Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence, page 9
When a shipment of boxes came in, she took care of them, unloading the books in the storeroom, while Jane worked the floor. No, there were certain things she could no longer share with anyone, the enormity of her grief being one of them. So she let her mind roam, hoping to think about any and everything other than Wyatt. She replayed the scene at Mead Hall, thinking about Bertrand, who she hoped was all right. After unpacking the last of the books, she called him at the college to see how he was faring, remembering only on the fourth ring that he’d gone home. Yet, even as she hung up without leaving a message, she realized that besides wanting to find out how he was, she’d also just wanted to hear his voice, a voice that had spoken some of the kindest, most flattering words at Wyatt’s funeral. Then she was back to thoughts about Wyatt, always back to him, apologizing again for defiling the cottage by allowing Henry into it. She spent the better part of the afternoon justifying this breach of trust, though she knew, without having to be told, that her only real justification was no justification at all.
BY THREE O’CLOCK, she was hungry and tired, so she went to the deli for snacks and drinks. When she returned, Antonia Lively was at the counter, chatting with Jane. After handing Jane the soda and candy bar she’d asked for, Catherine said, “I guess you two have met.”
“We were just talking about her novel,” Jane said.
“Our novels,” Antonia said, smiling. “Who knew there were so many writers living in this little town?”
“More than you think and less than you’d ever want to know,” Jane said, grinning. “No, really. You think New York City is full of writers until you come here. I can rattle off a dozen Winslow ‘writers’ on the spot, young, old, and everything in between.”
“Everyone thinks he’s a writer,” Catherine said flatly. “Everyone thinks he has something important to say.” Of course, she was only quoting Wyatt, who often taught summer fiction workshops and private instruction to would-be writers.
“Everyone does have something to say,” Jane said, frowning. “Don’t you think so, too, Antonia?”
Antonia paused thoughtfully before answering: “I think there’s something to that, yes. I also think it’s important to see that as writers we have an obligation to give our voices to those who can’t speak. We have to speak for the living who might not be able, and for the dead who can’t.”
“Exactly,” Jane said. “Brava.”
“Are you just browsing, or is there something we can help you find?” Catherine asked Antonia.
“Well, first, I was hoping to talk you into coming over for dinner tonight,” she said. “Second, I really do want to talk to you sometime about Wyatt’s novel. He was such a great writer.”
“Is a great writer,” Catherine said, anger edging her voice.
“Catherine,” Jane said.
“No, she’s right. He is a great writer,” Antonia said. “I just want to tell you that your loss is the loss of everyone in the literary community. Wyatt was—is—a genius. I love The Last Cigarette.”
“That’s very gracious of you to say,” Catherine responded, thinking the remark a little unctuous and ill timed. Still, just like that, Antonia had stolen another piece of her.
“So you’ll come to dinner, then?” she asked.
Jane raised her eyes from the register, and said, “I thought we—”
“We are,” she said, turning to Antonia. “I’m sorry. Another time?”
“Sure,” she said sweetly, though her face held an unaccountable scowl. Something about the scowl, the suddenness of it, the way it darkened her face, reminded Catherine of her much younger self, the scowl she herself used whenever she didn’t get her way. She doesn’t take rejection well, Catherine thought, and for the first time this summer felt sorry for Antonia, whose loneliness emanated from her in unending waves. From a distance, one might not have noticed it, but up close, the girl throbbed with it. Why shouldn’t she? A new place, a new life—Catherine understood it all too well.
She wondered whose idea it had been to invite her to dinner, Henry’s or Antonia’s, deciding finally on the latter. Then she wondered why it was so important to Antonia that she come. Was she misreading the girl’s stab at friendship as mere politeness, or was she being her usually cool and restrained self? Wyatt sometimes accused her of having a cool restraint, a trait, he said, better suited to writers than to wives. Catherine knew that it took a great deal to get her involved, but once she was, she was utterly committed. So here was this girl, a stranger and yet not a stranger at all, reaching out to Catherine, and there was Catherine, inadvertently turning away from her. She thought again of the short story she’d read, and the novel she couldn’t wait to read, the novel that had already been called wise and graceful, even though the girl who stood before her appeared to be neither. The scowl now gone, Antonia said, “I really think it’d behoove you, Catherine, to at least stop by for dessert.”
