“But what about your dog?” she asked.
“That's not a problem anymore. It'll just be me now.”
In that case—and she still sounded a little suspicious—Byron could move in anytime. Byron said he'd be there sometime Thursday. As soon as he got off the phone, he called up Greyhound and got the bus schedule out of New York City; he made a reservation on the 1:00 P.M. Tuesday.
In his room, he pulled down the white sheet he'd used to cover the bureau mirror. Fat lot of good it had done him; in the nearly two months he'd been at Arcadia, he'd managed to complete only one article. Then he gathered up his books and papers, putting the most essential into one box that he'd take along with him and the others into a larger carton that he'd take into town and mail to himself. He was carrying it down to the foyer when Peter popped up soundlessly behind him.
“Books?” he asked, and Byron jumped.
“Jesus,” he said, “where did you come from?” He dropped the carton by the front door. “Yes. I was going to ask Meg for the car keys so I could run these down to the post office and mail them.” He explained that he'd taken the apartment.
“Meg's busy in the boathouse,” Peter said, pulling out a set of keys. “But I'll take you in.”
Byron started to say it could wait, but Peter had already opened the door and headed for the car. Byron picked up the carton and followed. When they were almost to the main gates, his eyes involuntarily flicked toward the woods to the west.
“See something?” Peter said.
“No,” Byron replied. “Just a blue jay.”
“Lot of them around. All kinds of birds here.” He was trying to make conversation; Byron figured it was easier to go along with it than to sit like a mummy the whole way. By the time they got to the post office, they were even kidding around a little, as they'd once done all the time. Peter carried the box in balanced on his head and waited in line behind Byron like a native bearer. Outside again, Peter mentioned that since they were already in town, there was something he needed to pick up from Lazaroff. They went around the corner to the art shop.
Lazaroff was with a customer, an elderly woman looking for a photograph album. He gave Peter a raised eyebrow, as if to say “I'll be done with this as soon as I can” he looked surprised to see Byron.
“Is this something you're getting for Meg?” Byron asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Peter replied. “But it's gonna be a surprise. So don't mention we came here, okay?”
“My lips are sealed. What is it?”
Peter paused. “A surprise,” he said. “What kind of surprise would it be if I told you?”
“It's not supposed to surprise me,” Byron said with a laugh, then realized that Peter had no intention of telling him.
The woman gave up looking and left the store. Peter said, “Sorry. Did we blow the sale?”
“Nope. I've only got three photo albums in stock. There's probably some joint in the mall that's called Photo Albums R Us with twenty-five thousand different kinds. How d'you compete?”
Peter said, “I thought you might have that item I called about last night,” and Lazaroff said, “You bet. But it's in the back. You want to come and get it with me?”
“Yeah, I will. By, why don't you stay right here for a second? This'll only take a minute.”
Peter and Lazaroff disappeared into a room in the rear of the store. What the hell was it, Byron wondered. He could hear their muffled voices—it sounded as if they were trying to keep them low—and then Peter came out again, empty-handed.
“Not ready yet,” he said.
“But I thought Larry just said—”
“Not ready yet,” Lazaroff agreed, closing the door to the back.
But Byron had the distinct impression that a deal or transaction had in fact been made. He even had a pretty fair idea what it had all been about.
“Peter tells me you're leaving,” Lazaroff said. “Too bad you're going to miss the auction—it's worth sticking around for.”
“I'm sure it is,” Byron replied. “But I've got a lot to get started on out West.”
“ ‘Go West, young man, go West,’ “ Lazaroff declaimed. “Didn't somebody say that? Who said that?”
“Horace Greeley, for one.”
“Who?”
Byron repeated it. “He was a journalist, and a politician, in the 1800s.”
“I'll take your word for it.” The door to the shop opened again; a teenage boy skulked in. Lazaroff said, “I'll be right with ya, Andy,” then shook Byron's hand. “Good luck,” he said. “Peter, try me again in a few days.” He raised one hand, the palm turned toward them, as they left.
