“I always liked younger women,” he said. “I’m eighty-two.”
He kissed her again and she felt a jolt, as if this was something she had been waiting for and she hadn’t even known it. He sat up and took off his shirt, and then his pants, letting them fall to the floor. She saw him suck in his belly, the same way she was holding in hers, and it made her like him more. His hands were shaking, and she reached over and kissed his palms. “I don’t know if all my parts are in working order still,” she said.
“I don’t know about mine, either,” he said.
He lowered himself over her and gently kissed her shoulder, the curve of her neck, the hollow behind her knee. “Is this all right?” he kept asking, as if he needed permission. His breathing grew ragged. He wasn’t fully hard, but she guided him into her. His eyes were open. He was looking at her, searching her face. He cares about me already, she thought, as if she were a young girl. She started to cry, and he pulled away, alarmed. “I’ll stop,” he said.
“No, no, please—” She had never felt so bold, so wanted. She moved so he was deeper inside her. She felt her whole body blazing like Christmas lights.
AFTERWARD SHE LAY against him, unable to speak. When she looked at him, his eyes were damp with tears. “Are you all right?” she asked, alarmed. “Did I do something wrong?”
He kissed her nose, the tip of her chin. “Sleep,” he said, facing her, pulling her closer.
WHEN SHE WOKE, the light was streaming into the bedroom. For a moment she forgot where she was, and then she turned around and Joe was there and he was smiling. “Come on. Let’s cause a scandal and go to breakfast together,” he said.
She got up, wrapping the sheet around her, and padded into the bathroom. She studied her face in the mirror. The puppet lines around her mouth seemed to have softened. Her lips looked fuller, richer, as if they didn’t need the color she always painted on every morning. Love. What it did to a person.
They walked downstairs together, and when they got to the dining room, he took her hand, and she saw the other residents looking at them, felt their hot stares. Let her give them something to talk about. She kissed him right at breakfast, over the soggy French toast, which had never tasted more delicious.
After that, they had a routine. Mornings were the hardest times for her because she would wake and for a minute she wouldn’t understand why she wasn’t in her home, why she was in this apartment, and then it would come back to her. Lucy dead. Charlotte getting over the flu in Pennsylvania. Iris was so old she didn’t recognize herself anymore. But before she sank under the covers in despair, there would be a knock on her door, and she would hear his voice, like a lasso. “Good morning, honey,” he’d say, when she let him in, and she would throw her arms around him in gratitude. He escorted her to breakfast, and then they would see whatever movie the place was showing, and Iris never paid attention because she was simply basking in having Joe beside her, the feeling of her hand in his. Sometimes, if it was a nice day, they’d walk outside, around the perimeter of the building. Evenings, she cooked him dinner, and they sat on her couch and talked or read, her feet in his lap. And nights. Oh, the nights. She shivered just thinking of them.
The only time it was hard for her was when his family came to visit on Sundays. It was difficult enough to see the complex filled with family, but because it was Joe’s family, it made it more personal to her. But she still couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Lucy, to let him know just how much she had failed her daughter.
Three handsome grown-up sons and their wives and kids came to be with Joe for the day. Their faces lit up when they saw him. This wasn’t just a visit that they had to make. They loved him. As soon as she saw that abundance, she felt nothing but loss. She wanted to have Lucy there flinging her arms around her, the way Joe’s grandson was with Joe. She wanted to clap her hands to her ears so she wouldn’t hear Joe asking his granddaughter Pearl about her art classes, wanting to know how she liked using the oil paints he had bought her compared with watercolors. Iris watched the way his grandchildren ran to him, all of them in big wide bell-bottoms, the girls in puckered tube tops and those noisy, uncomfortable-looking clogs, and the way he held on to them with delight. It all made Iris’s heart ache with longing. Lucy would never have children.
Joe’s family warmed to her, including her in their chitchat, talking about Tricky Dick Nixon, and the best restaurants in Boston, and that new food, sushi, and how the heck you were supposed to eat it, because it wouldn’t stay on your fork and it was too big for chopsticks, and why the Red Sox were the best team in the United States.