Though she found Antonia’s manner surprising, even aggressive, Catherine said, “I’ll think about it. Thank you.”
After reclaiming a smile, Antonia said, “Don’t think. Do,” then rattled off her address as if Catherine didn’t already know it. With that she said good-bye to Jane and left the store, lighting up a cigarette the moment she stepped out on the sidewalk.
“She’s kind of pushy,” Jane said, after she’d left. “And hello? Wasn’t I standing right here when she invited you to dinner?”
“I’m sure she meant nothing by it. I’m sure you’ll be invited the next time,” she said, and felt a sudden compulsion to tell her everything, about Linwood Lively and about the morning at Mead Hall, but didn’t.
“You aren’t thinking about going there for dessert, are you? I mean, it’s bad enough you have to see Henry Swallow every—”
“Okay,” she said. “I promise if I decide to go, I won’t tell you about it.”
“Catherine,” she said, “if you decide to go, you have to call me the second you get home! Maybe then you can explain to me what she sees in him. You don’t think he’s serious about her, do you? She’s about ten years old. A smart, precocious ten-year-old, but still.”
“Ten is better than five,” Catherine said, heading to the storeroom for two cups of ice for their warming sodas.
When she returned, Antonia was back and rummaging through the bin of used books. “I forgot I needed something to read,” she said. “I just finished Anna Karenina. Do you think Tolstoy knew when he finished it that he’d just written the Great Russian Soap Opera? Oblonsky, Vronsky, Dolly, and Anna. Is it cheesy of me to admit I was both laughing and crying by the last page?”
She pulled out The Brothers Karamazov, Goodbye, Columbus, and Another Country, replacing them when she discovered a copy of The Last Cigarette, which had apparently arrived without Catherine’s noticing it. Antonia turned it over, gazing at Wyatt’s photo, then flipped through the pages of the novel, reading silently to herself, emitting faint sighs. “I love it, just love it,” she said. “Henry loves it, too. He thinks it’s one of the best novels of the last thirty years.”
“Excuse me?” Catherine said, shocked. Her face went bright hot, and she blushed against her will.
“People change their minds. Even Henry,” Antonia said. “You should look through his new collection. He mentions it there. I’m not sure which page, but it’s easy enough to find.”
As Jane was helping a customer locate How to Cook a Wolf by M. F. K. Fisher, she rang up Antonia’s purchase. “Come tonight,” the girl said, more emphatic this time, as Catherine slid a bookmark into the book and the book into the bag. “See you later,” she added, moving to the door.
Catherine remained at the register, still aghast. Had she heard Antonia right? Had Henry told her he thought Wyatt’s novel was one of the best of the last thirty years? It seemed improbable, even impossible, that Henry could change his mind so radically, especially since he’d hated the novel with such vehemence. Still, Antonia’s declaration stunned Catherine, and she left the register, moving toward the “New Arrivals” table. Here she searched for Henry’s collection among the other titles, only to remember she’d sold the last copy yesterday. She pictured Henry’s book still at home on the credenza, still untouched. She was happy not to have gotten rid of it, though at the same time she was terrified of what she might or might not find in its pages. What have you done, Henry? Catherine thought, going back to the register to finish out the rest of her shift.
A FEW DOORS down from the bookstore, Thai Palace III was still crowded when the three women were finally seated forty minutes after arriving. Louise, who occasionally reviewed new restaurants for the local paper, commented on the minimal decor, the posters of Thailand stuck on the walls, the small brass Buddhas perched on the tables, each Buddha holding a tiny daisy in his hands. “Plastic, of course,” Louise said. No one wanted to say what each was thinking—that the Thai restaurant was located in what had once been the pet store, a place that held associations for all of them, a place that Catherine and Wyatt had often visited, looking at puppies but never buying one.
