Brooklyn Gothic, page 12
“Did Miss Marshall tell you why she doesn’t wish to receive any funds?”
“For one, she doesn’t want to give out personal information to people she doesn’t know.”
“Understandable, but a wire transfer can be done.”
“I think it’s more complex. She has a new job and isn’t suffering any permanent injuries. I don’t think she wants to benefit even indirectly from the tragedy.”
“I see. I’m glad to hear she doesn’t have any injuries and is able to work. I couldn’t tell from the news stories.”
Casey hesitated for a few minutes, and then asked: “How’s your house sale going?”
It was almost an hour before she received a reply, an hour she spent periodically staring down her email like the proverbial cat in wait outside a mouse hole.
“Okay, I think,” he finally responded. “But I don’t want to get my hopes up. It’s turned into a legal quagmire with a local claiming his ancestors owned our property, which isn’t true at all. He’s hoping for a payoff, I’m sure, but I don’t appreciate being blackmailed. I think it will get sorted out, but it’s taking awhile. No new beneficiaries for now. I have to concentrate on getting this done. Thank you for everything.”
She wanted to ask more questions. What country was he in? When was he coming back? Would they work together again? Most of all, she wanted to ask if he’d seen a doctor, and what was going on between them, and why he’d previously acted like they could be together if this wasn’t the case. But his impersonal tone demoralized her too much to say any of it.
“Go get him!” she wrote.
Earlier, she’d sent the article she’d written on Natalie Marshall to a website called The Fit, which focused on health. An editor had accepted her pitch (for a whopping $200) the week before. Casey had chosen the site, which had large traffic numbers, because she knew it would allow her to keep the article focused on what Natalie wished to focus on, self-defense. She had also included a side bar Q&A with Natalie’s Jiu-Jitsu instructor.
Now, as an afterthought, goaded by the idea that Mr. Foster might think she’d spent weeks writing summaries that should have taken no more than several days, she attached the article she’d written on Natalie to her email. “You might want to see this,” she wrote.
He went silent.
24
Four Weeks Later
Casey had sold off or given away the last of her things and, with the help of the superintendent, had moved the grubby thrift store couch to the sidewalk. All she had left was her mattress, some clothes, her laptop, and various personal items, most of which were boxed up. The movers would arrive at an unholy six in the morning. Then she’d drive the rest of her things to her parents’ house.
She had to move forward with her plans. The last time she’d emailed Mr. Foster, she’d heard nothing back. The hope he’d changed his mind and wanted a relationship had slowly disintegrated into disappointment.
But the more time that passed without seeing him, the more she was able to get perspective and prioritize her career future. A master’s degree to prepare her to work with victims of trauma appealed to her. In Pennsylvania, she’d do more research on that and which school would be the best option.
In the early evening, restlessness itched the underside of her skin and she was seized with the desire to see the mansion one last time and take a few pictures. Who knows what would happen to the grandiose, creaky old place once it was sold. Perhaps it would be torn down in favor of a characterless condominium.
The sun would set in about an hour, so she rushed out the door.
She caught the train to Grand Army Plaza and walked the familiar tree-lined street to Foster House, her sad, cinder-blocked feet weighing her down.
As she rounded the cross street, she spotted the red and white “For Sale” sign pitched on the mansion’s sparse, neglected lawn, and as she drew closer, her pulse whipped into a frenzy. Over the sign was a yellow strip with the block letters “SOLD.”
Recalling how Mr. Foster had told her no one could move in until he’d “expired,” she walked up the steps as if in a trance. She rang the doorbell and didn’t hear its deep clanging. She tried again, and again was met with perilous silence. This is why she hadn’t heard from him. The thing she dreaded most had happened!
She grabbed the grimacing devil knocker and banged it against the metal, not knowing what she’d say if Miss Brock answered. Leave now. She didn’t want to know he was dead. She would walk calmly away, go on about her life, and imagine he was living abroad. But her body was on autopilot. When the knocker didn’t bring anyone to the door, she pushed her thumb into the handle and the door cracked open.
“Hello?” she called, her voice bouncing around the walls. “Miss Brock?”
The interior was dim, a blush of light emanating from within the bowels of the house. Why the door would be unlocked if no one was here, she didn’t know. The foyer was stripped almost bare, devoid of its antique furnishings and signs of living. She walked in, adjusting her eyes into the shadows.
“Can I help you?”
Casey let out a little scream as she spun around. Mr. Foster was staring at her. It took her a moment to register that it really, truly was him.
“Jesus, you scared me!” Her palm was plastered to her chest, and she thrust out her other arm in a “give me a moment” gesture.
“I’m sorry, but this is my house,” he said, appearing to enjoy the spectacle of her spasming nerves.
“I know, but I thought you were out of the country! I hadn’t heard a thing!”
“I came back last night. Went out to grab dinner. Guess I forgot to lock the door.” He smiled at her. It was a big, white-toothed smile, the type she couldn’t remember ever having seen on him—almost carefree. In fact, all of him looked different. His hair was neat and short, his cheeks were round and practically glowing, his eyes so romping they seemed dark blue.
