Fog Heart

by Thomas Tessier

  ‘Hmmn. You don’t look like an Oliver.’

  ‘What do I look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. A Michael, maybe.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘My middle name.’

  She grinned. ‘Wow. Lucky guess.’ She parked her hip along the side of the car, as if she were thinking about hopping up to sit on the fender. ‘Oliver’s okay too, you know. It’s got kind of a roll to it.’

  ‘Well, I’m used to it.’

  ‘You ever been to India?’

  That caught him up short. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just curious. I want to go there some day.’

  ‘Why India?’

  ‘I don’t know, just to see it,’ she said. ‘I saw some movie on TV that took place in India and it looked kind of interesting. I mean, you hear the name of a city like Bombay, and you think it must be incredibly different. Exciting, exotic, dangerous. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Bombay. ‘Are you in school?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘So what do you do now?’

  A shrug. ‘Not much.’

  ‘Got a boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’ One slow shake of the head, looking away.

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’

  She had her hands on the fender, as if she were about to hop up on the car, but then she pushed off and skated in a tight loop that took her behind him and quickly back again. She braked next to him and leaned very close.

  ‘Gotta go. Nice talking to you, Oliver Michael.’

  She had lovely teeth and lips. He thought he caught a whiff of spearmint in her breath, and something else – Muguet de bois? He couldn’t make out her eyes. She was smiling.

  His face tingled. ‘You too.’

  She spun around. ‘Later,’ she called back, as she sped away down the sidewalk. He watched her in the side mirror. She went into a low crouch as she approached a sharp bend, and then rose as she sailed into it. The last he saw of her was a slender leg sticking straight out behind her as she whipped around the curve and out of sight.

  * * *

  Carrie didn’t say much about her meeting, but she seemed satisfied. She had been in there a little over an hour. They stopped for something to eat before driving back to New York.

  ‘How much did she charge you?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you really think you’ll get anything out of this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Just that. ‘Well, good.’ She was upbeat, positive. It was as good a time as any. ‘Carrie.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve got to pop back to Europe.’

  ‘When?’ The usual hint of resignation and disappointment in her voice.

  ‘Towards the end of the month.’

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Ten days or so.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘There are two auctions I’d love to attend, one right after the other. Kohler in Wiesbaden, they’ve got some Prussian covers and multiples that are staggering. And Craveri in Lugano, a Saar Occupation collection that sounds quite impressive.’

  ‘Have Ivy & Mader bid for you, like they usually do.’

  ‘I’d really like to see these items,’ he explained. ‘There won’t be any more major events until the summer’s over. Besides, I have to stop in Munich and finalize things with Marthe.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Listen, love. Wiesbaden’s boring but Lugano is lovely, and I’ll be there on a Thursday and Friday. Why don’t you come over and we’ll have a dirty weekend in the Italian Alps?’

  ‘Oh.’ Much brighter. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Good.’ If it meant putting Marthe off for a few more days, so be it. The bitch would wait for him. ‘Let’s do that.’

  Carrie nodded, but was quiet for a few moments.

  ‘Oliver.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m going to see this woman again and I’ll have to schedule it for when you’re here.’

  ‘Why? Just take the car,’ he said. ‘Or—’

  ‘Well, no,’ Carrie interrupted gently. ‘The thing of it is, she says that you have to be there too.’

  9

  He’d read it a hundred times, give or take a few. It was so important to him, had been for years. But exactly how many years was it? Ten, certainly. Fifteen, most likely. Twenty? No, not that far back. Well, maybe. That was about the time when he was just beginning to discover Dunsany, and the enchantment took firm root in Charley’s soul.

  It was a short story called ‘Where the Tides Ebb and Flow’. In it, a man has done something so terrible he is denied a proper burial on land or sea. He doesn’t know what his offence was, but he knows that he did it. His friends slay him and carry his body to the banks of the Thames in London. They put him in a shallow grave, so that the mud covers everything but his face.

  He must lie there and observe the desolate houses along that stretch of the river. The tides come and go. The County Council discovers him and tries to give him a Christian burial, but his friends dig him up again and return him to the shallow grave along the Thames, his face exposed to the world.

  Time after time, over the years, people attempt to bury him in the proper fashion, but his friends always dig him up and take him back to the edge of the river. Finally, he seems to achieve peace when a savage storm comes along, and scatters his bones far and wide among the isles down the estuary. But the tide gathers him up and returns him to his place in the mud.

  Centuries pass this way, and the city of London itself dies. The buildings around him crumble, and there’s nothing left to see but a few birds that sing to him. He only sinned against Man, it is not our quarrel, they say of him. He thinks he can see one of the gates of Paradise, and he weeps.

  So did Charley on more than one occasion when he reread the story, though always with the help of a suitable libation. The poor bastard never did find out what terrible thing he had done. And why were those men who punished him called his friends? But these were just the sort of little mysteries that Dunsany loved to create, and never explained.

