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THE LETTER CHEST
by corvus |
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He’s
halfway past the sandbox when he can’t remember his way home. The loss is
like a blow to the stomach. He slows down but keeps moving, squinting at the
grass and sandbox that’s suddenly too bright. The
memory is so close he can almost feel it. It hovers, breath-like, at the
edge of his mind. The children in the sandbox distract him, but he is more
bothered by the glances of their mothers. They must be wondering who this
stuffy old man is, circling like a big foolish bird. You’re
not supposed to go out by yourself. He
knows that, but it’d been such a beautiful day. Granted,
it doesn’t seem quite as attractive anymore, now that he is lost
God-knows-where in the park. I’ve
told you, George, you should stay inside while I’m gone. The
words are spoken with someone else’s voice, a woman’s, thin, rather
high. He frowns, concentrating, but he can’t remember whose it is. Yet
they’re familiar, and he feels other words circle eagerly under the
surface of his mind. But when he reaches—nothing. Abruptly,
he is tired. There is a bench under one of the maples. He eases into it, one
hand on the back and one hand on the railing. His joints are no longer what
they used to be. His mind isn’t what it used to be. “Professor
Shaw?” He
sits up and quickly glances over his shoulder; there is no one behind him. “Professor
Shaw?” “Yes?
Hello?” George says. The
man is young, in his late-twenties or so, well-dressed in a fashionable way.
He looks concerned. George hobbles to his feet, hovering, torn and
uncertain. “Um,
Professor Shaw?” His
heart is in his throat. “Yes?” he manages. Who is this man? Where are
they? Is he Professor Shaw? He hates not knowing. He doesn’t want to be
seen like this. He wishes he could hide. “Can
I help you?” “Ah—”
It is at his throat to say no, everything is all right. But it isn’t. In
fact, everything is wrong. He is a man, an old man who commands respect, and
yet he is as helpless as a baby animal. The
silence, he realizes, is rapidly getting awkward. “I’m
sorry,” he says. “I’m not sure I remember—how to get back.” “Oh!”
The man looks surprised, and George winces at his expression. “Uh,
that’s fine. I can, uh, show you back.” After a pause, he adds, “If
you like.” George
nods mutely. What he would really like is to know what the other man’s
name is. Who is he? He was not, George noted, bad looking. “It’s
a nice day, isn’t it, Mr. Shaw?” George
nods again. “Yes,” he says, and wishes he doesn’t sound so nervous. He
isn’t supposed to be outside, but he is. He can’t remember leaving. He
can’t even pinpoint why he is feeling so anxious. He remembers that he is
an esteemed professor of twentieth century Irish poetry. He is respected for
his ability to recite poems on the spot, spit out analyses with the blink of
an eye. He is that, and nothing. They
turned left and walked down a street. George does his best to burn the way
into his memory, but there’s almost no need; they stop after only a few
steps. “Well,
this is it,” the man says cheerfully. “Oh
yes,” says George. “Thanks very much.” He’s gotten enough of a grasp
over himself to smile and reach out a hand, but he stops, at the last
moment, before clapping the other man’s back. “It’s
no problem,” the other man says. “Mm-hmm,”
says George, waiting. “Well,
see you around then.” “Bye-bye,”
said George. The
other man walks down the pavement and turns up the driveway of the next
house. It’s suddenly clear: this man is their neighbor. George frowns as
he considers what the neighbor must think of this. That strange old man,
they must be thinking, getting lost in a park not more than three minutes
from his front door. The notion is dismal. But he shakes it off as he goes
up the stone-paved path that feels both strange and familiar, and tries the
front door. It
is locked. He reaches into his pockets; they’re empty. He tries the handle
again; it’s useless. He draws his hands and arms close to his sides, like
a child who has crept out of bed at night. He has no idea what to do—what
he can do. His heart is trembling
again. He turns on the spot, slowly, and squints at the sun. A
woman is walking up the path directly towards him. She looks old, tired, in
her late fifties or so. He lifts a hand to hail her. “Excuse
me?” he calls. She
ignores him. He frowns, irritated at the slight. But no, she is coming up
the path right up to the front door. He can see that she is more likely in
