“Something happened on that trip, and I need to know what it was.”
Delay, Grimsley! Give yourself some time; this is a minefield for her.
I hadn’t heard the footsteps descending the wooden stairs or the approach of the young man who’d appeared in the entryway to the living room. When I saw that Collista’s eyes had gone from mine to his, I turned. It was Peter, dressed in a white T-shirt and faded jeans, his strawberry blond hair, not slicked back and formal like yesterday, but soft, unbrushed and askew from sleep.
“You okay, Mom?” he asked.
“Yes, Peter, thanks.”
I heard him but did not watch him leave because I’d turned away. I’d set my glass down, tried to stand, to remove myself, but my legs failed, and I curled over myself, just crumpled like an aluminum can back down into the chair, gave in finally to the tears that had yet to come—till now, till the vision of that boy who was so clearly Emerson’s son, in looks and voice and stature, returned me to my first sight of Emerson himself more powerfully than when I’d seen him last spring. Peter was that image of the young Emerson, so beautiful, and it felled me, obliterated me, and I lost it right there in that chair. At first quietly, just silently convulsing, bent over myself, face hidden. Until I just couldn’t contain the grief and started sobbing loudly, sobbing like a goddamn girl. Worse than that bony creature who’d preceded me in line the day before at the church. Heaving, loud sobs. Self-conscious enough to hear Collista leave the room abruptly, aware enough to hear Peter’s quiet voice—“Who is she, Mom, is she all right?”—so clearly reminiscent of Emerson’s voice and care. My sobs redoubled and redoubled again if that was possible. Collista returned with a box of tissues.
“Go on,” she said. “I’ve been doing it all week. It feels better when it’s over.”
And so I did. I kept crying because the one person I’d ever loved was dead and yet there he was. There he was, right there, he was that beautiful boy I’d loved, now grown and gone. Gone, gone.
I took her at her word and cried for so long she likely got bored waiting for it to end. But end it did, ten or twenty tissues later, in my lap, at my feet. The crying stopped and I gathered up the teary, snotty balls.
Collista said, “There’s a bathroom to the left of the front door.”
I went as directed, disposed of the Kleenex, splashed cold water on my face, dried it with some paper towels lying in an elegant silver box. Took a deep breath, looked at myself, and knew what I had to do.
Call me Marlow!
Before I sat, I said to Collista, who was back in her seat, legs curled beneath her, cradling her coffee and staring off, “Thanks for giving me the go-ahead. You’re right, I feel better, or emptier anyway.” I sat, back straight, knees together, prim and ready.
She turned her cool eyes on me and said, “Well, that tells me you loved him.”
“I did, yes. I wouldn’t have needed to be here otherwise.”
Her legs uncurled, she planted her feet on the rug, set her mug down. “I need to know what happened at Duke.”
I got it over with fast and clean: “Nothing. Nothing happened at Duke. If you’re referring to him and me.”
I could see from the way her face, her whole being, eased—that he hadn’t told her and that I’d been right to lie.
“We talked a lot,” I said.
Then with sudden tension and renewed energy she said, “But I need to know what happened. Because something happened.”
I said nothing. She waited me out, staring. I asked, “What makes you think something happened?”
“Because when he got back from that trip, he was different. He’d changed.”
“In what way?”
“It was like …” she said, and looked off for a long time. She returned her gaze, friendly now, not a foe. “It was like he was the man I married. That young. Twenty-seven. He was euphoric. At first I thought he was being overly solicitous because he had done something wrong. He told me about seeing you and how renewing it had felt. He told me he’d had a powerful response to the ceremony celebrating Professor Blackmore. And the euphoria didn’t go away. He charmed me all over again, loved me in a way I couldn’t doubt. Which is why I believe you.” She snorted and said, “We even started having sex again, regularly, amazing, wonderful, loving sex. In July, on our anniversary, our eighteenth, we did one of those vow renewal things. I didn’t need it; he’s always been the sentimental one and wanted to, so we did. Invited our closest friends and recommitted ourselves in their presence, and then we ate an amazing meal and drank all night long, the last of them leaving when the birds started chirping again. Like the kids we’d once been.
“We paid for it, the next day, or that day rather. But it was worth it.”
She paused again.
“So, Grimsley, that’s why I wanted to know. What happened? Because whatever it was, it didn’t last.” Her breathing grew noticeably heavy. “And now. He’s gone. And I need to know … why.”
“I was kind of hoping to find that out myself. That’s mainly why I came out here, having briefly reconnected with him last spring after twenty years. What happened between the accident and when I saw him? Because he seemed hopeful when we said goodbye.”
“And that’s how he returned. So why?”
“Why,” I said. “Well, from our conversation in May, I sensed he was depressed, that life was heavy on him. He’d confessed that you two had been having issues but he didn’t say what, and I didn’t ask.”
“It’s true, yes,” she said, looking away.
“He also told me he’d lost his father not too long ago.”
