by Joël Dicker
“No, I don’t think so.”
“All I know is that Nola lived inside me. Literally. And then it was Saturday again, and that Saturday was a beautiful day. Clark’s was empty—everyone was at the beach—and Nola and I had long conversations. When she finished work, about 6 p.m., I offered her a ride home. I dropped her off a block from her house, on a deserted street, where no one could see. She asked if I would like to walk with her some of the way, but I explained that it was complicated, that people would talk if they saw us walking together. I remember she said to me, ‘Walking together isn’t a crime, Harry . . .’
“‘I know, Nola. But I think people would start asking questions.’
“She frowned. ‘I love being with you so much, Harry. You’re an extraordinary person. It’d be nice if we could be together a little bit without having to hide.’”
Saturday, June 28, 1975
It was 1 p.m. Jenny Quinn was busying herself behind the counter at Clark’s. She jumped each time the door of the restaurant opened, hoping it would be him. But it never was. She was crabby and irritable, but she was wearing a beautiful cream-colored ensemble that was only for special occasions. The door slammed again, and again it was not Harry. It was her mother, Tamara.
“Darling, what are you doing, dressed like that?” Tamara asked. “Where’s your apron?”
“Maybe I don’t want to wear your horrible aprons anymore. I’m allowed to look pretty from time to time, aren’t I? Do you think I enjoy serving burgers all day long?”
Jenny had tears in her eyes.
“All right, tell me what’s going on,” her mother said.
“It’s Saturday and I’m not supposed to be working! I never work on weekends!”
“But you were the one who insisted on replacing Nola when she asked for the day off today.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know anymore. Oh, Mom, I’m so miserable!”
Jenny had been nervously fiddling with a bottle of ketchup, and then she dropped it. The bottle smashed, and her immaculate white sneakers were splattered red. She burst into tears.
“My darling, what’s happened to you?” her mother asked.
“I’m waiting for Harry, Mom! He always comes on Saturday . . . So why isn’t he here? Oh, Mom, I’m so stupid! How could I have believed that he loved me? A man like Harry would never want a common diner waitress like me! I’m such an idiot!”
“Come on, don’t be like that,” Tamara said soothingly, taking her daughter in her arms. “Take the day off, go and have some fun. I’ll fill in for you. I don’t want you to cry. You’re a wonderful girl, and I’m sure that Harry has a crush on you.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
Mrs. Quinn thought for a moment. “Did he know you were working today? You never work Saturdays. You know what I think, darling? Harry must be very sad on Saturdays, because that’s the day he doesn’t get to see you.”
Jenny’s face lit up.
“Oh, Mom, why didn’t I think of that?”
“You should go to his house. I’m sure he’d be very happy to see you.”
What a wonderful idea! She would go find Harry at Goose Cove and take him a nice picnic lunch. The poor guy was probably working so hard he’d forgotten to eat. She rushed to the kitchen to stock up.
• • •
At that very moment, 130 miles away, in the little town of Rockland, Maine, Harry and Nola were picnicking on a seaside boardwalk. Nola was throwing pieces of bread to the huge screeching seagulls.
“Seagulls are my favorite birds,” said Nola. “Maybe because I love the ocean, and wherever there are seagulls you’ll find the ocean. It’s true, even when the horizon is blocked by trees, you can look up in the sky and see seagulls and know that the ocean is close. Will there be seagulls in your book, Harry?”
“If you want. I’ll put anything you want in this book.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’d like to tell you, but I can’t.”
“Is it a love story?”
“Kind of.”
He looked at her, amused. He was holding a notebook, and was attempting to draw the scene in pencil.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Making a sketch.”
“You draw too? Show me—I want to see it!”
She came close.
“That’s so beautiful, Harry!”
She cuddled up to him in a rush of tenderness, but he pushed her away, almost by reflex, and looked around to make sure nobody had seen.
“Why did you do that?” Nola asked. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“Nola, you’re fifteen . . . and I’m thirty-four. People would be shocked.”
“People are stupid!”
He laughed, and sketched her furious expression in a few lines. She pressed herself to him again, and he let her. Together they watched the seagulls fighting over the scraps of bread.
They had decided a few days earlier to make this getaway. He had waited for her near her house, after school. Close to the bus stop.
“Harry? What are you doing here?” she had said.
“I don’t really know, to be honest. But I wanted to see you. I . . . Nola, I’ve been thinking about your idea again . . .”
“About being alone together?”
“Yes. I was thinking we could go away this weekend. Not far. To Maine, for example. Someplace where nobody knows us. So we can feel more free. Only if you want to, of course.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful! But it will have to be Saturday. I can’t miss the Sunday service.”
“Then let’s make it Saturday. Can you get off work?”
“Of course! I’ll ask Mrs. Quinn for the day off. And I know what to tell my parents. Don’t worry about it.”
I know what to tell my parents. As soon as he heard these words, he wondered what had got into him, falling for an adolescent girl. And here on the beach in Rockland, the thought returned to him.