her sixties than fifties, with wiry gray hair and a receding chin. “Excuse
me,” he says again. “Let
me get you in first, George,” she says. As
she unlocks the door, he realizes that he knows that voice. It is high,
rather thin. A woman’s. “Did
you get lost again?” He
pauses at the threshold. “Again?” She
motions impatiently at him to step inside. He does. “I
guess you just had to go outside again, didn’t you?” He
turns to answer—her tone is bordering on unacceptable—but she has
already gone down the hallway. He is left alone. The room is not very
bright, but it is tastefully furnished with old fashioned silver ornaments
on the mantel and a grandfather clock in the corner. He peers with interest
at a map of Something
catches his eye. The window opposite is open, and underneath waves a few
blossoms. They are marigolds. Marigold. “Here,
take this.” He
spins around to see the woman with a glass of water in her hand and pills in
the other. “What?” “Your
medicine,” she says. He
frowns, not sure if he can believe her. There are three pills in the cup of
her palm, small and shaped like almonds. “George,”
she says, and her voice is suddenly different; it’s gentle, soothing, the
kind only a mother could have learned. “This is your medicine, George.” She
waits, and under the endless patience of her eyes, he takes the water and
holds out his other hand. She tilts her palm, and they brush skin as the
pills tumble from her hand to his. The contact is like a spark. He hisses. “Yes?”
she says, suddenly, eager. “Nothing,”
he mutters, wanting to touch his head, but unable to because his hands are
full. “Just…” Her
eyes, he notices, seem to have shut down. He does not like looking at them.
They are, somehow, too sad, like an old and motionless painting. He
drops the pills in the water, where they fizzle, and he drinks it all in one
gulp. “Who
brought you back today?” she asks from the kitchen. “Was it Eliot?” Eliot?
“It was the man who lives next door.” In
the kitchen doorway now, he can see her back stiffen. “The neighbor?”
She pulls aside one of the curtains and peers out. He follows her gaze, but
it’s intercepted by the waving head of gold: more marigolds. Marigold. She
puts the glass on the rack with a loud clank. “I’ll drop by his house
tonight, maybe,” she mutters. “Today, we’ve places to go.” “Where?” She
does not answer. Perhaps it is the medicine, or perhaps it is the
unforeseeable fluctuations of the day; he is beginning to remember. For
example, he knows that the cabinet to the left of the sink has a collection
of wine glasses. The bathroom, which he needs rather urgently, is two doors
down. The woman in front of him, who is wiping her still-wet hands on her
dress, her eyes fixed somewhere far behind him, is his Maddy, his wife. “Maddy?” She
looks up at this, at him, and a ghost of a smile comes to her lips. “You’ll
see.” She
makes him bring his coat, even though it’s sunny out, and they go to the
car. She takes the driver’s seat, and, though part of him, half-caught in
intermittent surges of remembrance, rebels at the notion, another part is
content to sit meekly at her side. And the bunch of marigolds is still fresh
in the cup holder. Cheerful and a little wet. He wants to touch then, but he
knows he would be touching fire. The memory is still vague, but he feels
that same anxious dread; he thinks he will find out soon enough. Through
the window, he watches the road. Cars, people, trees, and sky. —*— The
woman next to him is his wife, but he doesn’t know how he can be sure. She
drives with a slight frown on her brow, concentrating on the road and
ignoring him. He does not like being ignored. At the same time, he is glad
she is leaving him alone and not pretending that he recalls their long years
of being married, all the little habits and happenstances that make up their
history. He feels safe with her without being familiar. Like an obedient
child with his governess, he thinks. The lack of memory has turned him into
a child. The
things he does remember have the surety of flotsam. They are little more
than facts, and he is somewhat bewildered, somewhat distressed that there is
no meaning to any of it. He recalls that the taste of a cookie summoned for
Proust a torrent of thought. But for him, even the names themselves do
nothing besides turn back and forth in his mouth. He
is George Menken Shaw. Professor of English poetry at Yale. Specialist in
the works of William Butler Yeats. Driving the old BMW is Madeleine
“Maddy” Shaw. They met in 1955, introduced by Madeleine’s father.
