Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  She went into the kitchen to say good night to Mrs. Adamont, who was packing up the last of the leftovers for the stragglers. Mac was there, as Jane knew he'd be, saying good night to his guests in the most normal, friendly way. It simply amazed her. I'm not the only schizophrenic here tonight, dammit.

  "Honey, get me more aluminum foil," Mrs. Adamont said to her as Jane waited her turn to say good night. "I think I saw an extra roll under one of the cupboards."

  Jane tracked down the foil, and after that the plastic wrap, and somehow ended up scrubbing the pots that were too big to fit in the dishwasher. All the while she kept telling herself, Say good night and get out; you're just trying to prove how humble you are. But she couldn't. He was only ten feet away, close enough for her to hear the rich, friendly laugh in his voice, and soak up his nearness, and understand the side of him he would not let her see. She wanted so badly to be able to slip her arm through his and say to the guests, "We loved having you, come again," and to be the one to turn off the lights in the kitchen.

  Maybe he could use a cleaning woman, she thought, trying to laugh off the irony of the situation.

  She and Mrs. Adamont finished up about the time the last guest left. Mrs. Adamont took off the apron she'd brought and stuffed it into her paper shopping bag.

  Mac slipped his arms around her and said, "Adele, you saved my life. This could've been a disaster. How'm I gonna pay you back?"

  "Oh, and I suppose limbing MacGruder's tree that was blocking my roses isn't payment? Now stop fooling around and let me go; I'll be late for Saturday Night Live." She grabbed her purse and shopping bag, gave Mac a buss on his cheek, and dashed out.

  Mac, still smiling, turned to Jane. "Thanks again."

  Jane, the last one there, was wiping her hands in a green-checked dishtowel and thinking, Nice going, girl. He'll be calling in a SWAT team to get you out. "Somewhere I lost track of Uncle Easy," she said, although she hadn't thought about him in an hour. "He must've gone on home?"

  "He's up in my bed, staying the night. He petered out quick at the end; but then he never did know how to pace himself."

  "He seems like that kind of guy," she agreed. One bedroom for Uncle Easy, one for Jerry. A makeshift office in the third. "So where will you —" She stopped herself, too late. Now he'd know she'd counted beds.

  He politely chose not to hear the question, which embarrassed her even more. "I'll walk you home," he said. "Buster needs the exercise." He let out a soft whistle. The big, black dog came trotting into the kitchen from somewhere, ready for business. Mac grabbed a sweater for himself, and one for Jane. "You'll want this."

  She pulled the baggy soft wool over her head. Big mistake. The one thing she didn't need right now was more of Mac, and this was more of Mac. They stepped outside together. She thought of the last time they'd done that, after his emotional encounter with Celeste. Jane had been jealous then, too, though she'd never have admitted it at the time. But now she did, and freely. Presumably that was progress of some kind?

  There was a moon, which was nice; Jane had no desire to trip and fall into a pothole. They ambled along, with Mac throwing sticks for Buster to try to retrieve by moonlight, and talked about the turnout. "Everybody came," Mac said, obviously pleased. "No one wanted to disappoint Uncle Easy. And yet you could see it in his face: a lot of his old friends had disappointed him."

  "You mean ... by dying?"

  "Yeah," Mac said, hurling a stick impossibly far. The dog didn't care; he roared off after it anyway. "And the younger ones, too, by moving off the island. I look at Uncle Easy and I think, 'That'll be me. I'm halfway there.'"

  "But you have a son, and he was here tonight," Jane risked saying. "That must've felt good. I mean, compared to—"

  "Compared to his not being here at all? Sure," Mac agreed. "I have you to thank for that," he added, stopping to pick up another stick.

  He whistled for Buster, who was probably halfway to 'Sconset, to come back. "That little scene that Celeste and I played out in front of you shocked us both back to the bargaining table. We're going to try again," he said quietly. "We were still ironing out some of the wrinkles at the airport, in fact."

  It came as a staggering, shocking blow, a direct hit to her heart. She should have seen it coming, of course ... all evening long ... together ... and it explained Celeste's explanation; she and Jane were going to be neighbors, for pity's sake ... it was unbearable ... and it was all Jane's fault ... her stupid spaghetti ... her stupid timing ... and they were compatible after all ....