One day they all insisted that Iris accompany them to Legal Sea Foods for dinner. Joe beamed at her, and all those faces turned to her like sunflowers. “That’s so kind, but I’ll let you have this time to yourselves,” Iris said, because all she wanted to do was go back to her apartment and shut the door.
“Don’t be silly,” Joe’s son told her. “You’re important to Dad, you’re important to us.”
Iris looked at Joe. How lucky he was to have this fine, beautiful family, but if she went to dinner, she’d take Lucy with her. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything anyone was saying, because all her energy would be going into hiding her misery. Plus, what if they started asking her questions and they found out that she was the mother of the murdered girl they had surely heard about? Then Joe would know she’d been hiding this from him.
“I think I’ll bow out of dinner, too, then,” Joe said, but Iris touched his elbow. She didn’t want him giving up a minute of his family for her. She knew how quickly it could be taken away from you.
“You go,” she urged. “I have some leftover chicken that’ll go bad if I don’t eat it tonight. I’ll see you later.”
She practically pushed him out the door. His face crumpled, but if she dared to speak, she knew she’d cry, so she just waved him away. As they left, one of his sons took Joe’s arm, and she felt suddenly sick, because that’s what Lucy had always done in the winter when Iris was in danger of slipping on the ice.
While he was gone, she restlessly moved through the apartment complex, crying. How could Lucy be dead while Iris was still alive? How did that make any kind of sense? Suddenly none of her life felt true. Not this apartment instead of her house. Not a young girl senselessly murdered.
She couldn’t sit still, so she went down to the piano and she began to practice the piece Joe had taught her, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Her fingers stroked the keys, but the notes sounded sour, the melody listless. A few people came to listen. “Not ready for Carnegie Hall yet,” someone said, and Iris stopped playing. She got up and went to her room to wait for him.
It was ten when he came to her room. “What was that about, Iris?” he said quietly. “You don’t like my family? You don’t want to know them?” His mouth twitched but she couldn’t tell whether he was angry.
She felt the punch of tears welling up again and shook her head. “That’s not it,” she said. He came and sat beside her, his mouth a line. “Then maybe you should tell me,” he said.
What would he do if she told him? Would he be disappointed that she had lied? Would he be shocked? And didn’t she have to take that chance? If she said nothing, he’d pull away from her.
“My other daughter was recently murdered. She was seventeen,” she said finally.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, but he moved closer to her, and then she told him the whole story, and when she was finished, he had both arms around her, as if he were keeping her from flying away from him.
“I’m here,” he told her. She felt as if she had no more tears, but Joe was holding tight to her. He was like a door opening, showing her some light, and all she had to do was push it open a little more.
“Then I guess I’m here, too,” she said, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
THE WEATHER GOT hotter, and then it was mid-August and Charlotte was coming home. Iris had worried so much when Charlotte was sick, and she still wonder
ed about that young man who had called to tell her, but when she had asked Charlotte the last time they spoke on the phone, Charlotte had glossed over it. “He owned the hotel where I stayed,” Charlotte said.
Well, Charlotte would be here this Friday night, when most people visited, and Iris had so much to tell her. And she wanted Joe to be there with her when she did.
A half hour later, Charlotte knocked on the door. “Oh, honey,” Iris said, folding Charlotte into her arms. “I’m so glad to see you. So glad you’re home.” She stepped back. “Are you all right? It feels like you’ve been gone so long.” She smoothed Charlotte’s hair from her eyes. She saw Charlotte staring at Joe.
“This is Joe,” Iris said. “You probably saw him before.”
“Her boyfriend,” Joe said.
Charlotte started. “What?” she said.
Joe beamed at Iris. “Your mother’s like sunshine. I’ve never met anyone with such a joy of life. And I’m so happy to meet you.” He held out his hand and she took it for a moment.
He got up and headed for the door. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. Iris, I’ll see you later. Charlotte, it was a delight to meet you. I hope we can all have dinner together soon so I can get to know you better.” He bent and kissed Iris good-bye.
