The Widow's Season

by Laura Brodie

  And then she was in the car, starting down the driveway. It occurred to her that she had never touched David, never tested whether her fingers would meet solid flesh. When she looked into the rearview mirror, he was gone.

  • 17 •

  Ten days later Sarah stood in the Walker Street Gallery, watching Judith’s bracelets slide down her forearms as she perched on a stepladder, adjusting the track lighting that fell on one of David’s river scenes. Judith was inching the light toward the precise angle where it could shine on the water, making dabs of gold and silver paint glitter like sinking coins. Three centimeters to the right, one to the left, and Judith stepped down. She glanced at Sarah, who smiled and nodded.

  This space of white walls, blue carpet, and movable room dividers had come alive over the past three days. Charcoal sketches filled the garden alcove; the opposite wall blazed with oils. Each corner had a distinct mood which Judith planned to complement, on opening night, with matching hors d’oeuvres—caviar to echo the charcoal, lemon tarts beside the watercolors.

  Margaret, who had volunteered to do much of the cooking, scoffed at Judith’s culinary schemes—“How about smoked weenies next to the nudes?” But Sarah trusted in Judith’s vision. Enveloped in these walls of shifting color and form, she felt newly appreciative of David’s talent. Here she could walk from piece to piece and trace the evolution of her husband’s obsessions.

  “What do you think?” Judith walked to Sarah’s side and examined the space, wall by wall.

  “You’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “I’ve done nothing. Here I’ve spent a decade imagining myself as the local talent scout extraordinaire, and I never even noticed David.” She put her hand around Sarah’s shoulder and gave an awkward squeeze. “Some of these are really good, you know. I’ve kept five of the best ones for myself. I’m going to take them to my Georgetown gallery in December.”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows. Exposure in Washington was a compliment granted only to Judith’s favorites. It was typical of her not to ask permission; Judith preferred announcements over inquiries. But Sarah nodded her approval. “I was wondering where that charcoal sketch of myself had gone.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to bare your breasts in such a small town.”

  “Yes. Much better to show them off to strangers.”

  An electric bell chimed, and Judith glanced at the door. “My, my, what have we here?”

  Nate was standing in the entrance, pinching at the fingertips of his dark leather gloves. Sarah walked over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I wanted to see the exhibit without the crowds.” He stuffed his gloves into the pocket of his navy overcoat. “It’s hard to appreciate art at an opening, with all the people and the conversation.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Judith came forward with her hand outstretched.

  “This is Judith Keen. She owns the gallery.” Sarah helped Nate out of his coat. “This is David’s brother, Nate.”

  “The resemblance is striking.” Judith shook Nate’s hand. “It’s like having the artist himself walk into the room.”

  Not quite, Sarah thought as she hung Nate’s coat in the closet. David had never inspired the sort of fawning attention that Judith now lavished on Nate. She was steering him to the best paintings, speaking with a knowledgeable flirtatiousness, “Of course, watercolors aren’t in vogue, but look at this one.” Each time Nate leaned toward a canvas, Sarah could see Judith’s curatorial eyes assess his silhouette. There was something almost chemical about her brother-in-law; when he entered a room, women changed their posture.

  Sarah walked into the foyer, where a polished walnut table held a silver-framed photograph of David. He was leaning against a poplar tree, wearing a white collared shirt rolled up at the elbows. She had chosen the photo as his most characteristic pose, arms crossed and eyes intent. When she held it in the light he seemed to grin at her. What was he doing now? Fishing? Drawing?

  She hadn’t visited the cabin in the past two weeks, and the time and distance had transformed David back into a shadowy figure. Once again she wondered about her husband’s spiritual and physical state. The river had transfigured him beyond the mental rebirth that he acknowledged. Something material and essential had changed.

  But wasn’t that to be expected? Sarah examined the lines on David’s two-dimensional face. What would Eurydice have been like, if Orpheus had managed to lead her into daylight? Would she still have been so fragile as to disappear at a wayward glance? And what about Lazarus? What was he like after Jesus left? Did his sisters notice an unsettling change?