  Reeling, she forced herself to say, "I'm happy for you, Mac. It's not every couple that can pick up the threads of their marriage again."

  "Are you kidding?" he said with an incredulous laugh. "You are kidding. Celeste and me?" Jane could see by moonlight that he was shaking his head. "You don't know me at all, then," he said softly. "Somehow, I thought you did. I thought you knew what I was all about."

  "How can I know? You won't let me near you," she shot back. He stopped in his tracks and she added quickly, "If you and Celeste aren't getting together again, then what are you negotiating? Peace in the Middle East?"

  "Visitation rights, of course," Mac said, obviously amazed that she could be so dense. "We've been keeping it to a verbal agreement. Celeste's a lawyer; she can tie me up in knots any time, and she knows it. We wanted things to be as loose and civil as possible, for Jerry's sake. You see how well we succeeded," he added dryly.

  Buster came back, wanting more. Mac threw the stick, this time in the direction of the graveyard — Jane could see the gravestones leaning forlornly in the moonlight — and Buster went charging happily off again. But he didn't go far before he turned and came back, his tail low, his head down, a low and pitiful moan deep in his throat.

  Mac looked quickly at Jane, but she had nothing to say about the dog's strange behavior. He commanded Buster sternly to fall in beside them as they walked on. Jane was hardly aware of any of it. Maybe Judith was somewhere near, maybe she wasn't. Maybe Mac believed in her, maybe he didn't. But one thing was clear now: Celeste, at least, was not a factor. Beauty, brains, and a brilliant career did not cut it with Mac McKenzie. Jane wondered briefly what did cut it with him; but mostly she felt a giddy, light-headed sense of relief.

  "Did I mention that Celeste was engaged?" Mac asked.

  Better yet! "No," Jane answered, breaking into a wide and happy grin. "That's wonderfuL"

  "I don't see what's so wonderful about it," he grumbled. "She hardly knows the guy."

  "Oh. How long have they been seeing one another?"

  "On and off, a year or so. Maybe two altogether."

  "I see your point," she said ironically. "A whirlwind romance." Oh Lord, she thought. How do you hurry a guy who tells time by the passing of the seasons?

  "Celeste is a part of my life," Mac said quietly as they continued their walk down the potholed, moonlit lane. "That's how it is. She's Jerry's mother, and I care about what happens to her; I always will. Divorce doesn't undo that, Jane."

  He was like no other divorced man she'd ever known. The ones who'd been left by their wives were bitter about them — just as the ones who'd done the leaving never gave them a second thought. Mac was that rare breed, an ex-husband who cared.

  They were at her back door now, standing in the dim light of the porch lamp. "You're an unusual man, Mac McKenzie," Jane said thoughtfully. "Just when I think I have you ..."

  "Pigeonholed?" he suggested. "Under which category would that be? Insecure townie? Defiant poor man? Abandoned ..."

  "Stop," she begged in a whisper, putting her hand over his mouth. "No more."

  It echoed her action earlier in the evening, when she'd traced the outlines of his face. But she wasn't blindfolded now; she could see the burning hunger in his eyes, and it shocked and thrilled her. He took her hand away from his mouth and lowered his lips to her open palm in a kiss. It was so tender, so restrained, that it shocked her even more. He let her hand go, and he closed his eyes, and fo
r one desolate moment she thought that he was letting her go.

  And then he shuddered, as though the battle was lost, and took her in his arms and kissed her in a kiss so deep, so longing, so completely, enchantingly masterful, that he had to keep her from falling when it was over.

  "Is this what you wanted from me?" he asked in a hoarse voice, his breath coming in a long, ragged gasp.

  "I ... yes. Yes ... it is," she said dizzily.

  "What's the point, Jane — what's the point?" He let her go with such force that she felt thrown backward. He turned and took two steps, three steps, away from her.

  "Mac," she cried.

  He turned around and in two strides had her in his arms again, kissing her with the kind of abandoned fury she'd only read about — deep kisses that left her helpless, devastated in their wake. "Don't go ... don't go," she begged in an anguished moan as he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the essence of her, arousing her with the sound of her own name.

