Who Killed Dorian Gray?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  As she sat on the porch listening to the long cascades of cicadas, she was lulled into a remembrance of her childhood in the big house on the lake. It was all so familiar, so like a return—these sounds were her madeleine, her Proustian “memory trigger,” and she wondered if the rhythms of the country had been imprinted upon her in childhood, hardwired forever into her brain.

  I’m happy, Claire realized.

  Happiness, she thought, is like romantic love: life without it seems normal and natural enough, but when one is suddenly granted the extreme pleasure of being in love, the world is transformed and every moment infused with an almost unbearable sweetness.

  With Wally gone and Meredith away at camp, her summer until now had been a series of days barely dragged through, and nights of lachrymose longing. Now the wind in the trees stirred up feelings of wonder and expectation, and the cool days shivered with possibilities.

  Ralph sauntered around the corner and disappeared into the bushes. Even he looked more relaxed, she thought, and even a little thinner; up here there was so much to occupy him that maybe food had lost some of its luster.

  Later that morning, Claire had a private conference scheduled with Terry Nordstrom to talk about his manuscript. She had been wondering how to tell him that TheGreat Gatsby had already been written, but he saved her the trouble. He plopped onto the horsehair sofa in the library with the same vigor with which he did everything, and stared moodily at the ground.

  “It all sucks,” he said angrily. “I’ll have to scrap this book and start over.”

  “What do you mean?” said Claire.

  Terry heaved a great sigh and shook his head. “Nobody’s gonna want to read about the life of a working-class grunt like me.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not true at all. Just think about—”

  “Oh, yeah, I know; tell me about all the masterpieces which have been written about trailer trash—”

  “Well, I wouldn’t use—”

  “Wouldn’t use that term? What would you prefer—white trash, lowlife?” Terry took the couch cushion in his arms and hugged it as though he wanted to crush it.

  Claire took a deep breath and held it. There was a pause and then she said, “Why are you so angry?” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them.

  Terry stared at her. “What?”

  Claire took another deep breath. She was in it now; it was too late to turn back “You’re so angry . . . what are you so angry at?”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “You really take the cake, you really do. You’re just like the rest of them here. You people are so pampered! You have no idea what it’s like to actually have to work for a living, to sweat in a stupid diner kitchen seven days a week just so your family can afford to buy shoes!”

  There was a silence. Claire couldn’t think of anything to say. Terry sounded exactly like her father, going on and on about his hard times growing up. She had no doubt he had suffered, but he had wielded his misery like a weapon, using it against Claire and her brother, beating them into a guilty silence.

  “Oh, never mind!” Terry said suddenly, rising from the couch and throwing the pillow violently to the floor. “I don’t know why I bother,” he muttered, and stalked out of the room. Claire sat there in silence for a few minutes, then got up and went to look for Liza.

  She found her in the little garden behind the house, pulling weeds. Seeing Liza bent over the ground, her face shrouded in a big floppy straw hat, Claire suddenly was reminded of her friend Amelia Moore, Robert’s second victim. Amelia had not been as lucky as Claire; Robert had gotten to her before they got to him. Claire could still remember the moment she heard of Amelia’s death, the cold chill she felt in the pit of her stomach as she listened to Amelia’s terrified voice on her answering machine. I’m scared, Claire—I need to talk to you. Those were the last words Claire ever heard her friend utter, because within hours of that call, dear, sweet Amelia was dead, murdered by the man whose bed Claire had shared. Claire had not forgiven herself for this, her inability to see Robert for what he really was.

  “Hi, Claire.”

  Liza’s voice awoke her from her reverie.

  “Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

  Liza straightened up and wiped the sweat off her face. “I was ready to pack it in anyway. Come on, let’s go have some iced tea.”

  Claire laughed. “Do you ever drink anything else except tea?”

  Liza smiled. “Bourbon. And wine, of course . . . in fact, I had a little too much of it last night. I’m trying to sweat it out now. Come on, let’s go inside.”