“Yes, that hit him hard,” she said, then squinted at me. “You know, the moment he came back he told me something that I can’t stop thinking about. He said after the ceremony, he cried. He said he’d seen an old friend, you, and then suddenly the urge to cry came on so strong that, well, he said, he ran around back and bawled his head off. He was sentimental to his core and easy to cry. I don’t know how many times he saw It’s a Wonderful Life, but every time Harry Bailey raises his glass and calls his brother George the richest man in town, Emerson’s face is smeared with tears. But he didn’t weep from sadness that I ever saw, he wasn’t a crier in that sense. So I said what seemed obvious to me. I said, ‘You’ve recently lost your father. Now you’ve lost the second most important man in your life, so of course you responded that way.’ He didn’t say anything, he just hugged me hard and told me how much he loved me. In a way that felt desperate.” She paused. “Was it you? And did he mention it to you?”
“The crying jag? Yes, he did.”
“Did he explain it?”
“He seemed kind of baffled by it.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he thought it was shame, but couldn’t, or didn’t, explain why.”
Collista turned away for a moment but that was all the answer I got on this point. She looked back to me.
“Once the slide began,” she said, “I thought it was grief, that he had yet to properly grieve his father and his mentor.”
“And I said something along those lines, too. So, are you saying you no longer feel this way?”
She looked at me hard, really hard, cold and mean, like a child. Weird. She said, “No,” and slurped her coffee. I didn’t like the silence so I babbled just to fill it.
“From what I’ve seen, and forgive me for this, but I think it’s harmful for us to believe that marriage is natural, let alone easy, so that when marriages go sour, there’s shame all over everyone. Eighteen years is a long time.”
“Twenty we’ve been together in all.”
“That’s a long time, and marriages have to evolve or die. But as I said, I could see that he loved you, and his children, and his family as a whole. So, frankly, I wasn’t worried about that part of his life. Not from what I saw.”
“What did you see then?”
“His work. His work was killing him. That I could see.”
“Tha
t’s interesting, because that’s when the slide began. He worked very hard. Even among his writing colleagues he was admired for the quantity of work he got done, never missed a deadline.”
“But there was part of his soul that needed to generate a certain type of writing that he hadn’t done in many years,” I interrupted, “and this is what I urged him to pursue. This is what we talked about.
“When we were friends at Duke, and I should note that we dated during most of his freshman year until he broke things off. And we never dated again.” This was true, this was a fact I could offer. “When we were friends at Duke, throughout his time there, even after we’d broken up, I was his first reader. He gave me stories to read and we’d talk about them. It seemed he was most alive, most himself when he was excited about a story he was working on.
“He used to quote Blackmore, who noted that story is fundamental to our species, that we have to tell stories, that its importance in our lives is second only to food and water. And I believe this. No one lives in silence. We’re telling each other stories now, you and I. I came out to learn the story of what happened to my dear old friend. Our brains tell ourselves stories when we sleep, and we know from studies that people who are prevented from dreaming, they go crazy. Life is no longer viable. We’re a story-telling creature, and Em needed it so bad he made it his career. I just told him during the several hours we spent together that he should carve out a part of his time for writing what he cared about. I asked him to send me pages if he did.”
“Did he?” she asked. Her voice had become frosty now, almost angry, and for no reason I could figure.
“Did he send me pages? No, why?”
“Because he did start writing. He got up early and spent two hours daily.’”
“Wish he had sent them. I’d have happily read them.”
Collista leaned forward, took a big sip of coffee, set the mug down, curled her legs back under her, clasped her fingers in her lap, apparently growing more comfortable, but when I look back on it now, I’m wondering if it was calculated to put me at ease.
“So how did you guys meet?” she asked.
“I was a junior and assigned to his group of incoming freshmen.”
“I guess I mean how did you start dating?”
I paused, thinking back to the day. “He pursued me.”
“Oh?”
“It was actually kind of a funny story. I lived on the second floor of my dorm and his second night on campus he climbed a tree—”
I stopped immediately. While Collista didn’t actually move, her whole body tensed, and not just tensed, but rather looked like she’d been paralyzed by a current of electricity. I only noticed that the knuckles of her tanned, clasped fingers turned vivid white.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “this is more than you need to know.”
“Did you ever see him after that time at Duke last May? Please be honest.”
“The honest answer is no.”
She stared me down.
“Check his cell phone records, I have a 919 area code. I had zero contact whatsoever, by email or phone, let alone in person. I haven’t left Durham since spring break last March.”
“I believe you, but I had to ask.”
“Why?”
“Let me tell you what happened. It’s brief. I’ve already mentioned our renewed relationship and his writing. Well, the writing didn’t seem to last. He took on a project, a pilot for HBO. It’s a lot of money. Basically we can make our entire nut in the fall on a single project, and the rest is gravy. This has been how it’s worked out here for a while. And it’s been fine because, well, nothing ever came of them.