Later that year, they are married. In 1957, a daughter was born, Geraldine
Shaw. She died, young, from lung cancer. It must have been devastating for
the family. They had no more children. George Shaw has stopped teaching.
Madeleine Shaw gardens and bakes and occasionally watches the birds. Except
for his receding memory, they are peaceful in their old age. He
knows this—he knows this all—but there are blanks he distrusts. He holds
his mind open for names, any name at all. Gregory Shaw. Carlin Carlton.
Helen Hennessey. Madeleine Schwan. He tastes them, recognizes them, discards
them. They are useless to help him understand the marigolds. He
thinks of the morning’s events. He can remember the house and the room,
and he knows it is his house, his livingroom, but extending his mind before
that is useless. It is as though he was born into the hours. He
looks to Maddy. His wife. No longer beautiful, not even with a shadow of
beauty. Gray hair in thick coils, deep lines around the mouth and eyes.
Generous clothing to disguise her lumpy figure. Veined fingers, and a garish
diamond ring that catches the light. “Who
was the person who showed me back today?” he asks. “Who?
Our neighbor? Steven Vanger?” “Steven
Vanger,” George mutters. Another
name to add to an already whitening list. More comes to mind: Matthew
Merriman. Frederick O’Hare. Eliot. He
stops. Eliot. The name arrests him, though he doesn’t know why. It has
significance; he is sure of it. He considers asking, but he shoots down the
thought before he can act on it. Why, he doesn’t know. Marigold. Eliot. The
air turns gelatinous, and his head drops against his chest. He sleeps. The
ride goes on forever. Once, he wakes, because the unrelenting red of the sun
is shining into his eyes. He squints, turns, head still heavy, and finds
himself watching the woman with the steering wheel in her hands. She does
not look at him, and he does not question that she is there. One hand
scratches the frizzled hair behind an ear. It makes a sandpapery sound. He
grunts, squeezes his eyes shut, and drops back to sleep. When
he wakes up again, the car has stopped. He blinks, disoriented. The door
opens, and a woman stands before him, her gaze turned towards the distance.
He looks. The white stone rows of a cemetery sprawl before him. “Remind
me to get some cocoa on the way back,” she says. “I’ll need to find
some excuse for dropping Steven Vanger a visit.” He
hesitates. Suddenly he does not know who this woman is, if she is addressing
him, if she even expects a response. She turns, and, he does not know why he
thinks this, but her gaze seems to see it all. “Never
mind,” she says. “Take the marigolds when you come out, will you?” He
obeys, bewildered, and holds the bunch of flowers tightly in his hand. —*— The
evening has turned cold, and he is grateful for the coat. When he looks
down, he notices that the collar is fraying. The cuffs, he can feel, have
the softness that come only from years of wear. It is odd to be donning
someone else’s coat, he thinks, and one that is obviously so beloved. “Here.” He
looks up, uncertain. “What?” The
woman—Maddy—holds out a cluster of flowers for him. He recognizes them
as marigolds. “Your
turn,” she says. “Go on.” He
obeys, hesitant. In the last few hours, he has been told that his name is
George Shaw and that the stranger before him is his wife. She has wiry gray
hair. A thin, high voice. They have been married, she says matter-of-factly,
for over forty years. He does not know if he can believe her, but he is a
bird in water, a fish hung in air. She could tell him that the earth is a
flat sheet of steel, and he would have no choice but to accept it. “It’s
this one,” she says, pointing to a tombstone, one among many. “She was
our daughter,” she adds. He
nods, wishing that he remembers. Slowly, because bending makes his back
tremble, he puts down the marigolds. The previous cluster of flowers is in