  Over a glass of mint tea in Liza’s cabin, Claire recounted Terry’s fit of moodiness. When she had finished, Liza shook her head.

  “Poor Terry. He’s so gone over Maya, and he’s convinced that she prefers Billy Trimble because he comes from money and privilege. Terry thinks the whole world judges him as inferior because he’s working class. He doesn’t just have a chip on his shoulder; he has a whole lumberyard.”

  “Well, I just feel bad because I’m afraid I said the wrong thing.”

  Liza took a swallow of tea, her breath frosting over the cold glass. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Terry probably needs a therapist more than he needs a writing instructor anyway.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to insult him. Maybe I should apologize.”

  “I suspect he’ll be knocking on your door by the end of the day, apologizing to you.”

  “Really? You think so?”

  Liza nodded, sucking on the slice of lemon in her tea. “That’s the usual pattern. We’ve all had our ‘Terry run-in,’ and he always apologizes later.”

  “Well, thanks . . . I feel better now.”

  As Claire passed the garden on the way back to Ravenscroft, she thought again of Amelia, of her cheerful face and sweet nature.

  Put out the light, then put out the light.

  Being done, there is no pause.

  Claire had two manuscripts to read that afternoon, so before dinner she decided to drive down to a spot by the river Liza had told her about. Liza’s directions were perfect, and soon Claire was sitting on the banks of the Hudson as it flowed majestically by, lazy as the day.

  Looking at the even, serene ripples beneath her, Claire thought about the seasons of her childhood, inseparably linked to the rhythms of Lake Erie. With its variety of moods, the lake had a personality, and the locals often spoke of it as if it were alive.

  Lake looks angry this morning; better stay away from it.

  Water’s calm today; must be in a good mood.

  Now, sitting on the banks of the Hudson, Claire understood why water was a metaphor for life: mysterious, always in motion, teeming beneath the surface. The sun glinted upon the ripples, sending a flash of sparkles to her half-closed eyes . . . she didn’t even feel her eyelids closing, and wasn’t aware that she had nodded off until she was suddenly awakened by the flap of a fish jumping. She opened her eyes just as it slapped back into the river, leaving behind only a splash of white water.

  The wind gathered in the trees, sending a shudder across the surface of the water. Claire shivered and pulled her sweater closer around her shoulders. It was getting late; the sun had sunk low into the sky and it wouldn’t be long before it disappeared behind the highest mountain peak. If Claire had any regrets, she could not remember them now; if she had any sorrows, they had vanished into the shimmering sunlight that sparkled and leaped from ripple to ripple. If any fears gnawed at her, they sank into the soft sand of the riverbank, pulled under by the smooth, insistent, never-ending current, watched over by the gods that haunted and blessed these shores.

  Out over the water, a crow croaked hoarsely. Claire strained her eyes to see it, but it was invisible to her. A black butterfly with yellow-tipped wings careened into view, did a crazy figure eight, following its own twisted flight path, and fluttered away as suddenly as it had come. Every time Claire saw a butterfly she couldn’t help thinking of Carl Jung’s s
tory of the butterfly beating its wings against the window, asking to be let in, bringing with it the divine hand of Fate, of—what did Jung call it?—“synchronicity.” Because of this, she always thought of butterflies as messengers from the world beyond our knowledge; she wondered what this one portended.

  The river doesn’t give up its secrets. The words suddenly popped into her head. Still, the buzz of blue flies and the whine of mosquitoes was calming to her mind, as tranquil as a lullaby.

  The wind rattling through the rushes, the languid lapping of the water—all was stillness and peace. The longer she sat upon the bank, the more Claire began to feel she was a part of this landscape, this teeming river life. She thought about Two Joe. As a child, she had a fascination with Indians, with their ability to live close to nature—within nature, as it were—in a way that modern man can only imagine. Claire admired stories of Indian trackers so skillful that they could creep silently upon their prey, not breaking so much as a stick under their softly creeping moccasins.

  “Hello, Redbird.”

