“Because we got the fax at the newspaper about the interment, Luke. You didn’t see it because we didn’t run it. Dick Foshay from the funeral home called us and said it was sent in error. Dick said Norah told him she didn’t want to run the death notice. She just wanted a private burial. Here. In Halcyon. And as for the money, well that was all over the newspapers!”
“What newspapers? What money?”
His mother brought a hand up to her forehead and rubbed it. “The San Diego Union Tribune, other California papers, even Carrow got a hold of it. Dad didn’t run the story, Luke.”
“What story?” Luke said.
“The police initially suspected that Norah had killed her brother. That she had gotten him onto that boat and then pushed him overboard because Kieran had half of Belinda’s estate.”
“Estate? Belinda had an estate?”
“Belinda married again when they got back to San Diego. Some man with an export business in Mexico. The papers said he was involved with a drug cartel in Colombia. I don’t know if that is true. But he was rich, Luke. He put something like three or four million dollars in the bank in Belinda’s name when they married. The papers said he just disappeared one night a few years ago; there were rumors that a hit man was involved. I don’t know if that’s true either. But I do know Belinda died of a drug overdose a few months after her husband disappeared. Belinda’s estate went to Norah and Kieran. And Norah was the sole beneficiary of Kieran’s half of that money if something should happen to him. There was just the two of them after Belinda died.”
“But how could anyone think that Norah…” Luke couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I don’t know, Luke. I don’t want to know.”
Luke stared at the table, his thoughts reeling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to have this conversation, Luke!” his mother said, her eyes growing misty. “Your dad wanted to tell you, but I begged him not to.”
Several long seconds of tense silence followed before Luke found his voice again. “Did you see her? Did you see her when she came?”
“No one saw her. She was only here for an hour, Luke. There was no one at the cemetery except her and Dick and the grounds-keeper who placed the memorial.”
“Memorial?” Luke asked.
“Kieran’s body was never recovered. I don’t know why she wanted to place a grave marker here for him. After all that happened here.”
“Where is she now?” Luke said, and it was almost like a command.
“Luke…”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Dick knows. I honestly don’t know.”
Luke thought of his unfinished manuscript stored away on his laptop, awaiting its ending.
This could not be it.
Luke rose from the table and grabbed the Halcyon phonebook from the basket by his mother’s phone.
“Who are you calling?” his mother asked.
“Dick Foshay.”
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves of the towering cottonwood as Luke made his way to the Janvik plot at Halcyon’s cemetery. His steps were slow and measured. He felt compelled to pay his respects before heading out to Denver tomorrow. Dick Foshay had reluctantly told Luke he sent Norah’s bill for the interment to an address in Beavercreek, Colorado. But that was a year and a half ago. He didn’t know if it was still current. An Internet search had revealed nothing except news accounts of Kieran’s death.
He had read the accounts on his laptop in his father’s office, attempting to keep an odd kind of professional distance between himself and the words on the screen. But each sentence seemed to bore into him. He had printed out one of the articles and now carried it in his pocket. He pulled it out now as he walked and re-read it:
SAN DIEGO—Law enforcement officials have concluded that the drowning last month of Pacific Beach resident, Kieran Janvik, was in fact a suicide, after handwriting experts declared a suicide note found in Janvik’s house was genuine. No charges are expected to be filed against the deceased’s sister, Norah Janvik, 33, also of Pacific Beach, who was on board the ship with Kieran Janvik when the 26-year-old apparently intentionally fell into ocean waters off the coast of San Diego.
The brother and sister were an hour into a whale-watching trip on March 15 when another passenger on the ship noticed Mr. Janvik in the water, several yards away from the stern, and flailing his arms. Witnesses said that when Mr. Janvik was spotted in the water, Ms. Janvik was seen at the rail weeping and shouting her brother’s name. A rescue attempt was made, but Mr. Janvik drowned before help could reach him. His body was not recovered.
Police began to suspect foul play when they learned Mr. Janvik was a paraplegic, and that his net worth was in excess of $2 million, with Ms. Janvik being the sole beneficiary. Investigators told the Union Tribune yesterday that they are no longer considering that Mr. Janvik’s death might have been a homicide.
“The handwriting experts concur that Kieran Janvik wrote the note,” said a spokesman for the district attorney’s office. “It would appear it was Mr. Janvik’s intent to end his life.”
Ms. Janvik declined to comment when contacted by the Union-Tribune.
Luke held the fluttering newspaper article in his hand as he looked down on the gravestones that now lay at his feet. He read the names on the slabs of granite one by one. Kenneth Rodney Janvik. Nell Janvik’s firstborn. The good son. The hero. Killed in Vietnam in 1971 at the age of twenty-five. Darrel Winston Janvik. Nell’s second-born. The wayward one. The troublemaker. Killed in a fight in a bar parking lot. Penelope Jane Janvik. Dead of a heart attack—or a broken heart—the year Luke had moved to Boston. Then the last marker, the most recent one. Kieran River Janvik. Dead at twenty-six by drowning. A drowning in the company of the whales he had loved as a child.
