Archer was still up on one elbow, listening silently, eyes lowered.
Pausing as if trying to select just the right words, Connor went on. “But I think if it ever happens, if we ever make love—hypothetically and academically speaking, that is, of course—I want it to be not by default, not because I’m the only man you’ve seen in five years up here in the wilds on Mount Loh, but because . . . because I’m the only one you can ever imagine making love with again.”
Connor paused again, looked away for a second, and seemed again to be trying to put feelings into words—words that were not coming easily.
“I want to be a choice, Archer, not some convenience born of proximity. I’m not looking for a quick fix—I’ve done that and have no interest in it. I want you to choose me. Out of all your options, I want you to choose me.”
Silence.
“I see,” Archer finally said, her voice low. She raised a hand and gently brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead, saying nothing for a minute. Then, looking straight at him, she said in a steady voice, no smile, “You, Connor McCall, are an exquisite man, truly exquisite, and if I ever could love anyone, I would choose you. No question.”
Then she turned away, rolled onto her back, and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 16
It was Halloween night, and Archer was drunk. When Connor came to the cabin at five, he sized up the situation at a glance: three-quarters empty Maker’s Mark bottle on the counter, seven bags of Hershey bars next to it, the usually impeccable kitchen in disarray, and Archer lying on the couch listening to Billie Holiday. She never rested during the day, and Billie came out only when Archer was feeling melancholy. She looked up when Connor came in carrying a big bag of groceries.
“Hey, Arch, looks like I better handle the cooking tonight,” he said, putting his bundle on the kitchen counter, slipping off his coat, and hanging it on the back of a chair. “Have a hard day, did we?”
Archer lifted her head, eyes bleary, but she smiled.
“I know, my dear McCall. I’m a wee bit tight tonight. Sounds so much better to say ‘I’m tight,’ don’t you think, than ‘I’m shit-faced”? She sat up and launched into an imitation of characters in The Sun Also Rises, complete with British accent. “‘I say, Brett, how about a little drink?’ ‘Oh, Jake, darling, don’t mind if I do.’ ‘I say, Brett, you’re a bit tight.’ ‘Well, Jake, actually, I’m very tight, old chap. Do pour me another drink, darling, so that I can stay very tight.’” She held up her glass.
Connor laughed in spite of himself. “When did you start? I can see I’ve got some catching up to do.”
Archer took a long swallow from the tumbler beside her.
“Poor old Jake. He was such a whiner, though. Wasn’t he a whiner, McCall? Always going on and on about his problems. Jake, you goddamn phony.” Archer stood unsteadily, lifting her glass in a toast of scorn.
“Well, you have to admit, Arch, he did have a reason to whine. As I recall, his penis was blown off in the war. The loss of a penis will do that to a man, you know,” he said over his shoulder as he unpacked the groceries.
Archer looked doubtful, swayed a bit, then looked up at the rafters, “True, true, Jake, you did have a little problem . . . a legitimate gripe, I’ll grant you that . . . but you’re a pretty big mess, McCall, and I don’t hear you moaning all the time.” She paused for a sip from her glass, then called out, “Hey, Jake. Brett had some problems, too, you know. Ever stop to ask her how her day was going? And take McCall here. He’s nothing short of a disaster, but no one hears him complaining.”
Connor shook his head and chuckled. He glanced over as she plunked down onto the couch and slumped forward, elbows resting on her knees, drink dangling precariously in one hand. Connor grabbed the bottle and a glass and sat down on the hearth.
Archer took another swallow of her drink and started up again. “Hey, Jake! Maybe we should go into group therapy together. We do have something in common after all. I myself have had something of a dry spell, too, old man—sexually speaking, that is. ‘Dry spell’ as in the nature of the Kalahari Desert. Uh-oh, here’s an idea. Maybe we could write one of those self-flagellating memoirs—call it The Unable and the Unwilling? The Frustrated and Dead? I smell a best-seller, then Oprah, then . . . who knows? Our own talk show? A book tour? ‘Mr. Barnes, how do you really feel about your penis—or, rather, the lack thereof? Is it really that much of an impediment to a full life, Mr. Barnes? And, Ms. Loh, have you discovered the real source of your difficulties—aside from the murder of your little girl, that is? Was writing the book cathartic for you in any way?’” At this point, Archer bolted upright, orating to the rafters and tottering. When she started to sit down, she lost her balance and would have fallen had Connor not caught her arm.