After he left, Iris bustled in the kitchen, putting away the low-fat crackers Charlotte had brought her, the tins of tuna.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Iris said. “I’m too old. He’s too old. It took me by surprise, too.” Iris turned, a package of cheese in one hand, and looked at Charlotte. “He takes care of me,” Iris said quietly. “We take care of each other. ”
“Well, then, that’s good.” Charlotte moved as if she were dazed. She opened the refrigerator to put food away and saw that it was stuffed with juices and cheese and produce. “Where did this come from?”
“We walk to the supermarket. We plan meals together.”
Charlotte shut the door and leaned against the counter. “No wonder you never picked up your phone.”
“I’m just learning to live,” Iris said.
“Do you want to hear about Pennsylvania?” Charlotte asked.
“Sit. Talk to me.”
Charlotte told Iris about visiting all of Lucy’s old haunts, about meeting the rude lady who lived in Lucy’s old house. “I couldn’t find out anything new,” she said, and then she began to cry.
Iris put both arms around her. “There’s nothing else we can do. Don’t go down there again.” She smoothed Charlotte’s hair. She felt the weight of her girl against her, the way Charlotte burrowed her head against Iris’s shoulder as she had when she was little. Iris let her rest there, and when Charlotte finally pulled away, Iris wanted her back.
“All of this—” Charlotte said, wiping away tears. “Are you sorry you ever took us in?”
“Never. Not for one moment.”
“Why did you? Did no one else want us?”
Charlotte was an adult now, Iris thought, a young woman. Didn’t she deserve the truth, the way Joe did?
“Because I had to,” Iris said. She saw the flash of hurt and anger in Charlotte’s face. It would be so easy to brush it away, but she couldn’t stop herself now.
“Why did you have to?” Charlotte asked, her voice flattening.
“Because—because we shared a father.”
“What?” Charlotte’s forehead bunched. She looked at Iris as if she didn’t know her.
“Your father. He was my father, too.”
“That’s insane. How could that even be possible?”
“He had all these different wives after my mother, each one younger than the rest.”
“Don’t you think I would have known that? He never mentioned any other kids.”
Iris flinched. “He was my dad, the same as he was yours,” Iris said. “Except he left my family when I was little. He never wrote. He never called. He never sent money. He erased us. The last I heard of him was when he and your mother died. I never told anyone. It was too hurtful, and I certainly never wanted to tell you or Lucy. You were both so little. You both loved your parents. You were grieving. How could I tell you and spoil what love you had for him? Why shouldn’t you continue to love your father, to think of him only in a good way?”
Charlotte’s hand flew to her face. “We’re half sisters? You and me?”
“We’re blood,” Iris said. “Does it change things for you? I bet it does.”
Charlotte frowned. “Of course it does. You lied to me. For all these years. You lied to Lucy. What else are you lying about?”
Iris tried to touch Charlotte, but Charlotte jerked away from her.
“That’s the only thing I’ve lied about. I’m so sorry. I should never have opened my mouth about this—”
But Charlotte was already gathering her things and heading for the door. She let it slam behind her.
IRIS SAT DOWN. So this is what can happen when you tell the truth, she thought. Joe had been so warm, so understanding, she had thought that Charlotte might be, too. Instead Iris had made things worse. All these years she had thought she was protecting the girls, and now she realized she had just been protecting herself, because here it was, that hot shame flowing over her, that terrible secret: My father didn’t want me. Was that what it was all about, raising those girls, getting them to love her the way their father had not? Needing to be the parent she herself had always yearned for?
She told herself she’d give Charlotte time. She’d call her later, explain. She’d talk to Joe about it and see what he suggested. But an hour passed and then another, and finally Iris turned on the TV and stared at whatever was on, unable to concentrate. Just before dinner, she heard a knock on the door, and when she opened it, there was Charlotte. It looked as if she had been crying, because the little red birthmark on her face had appeared again. Iris opened her mouth, though she had no idea what to say, how to make this right, but Charlotte held up one hand. “Let me talk,” she said.