  Behind her, Nate and Judith were inching past the oils. Nate looked back and held up a finger, mouthing the words “Wait for me.”

  She placed David’s photo back on the table. What was missing? Here was the gold-trimmed guest register, with a ballpoint pen in a velvet case. And here was a small brass lamp, amber beads dangling from its shade. She stared at the table for another three minutes before she heard Nate’s voice nearby.

  “It looks like a terrific show.”

  “You were wise to see it early.” Judith’s fingers had migrated into the crook of Nate’s elbow.

  “This also gives me a chance to take you out to lunch.” He smiled at Sarah. “If you’re free?”

  She glanced again at David’s picture. “I’m always free.”

  “Take him to Il Trattoria,” Judith insisted as she withdrew her fingers from Nate’s arm. “It’s the only place for lunch.” She opened the closet and handed Sarah her long coat, then held Nate’s open at the collar, momentarily resting her hands on his shoulders as he stepped into the silk lining. “I’ll see you both on Friday.”

  “Judith.” Sarah turned back at the door. “Some flowers for this table?”

  “Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

  Twenty minutes later Sarah was sitting over a plate of chicken piccata, sorting the capers with the tines of a silver fork. She had made a polite remark about the economy, and now Nate was mulling the possibility of a market rebound. His words were distant, as if he sat two booths away, while in her own mind she wondered whether to tell him the truth.

  As David’s closest living relative, Nate had certain rights. He had a right to know whether his brother was alive or dead, a right to be spared unnecessary grief. But David had rights as well, a claim to his own secrets, and although he had not solicited any promises of silence, Sarah felt inclined to grant him this chance at a new life. Besides, she doubted whether Nate would believe her, if she told him about the cabin, and the ghost in the basement.

  “What are you thinking?” Nate asked.

  “I was admiring your skill with the spaghetti. David always got a drop of sauce on his tie when we came here.”

  “David could get away with it. I never could.”

  True. Beauty entailed responsibilities—an obligation not to disappoint.

  As Nate reached for his wineglass, Sarah was surprised to see his father’s wedding ring on his right hand. She hadn’t expected such a sentimental gesture. Beneath that placid face, was he mourning his lost family?

  She had witnessed Nate’s grief only once, at Helen’s burial in Vermont. As the casket descended into the grave, he had given way to convulsive sobs, his head drooping like a wilted rose. He might have sunk to his knees, had David not wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulder, pressing him to his side.

  After the ceremony she and Nate had left David at the grave with a shovel in hand. David always fought sorrow with physical labor, and he insisted that his mother’s burial should not be left to strangers. Nate wanted to help, but though the soul was willing, the flesh was weak. On their return to Helen’s house, riding in the funeral home’s silver Buick, she had held Nate’s head against her bare throat. It was the most maternal experience of her life; his sobs muffled against her skin sounded like a nursing baby.

  “Do you want dessert?” she asked whe
n he put down his fork.

  “Will you share something with me?”

  “A slice of tiramisu?”

  “With coffee?”

  “Tea for me.”

  “Of course.”

  She could not recall a moment since David’s disappearance when Nate had seemed distraught. On the morning after the flood, when he arrived at her door, his hair was uncombed and his face unshaven, but his voice had remained calm. She remembered sitting on her couch while he held her head steady against his collarbone. There, with the beat of his heart murmuring in her ear, she had told him everything. How she had waited for an hour by the muddy river, standing under an umbrella while the branches and leaves swirled by. How she had driven to the Jackson police station and filed a missing-persons report. With two girls already drowned that day, and less than two hours of daylight left, the police had dispatched a helicopter to scan the river. They had also alerted the volunteer rescue squads—mostly local boys in pickup trucks with flashing lights on their dashboards—to search the riverbanks for whatever washed ashore.

  She had telephoned Margaret from the station, ensuring that a pot of tea would be waiting when she got home, and together they had held vigil at the kitchen table until a police officer arrived at the door. It was David’s friend Carver Petty, come to say that a yellow kayak had been spotted upside down in a tangle of branches. There was no sign of David.