“What are you thinking about?” Nola asked, still pressed against him.
“About what we’re doing.”
“What’s wrong with what we’re doing?”
“You know perfectly well what’s wrong with it. Or maybe you don’t. What did you tell your parents?”
“They think I’m with my friend Nancy Hattaway, and that we left very early to spend the day on her boyfriend Teddy’s father’s boat.”
“And where is Nancy?”
“On the boat with Teddy. Alone. She said I was with them so Teddy’s parents would let them take the boat.”
“So her mother thinks she’s with you, and your mother thinks you’re with Nancy. So if they call each other, the stories will hold up.”
“Exactly. It’s a foolproof plan. I have to be home by eight. Will we have time to go dancing? I really want to dance with you.”
• • •
It was 3 p.m. when Jenny arrived at Goose Cove. As she parked her car in front of the house, she noticed that the black Chevrolet was not there. She rang the doorbell anyway, but there was no reply. She walked around the house to check that he was not out on the deck. He must have gone out to clear his head, she thought. He had been working very hard; he needed to take breaks. He would undoubtedly be very happy to find a nice snack on his table when he returned: roast beef sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, raw vegetables with an herb dip she had made herself, a slice of pie, and some fruit.
Jenny had never before seen the inside of the house at Goose Cove. She thought it was beautiful. She could not help imagining herself living here with Harry: summer breakfasts on the deck, cozy winters spent by the fireplace, with Harry reading to her from his new novel. Why yearn for New York? Even here, together, they would be so happy. They would not need anything but each other. She set her meal on the dining room table and then sat in a chair and
waited. She was going to surprise him.
She waited for an hour. What could he be doing? Bored, she decided to wander around the house. The first room she entered was the office. It was somewhat cramped but nicely furnished, with a closet, an antique ebony writing desk, bookshelves on the wall, and a wide wooden desk cluttered with pens and papers. This was where Harry worked. She did not want to snoop, or betray his trust; she simply wanted to see what he spent all day writing about her. And nobody would ever know. Convinced she was within her rights, she took the first sheet from the top of the pile and read it, her heart pounding. The opening lines were crossed out in black felt tip, so she could not read any of the words. But below that she could read quite clearly:
I go to Clark’s only to see her. I go there only to be close to her. She is everything I have ever dreamed of. I am possessed. I am haunted. She is forbidden. I should not. I should not go there. I should not even stay in this miserable town. I should leave, run away, never come back. I am not allowed to love her. It is forbidden. Am I crazy?
Aglow with happiness, Jenny hugged the sheet to her chest. Then she did a little dance and cried out: “Harry, my love, you’re not crazy! I love you too, and you can do anything you want with me. Don’t run away! I love you so much!” Excited by her discovery, she quickly put the sheet back on the desk, fearing that she might get caught, and walked back into the living room. She lay down on the couch, lifted the hem of her skirt so her thighs were showing, and unbuttoned her blouse to reveal the tops of her breasts. Nobody had ever written anything so beautiful about her. She would give herself to him as soon as he returned. She would offer him her virginity.
• • •
At that very moment David Kellergan walked into Clark’s and sat at the counter, where, as always, he ordered a large glass of iced tea.
“Your daughter isn’t here today, Reverend,” Tamara Quinn told him as she brought him his iced tea. “She took the day off.”
“I know, Mrs. Quinn. She’s out sailing, with friends. She left at dawn. I offered to drive her, but she wouldn’t have it. She told me to rest, to stay in bed. She’s such a kind girl.”
“She certainly is, Reverend. I’m very happy with her.”
David Kellergan smiled, and Tamara thought for a moment about this jolly, gentle-faced man in round spectacles. He had to be fifty, and he was thin and rather frail, but he radiated great strength. He never raised his voice, which was calm and composed. She liked his sermons, in spite of his strong southern accent. His daughter was a lot like him: gentle, friendly, obliging, affable. David and Nola Kellergan were good people, good Americans and good Christians. They were well liked in Somerset.
“How long have you been living here now, Reverend?” Tamara Quinn asked. “I feel like you’ve been here forever.”
“Nearly six years, six wonderful years.”
The pastor glanced at the other customers and, a regular himself, noticed that table 17 was free.
“Hey, the writer isn’t here,” he said.
“Not today. He’s a charming man, you know.”
“I know. I met him here. He kindly came to see the end-of-year high school show. I would very much like to make him a member of the congregation. We need people like him to take this town forward.”
Tamara thought of her daughter then and, smiling, could not stop herself from sharing the big news. “Don’t tell anyone, Reverend, but he and my Jenny are maybe an item.”
David Kellergan smiled and took a long drink of iced tea.