“Whoa, there, cowgirl,” Connor said, helping her sit back down. “Jesus, you are on a roll, aren’t you? Is this what you’re like when you’re drunk? And what do you have against poor Jake Barnes all of a sudden?”
Archer looked bewildered, then guilty. “You’re right, McCall. You’re right. Poor Jake. He did have problems.” She lifted her glass of whiskey and yelled again in a British accent, “So sorry, Jake, old boy. I’m a bit tight, you see. No offense meant. You do forgive me, don’t you, darling? I’m sorry about your penis—I mean, your non-penis, darling.” She gulped down the last drop.
“Think we should switch to coffee, Arch?” asked Connor.
She gave him an appraising look, shook her head, flopped back into the couch, and wagged a finger at him. “That’s the thing, McCall. That’s the thing. You’re very sensible. You’re a very sensible person.” She shook her glass at him for emphasis. “I like that. I myself am a very sensible person. But today I’m not so sensible. Today I’m tight . . . today I’m drinking. And crying. I cry when I drink, so today I’m drinking and I’m crying.” Archer’s eyes filled with tears. “Got candy. In case, you know . . . our special holiday. We always wore the same costume and did this . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Connor saw it all now. The absurdity of getting candy for the nonexistent possibility of trick-or-treaters knocking on Archer’s door was a dead giveaway. She and Annie had always made a special event of Halloween, and now . . .
Archer held out her empty glass, and Connor poured in the last shot, finishing off the bottle. “Do you ever cry, McCall? Really cry? Not like at the movies, but real?” she asked, plump tears rolling down both cheeks.
“Okay, then,” said Connor, ignoring her question. “Why don’t you just take a little nap here, Archer? Just rest a while. I’ll make some coffee.”
“No, no. You have to have a drink,” she insisted, clutching her glass as if afraid he would try to take it. “If I drink alone, I’m an alcoholic, and I don’t want to be an alcoholic. I’ve been cutting down. Have you noticed, McCall? Have you noticed?” She sounded urgent as she leaned forward.
“Sure, Arch, I noticed.” She relaxed again into the couch.
Connor shook his head but got up and opened a new bottle of Maker’s Mark. He poured himself a small drink, then sat on the rocker next to the sofa.
“That’s good.” Archer sat back, sloshing the liquor back and forth in her glass. “So, do you cry, McCall?”
Connor sighed. “Yes, I cry, Archer. But it’s like saffron—a little goes a long way. Once every decade, I let go.”
“So, when did you last cry, McCall? Tell me.”
Connor sat back and thought for a moment. “Well, I guess it’s farther back than I thought. It was when I was eighteen. Guess I’m overdue for a real flood.”
“When you were eighteen? Jesus, McCall, that’s, like, decades and decades and decades and decades ago!” wailed Archer, with a theatric roll of her hand at each “decades.”
“Just three decades. You did four.”
“Oh, whatever,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “After three decades, who’s counting? You’re a goddamn stoic, McCall. You’re the goddamn god of stoicism.” She r
efilled her glass. “So what was it? You didn’t get into Yale, only Harvard? The prom queen broke your heart? What? What!” she demanded, slapping her glass down on the end table.
Connor took a sip of whiskey and said, “It was a horse, if you must know. A horse broke my heart by dying on me. Sabrina. The horse I used to ride when I was a kid at that farm I told you about.” He took a swig of his drink, almost exhausting it. “I sat in her stall and cried my eyes out.”
Archer stared at him for a few moments, then opened her eyes wide. “Goddamn it! Isn’t that the way? Isn’t that just the goddamn way? The only time you really cry is because something is really good and you lose it. If it sucks, we don’t miss it. Happens every goddamn time.” She pounded the trunk in front of the sofa with her fist, grabbed the bourbon bottle, added a little to her glass, then handed it to Connor.