  When was the first time he read it? Was it before Fiona died or after? The question seemed important, although Charley couldn’t say why. Couldn’t answer the chronological question either. He had certainly read Dunsany’s work before Fiona was born, but that story? Impossible to say.

  Was he supposed to dig up Fiona now? Unbury his only child for the purposes of some impossible dialogue? That woman, Oona, had been a startler. Not really a fully grown woman yet, more of an idiot-child. Either that or a bloody clever schemer. It was enough to make you want to lash out and strike back at any person who trifled with your heart like this.

  Let the dead lie sleeping in their graves.

  He pushed the book aside on his desk and heard Jan pottering about somewhere in the apartment. Literature ultimately lets you down. Life, too. Everything fails you, and that is probably why you ultimately fail yourself. Was that the sin?

  Oona. He wanted to think that she’d rigged the whole thing. Perhaps she had hired a detective to dig up the sorry details of his life. But why? It couldn’t be the money, he had very little of that – and what else was there?

  Afterwards he’d discussed it with Malcolm and Maggie, sopping up large quantities of Moselle as he related his meeting with the two young ladies of Westville. Maggie was all the more convinced that he was on to something and that Oona was authentic. Malcolm was intrigued, though still cautious and noncommittal.

  It was time for decisions, Charley knew. This was about his daughter, who was dead and buried in a mossy old churchyard in a small town in the far west of Ireland.

  When he considered it later, what had unsettled him so much was that Oona could only have been a small child herself at the time of Fiona’s death, two or three years old, and Rosalind not much older, not enough to make a difference. They could h
ave been in Scotland or Ireland and perhaps even have heard the news. But would it mean anything to them? Could they have retained the story and kept it in mind ever since? It was so unlikely.

  And their paths cross all these years later in Connecticut, where they somehow notice that Charley happens to be a visiting lecturer at Yale, and that he’s the father of the child who died long ago and far away? No, surely not.

  Charley picked up the telephone and hit the numbers. A ring and an immediate pick-up. At her desk.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Rosalind, or—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Charley O’Donnell.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ she said blandly. ‘I’m glad you called.’

  No doubt. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and exhaled, a sigh of distaste. To be doing this.

  ‘I’d like to fix a time.’

  ‘Of course. I was going to call you.’

  ‘Why?’ As if he didn’t know.

  ‘Two things. Oona wants you to know that when you come next time you must bring your wife with you.’

  Out of the question. ‘That’s not on,’ he told her.

  ‘Please think about it,’ Rosalind said. ‘I know it might be difficult and painful, but without your wife’s presence the whole thing would probably be pointless.’

  ‘Might be difficult and painful for her?’

  ‘Please think about it carefully.’

  ‘What was the other thing?’

  ‘Oona has received another image.’

  Oh, yes, as expected. They hadn’t heard from him, they were afraid he hadn’t taken the bait. Set the hook again, deeper.

  ‘What do you mean, an image?’

  ‘She’s sure it has to do with your daughter.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Everglo.’ A slight pause. ‘Everglo,’ Roz said again, as Charley’s vision skittered wildly out of focus. ‘Does that word mean anything to you?’

  * * *

  Let him be drunk for this, let him be good and stocious. It was the only sensible policy. It would blunt the force of Jan’s inevitable reaction, and it might also distract her an important little bit from the full force of his message.

  Well, it was a theory. Charley went to work on it, and when he was happily buzzed and no longer felt terrified at the idea of talking to Jan, he went looking for her.

  She was in the bedroom, propped up, watching the usual late-night talk-show rubbish. The paperback in her hand was as thick as a brick, and on the cover it showed one of your Spaniard-type chaps out of the Middle Ages. He was leering down the admirable cleavage of a dark-haired sloe-eyed buxom wench. Nice position to be in, Charley thought wistfully.

  ‘Jan.’ She looked at him. No expression. Good. ‘We have to talk, love.’

  She tapped the remote, turning off the television. A little too quick at it for it to be a good sign. Never mind. He eased himself down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. He rubbed it gently. Poor woman. Long-suffering. Norwegian stock. From the flat heartland of the country, like himself, but very much in the dolorous Irish tradition of womanhood.

  ‘I hate to even bring it up,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something’s happened. I think.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Concerned, a hint of anxiety, but still so eager to hear the worst. Women couldn’t wait to get to the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth part. He stroked her hand lovingly.

  ‘It’s about – first, let me explain something.’

  ‘It’s about Fiona.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I heard from her.’

  Oona? Rosalind? If they went behind his back and spoke to his poor wife, by God he’d murder the pair of them.

  ‘Heard from who?’

  ‘Fiona,’ Jan said flatly. ‘I’ve heard from Fiona.’

  Sentenced

  ‘I want the four of them together.’

  ‘Why?’ Roz asked absently.

  ‘Not the first time but at least once,’ Oona said. ‘Maybe the second session.’

  ‘Why bother doing them as a group at all, then?’