• • •
Rockland, 6 p.m. On a deck overlooking the harbor, drenched in late-day sunlight, Harry and Nola sipped glasses of fruit juice. Nola wanted Harry to tell her about his life in New York. “Tell me everything,” she said. “Tell me what it’s like to be a celebrity there.” He knew she was imagining a life of cocktails and canapés, so what could he tell her? He could not very well tell her the truth; he might lose her. So he decided to invent, to play to the full his role as a gifted, respected artist, weary of red carpets and the excitements of New York, come to find the breathing space necessary for his genius in a small New Hampshire town.
“You’re so lucky,” she said when she heard his story. “What an exciting life you lead! Sometimes I wish I could run away, far from Somerset. I feel like I’m suffocating here, you know. My parents are difficult people. My father is a good man, but he’s religious: He has some strange ideas. My mother is so hard on me! You’d think she had never been young. And it’s so boring, having to go to church every Sunday! I don’t know if I believe in God. Do you believe in God? If you believe in Him, I will too.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
“My mother says we have to believe in God, or He will punish us very severely. Sometimes I think that if there’s any doubt, the safest thing is to be very good.”
“Ultimately,” Harry retorted, “the only one who knows whether or not God exists is God Himself.”
She laughed. A simple, innocent laugh. She held his hand tenderly and asked, “Is it okay not to love your mother?”
“I think so. Love is not an obligation.”
“But it’s in the Ten Commandments. Love your parents. It’s the fourth one, or the fifth. I can’t remember. Then again, the First Commandment is to believe in God. So if I don’t believe in God, that means I don’t have to love my mother, doesn’t it? My mother’s so harsh. Sometimes she locks me in my bedroom. She says I’ve been corrupted. I’m not corrupted, though—I just want to be free. I want to be able to dream a little. Oh, my God, it’s six o’clock already! I wish I could stop time! I have to go home now, and we didn’t even have time to dance.”
“We’ll dance, Nola. We’ll dance one day. We have our whole lives for dancing.”
• • •
At 8 p.m. Jenny woke up with a start. She had fallen asleep while waiting for him. The sun was setting; it was evening. She was sprawled on the couch, a thread of drool hanging from the corner of her mouth. She had bad breath. She pulled up her panties, buttoned her breasts away, quickly packed up the picnic, and fled Goose Cove in a cloud of shame.
• • •
They reached Somerset a few minutes later. Harry stopped in a back street near the marina so that Nola could meet up with her friend Nancy and they could go home together. They stayed in the car for a moment. The street was deserted; the day was ending. Nola took a package from her bag.
“What’s that?” Harry asked.
“Open it. It’s a gift for you. I found it in a little store in the center of town, near where we had those fruit juices. It’s a souvenir, so you never forget this wonderful day.”
He unwrapped it. It was a blue painted tin emblazoned with the words SOUVENIR OF ROCKLAND, MAINE.
“It’s for putting dry bread in,” Nola said. “So you can feed the seagulls at your house. You have to feed the seagulls—it’s important.”
“Thank you. I promise I’ll always feed the seagulls.”
“Now say something sweet to me, Harry. Tell me I’m your darling Nola.”
“Darling Nola . . .”
She smiled, and moved her face close to his for a kiss. He pulled back suddenly.
“Nola,” he said abruptly, “we can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“You and me—it’s too complicated.”
“What’s complicated about it?”
“All of it. You should go meet your friend now—it’s getting late. I . . . I don’t think we should see each other again.”
He got out of the car quickly then, to open the door for her. She had to leave now. It was so difficult not to tell her how much he loved her.
“So that’s the breadbox in your kitchen?” I asked.
“Yes. I feed the seagulls because Nola asked me to.”
“What happened after Rockland?”
�
��That day was so wonderful that I became afraid. It was wonderful but too complicated. So I decided I had to distance myself from Nola and make do with another girl.”
“Jenny?”
“You got it.”
“So?”
“I’ll tell you another time, Marcus. We’ve done a lot of talking, and I’m tired.”
“Of course—I understand.”
I turned off the recorder.
24
MEMORIES OF INDEPENDENCE DAY
“GET IN THE GUARD position, Marcus.”
“The guard position?”
“Yes. Go on! Raise your fists, place your feet, get ready to fight. What do you feel?”
“I . . . I feel ready for anything.”
“That’s good. You see, boxing and writing are very similar. You get in the guard position, you decide to throw yourself into battle, you lift your fists, and you hurl yourself at your opponent. A book is more or less the same. A book is a battle.”
“YOU HAVE TO STOP THIS investigation, Marcus.”
These were the first words Jenny spoke to me when I went to Clark’s to ask her about her relationship with Harry in 1975. The fire at Goose Cove had been reported on television, and news of it was gradually spreading.
“Why would I stop?” I said.
“Because I’m worried about you. I don’t like this kind of thing.” Her voice had a mother’s tenderness. “It starts with a fire and who knows how it will end.”
“I’m not going to leave this town until I’ve understood what happened thirty-three years ago.”
“You’re unbelievable! You’re stubborn as a mule, just like Harry!”
“I take that as a compliment.”
She smiled.
“All right, what can I do for you?”
