An Act of Love

by Nancy Thayer

  Linda shoved back her chair and rose. “I’ve got to get back to work. Take your time with your coffee.”

  Celeste reached out her hand. “Don’t go. Let’s talk a bit, please. You must know I’m concerned. I want to help.” She grabbed Linda’s wrist. “Linda, please. You’re going to ruin Bruce’s life with this insane accusation.”

  So angry that she could not trust herself to speak in a voice that did not shake with rage, Linda shook her hand free and left the room.

  She assumed Celeste would leave then, and she waited at the top of the stairs to hear the kitchen door slam, but the sound did not come for a long time. Celeste was enjoying her moment of triumph.

  When, fifteen minutes later, the door did slam, Linda hurried to look out the window. She watched Celeste climb into her old truck and drive away. Then she dialed Janet’s number, and as she dialed, she began to sob. With relief, because it would be such consolation at last to confide in her old best friend. With grief, because Owen had confided in Celeste.

  An answering machine clicked on with a recorded message. Janet wasn’t home.

  Owen didn’t return until almost ten o’clock.

  She was pacing the kitchen and when he entered, she could not wait for him to take off his coat.

  “Celeste was here. You told her about Emily.”

  Owen stared at her. “Don’t you want to know how the interview went?”

  “No!” She was shouting. She meant to shout. “Because, you know what, I don’t care how the interview went! That doesn’t matter to me nearly as much as the fact that you went to another woman’s house for comfort.”

  “I didn’t go there for comfort, Linda.”

  “She told me you cried, Owen. You cried.”

  “I need a drink.” He moved past her through the kitchen, dropping his coat and gloves on a chair, taking down a glass and the bottle of Scotch.

  “Owen, you betrayed me.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

  “Melodramatic! You made me promise not to tell Janet about the most crucial incident in our entire lives, and then you told Celeste!”

  “Well, come on, be honest. Didn’t you tell Janet?”

  “Of course not! Not when I promised you I wouldn’t!”

  Owen slugged back his drink. “Then I apologize. I was certain you would tell her. You tell her everything.”

  “I do not tell her everything. And I don’t break my promises to you. I’m amazed that you believe that I do, that you think I take my vows to you so lightly.”

  “Fine. You can tell her now.”

  “That’s not the point! The point is that you lied to me! You sneaked off and shared our personal family matters with Celeste!”

  Owen sighed and sank into a chair. “I did not ‘sneak off.’ I didn’t go over there with the intention of telling her. It just came out.” He looked at Linda. “And frankly, I’m glad I did talk it over with her. I need an ally, Linda, you’ve got to admit that.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “You’ve got Dr. Travis. You’ve got Dr. Travis, who believes Bruce’s guilty. Now I have Celeste, who believes—and very strongly, I might add—that Bruce is innocent.”

  “Oh, I see,” Linda snapped, “so we’re going to line people up and take a vote?”

  Owen rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know how we’re going to resolve this, Linda. I wish to God I did.”

  Her anger was real and justified, but suddenly Linda understood how it also served as a screen, a wall of furious energy, protecting her from the pure pain around her. She sank into a chair across from her husband.

  “How did the interview go?”

  Owen looked away from her. “I don’t think it’s the right place for him.”

  “You’re back later than I expected. I’ve got your dinner ready. I can heat it up in the microwave.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve eaten. I took Bruce out to dinner tonight. I wanted to spend some time with him. Emily’s accusation … has him rattled. He’s pretty upset.”

  Linda studied her husband’s face. Owen looked ill. “Did he say anything?”

  “Not about Emily.”

  “About …”

  “He’s just nervous about college acceptances, that’s all.”

  “Did something happen?”

  Owen hesitated.

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t. Not while you’re so down on him.”

  “Owen, I’m not …” But she let the words disappear unspoken. She was down on Bruce. She said, “We’re really at war, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … war … that seems a little strong.”

  “We’re on different sides. We have to be. We have to admit it. We’re drawing lines. Keeping secrets. Distrusting each other.”

  “And you’re going to leave me for Christmas.”

  “I’m going to spend Christmas with my daughter. But we have to face the facts. Emily never wants to live here again. What does that mean for you and me?”

  “Can Dr. Travis give us any idea how long Emily can keep this up? So we can have a kind of time frame to work with?”

  “Wait a minute. I could ask how long do you think Bruce can keep up his lie.” Before Owen could respond, she continued. “You know what I think? I think Bruce will be able to keep up his lie forever, because he’s not losing anything. He’s not going to lose a house, a home, a bedroom, neighbors, horses, all that is familiar to him, all that is home. Emily on the other hand is losing all of that. No, let me correct myself: she already has lost all of that. Your son has taken it from her, along with her sense of self-worth, and her ability to respond to men, and her—”

  “Jesus Christ, Linda, get off the boy’s back!” Owen rose and paced away from the table toward his study door. “I am sick of you riding the kid all the time. You’re wearing him down. You’re wearing me down. I’d like to remind you that he’s innocent until he’s proven guilty, and there is no fucking way in the world to prove that he’s guilty, and I don’t see why you don’t understand that! Accept it! Tell Emily to get on with her life! I’m sorry she’s got emotional problems, but I’m furious that she’s playing this ridiculous game.”

