He was wiping down a table with a handful of napkins when he heard Alice Peck say, “Here you are.”
He turned. She was dressed in a black skirt and a white blouse that shimmered a little under the fluorescents. Her hair was pulled back and up, and she wore dangling earrings. She had a black throw over her arm and was holding a glossy black clutch.
“Well,” was what Sweeney managed, and then, “You look terrific.”
Alice raised her eyebrows as if she’d been waiting for something else, but she said, “Thanks.”
Sweeney threw the ball of napkins at the trash. It missed and dropped to the floor.
“Did you get called in unexpectedly?” he said, then flinched and added, “It’s not Danny, right? I was just up there.”
Alice shook her head.
“I guess we missed signals here. I thought we were going to dinner.”
Sweeney took a step closer and said, “Excuse me?”
“Didn’t you get my message? I left a message on your machine. I said I’d pick you up at seven.”
“I don’t have a machine,” Sweeney said. “I don’t have a phone.”
“No,” Alice said. “Human resources gave me the number.”
“I’m not following this,” Sweeney said. “I mean, I know we had talked about getting together outside at some point. But we didn’t say tonight.”
She began to shake her head and strands of hair came free and floated down by her ears.
“But we did,” Alice said. “We specifically said tonight. Remember? Then I told you I’d call and confirm it? And I did. I called and left the message. I said I’d come by the apartment at seven.”
“Jesus,” Sweeney said. “I don’t think so. I don’t—”
She cut him off with a wave of the hand.
“You know what,” she said, “it’s not a problem. We’ll do it another time. Or actually, we can just meet in my office.”
“No, please. You’re getting the wrong idea. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I honestly don’t remember specifying tonight. Jesus Christ. What the hell’s the matter with me?”
She stepped in and touched his arm. She eased him into a chair, pulled up its mate, and sat down opposite him.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Stress can do some real damage to short-term memory. This isn’t a big deal. You’ve had an overwhelming week.”
“We decided on tonight?” he said. “Really, it was tonight?”
She nodded.
“I’ve got nothing,” he said. “I have no recollection of that. I remember we said we’d talk, but that’s it.”
“You should really try to get some sleep,” she said. “Sleep is the great healer.”
They sat quietly for a while and he tried to think.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “This is pathetic. I feel awful.”
He put a hand over his face and squeezed his eyes shut. He heard her say, “This is my fault. I was being presumptuous.” Then he felt her pulling his wrist away from his face. He opened his eyes and saw her nails were painted a deep rose.
“Can you give me five minutes?” he said and she started to protest.
“Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”
“I think,” he said, “maybe it is. I should get out of this place for a while and eat some real food and talk to someone who can talk back.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” she asked.
“Give me five minutes,” he said and stood up. “I’ll meet you out in front.”
He held up his hand and splayed his fingers. “Five minutes,” he repeated. “And I promise I won’t forget.”
She looked at the gashed palms and smiled and said, “I’ve got a better idea.”
18
To get to the Peck residence from inside the Clinic one had to walk a long corridor off the third floor that bridged the main house to the east wing. There were no rooms off the corridor and no windows, just one narrow, tunnellike expanse piled with discarded rehab equipment. Everything was old and bulky-looking, wooden wheelchairs and tarnished brass walkers and even a few bell jars. Behind a mattress that was leaning against the wall, Sweeney spotted several prosthetic legs.
Alice had her key out before they got to the door.
“There’s a separate entrance from outside,” she said. “Normally, that’s what I’d use. I like some division between work and home. But with the rain and all. .”
She let the sentence trail off as she tried to work the lock.
“Can I help you with that?” Sweeney asked as she turned the bolt and opened the door onto a large, dome-ceilinged room. Sweeney crossed the threshold first. Alice snapped on the lights and locked up behind herself.
The room was a library, the walls book-lined and the floor covered with an enormous Indian rug over dark hardwood. The furniture was antique but masculine — English club chairs and a big Kipling desk devoid of photos or knickknacks, except for a glass terrarium in which a salamander sat so rigidly that for a second Sweeney thought it was made of porcelain.
“My father’s study,” Alice said.
“That would have been my guess,” Sweeney said.
“He’s out tonight. He still lectures at the med school.”
He nodded and looked past her. Behind the desk, on the only wall not given over to shelving and books, was an oil painting, a formal portrait, dark and severe. The woman depicted was blond and a bit too fragile to be called beautiful. Sweeney looked from the painting to Alice and said, “Your mother?”
“My mother,” Alice said. “She died when I was a child.”
There was a credenza stationed beneath the portrait, and on top of it, a row of books, thick volumes, uniformly bound in red leather. Sweeney read the gilt titling on the spine and saw they were all copies of the same text—Perchance to Wake: On the Causes and Treatments of Coma. By W. Micah Peck.
“What’s the W stand for?” Sweeney asked.
“William.”
“What’s he got against the name William?”
“Only his parents called him William,” Alice said. “We should really go downstairs. My father doesn’t like people in his study.”
Sweeney followed her out of the room and down two flights of a semigrand staircase to the first floor. In the foyer, they came upon a small, wide woman struggling into a yellow rain slicker. There were two bulging plastic bags resting near her feet.
“Maneja con cuidado, Lucila,” Alice said.
The woman pulled a hood up over her head and lifted her bags.
“El cordero está en el horno,” she said. “Te veo el lunes.”
Alice opened the front door for her and Sweeney could see the storm had picked up. The woman ran out to a battered Volvo in the driveway. Alice waited until Lucila was in the car before she closed the door.
“Our housekeeper,” she said. “She’s from Miravago.”
She led him to the dining room, talking as she went.
“Her people disappeared years ago. Father and I are all the family she has left.”
The dining room was small and, like what he’d seen of the rest of the house, dark and Victorian. A hearth on the interior wall had a fire blazing in it.
“But she doesn’t live with you?” Sweeney said.
“She’s got a place in the city,” Alice said, and then put a hand out toward the table. “Sit. Get comfortable. I’ll be right back.” She started for the door, stopped, and turned back to him. “Do you eat lamb?”