Luke stood for a few minutes longer. He turned to go and folded the newspaper article as he walked away. He placed it back in his pocket to rest between his flight itinerary and a slip of blue stationery that bore words of long-ago hope—a poem about whales. Memories of that night in the tree house reading Norah’s poem swept over Luke.
If nothing else, he would return the poem to its rightful owner.
Twenty-three
Luke eased the rental car out of the parking lot as planes ascended and descended overhead in the sky above Denver’s airport. It would take him a couple hours to get to Beavercreek, traffic permitting. A couple hours to prepare himself to see her.
The last time he’d seen her she’d collapsed onto the grass by her wounded brother. He’d tried to say something meaningful in those horrible moments before the ambulance came and took Kieran, but only useless words had come. He’d just knelt beside her and said the thing people say when they’re dazed by circumstances and can think of nothing else: “It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay.”
But it had not been okay.
And he had not spoken to her since.
He prayed as he drove that the right words would come this time.
All the right words.
He found without any trouble the quiet, wooded county road that would take him to her house. He was nervous as he drove up the winding hill. There was every possibility she wouldn’t be home and he would have to come again tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. Or that maybe this was no longer her house.
His breath caught in his throat as he neared a wooden mailbox that bore the name “Janvik” in peel-off letters. He wondered if she had ever thought of changing her last name.
Luke drove up a driveway lined with firs and aspens, and the house came into view. It was made of logs burnished brown, and the walls looked warm and strong in the late-afternoon sun. The multipaned windows were trimmed in dark green. A half-barrel full of pansies nodded their purple, yellow, and white heads as he pulled up, stopped the car, and got out.
A light was on in the house, visible from the porch, but there was no sound. No barking of a dog, no music, no voices. Noth
ing to indicate someone was inside. He stood by his car for a moment before walking up to the heavy wooden door and raising the knocker. He was a little annoyed that his heart seemed to be beating too fast. Okay, God. This doesn’t have to be a big deal, right? he whispered as the knocker fell. We’re just two old friends getting reacquainted. Happens all the times at class reunions. It’s no big deal.
But when the door opened and he saw Norah standing there, he involuntarily sucked in a breath in surprise. For a moment there was nothing but the continuation of the seventeen years of silence between them. She looked older, of course. Her face and skin were tanned and etched with tiny lines, and her honey-blonde hair was even lighter, owing to little splashes of sun-induced highlights. Her eyes were the same, yet different. The same shade of gray, but less luminous than he’d remembered. They looked… faded. She was wearing washed-out jeans and an men’s plaid shirt. He wondered for a split-second if she was indeed alone in the house. But he dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. He somehow got the impression from the way she was looking at him that she’d been alone for a long time.
“Norah,” he said.
She blinked. Surprise at seeing him was evident in her dull eyes, but as he waited for her to respond, the shock seemed to melt away.
“You’re a little late,” she finally said.
He waited for her to crack a smile or say his name or step aside to let him in. She did none of these things.
“Late?” he said lamely, wondering if he knew what it was he was late for. He didn’t want to consider it.
She looked past him to see if he was alone, if there was anyone in the car with him. If there were any more surprises in store.
“You just happened to be in the neighborhood?” There was no inflection in her voice.
“No. Yes. I mean, I came here to see you.”
“Why?” she said in the same impassive voice.
“Because I wanted to see you.”
She hesitated, and Luke thought perhaps he wasn’t going to be invited in after all. He hadn’t exactly expected her to burst into tears of joy at seeing him, but he hadn’t expected this response either. She seemed hostile.
“I suppose you’d like to come in and talk about old times, huh, old friend?” she said in a flat tone. Her face was expressionless.
“May I?”
She motioned him inside, and he followed her into a large room with tall windows on one side, an open kitchen on another, and a sitting area on another. The whole area was cluttered with newspapers, magazines, and CDs. An open laptop lay on the sofa. Several Mexican blankets were thrown over its back and sides as well. The fireplace at the far wall was made of huge stones. The firebox inside was dark and empty, though, and only one small lamp burned in the corner of the room. The rest of the room lay in a relaxing, dusky shade of late afternoon auburn.
Luke was trying to see from the surroundings what Norah had made of her life. But the house and its contents communicated nothing to him. It looked like a quiet place where not a whole lot happened. A great place to write, he thought. But there was nothing to indicate what she liked, what she valued, aside from her privacy. He felt like an intruder.
“Would you like some tea?” she said quietly, walking into the kitchen.
Well that’s a start, he thought, “Sure. I’d love some.”
She took two mugs out of her dishwasher and set them down on the counter next to the stove. Luke was glad the water was already hot, that she’d already been in the middle of making tea when he’d knocked on her door. Waiting for a teakettle to boil would have been uncomfortable. Norah said nothing as she slipped a tea bag into each cup and poured the water. While the tea steeped and Norah maintained her silence, he looked at the titles on her bookshelves, hoping to gain a little understanding into the person she’d become.