“Except this time,” she continued. “The show was picked up for production and he was obligated to write the first ten shows, and also be the show runner. At first, he was elated. We celebrated. Because finally he was going to have his own show, ‘created by,’ and if it was a success, really, really good money. But now that I think back on it that was kind of the beginning of the slide. So there could be something to what you’ve just said. It didn’t help that Peter was clearly distancing himself, as all teenagers must—Em adored Peter, and missed the young Peter terribly. And I thought this was part of his depression—a third man sustaining him in his life leaving him. Our daughter, Alex, well, she’s sixteen and wants to have as little to do with us as possible but in a much more cynical way that never really bothered him; he admired her independence, while I think he felt Peter’s a sad betrayal. I thought that contributed to it as well, because he loves them, desperately, but they are working at becoming who they will be without us.
“Our spats resumed but not badly, petty arguments. He told me he loved me every day. But the drinking got worse. So much so that I started keeping track. He told me he needed it to sleep. He’d get so wired from working that it was the only way to relax, that and two Valium every night. Well it got to the point where he was drinking, gosh, it must have been nearly a pint of bourbon a day, or night rather. He never drank during working hours.
“One morning I saw that his car was not in the garage next to mine but was in the driveway, partially blocking mine, carelessly parked. And so I asked him if he’d gone out last night after I’d gone to bed. He said he had, that he needed the fresh air, to clear his head, listen to music loud and drive. This is part of why I wanted you here, Grimsley. It occurred to me that he could be having an affair, that’s where he was going. After a whole summertime of love-making, that too became less frequent. He assured me he wasn’t drunk and that he’d been safe. It happened a few more times, that I was aware of, the music, old music, college music, Talking Heads, Grateful Dead, Neil Young, it would wake me up when he returned because he always listened to the end of the song in the driveway. He was obviously drunk when he’d stagger into the bedroom. And I could see how hungover he was the next day—so I guess an affair was physically unlikely. But he always got the work done, so what could I do? I couldn’t force him not to. He wasn’t a violent drunk, his personality didn’t change. He was meeting all his deadlines, helping out with the kids, driving or picking up our daughter when I couldn’t, making dinners.
“And then, well, then early on the morning after Halloween, last Monday, before dawn, I got the call.”
When she was done, she wasn’t looking at me. She hadn’t really been looking at me at all. I think she was just retelling the story that had been playing in her mind since the day of the accident, hoping to understand. I didn’t know whether to be angry at Emerson, at what sounded like pure selfishness—and, like I said, he was a world-class narcissist—and that kind of irresponsible behavior by a husband and father is just that, selfishness. But the sadness was bigger—I was just plain sad for all the loss, for everyone’s loss. Sad won out. Sad for his wife, sad for his kids, sad for me, sad for everything he left behind, sad for all that he’d never do.
She reached for Kleenex, dabbed her eyes with it, and blew her nose. The sight of her tears brought some to me. I took a deep breath, exhaled.
“He loved you,” I said.
“He may have loved you,” she said
“I know for a fact that’s not true.” No turning back from the first lie.
“How would you know?” she asked.
“Because I asked him.”
“What?”
“When we saw each other at Duke. I asked him. I had loved him, had been in love, he broke my heart, and I asked him if he had ever loved me. And he said—I remember it exactly, because he was customarily straightforward—he said, ‘If I’d have loved you, I’d never have let you go.’ He said it with a smile. He wouldn’t have lied.”
“That sounds like him, but I think you may be wrong. I think he may have been wrong. I think he may have cared about you more than you knew, or that even he knew.”
Oh, God. I knew what it was then. I knew exactly what it was and why she said this. I covered my mouth, sat erect with this new information.
Collista watched me. She knew I kn
ew, and so she spoke. “I’d like to send you what he was working on when he died.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be grateful to read it. Is there anything I need to know in advance?”
“No. Is there anything I need to know before you go?”
“Only my reassurance that we didn’t see each other after that day, had no communication whatever, if that’s what you’re looking to find.” If she’d read about our affair in a fictionalized form, it was important she know this at least was the truth.
“I’m looking to find an answer as to why my best friend and husband killed himself.”
“You’re not saying he did it on purpose, I hope.”
“It doesn’t matter—he did it to himself, whether intentionally or not, he did it. Drove fast and drunk dead center into a tree, shiny new BMW convertible, bought with the new influx of cash. And I mean dead center, as if aiming.”
“What about seatbelt, airbags?”
“Seatbelt was engaged but behind him, had always been like that. He hated having to put it on for a two-second drive to the Brentwood Plaza, so he just left it like that. The airbags weren’t enough. He was going too fast. The entire car was crushed. They had to cut the car to get him out. So you can see why I might have reason to believe—”
She began to tremble. I sat beside her.
“I don’t know what more to say,” was all I could offer.
“Well, if you have any insights after you read the pages—there aren’t many—I hope you’ll write to me. I need to know and am afraid I never will.”
“I promise.”
She turned to look at me, eyes now empty of suspicion, anger, even sadness, strangely empty. “I printed them out and read them and destroyed them, so I’ll have to email it to you. Do you have a card?”
“Actually, I don’t. But it’s my first name dot last name at Duke dot e-d-u.”
She stood, “In my state I’ll never remember.” She stood. “It’s still on his computer. Come.”
I followed her through the door I’d entered yesterday.
In Short Measures Page 13
