"No. He's alone." Jared opened the storm door. "Hey, flyboy, " he called in a thick Spanish accent, "welcome. I have just what you want, sefior, a seexteen-year-old American virgin. Only feefty pesetas." Sandler, a rugged Marlon Brando type, exchanged bear hugs with Jared and platonic kisses with Kate, and then scanned what there was of their brunch.
"What, no bloodies?"
Kate winced before images of the two men, emboldened by a few "bloodies, " exchanging off-color jokes she seldom thought were funny and singing "I Wanna Go Back to Dartmouth, to Dartmouth on the Hill." Invariably, she would end up having to decide whether to leave the house, try to shut them off, or join in. When Ellen Sandler was around, no such problem existed. A woman a few years older than Kate, and Sandy's wife since his graduation, Ellen was as charming, interesting, and full of life as anyone Kate had ever known. She was a hostess with poise and grace, the mother of three delightful girls, and even a modestly successful businesswoman, having developed an interior design consulting firm that she had run alone for several years from their home and more recently from a small studio cum office in town. Sandy, with his flamboyance, his stature as a 747 captain, and his versitile wit, was the magnet that drew many fascinating and accomplished people into the Sandlers' social circle. Ellen, Kate believed, was the glue that kept them there. "So, Sandy, " she said, dropping a celery stick into his drink and sliding it across the table, "what brings you north to Boston?
How are Ellen and the girls? " It was at that moment that she first appreciated the sadness in his eyes. "I… well actually, I was just driving around and decided to cruise up here. Sort of a whim. I… I needed to talk to Jared… and to you."
"You and Ellen? " Jared's sense of his friend told him immediately what to ask. "I… I'm leaving her. Moving out." Sandler stared uncomfortably into the center of his drink. At his words, Kate felt a dreadful sinking in her gut. Ellen had stated on many occasions and in many ways the uncompromising love she bore for the man. How long had they been married, now?
Eighteen years? Nineteen, maybe? "Holy shit, " Jared whispered, setting a hand on Sandler's forearm. "What's happened?"
"Nothing. I mean nothing dramatic. Somewhere along the way, we just lost one another."
"Sandy, people who have been married for almost twenty years don't just lose one another, " Kate said. "Now what has happened? " There was an irritability in her voice which surprised her. Jared's expression suggested that he, too, was startled by her tone. Sandler shrugged.
"Well, between running the house and entertaining and taking the girls to one lesson or another and scouts and committees at our club and that business of hers, Ellen simply ran out of energy for me. In some areas, meals and such, she still goes through the motions, but without much spark."
"How is Ellen handling all this? " Kate asked, checking Jared's face for a sign that she might be interloping with too many questions. The message she received was noncommittal. "She doesn't know yet."
"What?"
Her exclamation this time drew a be careful glare. "I just decided yesterday. But I've been thinking about it for weeks. Longer. I was hoping you two might have some suggestions as to how I should go about breaking the news to her."
"Have you been to a counsellor or a shrink or something? " Jared asked the question. "It's too late."
"What do you mean? You just said Ellen doesn't even know what you're planning to do." Jared sounded baffled. Across the table, Kate closed her eyes. She knew the explanation.
"There's someone else, " Sandler said self-consciously. "A flight attendant. I… we've been seeing one another for some time." For Kate the words were like needle stabs. Jared was pressing to get a commitment from her to alter her life along pathways Ellen Sandler could negotiate blindfolded. Yet here was Sandy, like Jared in so many ways, rejecting the woman for not devoting enough energy to him. The image of Ellen sitting there while he announced his intentions made her first queasy and then frightened. The fear, as happened more often than not, mutated into anger before it could be expressed. "Ellen doesn't deserve this," she said, backing away from the table. We just lost one another. Sandy, don't you think that's sort of a sleazy explanation for what's really going on? How old is this woman?"
"Twenty-six. But I don't see what her…"
"I know you don't see. You don't see a lot of things."
Jared stood up. "Now just one second, Kate."
"And you don't see a lot of things either, dammit." There were tears streaming down her face. "You two boys work out how you're gonna break the news to Ellen that she did everything she goddamn well could in life-more than both of you put together, probably-but that it just wasn't enough. She's fired. Dismissed. Not flashy enough. Not showy enough. Her services are no longer required. Excuse me, I'm going to the bathroom to get sick. Then I'm going to my hospital. People there are grateful and appreciative for the things I do well. I like that. It helps me to get up in the morning."
Fists clenched, she turned and raced from the room. Roscoe, who had settled himself under the table, padded to the center of the room and after a brief glance at the men, followed. Ginger Rittenhouse, a first-grade teacher, had just finished her run by the ice-covered Charles River when she began to die. Like the random victim of a crazed sniper, she did not hear the sound or see the muzzle flash of the weapon that killed her. In fact, the weapon was nothing more malevolent than the corner of her bureau drawer, the shot, an accidental bump less than twenty-four hours before to a spot just above her right eye. "That's one incredible lump! " her new roommate had exclaimed, forcing an icepack against the golfball-sized knot. The woman, a licensed practical nurse, had commented on the large bruise just below her right knee as well.
Ginger was too self-conscious to mention the other, similar bruises on her lower back, buttocks, and upper arm. Her death began with a tic-an annoying electric sensation deep behind her right eye. The wall of her right middle cerebral artery was stretching. Bruised by the shock from the bureau drawer, the vessel, narrow as a piece of twine, had developed a tiny defect along the inner lining. The platelets and fibrinogen necessary to patch the defect were present, but in insufficient amounts to do the job. Blood had begun to work its way between the layers of the vessel wall. Squinting against the pain, she sat on a bench and looked across the river at the General Electric building in Cambridge. The outline of the building seemed blurred. From the rent in her right middle cerebral artery, blood had begun to ooze, a microdrop at a time, into the space between her skull and brain. Nerve fibers, exquisitely sensitive, detected the intrusion and began screaming their message of warning. Ginger, mindless of the huge lump over her ear, placed her hands on either side of her head and tried to squeeze the pain into submission. Powered by the beating of her own heart, the bleeding increased. Her thoughts became disconnected snatches. The low skyline of Cambridge began to fade. Behind her, runners jogged by. A pair of lovers passed close enough to read the dial on her watch. Ginger, now paralyzed by pain that was far more than pain, was beyond calling for help.
Suddenly, a brilliant white light replaced the agony. The heat from the light bathe the inside of her eyes. Her random thoughts coalesced about woods and a stream. It was the Dingle, the secret hiding place of her childhood. She knew every tree, every rock. Home and safe at last, Ginger Rittenhouse surrendered to the light, and gently toppled forward onto the sooty snow.