Martine, Martine, Martine, Martine—
How often in the two days since we last spoke has your name echoed in my mind, as if by incantation I could conjure up your strong spirit and derive strength from it. I have been almost unable to look anyone in the eye since Alice’s admission to the hospital in Connecticut. They are not so much polite as exceedingly businesslike: every time I admit to my stupidity, they tell me there will be plenty of time to discuss it later, treating me like a child being told to play inside on a rainy day, because the next day is sure to be sunny. They’re very skeptical — with reason, I suppose — of a man whose wife is addicted to drugs and alcohol and who claims to have noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Well, Martine, what has been “ordinary” about Alice since M’s death? And if this might have been the situation when he was alive, did you have the slightest indication this was so? How amazing I didn’t ask you that when I phoned, and how equally amazing that I am ashamed to call again, half because I suspect you, also, must think me a fool, and half because if you do not, and pity me, I would be undone. I know the truth is that you were so horrified by the facts I laid out that you never recovered yourself during my call. Also, I was in the administrative office when I called — just a few big antique tables with typewriters and vases of flowers on them, in the Greek Revival building that is on the hospital grounds — and there was nowhere to sit, the recorded Vivaldi was maddening, a doctor came in and began to argue with an insurance company representative — it wouldn’t seem that in such a moment of crisis I could be so distracted, but I find I hardly remember what I said to you, and what you said to me I remember almost not at all. I felt I knew nothing of the world and that I never have, standing in a room that looked exactly like a room in someone’s private home, yet this was a hospital, my wife was in another similarly antique studded building across a vast Gatsbyesque lawn, and I was expected to sign forms agreeing to pay them any amount they demanded and disappear without seeing her again and to return only after several days had passed, believing that it would take that long to detoxify her body from an assortment of drugs, most of which I had never heard of, that she had presumably washed down with various liquors ingested right under my nose? Fortunately, I was able to reach Dr. St. Vance at once, so at least his overseeing of the situation will begin immediately. Once in the office, I simply ignored the young doctor and managed several calls before the noise level got so loud I gave up. I realize that the welfare of spouses is secondary at such a time, but I find it astonishing that no thought is given to the shock we may be experiencing. On my way out, one of the women sitting at a desk asked if I wished to buy a raffle ticket! It did not instill confidence about the hospital, which Amelia tells me is very fine, and which Dr. St. Vance also seemed to feel would be a good enough place for Alice to be at present. But still, Martine: no one wants to think about winning a bicycle when their wife has been found passed out. It was so annoying as to drive me almost mad.
I am in Amelia’s apartment now, waiting for her to return from work so I can talk to someone friendly and understanding, instead of someone who wants me to sign away all rights to my money and/or buy a raffle ticket. I cannot at this moment stand to go back to the hotel room after the shock of entering it and finding Alice passed out on the bed, the sickening stench of vomit in the air. As coincidence would have it, kind Amelia had phoned the hotel and left a message for me, begging me to find time in the evening to see her and to tell her about Alice, so here I am — let in by her landlord — sitting in her apartment, which I find I have so often imagined, and imagined wrong. It is rather dilapidated, and any movement seems to result in more paint flaking from the walls. Alice always spoke of her fondness for the place by calling it a good place to nest, though I, myself, feel it’s more like the scrap from which a nest could be assembled. I find it difficult to imagine you, so tidy and so given to beautiful arrangements, spending time here without damage to the spirit. I am thinking of the time you occupied this apartment when Alice and I went to Key Largo the fall after M’s death.
I know what is going to happen now. The baby’s death is going to be the starting point for every diagnosis, every possible solution, every recommendation about how Alice and I should live our lives. The thing I have tried so hard to put out of mind is going to be paraded out like an enormous float at Mardi Gras, all the doctors and nurses reaching up their cups for coins. M’s death and Alice’s sad state are going to be paraded by me time and again, and I will no doubt be expected to explain what truths lie beneath the masks. It seems quite excessive punishment for something I did that was not so sinful, really. At least, since we do not speak of it, I assume you don’t think my actions were a sin, or that if they were, you have implicitly forgiven me. That’s why I was so glad you came, and even happier that you stayed.
Ever,
M.
8
SONJA OPENED THE DOOR as Marshall was still fumbling with his key, and he sensed immediately that something was different. Perhaps she smiled slightly more than she would have ordinarily; perhaps she was just a touch too formal in the way she stood before him, as if whoever was behind her might have the ability to stare through the back of her head and see her expression from the front.
Sonja was in her gold sweater, but it was not worn over the black thermal underwear she was so fond of lounging around in. The camouflage boots were gone, and she was wearing white wool socks with her ballet flats. He stared at her in the brief information-gathering moment available to him before he would have to go into the house, looking for a clue. There was none, but none was needed: immediately upon entering he saw McCallum, sitting in a chair by the fire and — incredibly! — McCallum did not rise, but raised his arm and gave him the by-now-familiar two-fingered wave acknowledging that Marshall had just walked into his own house.
“Apparently you’ve both had quite an evening,” Sonja said wryly, as she hugged him, her body not slackening at all as it touched his: formal Sonja, entertaining company.
“My apologies,” McCallum said. “My apologies for having ruined so many people’s lives, though I hope I haven’t dragged you into this thing too far, Marshall.”
“We’ve been discussing his depression,” Sonja said. “The new medicine he’s been taking.”
“After your call, which was certainly within your rights, and I appreciate your attempt to help in this difficult situation, Marshall — after your call, though, Susan broke several items and ordered me out of the house, and since you seemed to think it was crucial to talk to me, and since I found myself with no place to spend the night, I thought I’d drop by.”
“What has he told you?” Marshall asked Sonja, hanging his coat on the coatrack, walking into the living room intent upon giving McCallum no more pleasant a greeting than McCallum had given him. McCallum had taken the chair closest to the fire. His feet, in black socks with gold toes, were splayed on the footstool. On the table next to him was a coffee mug. Sonja went to the sofa and sat down, picking up a pillow and clutching it to her stomach.
“I think it would be a little difficult to begin at the beginning,” she said.
He was sure it would. “How’s Evie?” he said. Let the intruder see that they had other things to think about in their lives besides him. If McCallum had told her about Livan Baker, had she told him anything about their own problems? He knew Sonja. He was sure she had not.