Her racing heart calming, Casey said, “I saw the ‘Sold’ sign and… I guess I thought maybe you were…”
“Dead?”
“Well…” She laughed awkwardly.
“Here I am,” he said, holding up his palms. “Quite alive.”
“The doorbell—”
“Workers have been bringing the electrical up to code. They disabled it.”
She nodded tightly, looking down at the dark wood floor. “I just came in to see if you were alive or what,” she said, horrified at her own tactlessness. “Since you didn’t let me know what was going on… even whether I’d see you again.” She looked up, and was more horrified to feel her bottom lip quivering. “Now I move back home. Tomorrow.”
“So soon?” He moved closer to her. “I was hoping we could talk. I should have gotten in touch, but I wanted to say everything in person.”
“Say what?” she asked warily, desperately wanting two opposing things at once—him to want her, and him to not want her.
“Things are different now,” he said. “Maybe I can prove that to you?”
She stared out one of the mullioned windows, as if the outside world would save her somehow. “I don’t know…” she offered weakly.
He was so close to her now that she could feel his warm, pulsing breath on her neck, and she knew there would be no saving her.
“Let me prove it to you,” he said.
25
She awoke in the morning as if out of a dream, the most alarmingly beautiful dream she’d ever had. But instead of feeling disappointed the dream wasn’t real, she lazed and basked in the knowledge that her reality was better than any dream. He was next to her and their bodies were entwined, flesh still sticky and pungent.
She remembered the movers must have shown up to her place hours ago, and probably called her when they couldn’t reach her. She’d come up with some excuse.
She was floaty and euphoric, a deep sexual saturnalia busily changing her brain chemistry, forging new neural pathways, imprinting subliminal messages on her atoms that, in their finest-grained, most simplistic form, read, if you separate from him now it will feel like you’re dying.
He took care with how she felt, more care than she even knew a man would take, working her slowly and firmly, burrowing and crescendoing, taking her somewhere new and high with soft, long, deliberate strokes until her shrouded places were wide open for him and she was embarrassed and exhilarated at how long her abandonment lasted and how loudly she expressed it.
But it was more than sex. It was the way they were with each other afterwards. Clinging, caressing, whispering, giggling. The way he’d murmured, “Let’s fall asleep at the same time, maybe we’ll have the same dream and I can keep seeing you” and “I’ve thought about you every second since I’ve left.” Things she’d always hoped someone would say to her. Things she said back to him and meant them. The way they’d fallen asleep mid-kiss.
Then she was too awake and it furrowed through her, the undercurrent of fear. She worried when their bodies came unmeshed, he was going to start it all up again, telling her was a walking dead man and ordering her to leave.
She lay there, sensing him awake, but not wanting to say anything. When she could take it no longer, she murmured, “Samuel...” Somewhere during the night she’d made the transition from “Mr. Foster” again.
“I meant to ask if you prefer Sam,” she said.
He tilted her chin up to his glowing, sleepy face. “I prefer, ‘You glorious Greek God, you.’”
“Samuel it is,” she laughed.
Then was working his way out from under her, hunching over her. Everything in her stopped and waited.
“I’m sorry for the way I left and the way I’ve acted,” he said, gently. “I need you to know it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be together.” He smoothed straggles of hair on her forehead. “I went to Geneva to have radiosurgery. Sharon had found a specialist a while ago.”
Sharon. So he’d been with her. But there was no snag of jealousy to surprise her. Not with the way he’d been with her last night, and not with the way he was looking at her right now. In fact, if Sharon had found the doctor who’d turned his condition around, then Casey was grateful to her.
“I finally decided to do it, and didn’t want to tell you because there were risks, and I didn’t know if it would kill me even faster. This radiosurgery is rather new for my type aneurysm. But I’m making good progress with it, the blood vessel is shrinking, closing off.” He smiled. “Gamma rays. They put me in a helmet and beamed them right in. Very science fiction.”
Last night, she’d noticed there was a large rectangular shape on the back of his skull where the hair was shorter than the rest, cluing her in he’d had a medical procedure during his trip. But she’d been too focused on wanting to make love to him to ask about it, and figured he would tell her about it when he was ready. They rubbed the stubbly patch together.
“I want to live now,” he said.
“Why not before?” she whispered.
He drooped his head, squeezing her hand. “I didn’t think I had anything to live for. When I felt I did, I didn’t want to risk it. What if I was wrong and had to leave someone I love. I thought it would be easier to leave this world if I left it by myself.”
At the words “someone I love,” her heart almost ballooned out of her chest. She hugged him tight to her.
“I love you too. Whatever time we have together is the time we have together. It’s better than no time together.” Something horrible occurred to her. “You were talking about me, right?”
They gushed with laughter, and when the sound faded away, he snuggled into her arms. “I won’t let you leave this world by yourself,” she said, and they were silent for a long stretch. “So there was no house?” she asked, wanting nudge them into a lighter topic.