Iris waited.
“I thought about it—all of it,” Charlotte said. “I walked around and around, being angry, feeling cheated, and then I realized that I wasn’t cheated at all. That I had a wonderful childhood. And that it doesn’t matter what you call yourself. I don’t care. I just know that you’re my person, my family, my mother.” And she stepped forward and sank into Iris’s arms.
Chapter 25
That night, in her sublet, Charlotte cried. She realized how much it must have cost Iris to keep that secret, how terrible it was to have had a father who didn’t want you. She cried, too, because Lucy would never know that Iris was her half sister, that Iris was in love. And she cried for Patrick, the way he had dismissed her.
She sobbed until the knot in her chest loosened and then she turned on the TV. There in the news were the Manson girls, the same ones Lucy wrote that she had been obsessed with. The girls camped outside the courtroom. They held hands and sang songs Charlie had written. “We’re waiting for our father to be set free,” they told reporters. “The girls worshipped him, just would die to do anything for him,” Linda Kasabian said on trial. She switched the channel, and there was a protest at another university, a building blown up in Madison, killing a physics researcher. She turned the set off.
The next morning, Charlotte felt hungover from crying. She really knew who she was now. She knew who Iris was. But instead of feeling cheated, she felt a new clarity, as if the revelation of one truth could bring about more truth.
She had been about to give up her search for answers, but now she felt wired. She went outside into the steamy August heat and got into the car and drove to Diana’s block. When she stopped at Diana’s house, she saw that the curtains were drawn. There was no car in the drive. Without thinking, she got out. Her sneakers sank in the spongy grass lining the sidewalk.
She peered through the window, but the house was dark. She rang the bell, her heart pounding, but no one answered. As she turned to leave, she noticed the mailbox, open, stuffed with mai
l. Charlotte looked around the empty street and then back at the house, and then carefully, quietly, she slid out the mail. Bills, junk mail for a National Cheese Festival, and then a postcard, a beach scene that said WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA. The postmark was smeared, but it looked as if it was from Dennisport on the Cape. She turned it over, and there, like a shock, was William’s handwriting—she recognized the slashed crossed t’s, the big loops, from his scrawling across the papers she’d written, which he’d never quite liked enough. Think harder, he always wrote to her. On the postcard it said: Will try to see you soon. Much love. There was no signature.
The postcard was shaking, and then she realized it was the tremble of her hands, and she tightened her grip. Iris had lied out of love, and maybe Diana had, too. She pocketed the card and got into her car.
AT HOME, SHE called the Pennsylvania police, but the officer she spoke to was uninterested. “This is no proof of anything. Anyone could have written this.”
“I recognize his handwriting.”
The cop sighed. “You know it’s a federal offense to go through other people’s mail, don’t you?” he said, and Charlotte knew he’d be no help.
“Thanks for your time,” she said.
She had the name of a town. She got her old yearbook, hidden at the back of a shelf, and opened it to the teacher section. As soon as she saw him—the overly serious face as if he really cared about his students, his hair falling into his collar—she wanted to rip the photo in shreds, but instead she carefully tore it out and put it in her wallet.
ON THE DRIVE, she veered back and forth between thinking this was a great idea and thinking it was a stupid waste of time. The cop was right. She couldn’t be sure the card was from William, and even if it was, how did she really know he was in Dennisport? He could have mailed the card from Wyoming to a friend in Dennisport who mailed it to Diana. And Dennisport wasn’t exactly a tiny town. He could vanish into it. Or he could already have gone, moved on, to some other place. To some other girl.
She needed to focus before school started up again, to line up a tutor. She had two more weeks of work left, and she had to do a stellar job in order to get Dr. Bronstein’s recommendation so she’d get a grade. She had never let things go like this, never muddied her plan for the future. She wanted to get back on track, she did, but at the same time she thought, what good was it to think ahead anymore? You could plan all you wanted, but the world cracked open around you and it was all you could do to remember to breathe.
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