He looked in the phone book, but Savannah wasn’t listed. He rolled over, picked up the phone and called Savannah information. Dorothy’s mother had left Dorothy’s father when she moved north, but he remembered how proud Dorothy had been of her father and how much she’d missed him. Her father had run the Ford dealership there. Maybe he still did, if he hadn’t retired. Or the Ford dealership would be closed; he would think better of calling Dorothy the next morning; the idea could be dispensed with in one quick call. Information gave him the number, the recorded voice telling him to “Please hold for your num-burrr.” He wrote it on the pad by the phone, then looked at the phone, wondering if he really wanted to do this. He dialled. He reached a recording, giving the hours when the shop was open. When the beep came to leave a message, he said, “Mr. Burwell, this is a friend of Dorothy’s from high school. I remembered that you ran the—”
“Hello?” a man’s voice said.
He hadn’t expected that. “Hello,” he said. “I’m trying to reach Mr. Burwell.”
“Speaking,” the voice said.
“Hello, sir,” he said, becoming again an adolescent. “We’ve never met, but I went to high school with your daughter Dorothy—”
“Graduated with honors. Very proud of her. Seems like yesterday,” the man said.
“Yes,” Marshall said. “I was wondering if you knew how I might get in touch with her. To discuss old times,” he added lamely.
“Got a few dollars, I hope.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ll have to call Frankfurt, Germany. She’s married to a German fellow and has two German children, one sixteen years old this month, the other one adopted. Just born.”
“Oh, I see,” he said.
“About the way I look at it. What can you say? She fell in love with a German at the University of Santa Barbara.”
“Oh,” Marshall said.
“She’d love to hear from you,” the man said. “I don’t have the number at the shop. I’ll give you my home phone number and you can call me. I’ll be bowling until ten p.m.”
“Thank you,” Marshall said. He would never call the man. He would hang up and forget all about it.
“Speaks perfect German,” the man said. “Talk fast. Don’t let them hang up on you.”
“No, sir,” Marshall said.
“Here’s my number,” the man said.
Marshall wrote it down and drew cross-hatches beneath the number.
“Reminds me of the time I looked up an old army buddy. Took about twenty phone calls and when I got him, you know what he said? He said, ‘I thought you’d call.’ Thirty years later, that was his reaction.”
“Did you get together?” Marshall said.
“Meant to, but didn’t.”
“Uh-huh,” Marshall said.
“Not impossible. Don’t have but one toe in the grave so far, and I’m not wiggling that one, as they say.”
“I’ll call you later,” Marshall said. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” the man said. He hung up.
Marshall replaced the phone and rolled over on his back. It had only been a strategy not to call Sonja, he decided. He had no real feeling for Dorothy Burwell. He had not felt disappointment when he heard she was married; he had felt relieved she was out of the country.
He got up and opened the armoire, studied the VCR, opened the box, and slid in Betrayal.
By the time it was over, he had decided he could not possibly speak to Sonja. The movie was gripping, a love story that went backward in time, Ben Kingsley the mischievous but calculating husband, wiser than he seemed, revelling in the pain he inflicted. Jeremy Irons was Ben Kingsley’s friend as well as his wife’s lover, outdone in his game of pretense by Kingsley, the master gamesman. A spectacular scene in a restaurant in which Kingsley, coming apart in Irons’s company, speaks about another issue, his voice careening out of control like a runaway car. Marshall was transfixed, admiring such acting talent, in awe of Pinter’s script, but also personally rebuked. The woman had fallen in love with Jeremy Irons, at least. But what would he prefer — that his wife have an affair with someone interesting and handsome: Jeremy Irons? Still, it was annoying and slightly puzzling that she had selected Tony Hembley. Even Sonja felt dismissive of him now. She really did; he had seen it in her eyes. He was grateful that she had had the affair with someone who wasn’t a personal friend of his. Though, to be honest, he had no personal friends. He thought about McCallum writing on the white bag that Livan Baker had been his friend. He doubted it, though maybe McCallum had felt that, in which case McCallum must have been willing to settle for very little. Even he did not say Livan Baker had depths that were not apparent.