So here she was, thinking about Wyatt again, Catherine realized with chagrin. She willed her thoughts back to the table and her friends. Though the restaurant was long and dingy, absent of any charm or character, she was happy to be present for the grand opening. Happy to have at least one more option of places to dine, anything other than what had become a rather mundane experience at Maddox Cafe. Except for the food, she knew the experience here would be the same. She’d never tell her friends about this boredom of hers, because she loved them. Sometimes, like tonight, as the waiter took their order and served them complimentary glasses of plum wine, Catherine wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. As she glanced around her, she saw the same familiar faces she’d seen for years, the bookstore regulars, the college professors, her letter carrier and his girlfriend, her dry cleaner and his boyfriend, even the man who delivered her newspaper. All were in attendance and all smiled and nodded when they saw her.
For a moment, she looked around for Henry and Antonia, then recalled that they were dining together, without her. She even looked for Linwood Lively, oddly excited at the idea of seeing him again. She wasn’t confrontational, but something in her wanted to challenge him, the same way she wanted to confront Henry. Silly men, she thought, sipping her wine, the taste of it far too sweet. Yet she drank on, the wine like an anesthetic, numbing her against the dread of Henry and his essays, against Antonia and what she’d told Catherine this afternoon. She was buoyant when she took her first bite of the pad thai, the delicious taste of noodles and peanuts, of bean sprouts, spices, and shrimp, exploding in her mouth.
“It’s delicious,” she said.
“Mine’s fantastic,” Jane said.
Louise remained unconvinced. “Dog food,” she said, setting down her fork. “I suppose we can stop guessing what happened to all the animals.”
“Louise,” Catherine said, a little tipsy, “negativity isn’t good for the digestion.”
“Maybe not, but a healthy dose of realism is,” she said. “You should try it, Catherine.”
“Um, please,” Jane said. “I’m leaving if you’re going to bicker.”
“We aren’t bickering,” Catherine and Louise said, in unison, which caused them to smile.
“I still don’t understand why you haven’t gotten rid of Henry yet,” Louise said, “especially when I have someone far more suitable in mind.”
“Who is that?” Catherine asked.
“My son, Chase, of course,” she said. “Now, before you say no, just let me—”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “Besides, you just want him out of the house.”
“Well, I think it’s a marvelous idea,” Jane said.
“How much is Henry paying you?” Louise asked. “If you don’t mind my prying, that is.”
“Fourteen hundred a month,” Catherine said with pride.
“I’ll double it,” she said. “Every young man my son’s age needs his own place. You can believe me when I tell you that no one will paint words on the cottage as long as Chase is there.”
“No, he’ll just ransack the inside,” she said. “No offense, Louise, but I’d just as soon leave it empty than hand it over to a twenty-one-year-old boy.”
“Twenty-two-year-old man,” Louise corrected. “Let me tell you something about my son: he’s more of a man than that Henry Swallow will ever hope to be.” And with that, she fell silent.
“Ready or not, I’m changing the subject,” Jane said. “Let’s talk about the man over there who keeps staring at Catherine.” She motioned with her head to a table against the wall, where a handsome man in a blue suit sipped his water. “He’s been eyeing Catherine since we got here,” she said. “I think she should go talk to him.”
“She will do no such thing,” Louise said, without looking at the man. “This is a restaurant—yes, a bad one—but it’s still a restaurant, not a singles bar.”
While Louise spoke, Catherine stood, getting up on the pretense of using the bathroom. As she did, she eyed the gentleman—to her that’s what he looked—who was neither old nor young, but ageless, his eyes blue, his face broad and open, carved with smile lines. To her he looked like a traveling salesman straight out of the 1940s, and she imagined he had a deep, resonating voice and that this voice would try to sell her a Bible, a magazine, or a vacuum cleaner. And she knew she’d buy or at least think about buying anything he was peddling.