  He held her away from him and seemed to search her face for some sign of ... of what? She didn't know; she could scarcely see through the glaze of tears in her own eyes.

  "Don't you get it, Jane? Don't you understand?" he said fiercely. "It didn't work the first time. It won't work the second. The odds get longer, not shorter."

  "But they say practice makes perfect," she quipped, though her lips trembled as she said it. She couldn't let him walk away without even trying. She couldn't.

  "Is it so funny to you?" he asked in a stiff, barely audible voice. "I suppose it must be."

  "No! I didn't mean —"

  But he put his hand gently over her mouth this time, and shook his head. "No more. No more." He whistled softly for Buster, who came tearing around the corner expecting treats, and then man and dog walked off into the silver, moonlit night.

  It was a dream, surely some kind of dream, and she'd rewrite the ending as soon as she fell asleep again. That was Jane's belief as she tried the back door and then got out her key. But the time between now and then, this cursed awake time without him — how long might that last? For as long as a cup of hot chocolate? For as long as she lived? How long, before she could rewrite the ending and be in Mac's arms again, and hear a promise never to let her go?

  Downstairs there was only one dim light over the kitchen stove. Her mother must have gone to bed. Jane hardly bothered to wash up; she was exhausted, and she wanted to go to bed herself, to rewrite the ending.

  No more ... no more.

  The words echoed in her mind like the tolling of church bells as she walked wearily up the stairs to her bedroom. She turned off the small lamp in the hall, then — remembering that she had a guest — turned it on again, because the bathroom was downstairs and the stairs were steep. She'd plugged night-lights into each of the rooms as well, mostly for her mother's sake, but also to combat the night, which lately had become her enemy.

  When she entered her bedroom, her mind was focused completely on Mac. She emptied her watch, earrings, and hair combs on her aunt's old oak bureau and studied herself briefly in the small swiveled mirror that stood atop it. Thank God she hadn't worn mascara; it would've been a smudgy mess by now. She caught a glimpse in the mirror of Mac's sweater, soft and woolly and brown, and held up her arm to her nose, breathing in his scent. She began to pull the sweater off over her head, but it was cold; she left it on.

  It was much colder than it should have been — cold and clammy and penetrating, like the day of Aunt Sylvia's funeral. Her memory of the funeral became suddenly very sharp. She could see the coffin and the rain beading on its waxed surface. She could see Mac under his big black umbrella, and the tiny red rose in his hand. And her mother, standing in the pouring rain alongside her, looking impossibly crisp.

  Judith had been there too.

  At the time Jane hadn't realized it; now, in retrospect, she did. It wasn't the cold rain that had caused Jane to be chilled to the bone then. It was Judith. Judith was there then, and Judith was here now. In this room. Now. Jane held her breath as she turned slowly away from the mirror and —instinctively — in the direction of the rocking chair that sat in its customary corner of the room. The chair, old and worn and black, was pitching lightly back and forth on its rockers, as if someone had just stood up from it. A cold, hard fear touched Jane's heart. In many ways she was prepared for this moment — had both dreaded and looked forward to it. And yet it was all she could do not to run screaming from the room.

  She forced herself to stand there motionless, as if she'd come across a wild thing in the woods. Despite the falling temperature in the room she felt as hot as a coal fire. She wanted desperately to rip off Mac's sweater, but she didn't dare. All she could do was wait; wait and watch. After a brief eternity, the kind of eternity an earthquake takes, a lambent presence began to appear in front of the rocking chair. Jane recognized it at once: it was the foggy, tallish column that Cissy had captured on tape with her camcorder.

  But this time the process of substantiation did not stop there. The haziness continued to define itself, to assume depth and clarity and detail, until it became Judith.

  Chapter 21

  Judith Brightman was as tall as Jane, and her black hair was luxuriantly, untamably curled. Those were Jane's first impressions. The gown she wore was not the subdued gray garment of her Quaker years, but a flattering, full-skirted dress of deep blue. Her waist was absurdly small, the waist of a woman who has never borne a child. She was, in fact, past her childbearing years, though she was still very beautiful. Her eyes were very dark — either brown, or an enviable shade of violet.