“Anything else you need to do in town?” Peter asked on the sidewalk outside.
“Get some cigarettes, I guess.”
“How about an ice cream cone, too? There's a Baskin-Robbins at the end of the block.”
“If you say so.” Peter clearly wanted to prolong their time together.
They bought the cigarettes, then the ice cream cones. They sat eating them on a shaded wooden bench set up outside the store. A woman walked by with a panting sheepdog on a long red leash. The dog made straight for Byron and his dripping ice cream cone.
“Perkins! Get back here!” She reeled the dog in, wrapping the leash around her wrist. “Excuse us,” she said. “Pistachio's his favorite flavor.”
When they'd gone, Peter said, “By—I haven't been able to figure out what to say to you about Dodger, except to say that I'm incredibly sorry. I still can't believe it. I am truly sorry.”
Byron dabbed away some ice cream that had run onto his hand. He wasn't sure what to say either. According to Meg, Nikos had tried to pass off the incident as the work of trespassers, while insinuating that no such thing would have happened if Fifi and Fritz had been free to patrol the grounds that night. What good did it do now to accuse Peter of anything—especially since anything he might have done was, Byron believed, beyond his control?
“Thanks,” Byron said simply. “I guess the whole thing will remain a mystery . . . How's your jaw?”
Peter rubbed it where he now had a two-day stubble; he'd decided to grow a beard. “Okay,” he said. “How's your solar plexus?”
“Okay.” Peter had already polished off his ice cream and was now nibbling away, in tiny eager bites, at the sugar cone; he reminded Byron of a rabbit going at a lettuce leaf.
“How many hours have they got you teaching out there?”
“Fourteen a week. Two sections of something called Introduction to the Classics and an upper-level course in Greek civilization.”
Peter whistled in amazement. “That's a lot of work.” A bumblebee wafted over his shoulder, then dropped onto his shirt. Byron whisked it away for him. “Any graduate courses?”
“I'll be assisting on one. Depends on who I get along with on the faculty.”
They talked a while longer about Byron's teaching schedule, the reputation of his fellow faculty members, the physical plant—as much as Byron knew of it—of Cumberland University. It was just shop talk, but this was the first time in ages they'd been able to pull it off. Byron stretched his legs out, across the hot sidewalk. Peter did the same, then groaned and fidgeted on the bench.
“Something wrong?”
“I don't know,” Peter said. “Maybe Caswell was right, and I'm wrecking my back by sitting at a desk too long.” He pulled at the knees of his khaki trousers.
“Those new?” Byron asked. He'd never seen these pants before; they looked as if they were at least two sizes too big.
Peter said he'd bought them the day before. “Nice and roomy. I can't stand tight-fitting clothes.”
“That's the first time I ever heard you make a pronouncement on fashion.”
“There's a first time for everything,” Peter said. “This summer's been a regular watershed.”
Byron sensed that Peter wanted to steer the conversation somewhere. He wiped his fingers with the Baskin-Robbins napkin and waited.
�
�Yes sir, a lot of changes this summer,” Peter observed with what Byron thought a feigned nonchalance. Peter rested his arms awkwardly on the back of the bench. “A lot of changes.”
“You mean inheriting Arcadia?” Byron prompted.
“Yes, that,” Peter agreed. “But other things, too. Ever since coming out here, I've felt like . . . a new man, sort of. For one thing, I don't care anymore about things I used to care about.”
“Like?”
“Like getting ahead. Finishing my dissertation. Being an upright citizen.” An unconvincing smile twitched at his lips; behind his dark sunglasses, he stared straight ahead, at the window of the ice cream store, sparkling in the bright afternoon sun. “All I want sometimes is to lie around in the shade, playing with that silly little flute Angelos made me, and sipping at a glass of Nikos's wine.”