He refilled his glass. “Yup. Happens every goddamn time.”
Archer sat, chin in her hands, elbows on her knees again, lost in thought. Suddenly, she sat up. “So what’s your secret, McCall? Why are you really up here? The IRS after you? You’re in witness protection? What’s the real story?”
“No secret, Archer. Just searching like everybody else, and trying to get through the day.”
“Connie. May I call you Connie?” she started. Without waiting for an answer, she went on in a whisper as she leaned toward him. “Connie, I have a secret. I only hurt bad people, so good people can sleep again. I think you’re a good person.”
“What do you mean, Arch, you ‘only hurt bad people’?”
Archer didn’t answer but picked up her glass again. She looked around the room: polished cedar walls, vaulted ceiling with two beams traversing the room, and a pretty fieldstone fireplace, its hearth neatly stacked with wood. Through the front window, the sun was setting.
She suddenly blurted, “And where is my goddamn knight? My father said I’d have a goddamn knight, who would come for me on a big white horse, only my goddamn knight never came. Or maybe I left my goddamn knight. I don’t remember exactly now.” She rubbed her forehead, confused, then continued. “But he didn’t come after me. Somebody should have come after somebody, shouldn’t they? A real knight would have, wouldn’t he?” She looked questioningly at Connor. She was now sitting cross-legged on the couch, again sloshing the remaining liquor.
“Maybe there’s still a knight out there coming for you, Arch.”
“No, no, it’s too late. It’s too goddamn late,” she said. “Who said chivalry isn’t dead? It’s goddamn dead. It’s kaput. It’s finito. It’s fucking D.O.A.” She made an umpire’s “out” sign. She was quiet for a moment; then she said, “I’m awfully tired. I think I’ll take a little nap now. Don’t go, McCall. Bad things in the woods tonight. Headless horseman. Can’t go out tonight.”
“That was in Sleepy Hollow, Arch, down in the Catskills. This is the Berkshires. There’s no Ichabod Crane here.”
“He could be out there. He could have moved. It’s not so far,” she insisted. “He could be out there looking for a head. You have a good head, McCall. Don’t drive. You’re too drunk. Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, Arch; you’re drunk.”
“No, I’m tight. That’s not as bad as being drunk. You can’t leave,” she insisted, panic in her voice now.
“Okay, you’re not drunk, just tight. And I won’t drive. Don’t worry. I’ll stay here,” he soothed as she grabbed his arm.
Appeased, she fell back into the sofa. She pointed at him, then let her hand drop. “You know, I didn’t like you at first, McCall. Didn’t like you at all. Dislike at first sight, you could say. But then you took care of me . . . ankle . . . made me dinner, nice to Hadley . . . You reminded me of Daddy. Then I liked you.”
“Oh, swell,” muttered Connor under his breath. “This night just keeps getting better and better.”
“And I knew you were a good person, person I could trust. Like my father. Man of honor . . .” She was lying down on the sofa, eyes closed. She was speaking and slurring more and more softly. Just before passing out, she breathed, “Happy Halloween, McCall. Go see your daughter and stop being such an asshole.”
Connor smiled at her. He got up and put a warm alpaca blanket over her, tucking in the edges. He kissed the top of her head and smoothed her hair, then unlaced his Carhartt work boots and set them side by side near the fire, and stretched out in the armchair for the night, feet up on the ottoman.
CHAPTER 17
Several days after the Halloween debacle, Archer sat at the pine table, sipping her morning coffee. Today she would take her run, ride Millie, do her grocery shopping, bake an apple pie.
The phone rang, jarring her out of her thoughts.
“Hello!”
Pause.
“Archer?”
“Yes, this is she. Who is this?”
There was some hesitation.
“Archer, it’s Sharon.”
Archer spun around at the sound of her sister’s voice. She leaned against the counter.
“Sharon? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mother, Archer. She’s gone.”
“Oh, my God. I didn’t know she was that sick.”
