“She must’ve — you both must’ve felt so alone.”
A small silence followed. She glanced down at the wine in her glass. Then: “Yes. Exactly. All the Americans felt that. Being alone. I know I did. It was very strange.”
“Even when you were with someone.”
She stared.
“I mean you and Natasha were together and — and alone at the same time.”
“Yes.”
“The feeling of being alone.”
“I didn’t know where anyone was for a while. I’m afraid I got pretty drunk. A lot of people just went off the deep end. There was a man there—” She stopped, having apparently seen the change in his features.
“You were saying.”
“A man there with his wife who said he hadn’t had a drink in something like ten years. He announced that he was an alcoholic, and — and, well, he already smelled of it when he said it and he went on and drank himself silly. He fell off the wagon in a big way, and I’m afraid I helped him do it.”
Faulk waited, thinking there was more.
Her head tilted slightly to one side. “How does it feel to leave the priesthood after so many years?”
“I’d been wanting to leave for quite a while.”
She nodded, without quite seeming to take it in.
“So you lost track of Natasha, too, that day?”
“Everybody lost track of everybody that day.”
“And this man …” Faulk saw the glimmer of relief in her features as she realized what he had meant.
“Yes,” she said. “Stinking of it when I first saw him and he was claiming he hadn’t touched it in years.”
Natasha walked up to them and took Constance by the upper arm. “Please, let’s not have any talk about all that tonight. This is the night before my wedding.”
“I was telling him about Skinner,” said Constance as if to explain herself. Faulk considered her expression, the uneven color in her cheeks. “Poor Skinner,” she went on. “Married to the most awful woman. A harpy.”
Natasha shook her head, looking pleadingly at Faulk. “I don’t want to think about any of that now. Please?”
He gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “You’re absolutely right, my darling.” He smiled at Marsha Trunan, who had walked over and put one hand on Natasha’s back. The two of them chatted with Constance about Memphis, Natasha and Marsha the returning natives, and laughter and gaiety rose all around them. Faulk kept the smile, but he was full of darkness inside. He stood there while the three women went on to speak of Natasha’s and Marsha’s travels in Italy. He had lost the thread.
“Where was it,” Marsha was saying.
“That little gallery behind the Duomo,” said Natasha.
“Oh, that’s right. I never saw such a statue.”
“Which is that?” Faulk asked.
“Donatello’s Magdalen.”
“That, to my mind, is the greatest statue in the world,” he told them. “Did you notice how quiet it is around it? That statue shuts up everyone who walks into that room.” He felt pompous and stiff. But he couldn’t stop himself. “I think it’s much more impressive than the David.”
As the others took up the subject, Natasha moved closer to his side and put her arm around his middle. He took it as a signal that she wished for him to stop. But she nodded and smiled at him and seemed proud. Over the next few moments they were separately aware of the appearance they made: the center of attention; the happy couple. They did not acknowledge this, even to themselves. He struggled each moment to forget his suspicions while at the same time seeking to have them answered once and for all. She kept trying to wipe the shadows from her heart, drinking more of the wine and staying close to him.
The party went on, and Leander insisted that Trixie dance with him. Iris put music on, and they danced, and soon Marsha and Clenon were dancing, too, then Aunt Clara and Uncle Jack. The song was “Knock on Wood,” and Iris played it three times, loud. She was the only one who did not take a turn; she stood clapping her hands.
It looked like an effortlessly happy occasion.
But as things went on, Natasha could scarcely hold on to herself inside, for the way Faulk kept watching her, and she was growing panicky about what Constance might have said, or would say. She was afraid about Marsha Trunan, too, for that matter. They knew too much about her, even being ignorant of the one thing, details about her involvement with Mackenzie; and Constance unmistakably still believed what she believed.
The wine wasn’t helping. Natasha went into the kitchen and out the back door for some cooler air, standing on the stoop, taking deep slow breaths. It was a star-bright night, and the lawn was rich with the smell of honeysuckle and crepe myrtle. She heard the whoosh of far-off cars and trucks on the highway. The two Mexican caterers were out by the back fence, smoking and talking and laughing. Natasha stood gazing at them. Aunt Clara came out and took her hand, smiling, then patted her shoulder and let go.
“Hi,” Natasha managed.
“It’s a beautiful night.” Aunt Clara sighed. “I always like to think that if I can only savor something enough, it won’t go so fast. I’m savoring this night.”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right, sweetie?”
“Oh, just — tired. I had too much wine.”
“Wine gives me a headache. It’s Jack’s passion, though. He drinks enough of it for both of us.” She laughed softly. It occurred to Natasha that Aunt Clara had such a charming laugh. And oh, why couldn’t life give Natasha back herself as she had been? She wanted to tell Clara how much she loved her, but the breath wasn’t there for speech, and she turned, crying silently, pretending to be interested in the starry light.
In the kitchen, Faulk was leaning against the counter, listening to Clenon tell his own story about discovering something was wrong the morning of the attacks — he’d gone for a run and noticed that the streets were empty. “Suddenly, it seemed to me that Midtown just emptied out. Midtown — no cars moving, nothing.”
Nearby, Marsha Trunan and Constance Waverly were in a conversation that Faulk caught the tail of. He heard the phrase “that photographer” come from Constance’s mouth, and the tone was defensive. He realized they were arguing and tried to listen through the confusion of other voices. The photographer Constance mentioned certainly must be Mackenzie. He went over to the two women, and immediately they changed the subject.
“Anyway,” Marsha said. “A lot of people don’t know it, but vanilla extract is thirty-five percent alcohol. And like I said, I took to stealing it out of the grocery stores — those little bottles. There I was in the afternoons, smelling like vanilla ice cream and drunk as a skunk.”
He could not think of a way simply to ask them about the photographer, so he smiled at Constance and moved off, feeling thwarted and wronged at the same time. He wanted no more wine, though Clenon walked up with a bottle and poured some into his glass. Clenon was drinking Diet Coke. “This is so you can relax a little. I swear you look like you’re waiting for a firing squad.”
Natasha came in from the outside and went up to him, looking teary eyed, and took his arm. Leander had announced that he wanted to offer a toast to the new couple. Everyone gathered around in the room, and all eyes were on them. Natasha gripped Faulk’s arm as Leander spoke.
“Here’s to the happiness that surprises us when we least expect it,” Leander said, wavering a little as he stood. He’d had too much of the whiskey. “And I would like to congratulate my son on his choice of a second wife.” He nodded at Natasha. “Who’s jus’ as lovely as the night.” Then he smiled at her with an amiably lubricious expression, obviously meaning it as a compliment; but the following silence, as the others waited for him to say more, was awkward.