In a daze, I made it to my house and fell onto the bed and into a dead slumber. When I woke up it was dusk, the fireflies starting to wink on over the lawn. Where was I? I wondered. But I was in my own room. Had I ever really been to the ocean? Looming waves, shadows in the dunes. For a hot and horrible second I couldn’t recognize my limbs, not hands nor legs nor feet nor arms nor elbows. Like waking up beside a stranger, but—inside.
It wasn’t until the next day that I ventured out of the house. Lev was still gone, and would be for at least two weeks, based on what he’d told me before he left. Until then I had no choice but to wander around my life as though I still belonged in it. I made occasional trips past his darkened house, but otherwise, everything was normal. I trimmed the hydrangea bushes into perfect cheery spheres, and reorganized the watering lines with manic attention to detail. I made a goulash. John invited me to dinner, just like old times, and I tried my best to have fun as he and Siobhan plied me with wine and did impressions of the faculty wives.
“And then there’s the cold one,” Siobhan said. “It’s only once I’ve even seen her, and she was like an ice statuette, the kind you make with a pick.”
“Oh, the writer’s wife.” John guffawed, then pinched his lips real thin and tried to look hawkish. “Hello. Nice to meet you. No, I don’t think I’ve said my name.” Except he fleshed out all his hs and es: Hhhallo. Nice to myeet.
After clearing the dishes he sat beside me on the couch and asked what was wrong. I wasn’t a naturally contented person, so something serious must’ve shown. Siobhan gave a tight nod at my miserable face.
“She has a fellow. Finally.”
“You two been talking?” John asked, but his wife shook her head.
“Can just see it. Aren’t I right, Zo?”
“Had, maybe,” I said. “Not anymore.”
“Oh, no. Either he’ll come to his senses, or he wasn’t worth the trouble.”
“I guess.”
“No, really. He should be so lucky. To go out with you? You’re to die for, honey.”
A few minutes later I took my leave into the dark evening so I could go cry and feel sorry for myself. I didn’t want to play their guessing game about who the fellow might have been (“I’ll knock some good taste into him,” John offered, looking offended. “Just give me a name.”) and I certainly didn’t think I deserved their pity. But moreover, there was the obvious sense that we were inhabiting two different planes of existence. Two different worlds. In one, nice girls had their feelings trampled on while looking for a marriageable man. And in the other—which is to say, mine—the missions were darker, more complex, and infinitely more real.
An Oral History of Vera Orlov, née Volkov, cont’d
Recorded by the Maple Hill Police Department
“I was introduced to Mrs. Orlov in early July at the Grande Chez Hotel in Twisted Branch, New Jersey—I think our first interaction was a private joke she made to me at the front desk, about the name of the hotel. ‘Even when they try to appreciate the old world, they do it improperly,’ she said, and I agreed. The concierge looked flustered, as well he must’ve been—you see, she was speaking in French, and I don’t think he understood. Not sure how she knew I would. Spent time in Compiègne during the war, providing relief to our boys, and perhaps I just have that look about me now.
“But yes, we spoke again. Principally because she had me booted from my room! They put me on the top floor, and I guess she tossed up a bit of a fuss about her view, and when they asked I didn’t really mind moving. She hadn’t realized I was the one she was kicking out (or anyway, that’s what she told me), and offered to buy me a conciliatory cocktail, which—you don’t say no to a drink with such an interesting lady when you get to my age.
“In the dining room, when I sat down, she already had a glass of wine for herself and a scotch for me, and she was twisting a golden chain between her fingers. Beautiful manicure, but a distant expression. Thought I must’ve done something to upset her, but she said no, no. Thought she was tired, but she said no, no. I wanted to put her at ease, so I asked her to tell me about herself, and she gave me this look—well, my parish is quite wealthy, so I see a lot of looks, but this was about the chilliest expression I’ve ever encountered. Like a thimble of ice water right into the blood.
“Then—well. Mrs. Orlov began absolutely interrogating me about God. About God! Not what I expected from a casual drink, I must say. I’d have guessed she was more the type to think “priest” is a political role, like “town selectman.” But she jumped right in: transmigration, transubstantiation, the Holy Trinity. Some of her opinions were quite distinctive. Can’t remember specifics offhand, but she wanted me to reassure her that the soul cannot be tampered with, that loss and change and external perception are not stronger than the force of the spirit. I thought I knew what she was getting at—her accent, you know. She spoke like a refugee. So I asked once again, if there was any story she could share about her youth, her childhood. Something she was fond of telling. But she just smiled. Said she met her husband at a party, that he tweaked the host’s nose and she thought—maybe. She told me he was playful, if not exactly a man of great conviction. I’m not sure I really put her mind at ease.
“When we finished our drink I invited her to accompany me on a tour of the boardwalk the next day, but she declined. Didn’t see her much after that. Just nodded hello if we came across one another in the halls, or raised a glass in the dining room from separate tables. Then one day she was gone. Checked out, I suppose. Though they certainly didn’t offer to move me back to the penthouse. [he snorts] Grande Chez Hotel. [Notes indicate that the Reverend Father was asked to clarify the dates of his encounter with Mrs. Orlov.] Oh, I’m fairly sure about the dates. I always keep my receipts, from travel and the like. So yes, I’d estimate she was in Twisted Branch for that entire space of time. Couldn’t possibly have made a trip back to—where was it? Maple Hill? No. At least, I can’t imagine how.”
Zoya
A couple of weeks later I woke up from a terrible dream without remembering almost any of it. Something about sitting on a platform that raised and lowered in the air. Or—a flying carpet? I could only keep it aloft by counting up and down from ten. It was the counting that woke me. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight… The sun was up, but not by much, and my blankets were heavy with sweat.
I’d slept on the greenhouse floor, using a skinny mattress John had procured for me a year or so earlier so I could camp out during the cold snaps. It rolled up easily, and most of the time we stored it in the shed outside; it was musty and uncomfortable. I hadn’t used the thing since winter, as there wasn’t much point in the nicer months. But I couldn’t seem to sleep alone in my house anymore. My thoughts banged off the walls, smashed into me in bed. Shadows crawled around. In the greenhouse at least I had the company of the plants, and the comfort of their warm and even exhalations. I tied the mattress up tight and set it in the corner, not wanting to be caught out by John, and positioned myself in front of a fan to cool off. I smelled of chicken bones boiling into stock. Sleep reek.
The fan didn’t work. Too much heat, or maybe not enough air. I’d had trouble pulling deep breaths lately, too. I picked a hose with a gentle spray nozzle and turned it on myself, the water cold. A mist in my face, on my arms, on my nightshirt. The light cotton clung to my chest, and I sprayed the back of my neck, letting water stream down my spine and into my underwear. Down to my feet. I stood on a grate in the concrete floor, and watched the nightmare wash off me. It looked like nothing, but I knew.