There was silence, then, “Well, how would you know? You’d have to call her sometime—maybe even go and see her.” The angry tone faded as quickly as it had flared. The voice now sounded weary. “Uh . . . anyway, the funeral is Friday, First Congregational in Litchfield, at eleven. I’ve made the arrangements . . . not that you’ll show up.”
“That’s not fair, Sharon, and you know it.” Archer felt the start of tears.
“Look, I don’t want to have this argument again, Archer. I really don’t. I’m too damn tired. I called Adam. He can’t make it, but I felt he should know. He was part of our family for fourteen years. Julie, David, Ted, and I will be there. Come if you want to.”
“Sharon, you have no right. You don’t know. You have Julie and David. You—”
“Yeah, I know the whole routine, Archer. No one has ever, in the history of the world, suffered as much as you. No one on the face of the earth can understand all you’ve been through unless exactly the same thing happened to them.”
Sharon was quiet for a moment, then continued in an even voice, “Archer, we all tried to be there for you. It was no one’s fault, but you acted like it was. You pushed Adam away when all he wanted was to help you get through it. You pushed me away. You have a niece and nephew who don’t even remember you. You’re a lawyer who does nothing. For God’s sake, Archer, do something. Yes, Annie’s death was tragic, the worst thing that can happen to a parent. But it’s ended your life. Now we have two deaths in the family. You make me angry, but mostly you make me so damn sad.”
Archer quietly pushed the “End” button on her cell phone and slumped back into a kitchen chair. She put her head in her hands and sat there, with Hadley watching her from across the room, her chin flat on the floor, tail still.
* * *
Archer arrived in Litchfield on Friday morning a few minutes before eleven. It had started to rain. The town green was still lush from the mild fall, and the quaint little downtown looked pretty even in the drizzle.
Archer found a parking spot and got out of the Jeep. She smoothed the skirt of her black suit. It was a leftover court suit and the only outfit she had that was anywhere near appropriate to the occasion. What a loser, she thought. Archer Loh, mother of no one, wife of no one, sister of no one, and now daughter of no one as well.
She approached the church cautiously. She and her sister had once been close. Sharon, her elder by two years, with her curly blond hair, sea green eyes, round face, and pretty smile. Sharon, my right hand, their mother would tell people. Your right and left hand, Zsa Zsa, Archer would mutter. Even at eleven years old, Sharon could organize the laundry, make out the weekly grocery list, and put together a dinner party for twelve. By the time she was thirteen, she handled the day-to-day cooking for the family, much to the
ir mother’s obvious relief.
And what did their mother say about Archer? Oh, dahlings, Archer prefers to be on da outside of da house, like her father, she would sniff. True enough—the kitchen was the last place to find her. Or, her mother would say, nem, Archer prefers da horses to da people. Also true—more or less. Then there was her mother’s classic, Archer, kerem, if you could stop wit da clomping around with dat horse, a swell fella might take you to da dance, somevon like Shara’s boyfriend. Archer had spun around and retorted that she’d rather go to the prom with Clique than with that idiot Jay Chamberlain, Sharon’s then flame, or “flamer,” as Archer called him. She had then stalked off, but not before Sharon screamed and threw a high-heeled shoe at her, which Archer immediately threw back, stabbing Sharon’s poster of Billy Idol, leaving a heel-size hole in the punk star’s forehead, leading to a second shriek from Sharon. Isten segits! Archer, you are behaving like a vagrant. Vhat am I going to do wit you? her mother had screeched after her. Ilona Loh had then sighed heavily, shaken her hands as if drying them, and shrugged as if to say, I can only do so much with that one.
Ironically, Archer had married almost five years before Sharon. When Annie died, Julie was only six and David was eight. Sharon had continued to live in Litchfield after she and Ted Davini got married. Ted was an internist at Waterbury General Hospital, and Sharon was a pediatric nurse who worked part-time on weekends.
Standing now outside the old church’s open oak doors, Archer took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and walked in. Organ music played softly; the church was almost full. She wanted to slip into a back pew and slip out the same way, but others, no doubt with the same idea, had beaten her to it.
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