  This is a hologram, Jane thought as she stared at the shimmering, wavering figure before her. This is a trick. Someone with a vicious sense of humor and lots of money is trying to drive me mad. But was there anyone else who knew about Judith in such detail? She tried to think it through but couldn't. Hologram or not, the vision was utterly spellbinding.

  Jane waited for a signal, for something — anything — to happen. But no sooner had the apparition reached a state of complete clarity than it began to fade, becoming a hazy column again, and finally disappearing altogether.

  "Judith?" Jane whispered, feeling absurdly self-conscious. But Judith was gone. The room warmed back to room temperature. Jane tried to capture the image in her memory. What was the expression on the apparition's face? Tragic? Pleading? Threatening?

  None of them, Jane decided. If anything, it was ... composed. Resolute. As though Judith had made a decision of some kind.

  Jane looked down at her own body: it was shaking uncontrollably. She turned away from the rocking chair, then jumped back with a violent start: Aunt Sylvia's roving cat Wicky was curled up on Jane's pillows, oblivious to the whole drama. Jane remembered Buster as he cowered at the threshold and stared at the rocker on the night of Jerry's accident. She thought of tonight, when he ran whimpering from the graveyard area.

  There are only two possibilities, she decided, pulling herself under control and gingerly approaching the big gray cat. Either Judith was never here, or Wicky is so used to her that he considers her one of the family.

  She eased Wicky off the bed and crawled into it, too overwhelmed to undress. Wicky jumped back on the bed immediately and, to Jane's amazement, curled up with his chin on her thigh. The last sound she heard as she fell off the edge into oblivion was the old cat's relaxed and rumbling purr.

  ****

  When the call came from Phillip early the next morning, Jane was just back from putting her mother and her Volvo on the six-thirty boat.

  Phillip apologized for calling so early and said, "Is Cissy with you, by any chance? I expected her last night but she never showed. I've just talked with her brother; he said the last he saw, she was packing a suitcase. The bag is by their front door, but there's no sign of her."

  "Good lord. No, I haven't — wait, there's someone at my back door. Hold on; maybe it's her," Jane said illogically.

  It was Bing and he was anxious. "Is she here?"


  She shook her head and motioned him back to the phone with her. "Phillip? We'll meet you at your house; we'll go the back way."

  She hung up and they went out together, with Jane trying hard not to show the fear she felt. If Cissy had chosen to take the shortcut and go the back way, she'd have to go past the graveyard. "I don't understand why she didn't take the Jeep," Jane said, almost angrily.

  Bing's voice was hollow with apprehension. "I wish I knew."

  They tramped through the tall grass past the small graveyard, which looked quaintly desolate in the morning fog. Jane scanned the leaning stones, looking for bright clothing, appalled to realize what it was she was looking for. From where they walked, Jane could see the rugosa rose on Judith's grave quite well. It was fully leafed out; there would be flowers soon.

  They walked farther along and heard themselves hailed. Through an opening in an evergreen windbreak they saw Phillip standing in the gray mist, waving to them. Phillip yelled, "Anything?" and Bing answered, "Nothing!"

  But Jane had been scanning the grasses, looking for bright colors. Her heart plummeted when she saw a patch of floral on a background of white at the base of the footbridge. "Bing," she said, gripping his arm, "Something ..."

  They both broke into a run for the bridge. When they found her, Jane knew at once that there was nothing to be done. Cissy's face, always pale, was a ghastly gray. While they stood there for one paralyzed second, absorbing the blow, another face, another grayness, flashed through Jane's consciousness and disappeared.

  "Oh God. Oh my God. Oh no." Bing fell to his knees in the wet grass and lifted his sister to his breast. "Call an ambulance," he said without turning around. He brushed back the wet hair from Cissy's face and repeated, "Call an ambulance."

  It was obvious what had happened to her. The handrail had given way and she'd fallen off the footbridge and hit her head on one of the rocks in the gully. She may have drowned: her face was lying on its cheek in three inches of water.