She watched the taillights as they wound up the road, disappearing into the wall of mist. Then she drove on to Cape Despair, the lighthouse, and Jan.
Hod Barnett
The funeral was a blur: Della crying, the boys crying, Reverend Olsen up on his pulpit saying Mandy was a good girl and God in His mercy had already welcomed her into His Kingdom for all eternity (What mercy? Hod remembered thinking. What kind of mercy is this?), then all of them leaving the church, entering the fog-wrapped graveyard, and the pallbearers-Mitch and Adam and Barney Nevers and Les Cummins and Seth Bonner and Mike Carstairs-lowering her coffin into the hole in the ground, clods of earth falling on it, “ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” and Della on her knees wailing, “My baby, my baby!” and him just standing there because he couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t even cry.
The ride home and the funeral supper was a blur too. All the people telling him how sorry they were, Lillian Hilliard saying, “If you need anything, Hod, you just let me know, your credit’s good with me from now on,” as if he gave a damn about groceries at a time like this, and Della all of a sudden red-faced and smiling, acting like they were having a party, running around with plates of food and saying, “Have something more to eat, won’t you have something more to eat?” He couldn’t stand it after a while, too many people and too much noise, and he went out and walked around, he didn’t even remember where, and then he was back at the trailer and Mitch put a drink in his hand-whiskey and some ice-and he drank it, didn’t taste it, drank it like it was water, and Mitch gave him another one, and he drank that, and pretty soon he knew he was drunk but he didn’t feel drunk. Somebody tried to get him to go back inside, eat something, but he couldn’t make himself do it. Then Adam said, “Let’s go up to my trailer, I got another bottle up there,” and he went. Anything to get away from all those people, all that noise.
Mitch and Seth Bonner went, too. And they sat around and drank more whiskey. And then he cried. It came over him all at once, like something breaking, spilling over inside him. He put his head down on the table and cried and cried for his dead daughter until there weren’t any more tears in him. Then he sat up and wiped his face, and he was all right. For the first time in three days he could feel again. For the first time since they’d walked into Adam’s trailer he could pay attention to what was being said, take part in the conversation.
Mitch poured him another drink. The bottle was almost empty.
Alix
The interior of the watch house was cold and drafty, despite the fire in the woodstove. Outside the wind gusted and whistled, and gray fingers of fog trailed past the windows. She sat on the couch clutching a snifter of brandy. Jan was on the chair across from her, peering down into his glass and swirling the liquor around its convex sides. He looked tired, a little haggard, a little drained-the same way she felt.
She had waited a long time for this conversation, and she knew she should now be patient, should allow him to find his words and tell it in his own way. But instead she was filled with a prickly irritation; every flick of his wrist as he sloshed the brandy nettled her, every moment that he didn’t speak set her nerves on edge. There was something familiar about the scene-something nostalgic yet vaguely unpleasant that she couldn’t place and which nagged at her and increased her annoyance.
She was about to take a sip of brandy, hoping it would steady her, when the wind gusted strongly, baffling around the tower, and then increased to a maniacal shriek. She sat up straighter, a frisson rippling along her spine.
The sound brought it all back to her: that night in Boston, in Jan’s old apartment in the condemned building on Beacon Hill. The night he’d told her about the murder in Madison during his college years. With the memory came a strong sense of deja vu. It was as if they were reenacting that scene in Boston. The cold, the wind, the brandy, even their positions relative to each other, not touching, formal… it was all the same.
Convulsively she raised her glass and took a long swallow. As if it were a signal, Jan stirred and looked at her and then said, “Alix, this isn’t easy for me.” He paused, rolling the brandy snifter between his palms. This, too, called up an image of a younger Jan making a similar gesture before he confessed to the loneliness and emotional poverty of his life. “I’d better start at the beginning,” he went on. “With the headaches I’ve been having.”
The headaches. His health. It was what she’d expected, and something she could cope with.
“When I told you Dave Sanderson didn’t know what caused them, it was only a half-truth. They-the doctors; I’ve seen several specialists-they do know what is causing them. It’s a degenerative disease that affects the optic nerve. Both optic nerves, in my case.”
The word “degenerative” seemed to hang in the air between them. She felt a coldness spreading outward to her limbs.
“What they don’t know,” Jan said, “is exactly what causes the disease. Some kind of virus, maybe; they’re just not sure because it’s rare.” He drew a deep breath. His fingertips, pressed tight around the snifter, were white. “They also don’t know how to treat it, to stop or even slow down the degeneration. They’ve had some success with drugs, cortisone and some others, but… a few patients respond, most don’t. If they don’t, the disease progresses and… eventually they lose their sight.”
Numb now, she sat very still, waiting.
“The drugs haven’t worked on me, Alix. The pain and other symptoms are getting worse. There’s nothing they can do. In a year or two, I’ll be blind.”
Blind!
That word, too, hung in the air between them. And echoed inside her head. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think clearly.
Then, as she began to feel the impact of what he’d said, it was as if a fine mesh screen had been drawn down between them. She could see him hazily, hear him, but she seemed cut off from him by a gray veil.
Her silence seemed to encourage him. He went on more confidently, using terms like “uveal disease” and “image distortion” and “systemic chorioditis.” She heard it all, but somehow it did not quite register. It was like reading a medical text in which all the unfamiliar terms merely form a pattern on the page-something incomprehensible, arcane.
Jan went on and on, relating medical facts in a too-cool, too-rational tone. Finally, when she’d heard enough, she set her glass down and pushed her hands toward him to stem the meaningless, strange-sounding words and phrases.
“Please stop.”
He stopped. And after a moment, when the screen between them seemed to dissolve and her own vision cleared, she lowered her hands.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she said.
“I couldn’t. I just… couldn’t.”
Let that go for the moment, she thought. “All right. I’m glad you finally have.” Now her words were too-cool, too-rational. “The details are too much for me to take in right now. I’ll have to talk with… one of your specialists before I fully understand.”
“Yes,” he said, “I guess you should.”
“The headaches… they’ve been getting worse, haven’t they?”
“Much worse.”
“And the other symptoms-what are they?”
He licked dry-looking lips. Behind the panes of his glasses, she saw the fear come into his eyes again.
“Jan, what are they?”
“Nothing the doctors told me to expect,” he said. “I had no warning. They… they’re blackouts.”