  Claire turned to see Two Joe standing over her, his bulky body blocking out the sun’s orb. He wore blue dungarees over a red flannel shirt.

  “Forgive me for disturbing your silence.”

  “Oh, that’s all right; the sun’s almost down anyway.”

  Two Joe picked up a twig, snapped it, and sniffed at the broken end. “It’s been a dry summer here.”

  Claire nodded. She wasn’t sure if he was showing off—or if he could really tell that much from a broken twig.

  “What did you call me just then?” she said.

  Two Joe smiled. “Redbird. That would be your Indian name, because of your hair.”

  “Do you always give people Indian names?”

  Two Joe shrugged. “Sometimes, if I like them . . . and sometimes because I don’t like them.”

  “What is it you call Billy Trimble?”

  “Crooked Arrow.”

  “Any particular reason for that?”

  Two Joe shrugged and threw a stone at the river. It skipped and hopped across the water, barely touching the surface as it slipped into the air again. Claire watched it as she counted the number of skips: seven, eight, nine. When she was a child on Lake Erie, five skips was considered very good.

  “Who else here have you given an Indian name?”

  Two Joe squatted down beside her. “That little one, the angry one from Wyoming—”

  “Terry?”

  “I call him Bantam Rooster.”

  Claire laughed. “That’s good. Who else?”

  “The tall, thin blond one—”

  “Maya?”

  “Yes. I call her White Willow.”

  “That’s nice; it’s pretty.”

  “Redbird is pretty, too.”

  Claire couldn’t tell if he was talking about the name or her, so she said nothing. Two Joe was definitely a flirt, and Claire liked him because he made her feel attractive; there was nothing obnoxious or threatening in his compliments.

  Two Joe threw his twig in the river and watched it float downstream. “You came here because you needed some time to listen to your heart speak.”

  Claire looked at his dark, lined face with its big blunt features and black eyebrows. His skin was the color of aged mahogany. She suspected he was laying this Native American thing on a little thick for her benefit, but she was drawn in nonetheless.

  “It’s very peaceful here,” she said.

  Two Joe nodded and looked out at the lazily flowing water. “My people have a saying: the river never gives up her secrets.”

  Claire stared at him. “That’s so strange. I just—I mean, I was just thinking of those words when you came up.”

  Two Joe shrugged again. “That’s not unusual. I come from a long line of medicine men.” He pointed to a colorful circular pendant with a cross in the middle hanging around his neck. “This is my medicine wheel; it helps ward off evil spirits. Anyone can make them, but if a medicine man makes one, it’s more powerful. Some of us are what your people would call psychic.”

  “Wow—really? Is that why you’re a medicine man?”

  “Hard to say. Could be the talent grows with time, and is passed on to the next generation. I believe everyone has the capability, but most people never develop theirs.”

  “Can you see into the future?” Claire said eagerly, half-believing, half-skeptical.

  “Sometimes. I’ll tell you one thing, though, since you ask: something will happen involving water while you are here.”

  Claire felt a shiver go up her spine. “What? What’s going to happen?”

  Two Joe shook his massive head. “I don’t know; all I know is I had a dream last night, and whatever it is, it isn’t good.”

  “But that’s all you know?”

  Two Joe stood up and brushed the dirt off his dungarees. “I can’t say any more. I may be wrong. I hope I am.”

  Claire stood up, too, stretching her cramped legs. Her left foot had fallen asleep, and she shook it to rid it of the pins and needles. “What happened in your dream?”

  “My spirit guides came to me—the bear and the wolf—and they gave me a warning involving water.”

  “So will it happen to you?”

  Two Joe shrugged. “Perhaps . . . perhaps not. It will be somebody here, though—and within this phase of the moon.”

  The wind had picked up, sending little sprays of water over the once-smooth surface of the river. The ripples had turned into shivers, and Claire felt goosebumps forming on her skin, the tiny bumps prickling under her wool sweater.

  Before thy hour be ripe.