“Sounds not bad to me,” Byron joked.
But Peter replied with surprising vehemence. “I'm not kidding. That's all I want to do now. I never get any work done here. I never even feel like it. I can't even have a normal dream anymore.”
“You can't sleep?”
“Oh, I can sleep all right. I could sleep around the clock if I felt like it. I can't dream the way I used to. When I wake up, I feel as if I've been in someone else's head.”
“Whose?”
“My own.” He shot a glance at Byron, then looked away again. “Isn't that the weirdest thing? But it's true. I'm starting to feel like I'm two people now.”
Byron wasn't surprised at all. It was sad as hell, and he wasn't sure how he could help him, but he wasn't surprised. “Have you talked about this with Meg?” he said.
“She's tried to talk about it with me. But, By, sometimes I'm afraid to even be around her. It's like she's calling me back to something, and I want to listen and I want to respond, but I just can't. Sometimes I'm afraid to be around her . . . for her sake.”
It chilled Byron to hear him admit it. “I think, for starters, you've got to cut out the coke.”
Peter flinched.
“Come on—it's obvious. Second, I think you've got to see a doctor. You are different these days; something is wrong.”
“But I don't even know any doctors out here,” Peter said lamely.
“One more reason for getting the hell out. And on the double. I'm no believer in haunted houses or any of that crap, but I'll tell you something—if ever there was one, Arcadia is it.”
“I can't leave.”
“Why not?”
“The auction, for one thing—it's only ten days away.”
“Screw the auction.”
“I promised I'd have it here. I can't back out now.”
“Back out.” Was he looking to Byron for justification? Byron would give it to him. Yes, he wanted Meg more than anything in the world, but he wanted her cleanly—not by deserting his best friend when the man had reached out to him, for the last time ever, desperately, for help.
“Peter, you don't owe anybody anything out here—not the Simons, the Caswells, Nikos, Angelos, Leah.” Was Leah part of what held him there? Byron had had his suspicions. “You owe it to yourself, and to Meg, to get out and get help while you still can. You can pack up tonight, just as I have, and be gone by tomorrow morning. Hell, you can drive me into New York on your way back to Mercer.” He laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed it encouragingly. But Peter, winced, and he let go.
“It's not that easy.”
“Why not?”
Peter shook his head, slowly. “Because I belong here. You don't. Neither does Meg.” He drew in his legs. “You know, if anything should happen to me—”
“Nothing's going to happen,” Byron interrupted.
“If anything should happen,” Peter repeated, patiently but firmly, “I'd like to know that you'd look after Meg.”
There was a long pause.
“Forget anything I might have done or said up to now,” Peter continued. “And I can't answer for anything I might say an hour from now. What I'm telling you here, at this second, I mean. This is me talking, Peter Constantine.”
He turned full face to Byron, his curly black hair and scruffy new beard nearly obscuring his features, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses. But in his voice, Byron heard a pleading and a profound sorrow.
“Okay?” he said, and a fat, furry yellow jacket suddenly plopped onto the ice cream wrapper in his lap.
Thirty-four
THERE IT IS again,” Mrs. Constantine said, swiveling on the stool and looking around. “That little pinging sound—what is that?”
Meg laughed and brushed the hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand. “You're not hearing things. It's the pieces I just took out of the kiln, cooling. That's the sound they make when they're exposed to the air.”
“It's just like someone clicking a nail against a wineglass—I thought I was hearing things.”
Meg tightened the grip of the vise holding the pedestal, then, with both hands, twisted the stiff black wire up and outward. When she had it in the position she wanted, she held it there and squeezed as hard as she could.
“My goodness—that looks like it hurts.”
Meg let out her breath and released the wire. “It does, a little. The armature's always the worst part.”
“What will this one be?”
Meg paused; she hadn't yet told anyone what she was planning to do. “Well . . . Anita Simon had asked if I could do something for the auction that was related to wildlife somehow. I've never done anything like that before. But this will be my first, and possibly last, attempt.”