As she passed him, she slowed her step and he nodded his head at her, said good evening. She nearly swooned at the sound of his voice, which was even deeper than she’d expected. “Sit with me,” he said, but something else was in his voice, too, a sharp breathlessness and a hiss that caught her off guard, and then she was moving away from him, down the length of the restaurant, passing friends and acquaintances, his proposition still ringing in her ears. In the bathroom, she checked her face and hair, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, her fingers trembling. She’d never been much good at flirting and wasn’t even sure she remembered how. Suddenly she wanted to flirt, and this admission sent further trembles through her. She understood that she wasn’t beautiful, but she did have a compelling, unusual face, soft green eyes, and curly blond hair that fell to her shoulders. She tanned deeply in the summer. Most men found her interesting—that’s what they always said—and she took this to mean that they didn’t find her threatening. In addition, Wyatt was gone, and though she missed him, she reminded herself again that her grieving had to end and that what she was feeling now—excitement, anticipation—was okay. Sit with him, she thought, dropping the lipstick into her purse. She pushed out of the bathroom with newfound hope and purpose and headed for his table, but he wasn’t there. Now slightly wilted, she joined her friends, who had already paid and were waiting for her at the door.
“How much do I owe?” she asked, digging through her purse for her wallet, unable to meet their eyes, shame rising in her throat like bile. She could tell that her voice was shaking, that her friends were staring at her. When she looked up at them, she asked, “What?”
As she said this, she glanced out the window to see the man standing in the shadows across the street, just standing there, a book in his hand. Her heart soared, even as Louise said, “You don’t owe us a penny,” and touched her hand. “You know, Catherine, that all of my fussing is merely a symptom.”
“Of what?” Catherine asked, as the man moved deeper into the shadows of the park. When she lost sight of him, her heartbeat slowed, yet the shame lingered. Then she was filled with sadness and a strong need to get away from the restaurant and her friends.
“Of how much I love you,” Louise said as they stood on the sidewalk.
A sultry night, the air was charged with rain, yet Catherine knew it wouldn’t rain a drop. She wanted it to rain, wanted the skies to break open, to crackle with lightning and split with thunder, and she wanted the storm to ravage the town, uproot trees and tear shingles from homes—anything to upset the monotony that was her life, including her lovely but dead-end job, these dinners with her friends, the empty house. Another night alone with the radio—the dread of this was simply too much to bear. Bear it, though, she would.
After she got home, she turned on the radio, all the more frustrated with herself. It had been the first time in ages that she’d even considered flirting with a man, and then this man got up and left? Well, she thought, if it’s meant to be, I’ll run into him again. She curled up on the sofa and gazed absently at Henry’s collection of essays lying on the credenza, surprised now that she felt no urge to read it. Why should she? Whatever I find in its pages won’t bring Wyatt back, she thought.
“Here I am,” she said aloud to the radio, to Wyatt. “Another night.”
It wasn’t just another night, however, because, like it or not, something had been set loose, and the storm wasn’t outside but inside Catherine herself, and she sparked and tingled with longing. She jumped up and slipped back on her flats, not bothering to shut off the radio, not bothering to think about Henry and the lease, or Antonia and her strange invitation. After grabbing her purse, she fled the house and climbed into the car, heading for Tint, the bar at the Tweed & Twining Arms hotel. Halfway there, however, she lost momentum, picturing the place, the drunken, flirtatious college girls and the men who bought them pitchers of beer; the lonely, desperate women who gazed yearningly at these men, trying to catch their eyes; the college boys, who weren’t at the bar to make meaningful connections, these inappropriate boys with just one thing on their minds, which wasn’t love. Just like that, she turned the car around, the inner storm of lightning and thunder evaporating, leaving in its place a searing aridness.
