Without quite knowing how it happened, Tory found herself in the bathtub. The hot water stung her cold skin at first, and then felt wonderfully soothing. She soaked as long as she dared without being rude, and washed her hair. She toweled her hair dry, and pulled on clean jeans and a sweater and her usual sneakers. She eyed herself in the bathroom mirror, thinking of the photograph on her therapist’s license picture, her hair styled, her eyes done up with mascara and shadow, her lips tinged pink. She didn’t look anything like that now. Luckily, she had re-dyed her hair yesterday. No one could possibly recognize her, even if they’d studied her picture.
“I don’t have dress-up clothes,” she said to Iris as she emerged from the bedroom.
“You’re just fine,” Iris said.
“I can bring wine, at least.”
“Good. Always welcome.”
As if in a dream, as if none of it were her own doing, Tory got into Iris’s car, the bottle of wine in her lap. “I could drive—” she began, but Iris shook her head.
“I’ll bring you back,” she said. “Just for today—be my guest.”
Tory let her head fall back against the leather headrest, and watched the closed and shuttered houses drift past as Iris drove toward her house. She couldn’t think what she was doing here, in this white car, going to a Thanksgiving dinner as if it were a normal thing to do. Something quivered inside her, faintly calling her to step back into the world. To thaw, as she had thawed her icy skin in the bath. She quelled the impulse, pressing her lips together, turning her head as if there were something interesting beyond the passenger window.
She wasn’t at all surprised at the preparations she found underway at Iris’s house. Thanksgiving dinner was a great American constant, she supposed. A turkey was roasting in the oven under a tent of foil. The table glittered with crystal and silver and china, and tapered candles waited in their holders to be lighted. Pies rested on the lovely old sideboard she had noticed when she was here before. Potatoes were peeled and ready in a big pot of water. It was all very much like—too much like—her own home had always been on this holiday. Could she get through it? She would have to. Then, as soon as she could, she would make her escape, back into her haven of silence and solitude. And she would be very, very careful.
She said, “Can I help?” Another constant. Courtesy. A semblance of participation.
Iris waved a hand. “You could whip cream,” she said. “Or fill the water pitcher.”
“The table is—it’s lovely, Iris.”
“You’re not surprised?”
Startled, Tory laughed. “No! Surprised? Why would I be?”
“You sound a little surprised.”
“No, not at all. Everything here is lovely.”
Iris had shed her disreputable coat and hat, revealing a vividly printed red silk tunic and narrow black slacks underneath. She looked utterly different, sophisticated and elegant. She tied on a colorful apron before she went to the stove to turn on the gas under the potatoes. “You like things that are beautiful,” she said.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Oh, no.” The wry smile had begun to feel comfortable to Tory, another danger. “No, some people like things to be sharp, or cozy, or edgy . . . but you listen to classical music, and buy vintage china.”
“How do you know I listen to classical?” Tory asked warily.
“I hear it when I go by. Your radio, I think.”
“That’s right. There’s a good station out of Portland. I don’t have a CD player.” She wondered if listening to classical music set her apart too much, even if it wasn’t opera.
The potatoes began to boil, and Iris turned down the gas, then turned her attention to Tory again. “Paulette,” she said quietly. “I won’t pry, but it’s obvious something’s happened to you. You’re not the only one. A lot of us who stay here in the winter are like that—refugees.”
Tory couldn’t think of a safe way to answer. Her own face, unfamiliar with its shock of red hair, glimmered back at her from the shining surfaces of Iris’s kitchen. She looked away, to the bare branches of the trees in the garden. Refugee. It was a good word.
“Take me, for example,” Iris said. She started spooning flour into a cruet, adding water and seasoning, shaking it.
It was the way Tory always made gravy, and she watched, bemused by the simple, familiar process. Automatically, not really expecting an answer, she asked, “You?”