He stood on the bed and pulled the fan’s chain, which set it gently spinning. More people passed by, murmuring. He got up and closed the shutters, went back to the bed and thought again of Alicia, not really desiring her, but desiring to desire her. Sort of like Eliot’s “distracted from distraction by distraction.” What he really desired was something to eat. He closed his eyes, imagining himself dressing, walking out the door, asking at the desk for a recommendation of a good restaurant. He awoke an hour later, the ceiling fan stirring warm air that came through the ceiling vent, the duvet he must have pulled over himself unconsciously shed, the thermostat apparently set for heat without his knowledge. The previous occupant, or Alicia’s idea of the perfect temperature?
He decided to forget about dinner, because the rain was still pounding. The problem was, he would probably never fall asleep again, and all he had in the room was the guide to South Carolina. He got up, turned off both the fan and the heat, pulled the duvet back up on the bed, rechecked the drawer in the bedside table: the magazine and the Bible. He picked up the Bible, read randomly for a minute, then found the 121st Psalm and read it. It was inseparable from the context in which he’d heard it years ago, his mother quietly reading, the long time he and Gordon had sat in the room, and then the rainfall that had finally driven their father in from his pacing, Evie holding out a closed umbrella to him, he now remembered — Evie’s assumption he would be going back out into the rain, his mother’s struggle to take the umbrella away from him, though that wasn’t it, she had been trying to take away the bottle in the deep pocket of his coat, saying to him that he was more like her than he admitted, he accusing her of being drunk, Gordon’s sliding closer as if the two of them might meld to intensify their strength for the battle that was about to break out. He and Gordon as still as stones, Evie snatching the bottle away from their father, opening it, and pouring the contents out, the stench of alcohol as strong as the smell of vomit as it slushed into the sink. So many things passed from hand to hand, as if a mad version of hot potato were being played; the umbrella first in their mother’s hands, then grabbed by Evie; their father reaching for it and stumbling over the table; more paperdolls and coloring books spilled; the ripping off of the paperdolls’ arms, and their mother staring, suddenly still and staring, saying, “Is that what you’d really like to do? Don’t you think you’ve done enough to destroy us all already?” He had destroyed them, their mother had said, and Evie had tried to quiet her. The umbrella had flown open, and then their father was gone, the wind blowing in the front door as Gordon sat with his leg pressed against Marshall’s. Marshall had stopped watching. In the darkness he heard the rain, heard their father cursing, and then the sound of his car, motor racing, then tires skidding on wet pavement, followed by Evie’s deep sigh that seemed to have absorbed much of the outside wind, her exhaled breath a barely registering whistle as she collapsed on the sofa and turned to them, looking through them instead of meeting their eyes, saying to their mother, who had rushed to the window to watch the car disappear, “My God, they’re terrified.” He remembered their mother turning toward them then, coming back toward the center of the room but then stopping to carefully pick up the paperdolls and put them back in the box, the mother and father, son and daughter, dog and cat paperdolls she had helped him carefully cut from the pages, tucking the torn pieces in the side pocket of her white nightgown, leaving to Evie the job of comforting them and getting them to bed. The umbrella lay on the carpet, and Evie had muttered something about how absurd it had been to care if he got wet, why should either of them care that he had rushed off in a senseless fit of anger, what did it matter if a person got wet? In bed, they had heard their mother quietly crying, Evie whispering, their mother’s crying abating. Gordon had whispered, “I don’t think they want him to come back,” and Marshall had nodded silently in the dark, thinking: if someone had to go, best that he was the one. He had been sure he would never see his father again. His presence would be extraneous to their family, like the little girl paperdoll, the dog and cat paperdolls. “He was drunk,” Gordon had whispered. “Maybe she was, too,” Gordon had said. “I’m not sure she’s going to die.” But that turned out to be wishful thinking. Like a shred of paper disappearing into a pocket, she had died the following year.