his wife’s hand. The heads droop and are almost brown; he guesses that
they were from three or four days ago. He wonders if he had been there then,
too. “Remembering
all that shaken hair, and how the wingéd sandals dart…” He
looks at her sharply. “What?” “It’s
a poem.” A pause, and she adds, as though making a suggestion, “It’s
Yeats.” She
waits, and even though there is a roaring at the back of his mind, the
feeling that he is trembling at a precipice, nothing comes. “Well,”
she says with a shrug, “never mind.” She
turns. He lingers, reads over the inscription again, wishing furiously that
something would come to his mind. The words idly cross his eyes: Geraldine
Maria Shaw. 1957 – 1992. Beloved daughter. He
lifts his eyes. They are not alone. Approaching is a man, whose hesitance
catches his attention. “Ah,
Eliot,” says Maddy from behind him. Her tone is cool, unfriendly, and
familiar all at once. “How are you?” George
turns. The stranger searches his face. He does not find what he is looking
for, and the startling green eyes shut down. “Hello
Madeleine,” says Eliot. He is slender, hair whitening at the temples, well
kept in late forties or early fifties. His voice is warm; it is both rough
and pleasant, and the accent is familiar and strange all at once. He wants
to say there is Irish in it, but there is something eastern in it too,
perhaps, he thinks, a touch of Russian. He
turns, hesitates. “Hello, George.” “Hello—Eliot,
is it?” George replies quickly. Eliot
seems to retreat at this response. George hides a frown. He does not
understand. It is almost as though the other man were afraid of him, or
disappointed. Eliot looks past him, and George, following it, realizes that
Maddy and Eliot are exchanging a look. “Well,”
says Eliot. He nods, wordless. “I hope you two are having a good
evening.” “We
are,” says Maddy. She sticks her hands into her pocket, an ungraceful
movement that makes her look like a gardener. “How’re Thomas and
Louise?” “They’re
good.” Eliot looks uncertain. “Was it bad today?” he asks. George
turns to his wife. The conversation is completely unintelligible to him, but
he cannot help feeling that it concerns him. “Worse
than yesterday,” Maddy says. “But, you know how it is.” Eliot
nods, shrugs his shoulders, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and
George is made momentarily breathless by how beautiful the movement is. “Well,
good night.” “Good
night,” says Maddy. He
wants to stop Eliot, but it is impossible. He watches the man walk down the
road and pass the tombstones, his head bowed like an altar boy’s. “George,
it’s time to go.” He
turns reluctantly. After a few steps, he stops, turns. Far away, separated
by the cold evening air, Eliot has turned too. It is only a moment, and they
are too far apart for Eliot’s expression to be more than an imagining. “Careful
of that step,” Maddy says. He
almost trips, but Maddy’s words come just in time. It is as though she was
waiting for it. They
reach the parking lot. It is empty except for the old BMW. It occurs to
George that Eliot walked in the opposite direction, and therefore he must
not live far, for the evening has deepened considerably. Perhaps it is one
of the houses on the other side of the fence that separates the living from
the dead. Suddenly,
as he reaches for the car door, he sees, in his mind, an open porch, warm in
the summer afternoon. Sunlight catches the rosé in a glass, and there is
the smell of Italian cooking, of basil and baked cheese. He sits in a
cushioned chair, hearing the squeak of woven straw and another man’s deep
laughter, a voice mingling two startlingly different accents… “We’re
going, George.” He
frowns, trying to catch the image. Its presence is unexplained, like a piece
of colored glass in the gutter. He feels he might have succeeded, had not
the woman’s voice cut him from his thoughts. “Where?”
he asks. “Home,”
she says. Home.
