. Awful, even. But, in the balance, not that important.
And of course, that’s not the way it is for him in reality. In reality Jessica’s death for him is … what? Something he’ll think about later? Something that just intensifies his feelings about Elizabeth? She can’t imagine it. But clearly what he is focused on now is Elizabeth, only Elizabeth
Lottie hears again Dorothea Laver’s quiet, apologetic voice. He’s not even thinking about your daughter.
She looks around the room at the scattered darkening roses, their curling petals. A thick curved shard of the broken vase lies by her feet. Abruptly she remem
bers Ryan turning, sweeping the glassware and tins off her mother’s table, marking, she supposes now, his own powerlessness in the matter of Jessica’s death, of death itself. The coincidence of the violent ceremonies seems remarkable to her momentarily.
And then she remembers how readily she’d knelt to help Ryan, how pained she’d been by his pain. She stand up. Not this, she thinks, and picks her way back across the room. At the door, she stops and looks once more at the running stain on the wall, at the splotches of bloody rose drifted over the bed. Not this time, she thinks. Not me.
CHAPTER XI
As soon as Lottie turns left on to Storrow Drive and the river comes into view, she has that curious uplifting of the spirit you get when you start out on a trip, which she had, in fact, when she came east earlier in the summer. There’s some heartbreaking adagio on the radio by – she thinks the pontificating announcer said Schubert. The white sails of a gaggle of boats tilt their way east across the river basin, and the silver maples leap and flare in the breeze, and suddenly Lottie could sing. She feels she’s been put on earth to experience this, to see this.
She knows that what she is feeling, at least in part, is relief. For the last day and a half when she’s thought of Cameron, what she’s really been thinking of is herself as him – what she would be doing if she were he. Because, she sees now, she thinks of herself as like him, she thinks of his crazy desperation for Elizabeth as like things she’s felt. She thinks of the accident – the dead girl – as something she might have done in that desperation.
The revelation that what he’s been feeling and thinking is so much not what she expected, is so different from what she might have thought or felt – this, combined with Dorothea Laver’s muted politeness and the frightening image of him making his way through Emily’s cavernous, darkened house: these have set Lottie free. He is himself, and she is here, not him, driving her car along the river. To her right, the beating oars of a cluster of long narrow boats catch the light suddenly, as the wings of a flock of birds will sometimes do when they all turn at once in the sky.