  Sarah’s blood had registered the news before her mind, going suddenly cold, her teeth chattering so hard she could only reply to Carver with a low, animal moan. She remembered experiencing the initial stages of shock, her tongue all thick and fuzzy, her body bending double. Margaret was instantly at her side, settling her on the couch with a down comforter, raising her feet and rubbing her hands and answering the phone calls that came every fifteen minutes. David’s cell phone had been found . . . his water bottle . . . his paddle. The objects from his journey were returning one by one, all except his body. By ten o’clock the police had given up for the night, and Margaret had begun the round of calls to family and friends, which had brought Nate to her couch that morning, listening silently to every word, never altering the even rhythm of his breath.

  That afternoon he had gone with them to see the motorboats drag the river. While she stood arm in arm with Margaret, watching the divers emerge, circle, and submerge, he had paced the bank like a retriever, eager to fetch. Then, as now, there was no aura of tragedy about him. Resignation perhaps, and loss, but no sign of acute sorrow. Apparently his tears had all been spent on Helen—after the first death there is no other.

  Now, as Sarah studied him from across the table, she looked for telltale signs of grief—worry lines, thinning cheeks, eyes glassing over. If she sensed that he was in pain she would have to tell him everything; David had no right to cause suffering. But Nate’s fingernails on his silver fork were so clean, misery seemed incompatible with such impeccable grooming.

  She flagged down the waitress and asked for the check, then turned back to Nate. “After the show Judith wants a group of us to celebrate at a local bar. There’s going to be a zydeco band, visiting from out of town. You should come.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’re welcome to spend the night. There’s liable to be a lot of drinking, and you won’t want to be driving back over the mountains at midnight.”

  Nate nodded. “How about if I leave my bag at your house on Friday evening and we drive to the opening together?”

  “Fine,” Sarah agreed. “Friday it is.”

  • 18 •

  Friday came with Sarah sitting in Margaret’s kitchen, squeezing a quartered lemon over a cold salmon fillet. The salmon lay on a silver platter, framed with cherry tomatoes carved like miniature tulip heads, that were stuffed with cream cheese and minced black olives. Margaret stood watch at the stove, stirring a pot of peanut sauce while she sipped a glass of Pinot Noir. “Can you check the grill?” she asked, and Sarah lifted a plate from the counter and walked out onto the deck.

  November had taken hold of Virginia; the trees were bare and the air smelled of burning leaves. She raised the lid from the grill and leaned forward to warm her face. Inside were two dozen small skewers of chicken, lightly charred for satay. She flipped them with pincers hanging at the side of the grill, removing the finished ones and replacing them with raw strips from a nearby tray. They sizzled and spat as they touched the grill. Carrying the plate into the kitchen, she dumped the skewers into a large wooden salad bowl.

  “How many do you think we have?” asked Margaret.

  “About forty-five.”

  “We’ll need twice that many.”

  Sarah poured herself a glass of wine, then leaned against the sink as she surveyed the room. Yesterday she had joined Margaret for an afternoon of baking with a few mutual friends, and now the counters were overflowing with dozens of mint brownies, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and key-lime tarts.

  “This is more elaborate than my wedding.” She swirled a sip of wine across her gums.

  Margaret walked over and toasted Sarah’s glass. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

  “You are a star.” Sarah rested her head against Margaret’s neck.

  “The show is going to be brilliant,” Margaret said. “I stopped by the gallery yesterday to check on their kitchen, and I chose a painting for myself, a landscape with stormy clouds over a barn. You’ll have to help me decide where to hang it.”

  “You should get a nicer frame for that one. David just hammered some black wood around the edges.”

  Margaret shrugged. “Frames can be distracting.”

  She returned to the stove while Sarah finished her wine. “Tell me what to do next,” Sarah said as she poured herself another glass.

  “If you could slice the baguettes, I think we’ll be in good shape.” Margaret put a chopping block on the table and placed three large bakery bags next to it. “I bought a dozen of these.”

  From a drawer beneath the microwave Sarah removed a serrated knife. She knew where to find every item in this kitchen—the pots, the peelers, the decades-old sippy-cups that Margaret kept in anticipation of grandchildren.