“Yes,” Iris said. She set the cruet down. “I told you I came here with my parents when I was a girl. But I married someone they disapproved of—with good reason, as it turned out—and we were estranged for the rest of their lives. My husband left me when they died. It looked as if I hadn’t inherited anything after all, and apparently that was what he was waiting for.”
“But you did inherit the cottage.”
Iris’s narrow lips twisted. “The cottage, and what there was of their estate. I lied to him. I’d figured it out by then. I knew he was no good, and that there was nothing to be salvaged of our marriage. I waited too long, of course, because my parents died before I could admit to them they’d been right all along. It was too late to make amends, and I’d lost contact with all my friends in Portland. I came here, and had to start all over.”
“I’m sorry.”
Iris shrugged. “Just telling you so you’ll understand. We all have a story.”
The implication, Tory feared, was that she should now share hers. She was relieved when the doorbell rang. The arrival of the other guests meant she didn’t have to respond to Iris’s gentle challenge.
Both of the others were men, gray-haired and quiet. They greeted Tory without curiosity, and she couldn’t help, from her professional perspective, but notice that Iris was right. These men were as much refugees as she was. She didn’t want to know what their secrets were. Perhaps she would never again be able to take on other people’s secrets, to help to carry their weight—or to be responsible for them. Perhaps she should never have done it in the first place.
They all drank from the bottle of pinot noir Tory had brought as they made casual conversation. Jazz played softly, masked by the clink of glassware and china and the occasional sizzle of cooking. They talked about the wine, about slow business in the wintertime, about the storm the night before. No one asked anything personal beyond the “When did you come to Cannon Beach?” sort of thing. When Iris called them to the table, everyone rose to help carry dishes, a cutting board, a pitcher of water.
The turkey was perfect, stuffed with apples and lemons and a bundle of fresh thyme. “You make this just the way—the way I do,” Tory said. The way Jack likes it.
“Oh, good,” Iris said easily. She lifted her wineglass in Tory’s direction. “We’re more alike than you think, Paulette.”
Tory hesitated, searching for a polite response, but one of the other guests chuckled. “No point in arguing,” he said. “If Iris says it, it’s true.”
Tory felt a flush creep over her face. Iris grinned.
Only later, after the other guests had left and she was helping with the dishwashing, did Tory have the courage to ask about it. She was a bit drunk on red wine and pumpkin pie with Grand Marnier–laced whipped cream, and more relaxed than she had been in weeks. “Iris,” she said, swabbing a pie plate with a sponge, “why did you say we’re alike?”
Iris was laying neat slices of white turkey meat into a casserole dish. She didn’t look up from her task. “I shouldn’t have said it.” Tory, watching her, saw one corner of her mouth twist.
“I don’t mind that you did,” Tory said. She rinsed the pie plate, and set it in the rack, careful of her wet fingers and the slippery glass. “But you don’t really know anything about me.”
“Well.” Iris shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
Tory turned back to the sink. She felt a bit confused, as if she didn’t know where the conversation had gone. She told herself to stop talking. Silence was safer.
Iris snapped a plastic cove
r over the casserole. “Some leftovers for you,” she said.
“Thanks. The dinner was delicious.”
“It was, wasn’t it? It’s so good to see people eat around my table—I love that.”
Tory had a brief flash of Jack at her table, tall and thin and always hungry. “I always did, too,” she said softly.
Iris paused, her hand flat on the covered casserole. “I’m a lot older than you, Paulette,” she said. “And I’ve learned it gets better. Whatever it is.”
Tory had said those same words to so many clients. The realization made her stomach contract. She gave a small, convulsive sigh, and reached for a dish towel. “I know, Iris.”
“But you can’t see it right now.”
Tory pleated the snowy dish towel between her fingers. “No,” she said. She felt suddenly dull and tired, her defenses down. “No, right now it seems pretty grim.”
Iris stacked the casserole with a plastic container of pie and one of cranberry sauce. “Do me a favor, will you, Paulette?”