Nothing comes to mind as the engine starts, nothing but a feeling of
wrongful emptiness, that there should be something there. “Who
was that man?” he asks. “Who,
Eliot?” “Yes.” “One
of your colleagues at the university.” “University?” “You
were a professor. You taught English literature. He was a physicist.” “Oh,”
he says, not quite believing, not quite disbelieving. They
are silent for a good half hour. There is a disturbing emptiness in his
memory of himself, of his wife, of the man Eliot, but he does not want to
break silence in the car. The motor hum and windows make a separate world,
detached from both past and future. He
turns. On his tongue is the question of how much longer they have. He
pauses: her hand is the middle of a movement. It’s a pilgrimage to her
wrinkled cheek, to wipe away an eyelash. Suddenly it’s another pair of
hands—pale, fumbling. His daughter’s. He hears her sniffling. He smells
clean linens and her hair, which hasn’t been washed since she’s entered
the hospital. The future years had come, dancing to a frenzied drum. Basil and
Italian cooking. A man’s hands match a laughing face, and he feels lines
traced against his naked skin. They, two men, married men, are lovers. The
realization is cold water in his face. He sits back hard. “What?” “Nothing,”
he says. Even to himself, it sounds heavy. She
is silent. He wonders, throat gripped by guilt, if she knows what image
entered his brain. He tries to remember anything else at all. Nothing.
Nothing. His wife pushes back her hair. The movement is so serene it must
come from complete ignorance or complete knowledge. “We’re
about half an hour from the supermarket,” she says. It’s
a while before he can force himself to speak. “Supermarket?” “I
need cocoa for that cake,” she says. A
moment later, he remembers. “For the neighbor,” he says, and wishes he
could also remember the man’s name. —*— She
rests her hand on the steering wheel and looks at him. “So what did you
remember?” His
mouth has frozen open. She waits. They are in the supermarket parking lot,
and it is half past nine. “I’m
not sure,” he says. “Mm.
May I guess?” He
considers this. Nods. “Geraldine.” He
nods again, but there’s hesitation in the movement, and she catches it. “Eliot
as well?” A
fuller nod. She
sighs, looks out the window as though trying to find a good place to begin.
He knows now that she must have given this explanation countless times.
Perhaps every day. He waits nervously. Part of him is angry to be so
helpless and blind, strapped to his seat like a prisoner; part of him
remembers that he is over seventy and every bit a professor emeritus.
Another part fears this strange woman, fears the truths he has no way to
deny. He looks at her gray hair and downturned lips. He wonders how he could
ever have married her. “What
exactly did you remember?” He’s
hesitant. “A hospital,” he says. “She was dying.” “Do
you remember of what?” “Cancer,”
he says. Maddy
nods. “Do you remember anything else?” The
smell. Her sniffling, like a girl’s footsteps down a corridor that would
never end. “No, not particularly.” She
nods again. He wants to press her—he knows there is more—but he cannot,
not if she might press him about—those other things, those flashes that
pan unspeakably in his mind. “And
Eliot?” He
stalls. She is staring at him, and he doesn’t know if she’s seeing
everything inside him or nothing at all. “We were… on his porch.” “Yes.”