  Margaret transferred her peanut sauce into a Tupperware bowl, then sat down at the table. “Have you seen David recently?”

  Sarah hesitated with the knife poised above the bread. How nice it would be to tell the truth, to let the weight of the last few weeks unravel in one long sentence.

  “I saw him on Halloween night,” she began, “in a dream. He sat at my kitchen table and told me all about his kayaking trip. He said that he was all right, and that I shouldn’t worry. He’s become a sort of naturalist, a friend to the birds and the trees. And he’s painting again. His heaven is full of paint.”

  Margaret nodded as she poured herself another glass of wine. “I still have dreams about Ethan. Usually he’s outside, and it’s spring, and the crab tree is blooming. Sometimes we lie down together and look up through the branches. But whenever I try to touch him, I wake up chilled.”

  The front door opened and Judith came bustling in. “Well, ladies, I’ve bought all of the Table Water crackers in Jackson.” She nodded at their wineglasses. “I see you’ve started the party already.”

  “Would you like a glass?” Margaret held up the bottle.

  “No thanks. Too much to do. Everything you asked for is in the back of my car. I’ve got student bartenders setting up the drinks. What can I take right now?”

  Margaret opened the refrigerator and loaded Judith’s arms with freezer bags full of baby asparagus. Judith and Sarah began making trips to the car, carrying tubs of crab dip, spinach dip, sour cream mixed with lemon and dill. Margaret gave them silver serving spoons, ceramic bowls, and two embroidered tablecloths, ironed and folded on hangers.

  “This is the best spread we’ve ever had at an opening.” Judith smiled as Margaret handed her an almond-covered wheel of Brie. “You should think about catering. You’re much better than the usual folk
s I hire, and I pay them a fortune.”

  Margaret attached a handwritten note to the Brie, with instructions for heating. “Cooking is an act of love. I don’t do it for strangers.”

  Sarah held the car door as Judith placed a final tray of shrimp on her passenger seat. “Tell Margaret I’ll be back for the rest of the food in about twenty minutes. And, Sarah, you must get dressed. You’re the guest of honor.”

  Sarah stepped back and watched Judith’s Lexus disappear down the street, then she returned to the kitchen and rinsed her wineglass in the sink. “Do you need anything else?” Margaret was sprinkling confectioners’ sugar on the desserts; a gentle snowfall drifted down from her sifter.

  “I’m fine. You get going.”

  Back at her house Sarah entered the guest room, where the mirrors still rested on the bed. Walking to the edge of the covers, she stared into the collage of glass and saw three angles of her face, eyes shaded behind falling hair. She lifted a narrow, full-length mirror and propped it against the bed. This was the first time in several months that she had examined a complete reflection of herself, and she seemed to have lost weight. Her cheekbones were more pronounced than usual, her shoulders more fragile. Mealtimes had become haphazard in recent weeks. There were days when she didn’t eat at all until three or four in the afternoon, settling for a bowl of soup and slices of buttered toast. On other mornings she feasted with such indiscriminate gluttony, the aftermath repulsed her. There were so many crumbs in her sofa, she felt as if she was leaving a trail to find her way home.

  Sarah carried the mirror into her bedroom, leaned it against the wall, and began to undress. For days she had fretted over what to wear to the opening, remembering the widowed Scarlett O’ Hara in her bloodred gown. Back then, black was required for the first year of mourning; next came the grays, the mauves, the whites, the necklaces made of dead men’s teeth and lockets filled with children’s hair. She admired the Victorians’ flair for the morbid, and would have liked to pay them homage with a touch of crepe or bombazine. But she had no cap or veil, only an ivory willow comb that resembled a tree at her family home. She retrieved it from her jewelry box and walked into the bathroom. Two inches of hair gel, rubbed in her hands, was enough to twist her hair into a bun, pinned tight with a crisscrossed pair of Chinese needles. Leaning her head to the left, she pushed the teeth of the bone-white comb into her hair, and set the willow to weep above her right ear.