  Chapter 6

  “We missed you at the party, Marcel.”

  Claire was sitting with Liza and Sherry on the front porch eating pasta primavera. Marcel had come by to check on the first-floor water heater, because there was no hot water in the east wing of the house.

  “I’m sorry. I was planning to come by, but then my dog got sick and I had to stay with her.” Marcel leaned against the porch railing, one of his long legs resting on the top step.

  “Is she okay now?” asked Sherry, her mouth full of pasta.

  “Oh, yeah, I guess she got into somethin’ she shouldn’t’ve.”

  Marcel was big and friendly and bland as a golden retriever. He wore a green-checked flannel shirt, blue jeans, and tan work boots.

  “Wait until you meet the Ravenscroft resident stud,” Liza had said to Claire when Marcel called to say he was coming over. Marcel was tall, with a hard, rangy body, big dark eyes, and a thick flop of dark hair, but Claire found him as sexless as a puppy. Liza said he was French-Canadian, though not much of it showed in his accent.

  “Oh, this is Claire Rawlings,” said Liza. “Claire, this is Marcel LeMarc, our all-around handyman and lifesaver. He’s the one who really runs Ravenscroft—or who keeps it running, at any rate.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Claire.

  Marcel reached out a big red hand, the knuckles bulging and raw. Claire shook it; it was knotty and hard as pine.

  Sherry gave him a flirtatious smile. “Would you like some pasta?”

  “Oh, no, thanks; I’ll eat when I get back home. I gotta go check up on Ellie—that’s my dog,” he added for Claire’s benefit.

  “See you later,” said Liza. “Thanks for coming by.”

  “No problem. You got hot water now. All I had to do was flip the switch on the heater; it was off for some reason.”

  “That’s strange. I didn’t even know there was a switch.”

  Marcel shrugged. “Well, maybe someone turned it off and forgot to turn it back on.”

  “I don’t know who would do that.”

  “Never mind; it’s back on now, anyways. Nice meeting you,” he said to Claire, and she thought that if he had a hat, he would have tipped it. He got into his truck and drove away, leaving a trail of dust behind him that rose and settled in a thin grey layer on the vines that twined up around the porch railings.

>   “Pretty cute, huh?” said Sherry, winking and nudging Claire.

  “Yeah, he’s cute,” Claire replied, thinking that golden retrievers were cute, too.

  More interesting, she thought, was Tahir Hasanovic: short and dark and intense, with the burning eyes of a character out of Dostoevsky. Claire had recently reread Crime and Punishment, and she couldn’t help thinking Tahir would make a perfect Raskolnikov.

  After dinner she went upstairs to finish the reading she had started that afternoon. As she walked past Camille’s room, Claire heard the tap-tap-tap of the typewriter. Camille was evidently hard at work, putting in some extra hours before bed.

  When Claire came downstairs an hour later, she found Tahir and Maya talking in front of the fireplace. The night was unusually cold for late August, and a fire was blazing in the grate. The long grey couch was empty, but still Maya and Tahir chose to stand. They were talking in low voices, facing the fireplace, their backs to the rest of the room. Claire made herself a cup of decaf and brought it out to the living room. She sat on the empty sofa, its ancient springs groaning under her weight. Watching Tahir and Maya, she decided that they made an odd pair: long, willowy Maya with her Nordic features and pale eyes, a full half foot taller than Tahir, who was short and dark and hairy. Elves and hobbits, Claire thought, remembering the different creatures that populated Lord of the Rings. Meredith was reading it at camp, and after her last letter, Claire couldn’t resist taking a peak at her own dog-eared copy, sitting for so many years on her shelf after making the move from her parents’ house to New York. It was squeezed in next to Modern German Poetry, which Claire also couldn’t bear to give away, even though her German was as rusty as the creaking spring of the old grey sofa.

  Claire couldn’t help overhearing parts of the conversation between Maya and Tahir.

  “Why is it strange?” Tahir was saying.

  Maya shook her head but did not reply.