A long pause. “He had a very nice porch,” she says. He
agrees. “Yes, it was very nice.” His
hands are sweaty. He’s looked away long ago, and now is concentrating on
the streetlight on the corner. It glimmers, a ship on an ocean. “You
were lovers.” Her
eyes are the same—dispassionate, pitiless, unjudging. “The
two of you had an affair for almost twenty years.” He
swallows. He can feel an uncomfortable heat clawing up his neck. If he
could, he’d have burst out the door and run. “And?” “The
two of you were discovered. By his wife, I might add.” He
nods. He can imagine it. A disgusting scandal of unimaginable scale. Two
esteemed professors, caught in bed like teenagers. “But
it doesn’t matter.” He
looks up so quickly he thinks he has given himself whiplash. For the first
time, he notices that his wife’s eyes are a hazel, like brown stars in a
green brush. “I
forgave you,” she says, “a long time ago.” And it is like the end of a
story; he knows nothing more will be said unless he wheedles for a repeat
like a child in bed, or begs for a change in an ending that is as fixed as
the mist on the car window, the clammy sweat in his palms and under his
arms. It is possible that this is the end. He knows that if he lets it go,
she will let it go, too, and he will forget by tomorrow. But something stops
him. She is waiting to see if he will ask, and when she sees the troubled
hesitation in his eyes, she says nothing, does nothing but wait some more. “But
Marigold—” How
quickly, he thinks, comes the name to his lips. “She
didn’t like it that you were having an affair,” Maddy says carefully.
“It was also when she was fighting the cancer that it was discovered.”
The words are carefully measured. “You blame yourself for upsetting her
when she was already in a bad situation. You blame yourself for her not
making it.” She
stops. She does not say, But it’s not true, the cancer was terminal, they
found out too late, she wouldn’t have made it even if you’d stayed
faithful all these years. She does not say, Your daughter forgave you in the
end. She has stopped like the oracle, delivering only what is useful in
executing the gods’ cruel will. George,
feeling the weight of it bear down like a stone harness, sits back and
stares at the glove compartment. It shouldn’t matter, since he can’t
remember. He is a man without memories, without a past, without the language
with which he can explain himself. He has only the present and its rapid
transience. He doesn’t believe he deserves the liberating catharsis of
guilt and sorrow. But it’s there. How many times has he felt this? How
many more? The
trip home is silent, and Maddy points him to his room, which is separate,
though adjoining, to hers. She goes to the only bathroom in the house in
order to wash her face and her feet. He knows the knowledge will disappear
by morning—and with it, the anguish, the guilt. But he has to try. There
is an opened envelope from today’s mail on the table, and he finds a pen
in the drawer. Your
name is George Shaw,
he writes. He thinks he has a middle name, but for the moment, he can’t
remember. You have wronged your wife greatly. It seems silly, and he knows it
is useless. But he can’t not try. Ask
Marigold for forgiveness. —*— Morning
finds him in a strange bed. He frowns, disoriented. He does not know where
he is. The sheets are soft but unfamiliar. It’s late in the morning. He
swings his legs out of bed—slowly, because the joints in his hip are not
well—and blinks at the opened envelope on the bedside. Your
name is George Shaw,
he reads. You have wronged your wife greatly. Ask Marigold for forgiveness. He
stares for a good minute. The words are oddly familiar, but he doesn’t
know why. He has no idea who George Shaw is (him?), nor Marigold (Shaw’s
wife?). The names echo at the back of his mind; perhaps if he thinks harder,
they will come… Some
time later, he leaves the room. There are clothes in a chair, and he has put
them on. Down the hall, he can hear the clanging of dishware, and a soft
humming. It is both pleasant and musical, but he does not expect to find it
coming from an old woman with a purple hairnet and fluffy slippers on her
feet. “Good
morning,” she greets him, as though they were old friends. “Good
morning,” he says. He looks around. There’s breakfast on the table, set
for two. “Would
you like some marmalade?” He
is uncertain, still puzzled, but he nods cautiously. “Yes, please.” She
takes out the pot and a butter knife. “This is your house, by the way,”
she says. “You have a memory condition, so you don’t remember things too
well.” “Oh,”
he says. It is a while before he has comprehended this. “May I ask your
name?” “Maddy,”
she says. She’s poured coffee, which he refuses. She seems to be expecting
that. “And you’re George.” George.