Books on the ocean, the desert, and the solar system filled one shelf; a row of poetry anthologies filled another. Then on another shelf sat a small stack of books that were all the same. The volumes lay flat, one on top of the other. He bent to see the title, wondering why she would keep six copies of the same book. The spine read, ‘Shallow Water’ and other Poems— by Andromeda Hickler.”
Andromeda Hickler.
Hickler was Belinda’s last name. Andromeda was Norah’s middle name. He picked up one of the copies and turned to the inside flap. A tiny thumbnail photo of the author revealed the profile of Norah Janvik. Norah had written the book.
“This… this book of poetry,” he said, holding the book up and looking at her. “It’s yours?”
She looked up and blinked. Was she mad or embarrassed that he’d found her book and figured out she was the author? He couldn’t tell. She didn’t appear to be glad.
“Yes.” She removed a tea bag and wrapped it tightly around the curved edge of a spoon.
“That’s wonderful, Norah. I mean, really great.”
She shrugged and turned her attention to the second tea bag.
Luke wanted to tell her he was a writer, too. That they still had this wonderful thing in common. But it didn’t seem like the right moment to talk about himself. He didn’t get the impression she’d be all that interested in what he had done with his life. Besides, that wasn’t the reason he’d come to see her. He stepped away from the books;
“Norah, I was so sad to hear of Kieran’s death. I’m so sorry for your loss.” His voice sounded strange in his ears. She looked up at the mention of Kieran’s name but quickly went back to the tea bag, saying nothing.
“And I heard you recently lost your mother, too,” he continued. He felt like he was babbling. But he had to fill the silence. “I’m so sorry.”
She looked up again, and the expression on her face seemed to be one of amusement.
“So where exactly are you suddenly getting all this information, Luke?”
She’d said his name for the first time.
“What?”
“I said, where exactly are you suddenly getting all this information?”
“I’ve… been home, in Halcyon, for the last few weeks. My dad had a stroke. A bad one. I’ve been keeping the paper in print for my parents until we could decide what to do.”
“Luke to the rescue,” she said, but it was almost like she was saying it to someone else. Or maybe to no one. “And for your information, my mother died seven years ago,” she continued, pouring milk into one of the mugs. “I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘recently.’” She looked up at him with the milk carton poised above the other mug. It took him a second to figure out she was asking him wordlessly if he wanted milk in his tea.
“No… thank you. My… I thought it had only been a few years ago. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Well, of course you didn’t know. How could you?” She picked up the spoon and stirred her tea.
He waited for a moment to see if she’d ask about his dad’s condition or make even the smallest gesture of concern for him. But she just stirred her tea.
“I was surprised to hear you were in Colorado,” he said, deciding to change the subject. “When I heard you’d moved to California I thought you would stay there for good.”
She stopped stirring, raised the spoon, and let the drips fall into the mug. “Well,” she said quietly, “where I live is really no one’s business but my own.”
“Well, of course, I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, Luke. But did you really think I would stay where my brother drowned?”
She put the spoon in the sink. Her words swirled around in his head.
“Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She said nothing as she brought the tea over to the coffee table. He took a seat in a chair across from the sofa and reached for his mug.
“So, you like Colorado?”
“It’s fine.”
“Keeping busy?”
“I manage to find a reason to get up each day.”
He took a sip of his tea. It was blistering hot. He ag
ain waited for her to ask about his life. She didn’t.
“I live in Connecticut now. Married and have two little girls. I am a writer, too, actually. Mystery novels. You ever heard of the Red Herring series?”
She sipped her tea. “I don’t read much besides poetry and biographies. Getting caught up in genre fiction is rather a waste of time, in my opinion. I don’t see there’s much purpose in reading about people who don’t exist.”
Luke was surprised into silence. He wondered if it would be rude to ask for some aspirin. He was getting quite a headache.
He took another tentative sip. She set her mug down and looked at him. Waited for him to say something else. Challenged him without words to say something else. Fine, he thought. Small talk doesn’t interest you, so no more small talk. Let’s just get right to the heart of it, and I’ll get out of your house.
“You put up a grave marker for Kieran in Iowa,” he said. It was not spoken like a question, but they both knew it was one.
She took her time answering. She casually cocked her head as if to communicate that what she had done was unremarkable. “He needed to have a memorial somewhere. It would have been kind of hard to put up a grave marker in the Pacific Ocean.”
He stiffened. Sarcasm just didn’t fit her. At least, it hadn’t when he’d known her.
“But why Halcyon? After all that happened there?”
She took a sip and stared at him over the rim of the mug. Her eyes communicated that surely he knew the answer to that.
Maybe she’d been trying to make peace with the Janvik family by placing a memorial to Kieran between the graves of their father and their hero uncle. It would make sense then.
“Because that’s where Tommy is,” she said tonelessly. But in his head Luke heard, Because that’s where Tommy is, you idiot!
Of course. How could he have forgotten? The shoebox, the begonias, the afternoon sun, the words spoken, the song of farewell to a good friend—it all suddenly came back. Norah had done one last, brave thing for her brother. She’d placed a witness to his existence near the remains of his innocent childhood and the best friend who’d shared it with him.
In All Deep Places Page 24