“No. I was in Geneva, getting the surgery and the follow-up scans. I did have problems selling our home in Crete, and it was a legal quagmire, but that was last year. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up everything would be fine, if it wasn’t going to be.”
“I understand,” she said, though she was uneasy with the lie. He’d done it so casually. “You can tell me anything about your health,” she said. “I’m sorry if I didn’t want to face the realities of it before. You had justifiable fears and I glossed over them.” She tugged goadingly on a patch of chest hair. “But it sounds like you assumed I’d wait around for you.”
He opened his mouth as if to laugh, but nothing came out. “I would have hated if you didn’t, but if not, then it was for the best.” He looked pensive for a moment before adding, “And I trusted I did a satisfactory enough job in bed last time that you’d wait a bit longer.”
She slapped at his arm and tried to pinch his nipple as he cringed away, yelping, “Ouch, ouch, that was a joke!”
When they calmed down, he went on, “Geneva is the only place to get the treatment. But there’s lots of monitoring and another surgery. I should stay there for several months so I don’t have to keep flying back and forth.” He began squirming. “Would you… move there with me?”
“Of course.”
He broke into a blistering smile and pulled her into a fierce hug. “This is right,” he breathed.
“I assume there are grad schools there.”
“Some of the best. Don’t worry. Geneva is part of civilization. It has schools, and stores, and houses, and things.”
She squished his lips together with her fingers. “So adorable when you’re condescending.” Then something swam up from her hormone-fogged brain. “What’s going on with Miss Brock?”
“For now she’s in South Carolina with her daughter, who has autism. I guess it’s not severe, but she does need extra assistance. I hired home care for her.”
So Miss Brock had a daughter with autism. Perhaps what Casey had perceived as an unpleasant personality was only a mother being distracted with concerns for her daughter.
“That’s wonderful of you,” she said. Then she decided to come out with it. “Samuel, it was obvious Miss Brock didn’t want me here. Do you know why?”
She couldn’t bring herself to confront him about the conversation she’d overheard. And by now, what exactly she’d overheard had faded a good deal in her memory. Something about that Mr. Foster should be more cautious, and that he should find a key.
But to bring it all up now, just when she was so happy to have him in her arms again, was impossible.
He put his mouth against her temple and said, “I think she was looking out for you, not just because of my health situation but my poor history with women.” He stroked her face and went back to kissing her. “But that’s when I was young and dumb.”
And just like that, what she’d heard was sealed off in a little box in her mind.
26
Two weeks later, Casey stood in her apartment, gripping her phone with her shoulder as she used her foot to push a box out of the narrow open kitchen and into the almost-as-narrow living room. The movers would be there within the hour to gather up her things and transport them to the mansion.
She’d also decided to do more cleaning in the apartment. Before, she’d deliberately kept it somewhat dirty as a mini-rebellion for her old landlord being such a pain. But these days, her mood was so buoyant even her old landlord had her goodwill, and she’d decided to put more effort in.
“How’s LA?” Casey asked.
“Great!” Astrid said. “Love the weather. But we need to get a car. The public transportation out here sucks.”
“How’s the acting coming along?”
“All right.” Casey could picture Astrid shrugging and flipping her cinnamon hair. “I had an audition for a fish stick commercial.”
“Interesting. So you’ll… what? Eat a fish stick?”
“Play one.”
“Ahh.”
“Are you still coming out when your project is done?” Astrid asked.
Casey opened cupboards, sweeping a paper towel along the bare boards and the dust puffs dangling on the edges. She noted her salon-perfect sunset pink nails, the kind of thing she’d never bothered with before. She enjoyed prettifying up for Mr. Foster, not that he’d ever commented on her nails, but he always looked at her as if he appreciated everything he saw.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m moving.”
“You told me, to Pennsylvania.”
“A bit farther, as it turns out. Geneva.”
“Geneva?!”
Casey yanked the phone away from her ear as Astrid’s voice pinged to its highest pitch.
“You mean like Switzerland?”
“That’s the one.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s because of him!”
“Why do you say it like that?” she asked, quickly insulted.
“For one, he’s dying, right? I mean, supposedly?”
“Not anymore. He’s had radiosurgery and is doing very well.” Casey could tell by her tone she was hoping for a congratulation of some kind, but knew she wasn’t going to get one.
“I don’t know,” Astrid sighed. “He’s so full of drama: This brain thing, firing you, taking off somewhere, the suicide stuff. Case, he doesn’t even have a cell phone. What kind of oddball doesn’t have a cell phone?”
She flinched at Astrid arming herself with Casey’s own complaints and using them against her. “He didn’t ‘take off,’ he went to get treatment. And excuse me if he’s not doing something really important like trying to become an actor.” Her voice was rigid as glass.
“Okay, look,” said Astrid. “I don’t want this to come between us, but I don’t understand why you have to move to Geneva. I’m a little worried. He always has so much weird stuff going on.”
“You would too if you’d dealt with what he has. Geneva is where his doctor is and where he gets the surgery. I only wanted to tell you everything because I can’t leave him until he’s completely better. I didn’t call for a lecture.”