After a moment, he remembers the message at his bedside, and wonders, with a
sinking of his stomach, if the rest of it is true. He
must work up his courage before he can speak again. “Am
I married?” “Yes,”
Maddy replies. “Is
my wife still…” “Still
alive? Yes.” He
digests this. “Is
her name Marigold?” “No,”
said Maddy. “Marigold is your daughter’s nickname.” He
nods. Briefly, when he is not staring at the crumbs on the table, he catches
her eyes. They are patient, unhurried. “I found a note on my bedside when
I woke.” “Yes?” After
he tells her its contents, she hums and nods. It is as though she expected
it. “Well, what would you like to know?” He
asks. “You
had an affair while you were married,” Maddy answers. “Your daughter
didn’t take well to it, and…” She trails off with a nonchalant
gesture. Scrape, goes the butter knife. Scrape, scrape. He
frowns. It is like hearing the story of another life. “Where are they
now?” “Not
here.” “May
I see them?” Maddy
smiles. “I’d advise eating your toast first. It’s getting cold.” By
the time he’s finished spreading the marmalade, Maddy has already put away
her plate, and is standing in front of the kitchen window. He follows her
gaze. It rests on the wide-open lawn of the house next door. A car, with a
make George can’t remember having seen before, but which he suspects is
one of those things young people like to buy, pulls up to the driveway. Maddy
is speaking, but almost too quietly for him to hear. “Eggs, cocoa…”
She pauses. “We might not have enough butter.” Two
men come out of the car. He was right: they’re in their late twenties or
early thirties. The toast is at his mouth, and he nearly bites his tongue
because the two men have stepped close to each other and exchanged a quick
kiss. He
hears Maddy muffling a laugh. She gives him a glance, one that he finds
inscrutable, and then turns her gaze back to the neighbors, who have gone
into the house. He
goes back to spreading marmalade before she can catch his eyes again. He
feels unsettled, though he does not know why. No, he does not know, not
exactly. “Well,
I suppose he’ll have someone to share his cake with.” He
looks up. “What?” “Mr.
Vanger,” Maddy says. She nods at the window. “I am baking him a cake
today,” she adds matter-of-factly. He
listens to this, accepts this as he accepts everything else he has heard. “Would
you like to help?” “Uh…” Again,
there’s the hint of a smile as she takes out a pan from the cabinet. Her
movements are slow; he wonders just how old she is. He also wonders, though
not too much, who she is. “There
are some books you might like in the other room,” she says, pointing.
“Now, if you’re done with these plates…?” He
follows where she points, and enters a well-furnished room. Soon, he is
deeply absorbed in the books that have been left, half read, on the table. A
feeling of half-familiarity pervades him, and he chases it from page to
page. “I’ll
be right back,” he hears Maddy call from the other room. “I’m
delivering cake, if you’re curious.” He
grunts in response, and then, remembering that he doesn’t know who Maddy
is, that she might be a mere stranger who has taken him into her care,
replies, “I hope they like it.” The
moment she’s gone, he sets down the book and goes into the hall. He makes
a wrong turn first, entering what he supposes is Maddy’s bedroom, before
he finds the one he woke up in. He stops in the doorway. The envelope is
gone. The pen is still there, but the bedside table is bare. He looks on the
floor, slowly and without expecting to find it; there is only one
explanation for its absence. He
is in the hallway when the door turns. Maddy enters without seeing him, and
he can’t help standing in silence, watching her take out a torn envelope
from her pocket, enter the kitchen, and drag out a chest from behind the
toaster. She unlocks it. It is stuffed with papers, some whole, some the
torn edges of sheets. His envelope joins them, and he doesn’t leave when
she looks up. For
the first time he can remember, she hesitates. And then it’s over, and
there is only a wry smile. She takes out the key and leaves the kitchen. “Some
things are worth keeping,” she says, and for a moment he wonders if she
expects him to respond, for her eyes are trained on his. Hazel eyes, like a
starburst of brown. Then she is gone, walking past him down the hall.
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Many thanks to Rec for the beta. Image: Red Canna, by Georgia O'Keeffe © 2008 Corvus |