Tory looked up, into Iris’s cool gray eyes. Iris gave her a half smile, and Tory read sorrow and understanding and kindness in it. “Just promise me,” Iris said. “That if it gets too bad—you’ll call.”
Tory couldn’t think, at first, just what Iris meant. That was foolish, of course, and she realized it a heartbeat later. When she had said those words to her most troubled clients, she had meant them—she had meant them with all her heart.
She dropped her eyes again to the towel in her hands. “It won’t get that bad,” she said, but she knew she sounded unconvincing. It wasn’t fair to Iris, who was trying so hard.
She put the towel down, and turned her face to Iris, hoping she would see the truth in her eyes. “You’re asking if I’m a suicide risk,” she said. “It’s very kind of you to be concerned, Iris. I appreciate it very much. I promise you, though, I’m not at risk for that. Please don’t worry.”
Iris watched her as she spoke, then nodded. “Excellent. Thank you.” She patted the stack of leftover containers with a brisk gesture. “It would be a tragic waste.”
Tory returned to the cottage laden with largesse. There were not only the leftovers, but a CD player Iris swore was going to waste in a back bedroom. “I only have jazz recordings,” she said, “but you’ll find what you want to listen to, right? Try the library sale.”
They carried the things into the house as the light waned over the big rock on the beach. Gulls cried their tritone song through the gathering dusk, and Tory, exhausted by the company and the day, dropped the leftovers on the kitchen counter with a sigh.
“I’m going,” Iris said. “I know you’re beat.”
Tory nodded. “I am. But it was a lovely day, Iris. Thank you so much.”
Iris set the CD player on the table. “You’re welcome. It’s good to be with friends.”
Friends. Tory wanted to think that through, to sense how dangerous it might be. The idea of having to leave Cannon Beach because someone might guess her secret made her so tired she could hardly stay on her feet. It was why, every time she went to a pay phone and tried to call someone in authority, terror that the call would be traced or someone might guess where she was made her voice shake. She had tried again, two days before. This time she had called the attorney general’s office in Vermont, but the result had been the same—disbelief, doubt, insistence on knowing her name. It had made her feel both helpless and invisible.
The lights in the cottage reflected in windows that were nearly black. She glanced at the clock on the radio, and saw that it was already five o’clock. Eight in Vermont, where Jack would be . . . what? Watching football with Chet, she hoped. Playing video games with Kate’s grandkids. Or maybe at a friend’s home, some friend who had a big, noisy family like the Garveys, two parents, kids roughhousing in the yard. But not alone, please god. Not alone.
She had a sudden, devastating image of that black revolver pointed at her son’s lean belly, and a spasm of fear made her heart clench.
She tried to thrust the image away, to gather herself so she could show Iris to the door. Somehow along the way she found herself sinking onto the sofa by the cold fireplace. She wrapped her arms around herself, saying shakily, “Sorry, Iris. I’m just so tired. And a little drunk, still, I think!”
“You’re not drunk,” Iris said firmly. She came into the living room, and sat on the armchair. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “You relaxed a bit today, and it all caught up with you.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s a tradition with me, the refugee dinner. Different people come in different years. Some I know well, some not so much. It’s not terribly personal, but it’s comforting.”
“It’s so kind of you,” Tory said. She couldn’t remember how much wine she’d had, but she probably shouldn’t have added sugar to the mix. She let her head drop back, and closed her eyes. The room spun a little when she did it.
“Well. No point in having a pretty house and nice things if you don’t share them.” Iris drew a breath, and Tory was sure that, now, she was going to rise from the chair, say her good nights, and go. She opened her eyes, anticipating this, but she found that Iris was looking at the family pictures she had bought at the antiques store. “Your folks?” Iris said.
With a quiver of shame at the deceit, Tory nodded. “Parents, grandparents.”
“Looks like a nice family. All gone now, I suppose. Like mine.”
“Yes.” It was probably true, Tory thought. Otherwise, why were their photographs for sale in an antiques store?