  “Owen, it’s not—”

  “Let me finish. Just let me finish. You’re angry that I told Celeste, but let me tell you, I’m glad I told her. I wish I’d told her earlier. Do you know what she said? Immediately? At once? She said, ‘Bruce didn’t rape Emily.’ Just like that. Without a doubt. Without a second’s hesitation. She believes in Bruce. Totally. Absolutely. Now who the hell do you think I want to confide in? You? You’re his enemy. You and Emily are savaging his life, forcing him to live like a hunted animal! You’re trying to ruin his life! If so much as a hint of this rape accusation gets out, he’ll be stuck with that for the rest of his life. His friends will drop him. Colleges won’t accept him. Girls won’t date him. He’ll be a pariah. And I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you and Emily break him.”

  With slams of his fist on the table, Owen emphasized his final words.

  When he’d finished, it was very quiet in the room.

  Linda said, “I’m leaving.” She rose and walked out of the kitchen.

  After a few moments, Owen followed. She was in her bedroom, packing a bag. Nightgown. Robe. Underwear. He watched her. She didn’t speak. She pushed past him and went into the bathroom to collect her toiletries. Then she went into her study and began to gather her papers. She unplugged her computer and disconnected its various cables and cords.

  “Linda.”

  “Could you carry the computer down for me? Put it in the trunk?”

  “Don’t do this.”

  She went back to the bedroom, lifted another suitcase from the top of the closet, and began to fill it with sweaters, jeans, socks.

  “Linda, it’s late.”

  “I’ll stay at the Academy Inn tonight. Tomorrow I’ll look for an apartment in Basingstoke. So I can be near Emily.”

  “
Linda—”

  Suddenly she stopped, and turned, and stared at him directly, her face taut with emotion. “Yes?”

  What could he say to change things? To make things better?

  “I’ll get the computer.” He turned and left the room.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  On December eighteenth Emily waited by the psych ward doors with a pounding heart. Jorge had called every night for the past week and then he said he wanted to visit her before he left for Christmas break. She’d said: Sure, that would be nice. It had been fairly easy to say that on the telephone, where they couldn’t see each other, where he was just an idea, a voice she could easily disconnect. She hadn’t realized she would be so nervous when the day finally arrived.

  “I want to meet him,” Arnold had announced when she told the group Jorge was coming.

  “Me, too,” Cynthia said.

  “Pleeeeeeeeze,” Keith wheedled. “I’ll give you all my desserts for a week.”

  “Okay, but you have to promise to be good.”

  “Are we ever any other way?” Keith asked, pretending to be insulted.

  “I mean it. And you have to leave us alone to talk.”

  “I don’t like Jorge,” Bill declared.

  It was as if a chair had spoken. Everyone stared at him.

  “You don’t know Jorge, Bill,” Arnold pointed out.

  “I don’t like him. I don’t like Jorge.”

  “Look,” Keith said, “Jorge isn’t Emily’s boyfriend. He’s just some guy at school. Some foreign guy she was nice to—”

  “Hey, that’s not true,” Emily interrupted. “I mean, he is foreign, but he’s not just some foreign guy—”

  Keith tilted his head warningly at Emily. “But he’s not your boyfriend, is he, Emily?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She saw Bill relax. So it was true, what they were always teasing her about; Bill had a crush on her. She didn’t know why; she never flirted with him.

  She had convinced the group to give her time alone with Jorge, at least thirty minutes, but now as the actual meeting approached she wished she’d arranged it the other way around, so that they would be there to help her over the first few awkward moments when they saw each other after three weeks.

  Would he still like her? She studied her reflection in the night-darkened window. She’d actually lost a little weight recently, without really meaning to, probably because they let her out for walks on the hospital grounds twice a day. Usually she went jogging with Keith, then came in to do exercises in the fitness room. Her mother had brought in more of her clothes. She wore a periwinkle sweater and jeans and when she’d shampooed her hair, she’d just let it fall into its normal loose curls instead of moussing it into spikes.

  Suddenly, there he was. He pushed through the ward doors, his long, finely boned face tight with a look of wariness, a kind of brittle guardedness that all first-time visitors wore.

  “Jorge. Hi.”

  “Emily.” He had a sheaf of flowers in his hands. Not roses, but spring flowers, tulips, irises, anemones.

  He handed them to her; awkwardly, formally, she accepted them.

  “Thank you.” The flowers gave her a reason to move. “I’ll put them in water. Come on. There’s a little kitchen down this way.”

  They had to pass by the living room, where her gang was gathered. Bill and Cynthia and Arnold were watching television, but Keith had leaned himself up against the doorjamb, like a casual observer at a street café, and as Emily and Jorge went by, Keith said in an exaggeratedly macho voice, “How ya doin’?”

  “Hello,” Jorge replied.

  Emily looked back over her shoulder. Keith wiggled his eyebrows, Groucho Marx–style, at Emily.