  ‘To see what it sparks. These four people are special, they seem to be connected in some way. I don’t know how or why yet, but they are. Put them all together, and it should stir up a lot of psychic motion. I want to try it.’

  Oona slid down in the tub until all of her was submerged in the hot water beneath a layer of fragrant bubbles, except for her face. The room was full of steam, and moisture trickled down the mirror. Roz sat on the floor beside her, back to her, with her head resting on a thick towel that cushioned the lip of the large old bathtub.

  The water felt so good, you could lose all awareness of your body in it and drift like a spirit. Almost. Water was, somehow, her destiny. Sooner or later. A foot of it in a bathtub was all she was allowed, after what had nearly happened last summer.

  How on earth had she lived so long? Lack of trying. If she really meant it, if she made a serious effort, the results would be different. But something kept her alive, and only part of it was herself. People. The people who drove her to despair also kept her tied to life.

  You don’t mean it, you know you don’t. You think you want to get away, but you’ll never let go. You have it too cushy, for one thing. Dying is hard, that’s another. If you need more, try this: the pain can be sweet. Enough said.

  ‘He’s going to get me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of those two,’ Oona said. ‘I’m not sure which yet, but one of them will do it.’

  ‘Must we discuss this?’ Roz asked with weariness. ‘You want every man who comes along to murder you.’

  ‘I’ll be right one of these days.’

  ‘You won’t because it’s not about them, it’s all about you. You may see things hidden or buried in other people’s lives, but you have a blind spot about yourself.’

  ‘You could be right.’ It was a thought.

  ‘I know I am.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘About me, as well. Thank God.’

  ‘Oh, I know things about you.’

  A laugh. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

  ‘If there was anything.’

  ‘You’re not my real sister.’

  ‘Oona. Look at my face some time, and then go take a peek in the mirror. Let me know the results.’

  ‘That might not mean anything.’

  ‘Where do you get such foolish ideas?’

  ‘The telly.’ They both laughed. Then: ‘He asked me, did I have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man. Spence.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I always tell the truth, you know that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Nothing. Just so you know.’

  ‘It’s not as if you ever wanted one.’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Not a boy, no.’

  They both laughed again, and Roz sat up to turn round. She used a fingertip to splash a couple of drops of water onto Oona’s face. Oona smiled but said nothing. Her eyes were shut, and her face was like an island floating in the suds and blue water.

  ‘So pretty,’ Roz said softly.

  ‘Just pretty?’

  Another splash, another smile. ‘You’re starting to get all waterlogged and rubbery. Time to get out.’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘It’s bad for your skin, love.’

  ‘Everything is. Light. Water. Heat. Cold.’

  ‘Not everything.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Roz slid a hand into the water and ran it lightly along the inside of Oona’s thigh. ‘Not everything.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Come again?’

  Oona could tell Roz was grinning. ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘First, the shaver.’

  ‘Again, already?’

  ‘Jus
t a touch.’

  Oona got up and stepped out of the tub. While the water was draining, she turned on the tap and quickly washed her hair. Roz towelled her down and applied a few smears of shaving cream. Oona sat on the edge of the tub with her legs wide apart and worked on her hair with a brush and dryer.

  ‘So pretty.’

  ‘Just pretty?’

  ‘Beautiful…’

  Oona smiled. ‘Which part of me do you mean?’

  ‘All of you.’

  Roz gave her a teasing lick. They went into the bedroom and Oona stretched out face down. Her hair was fluffy, though still moist in places, and it reached nearly to the base of her spine. Roz carefully moved it aside and rubbed Oona’s back and legs and arse with witch hazel. It evaporated quickly, but it had a very pleasant tingle and it cooled her skin. Roz followed it with a woodruff-scented herbal cream. Followed that with her tongue, in deeper but still-teasing exploration.

  Oona rolled over, hair across her face and tumbling over the edge of the bed. She let Roz make love to her. This is how the angels make love. It is pure and beautiful and should never end. If only it could be the two of them – far away from anywhere and anyone. A cottage in the Highlands, the distant north, and close to the sea. There would be a coastal village, very small, where they could get food and supplies, but they wouldn’t be a part of village life. People would be polite and friendly when they went to town but otherwise would leave them alone. Surely they could afford that now. A lot of money had come their way over the last couple of years, and all thanks to her.

  If they lived that far away from people, there could be no intrusions. Her mind and heart free of it all. It was a little like trying to imagine heaven. Why not? Why was she here in the crowded north-eastern corner of America? It was all wrong, it did her no good, never would.

  Because you can’t go back.

  She wasn’t sure she believed that any more. Besides, it must be better to die at home than in some foreign place.

  Roz worked her with tongue and lips and teeth, and Oona gave herself to it. Thought dissolved, a kind of release, and it was good, very good. But, as always, sex was a kind of parole that in due course would be revoked. The hazy glow faded and you found yourself back in the same old prison, body and soul. What was my sin? Where did I go wrong? But she knew, she knew.