Most fondly,
M.
Dearest Martine,
I write you instead of responding to Amelia, because I can only assume you are aware of her letter (which I enclose). I am happy she arranged for time off to go to Maine and be with you, though I am slightly taken aback that this happened just as I was considering arriving myself. I assume that now the two of you are together, you will not find my visit so necessary. I am pleased, also, that she can be there when you fly from Boston to visit your father. I do hope he is improving daily and send him my very sincere best wishes for a speedy recovery.
Can you imagine that from my perspective, Amelia’s letter would appear quite intemperate? I understand, of course, women’s sympathy for one another, but what value will her presence be if she encourages you in skepticism toward me and tells you your nightmares are quite logical? I am arguing only for the necessity of trying to triumph over circumstance. Of course I understand that I have made mistakes, and if you see clearly what I should do now to affect the outcome of situations that have arisen from those mistakes, I would welcome the information. I do not mean to be unkind, as I hope Amelia realizes I like her very much, and she has been quite kind to me in New York, but whatever you write me I would like to be an expression of your ideas rather than the result of conferring with anyone else. Speaking of which, I registered the information that the two of you had spoken to Dr. St. Vance. I think highly of his abilities, and if this mitigates your distress in any way, it was a good thing for Amelia to have encouraged you.
I am being as philosophical as possible about the good that may come of Amelia’s knowledge concerning my intimate affairs. I assume that since she is so much a woman of intelligence and good taste that both you and Alice adore her, her discretion can be counted on.
With great affection,
M.
Dearest Martine,
I will be honest. I, too, have more than one scenario. There are, however, only two, and I keep returning to them — not in nightmares, as you do, or even in dreams, but during the course of a day, never deciding, always in a state of conflict. In the first, I walk away from everything. One cannot truly do this, but I imagine that in cowardice I could rationalize my behavior and avoid the pain of returning to the house, let those who cursed me for a coward curse me for a coward. I could join a business venture beginning in New York, arrange through lawyers, if need be, the care of the children, their schooling. I could send you a large check, which you might cash or not, however you decided, as a thank-you for all you have done. That would be irresponsible, at the very least. Entirely deplorable. But I know deep in my heart that I am capable of doing that. In the second scenario, I return not so much to the house and children as to you, feeling that there is still the possibility that after all the malingering, and in spite of my deficiency of character you would fold me in your arms. Though Alice might be lost to me — isn’t she lost to us? — you would step forward as if out of the fog, and that fog would be the past, which would dissipate, wafting away as I stood with you in my arms. I feel that possibility within me.
You and Amelia have asked what I envision. One of the above.
M.
13
TONY HEMBLEY STOOD at the grave, beside the other mourners. She had asked him not to come, but when did Tony, headstrong Tony, listen to anyone, let alone a woman who had already been demonstrated to be unable to influence the way he thought about anything, herself included? What had he thought? That she’d be secretly glad to see him? Was he egotistical enough to suppose his presence might make it easier for her to endure the funeral, or just so guilty he had decided to intrude himself in a place where he had no business, perhaps even deceiving himself into thinking his presence revealed a man of good character, one who offered friendly support, who stood by in times of trouble.
Marshall was thinking: This could quite possibly have been McCallum.
She thought: Not long ago, Evie was alive; not long ago, that man standing across the grave with his scarf flung to the side like a schoolgirl’s ponytail and I were lovers.
Sonja was surprised that the sausage nurse had come to the funeral. Dressed all in black, with a black wool scarf tied to hold her black hat on her head, the woman dabbed at her eyes as the priest spoke of Evie’s many good qualities. A teenage girl stood next to her, equally fat, equally sad, a paisley scarf in shades of beige and brown draped over the shoulders of her long black coat. She stood close to her mother’s side, staring straight ahead, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for the funeral to end. Sonja had never seen the girl before she and her mother walked into the church, and she had never seen the old man in the wheelchair — at the church, or elsewhere — though she imagined it must have been the black man who had called on his behalf to inquire where the burial would take place. Marshall had taken the call; at first, he had been taken aback by the lengthy explanation the caller gave about who he was himself: a caretaker; a “student of life in our universe,” he had apparently told Marshall. Now, the black man held the handles of the wheelchair, his orange leather gloves enormously puffy, as if two small life rafts had inflated on his hands. The man was expressionless except when he bent forward to whisper to the old man, to quickly place one consoling hand on the old man’s shoulder, then withdraw to his official position. She watched them out of the corner of her eye as the priest sprinkled holy water on the grave.
As the true faith united her with the throng of the faithful on earth, your mercy may unite her with the company of the choirs of angels in heaven.…
“Who knows?” Marshall whispered, sensing her implied question as she gazed — apparently, not as subtly as she thought — at the two men. “Maybe Evie had a boyfriend.”
“Very funny,” Sonja said, with no trace of amusement. Across the grave, Tony caught her eye and would have held it, except that she looked away. Jenny Oughton stood several yards away from them, alone, her violet coat (so that was why she had had such unusually colored gloves at the hospital, Marshall was thinking) unbuttoned and whipped by the now-steady wind, a large embroidered shoulder bag hanging from her shoulder. She wore earrings that caught the sun so that Marshall had difficulty keeping his eyes off Jenny Oughton. It was as if she were signalling, flashing a message to him or, more likely, to Sonja, who had earlier raced to embrace her, obviously touched that her busy friend had found time to come, on this frigid day, not only to the church, but also to Evie’s burial.