  Emily found the vase—heavy clear plastic, non-breakable—filled it with water, and settled the beautiful flowers. According to ward rules, she could have a guy in her bedroom, if the door were kept open to the hall, but there was only one chair in her bedroom, so one of them would have to sit on the bed, and she couldn’t deal with the pure implications of that. That left the living room or the dining room and she’d decided to take him to one of the tables at the far end of the dining room. Now she led him to the table and set the flowers between them.

  “Oh,” she said as soon as they sat down, “I forgot to ask if you’d like something to drink.”

  “That’s all right. No, thanks. I can’t stay very long. I need to finish packing.”

  “When do you leave for Argentina?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Are you looking forward to seeing your family?”

  He smiled. “Some of them. I’m eager to see my friends. Tell me, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Really fine. I’m getting out of here on Friday.”

  “For the holidays?”

  “No, for good. I still have to meet my shrink twice a week, but I don’t have to live here anymore.”

  “So you’ll be back at Hedden for next semester!”

  She was flattered by how eagerly he said it. “No, actually, I won’t. It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, um, my mother and her husband are separating.”

  “Divorce?”

  “Maybe. Just separating for now.”

  It was all twisted, all backward. This was the story Owen had insisted she tell. Insisted Linda tell. This was the country where the accused were innocent until proven guilty, and as far as Owen was concerned, Bruce would never be proven guilty. He didn’t want his son to suffer a bad reputation because of Emily’s accusations. Finally Linda had agreed. Emily had not been present at all their discussions, but she knew this was as hard for her mother to accept as it was for herself.

  “And because they’re separating, Mom has to get a place to live, since Owen owns the farm—it’s his family’s farm. And she can’t afford the Hedden tuition and rent as well.”

  “So where will you live?”

  “Mom’s taken an apartment here in Basingstoke. I’ll go to Basingstoke High. It’s a good school. That way I can see my shrink, and also my Hedden friends. If they still want to see me.”

  “I will.” Jorge’s sleek black hair had been trimmed, and it hung in glossy sheaves to his shoulders. He was so handsome Emily couldn’t believe it when he said, “I hope we are friends for a long time. You know you were the first person who was really nice to me at Hedden. You were … genuine.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “But Jorge … you’re so handsome!”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m older than everyone and yet my English is not good, my skin is dark, I’m from South America. People thought I’m either a drug pusher, because everyone from South America is, you know, or a dumb spic.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I never knew anyone who called you that. All my friends—”

  “It didn’t help me much with the guys that the girls liked me.” He made a brushing gesture with his hand. “Hey, I don’t mean to sound pathetic. I have friends. I like it at Hedden. But you were always so easy to talk to. You have a sense of humor I like.”

  Something was happening between them, something that had been there from the start, a magic connection, a kind of bridge of sparks. It made her lips tingle, but not in the bad way, like when she was going to faint, but in a good way. In a way that made her feel alive, and something else. Unique.

  “I’m not crazy, you know,” Emily blurted out.

  “I never thought you were.”

  “Yeah, well, being here … I’m here because of a real event. Something happened to me. Like an accident. Like a car ran into me, only it wasn’t that. I’m fine, really, now that I’m mending.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’d like to tell you. But I can’t. Not yet. Maybe someday.”

  They looked at each other in a silence that was not in any sense uncomfortable. All at once it was as if what Emily had been born to do in life was to look at Jorge, and to let him lo
ok at her.

  “Are you sad about the divorce?”

  Emily considered. “I’m sorry for my mother.”

  “Won’t you miss Bruce?”

  She longed to be honest, but said, “Well, you know, he’ll be going away to college next year … we wouldn’t be seeing much of each other anyway.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  She wanted off that subject. “I’ll miss Hedden more than the farm. I’ll miss my friends.”

  “You have funny friends. Did I say that right? I mean you have friends who have a good sense of humor.”

  “Believe me, honey, I know,” Emily said, lapsing into the brash “Lawn Guyland” accent she and her friends affected from time to time. “They were here last night. Zodiac and Cordelia and Ming Chu and some others. We did a kind of Christmas Trolls thing.” She flickered her blue fingertips at him. “They gave me this wild polish.”

  “Maybe I could write you over vacation.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Do you have your new address?”

  “Um, yeah, somewhere. In my room. It’s kind of embarrassing, the name of the place. The condo itself is okay, sort of small, but okay, but the whole place is named Monet Estates.” She saw he didn’t get it. “Like the painter, you know?”

  “Ah.”

  It struck her that perhaps Jorge really didn’t know who Monet was, and for some reason that made her feel enormously fond of him, as if beneath his handsomeness was a human being who was not as sophisticated and worldly as he looked.

  “Each unit is named, like, Water Lilies, or Water Garden. All the Water Lilies have two bedrooms. That’s what we have. The place is furnished in lots of wicker and white furniture. It’s sort of tacky, but it’s temporary, Mom says.”

  “Can you get E-mail?”

  “I wish I could. I don’t have a computer. And I don’t see one in my future. I mean we don’t have the money for it right now.”

  “Then we’ll rely on the government mail service.”

  “Sounds good to me. How long does it take for a letter to get to Buenos Aires?”

  “A week. Maybe a little more.”

  “I’ll get the address. Want to see my room?”