Iris didn’t seem to notice her reluctance to talk about them. She said, “Mind if I use the bathroom before I go?”
“No, of course not.” Tory closed her eyes again as Iris went through the bedroom and into the bathroom. The door closed, and water ran. Tory thought how strange it was to have someone else in the house, to hear the cozy noises of someone other than herself. She was just marveling at how much of her life she had spent in solitude when Iris returned. She walked with quicker steps now, her shoes scuffing the floor in a nervous rhythm. Tory opened her eyes.
Iris had Nonna Angela’s paperweight in her two hands. She held it out. “What’s this pretty thing?”
The sudden pain of premonition, piercing her chest from breastbone to spine, took Tory’s breath away. Her voice faltered. “It’s—a paperweight. My grandmother’s. She was a war bride, and she brought it from Italy.”
Iris cradled it in her palms. The gold butterfly in the sea-green glass caught the light as her thin fingers traced the silhouette. “Not the grandmother in that photograph,” she said. “That woman’s not Italian.” She wasn’t asking. It was a statement, and it felt to Tory like an accusation. That was the trouble with lies, as she had often advised her clients. It was hard to keep them straight.
She said shakily, “No, she was—my other grandmother.”
Iris set the paperweight on the table with care. “It’s probably fragile, as old as it is,” she said. “It reminds me of something, but I don’t know what.”
“Oh. Does it?”
“It seems familiar.” Iris shrugged. “Strange, isn’t it?” She thrust herself up from her chair, and was at the door in seconds, buttoning her jacket around her, pulling her cap down over her forehead. “Thanks for coming today, Paulette,” she said. “I’m going to check in on you tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
Tory said faintly, “Sure.”
Iris lifted a hand in farewell, and was out the door a moment later. Tory sat where she was, staring at the paperweight, for long moments before she finally rose and went to bed.
12
Chi son? Sono un poeta.
Che cosa faccio? Scrivo. E come vivo? Vivo!
Who am I? I’m a poet.
What do I do? I write. And how do I live? I live!
—Rodolfo, La Bohème, Act One
Doria set the breakfast things ready for the morning, then turned out the lights in the kitchen. She stepped ou
tside for a breath of fresh air, and paused to enjoy the light of a full white moon shining on the garden, glistening on the glossy leaves of the Judas tree and gleaming on the wrought iron and glass of the bow window. The crisp air of October was refreshing after the wilting heat of August and the humidity of September. Soon the Puccinis would be off to their apartment on Via Verdi in Milan, and she and Zita would be alone in a peaceful house, with nothing to do but begin preparations for Christmas. Zita, who was from Siena, would assemble the traditional seventeen ingredients for her famous panforte, and pretend to smack Doria’s hand as she snitched hazelnuts and candied apricots from the mixing bowl. She would haggle with the butcher over prices for turkey and leg of lamb. Doria would scour Villa Puccini from top to bottom, and there would be no one about to make it dirty again until the signori returned.
She took off her apron as she went back inside. Before going to bed, she took a last glance into the dining room to see that everything was ready for the morning. She noticed the glow of candlelight coming from the studio, but she heard no conversation and no music.
She peeked in. The electric lights were off, but the candles burned merrily in their brass sconces on the piano. The room was in shadow except for bars of moonlight reflecting from the lake onto the carpet.
Puccini was in his chair before the piano, but not touching the keys. He had just lighted a fresh cigarette, and blew a ring of smoke, tipping his head back to watch it rise and break against the sculpted moldings. When he dropped his chin, he saw Doria, and saluted her with two fingers to his forehead. “Not in bed, my little nurse?”
“I was just going, signore. I thought perhaps you had forgotten the candles—it was so quiet in here.”
“Sì,” he said heavily. “Too cursed quiet.” He tipped his chair back, and stared up at the ceiling again. “The music won’t come.”
“It will. You always say that, yet in the end, it comes.”
The Glass Butterfly Page 14