“But what of? Is it going to be a bird of some sort?”
“No,” Meg said, studying the stark black skeleton of bent wires and wood, trying to imagine the clay, the shape, that would enclose it. “With any luck, it's going to be a model of Diogenes, the way I'll always remember him—bounding up, with two paws off the ground, to give you one of his wet hellos.”
“And you're not going to send it to Byron when it's done?”
“I don't think so,” said Meg, “though I have considered it. But if it turns out badly I'll be too embarrassed, and if it turns out well, it'll only depress him to have it around. All in all, I think I might as well just do it, get it out of my system, and hope that somebody makes a bid for it at the auction.”
“Have you heard anything from Byron?” Mrs. Constantine asked. “That was so awful, what happened.”
“Yes, a phone call,” Meg said softly. “He says his apartment out there is twice the size of his old one in Mercer.” He'd actually said it was big enough for two, and that Cumberland University listed a ceramics course in its fall catalogue. On the way to the train station, he had even told her what Peter had said to him in town.
“I think he wanted me to tell you,” he'd added as they waited for the train to New York. “He wanted you to know what he can't confess to you himself—that you might be in danger, that he can't answer for what he does anymore. That you have permission—his permission—to act in your own best interest now.”
Which is why she had to stay on, Meg had tried to explain. She had to see this thing through; if she didn't, she'd never forgive herself or let herself forget it. And she couldn't be sure that some of that anger and regret wouldn't get directed at Byron before too long. It wasn't something she liked about herself, but it wasn't something she could absolutely control . . . any more than Peter could control some of his own bizarre behavior of late.
“Do you think he and Peter will ever be friends again?” Mrs. Constantine asked.
“I think they're friends now. But I doubt their paths are likely to cross much anymore. The chances of Peter landing a job at Cumberland University too are pretty remote.”
“As I understand it, his prospects of landing a job anywhere won't be very good until he finishes his dissertation. I don't know much about these things, but it does seem to be taking him an awfully long time. I'd hoped that if coming to this place could accomplish one thing—anythi
ng—it would be that—that he'd find all the time and peace and quiet he needed to finish it up at last.”
Meg, without looking up from her work, said that he did spend a fair amount of time locked in his study. Mrs. Constantine agreed, but said that he also seemed to spend a fair amount of time at Jack Caswell's, or the Simons’, or wherever else it was he disappeared to. “It can't all be about this auction business,” Mrs. Constantine observed. “D-day didn't require this much planning.”
Meg smiled, snipped a length of wire from the spool. “Right now I'm just counting down the days till it's over. Once it's done, I can make a concerted push to move back to Mercer a few weeks before the fall term begins.”
Mrs. Constantine, seeing an opportunity, said, “I thought, until then, and with Byron gone, you might be able to use a little help, and moral support. I spoke to Ben Kurtz, my employer, yesterday—and if you'd like, I can stay another week.”
“Oh . . . yes,” Meg said, “that would be great.” She'd been wondering what she'd do without a single ally from the outside world—which is how she thought of every place beyond the gates of Arcadia—to talk to, have breakfast with, confide in if necessary. “Please stay as long as you can stand it here.” They both laughed. “I need all the help I can get.”
“I only wish I could help you with that,” Mrs. Constantine said as Meg tried to wrestle another piece of wire into submission.
“This I'm doing to myself. If I had any guts, I'd just tell Anita Simon to go jump in the lake.”
“Let me know if you decide to—I'd like to see the splash.”
And they laughed again, mostly at the relief they found in laughing at all. The sound of their voices filled the boathouse and was answered by a sudden chorus of pinging from the cooling pots and vases near the door. The loose canvas Meg had flung over the two figurines she'd made, tucked away on the bottom shelf, rippled, almost imperceptibly, in a draft that must have blown along the floor.
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