Thinking about such matters almost caused Abe to miss the first side street that would lead him to the river road. He parked on a sandy embankment, then walked along until he passed onto Haddan School property, even though he knew Glen and Joey never would have approved. He wanted a spot close to where Gus might have first made contact with the river, and therefore made his way to the reedy area nearest Chalk House. Abe didn't feel like a trespasser; no sweaty hands, no butterflies in the gut. He had spent more time on this river than most men spent in their own living rooms, and could still recall a canoe trip with his father and grandfather at a time when he hadn't been more than three or four. There had been bowers of green leaves overhead and the slapping sound of water as they moved downstream. Whenever he had tried to speak, the men hushed him, warning that he'd scare the fish away. They were out on the river so long that day, Abe fell asleep in the bottom of the boat and awoke with dozens of mosquito bites. No one would believe him afterward when he swore he'd heard the fish swimming below them as he slept.
Abe had come to the old flat rock he and Joey used for diving in summers past, sneaking here whenever school wasn't in session and there was no one who might catch them on private property and call their parents to complain. There were more reeds than Abe recalled, and thickets of thorn bushes grabbed at his pant legs. Nonetheless, he went out onto the rock; his boots got wet and he knelt down and before long his jeans were soaked. He scooped water into the sterile jar, then closed it tightly, returning the jar to his jacket pocket.
By now, the night was so chilly Abe could see his breath in the air. Soon, a film of ice would form in the shallows, a layer so thin it might remain invisible unless stones were thrown. Since Abe had already come this far, he kept on, past the boathouse. Funny how people can keep things from themselves, but he truly didn't know where he was bound until he was standing outside St. Anne's. The hedges were rustling in the wind, and the thin, moonlit clouds raced by up above. He could see Betsy clearly through the window. She wore a cotton robe and her hair was wet from the shower; she sat in a frayed upholstered chair, her bare legs curled up beneath her, as she looked over her students' portfolios. A lamp inside the room cast a faint light so that looking inside was like peering into an Easter egg in which a scene had been designed, there for anyone to hold in his hand and view whenever he pleased.
Watching her this way, Abe felt completely reckless, exactly as he had all those years ago when he was robbing houses. Once more he was the victim of desire and circumstance. He could hear the sound of girls' voices from inside the dorm; he could smell the river, a pungent mixture of mold and decay. He moved a vine that blocked his vision. The difference between now and then was that now he was a grown man who made his own decisions, not a boy breaking into the headmaster's house. No one forced him to remain outside Betsy's window; there was no lock and key. A rational man would have turned and run, but this night had nothing to do with reason. Whenever Abe made an arrest he always tried to figure out the offender's motives.
What were you thinking, man?
he'd said time and time again as he waited for the ambulance with some teenaged boy who'd crashed his father's car, or as he drove to the jail in Hamilton with men who had slapped their wives around once too often or too hard. Most recently, he'd confronted a couple of kids who'd been caught stealing cartons of cigarettes from the mini-mart.
What were you thinking?
he'd asked as he peered into their backpacks. The boys had been terrified and they hadn't answered, but here at last was Abe's answer: they weren't thinking at all. One minute they were standing in the dark with no intention of doing anything out of the ordinary, and the next they were acting on instinct, barreling ahead with no thought in their heads other than
I want
or
I need
or
I've got to have it now.
It was always possible to go back and consider the path not taken; in retrospect, bad decisions and mistakes leapt out so that even the most irrational individual would eventually see the failure of his ways. Later, Abe would wonder if he'd have been so irresponsible if he hadn't started in on that six-pack so early in the day, or if he hadn't stopped at the pharmacy, or if he'd held off going to the river to collect water. One alteration of his conduct might have prevented all the rest, a road strewn with poor choices that had led him to her window and kept him there now.
He thought about the boy who had died, gone so early he would never spy on a woman like this, all tied up in knots, caught up by his own appetites. Gazing into the yellow light, searching Betsy's beautiful, tired face, Abe could feel his own hunger; it was bitter and he hated himself for it, but it couldn't be denied. If he stayed any longer he might circle around to the rear of the building in order to watch her get ready for bed, and then who would he be? The sort of man he'd dealt with a hundred times before, whether it was at the scene of traffic accidents or in the parking lot of the Millstone, a man who was already out of control.
As he forced himself to turn away, Abe thought about all the times he hadn't cared; the girls in school he had kissed so thoughtlessly, the women he'd gone swimming with in the river on hot summer nights. There'd been far too many of them; why, there'd even been something with Mary Beth one New Year's Eve when they'd both had too much to drink, a heated, overwrought incident they both politely chose to forget. He had not cared about a single one of these women, an accomplishment for a man as wary as Abe, something of which he'd been proud, as if he'd won a point of honor by not loving anyone. And so it came as a great surprise to find he could want someone as much as he wanted Betsy. He had thought he could walk through life without any pain; he'd thought solitude would comfort him and keep him safe all the rest of his days, but he was wrong. His grandfather always told him that love never arrived politely, knocking on the front door like a kindhearted neighbor, asking to be let in. Instead, it ambushed a man when he least expected it, when his defenses were down, and even the most obstinate individual, no matter how bullheaded or faithless, had no choice but to surrender when love like this came to call.
THE VEILED WOMAN
AT THE END OF THE MONTH, A cold rain began to fall at a steady pace, hour after hour, until its rhythm was all anyone could hear. This was no ordinary rain, for the rainfall was black, a rain of algae, an odd phenomenon some of the older residents in town recalled from the time when they were children. Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Jeremy, for instance, had played out in a black rain when they were girls and were rightfully punished by their mothers when they flounced home in wet, sooty dresses. Now, the two neighbors stood beneath the shelter of their front porches and called to each other, noting how lucky they were that it wasn't spring, when their gardens would be ruined by this strange substance, the hollyhocks and delphiniums slick with black gunk, the leaves turned dark as coal.
People donned raincoats and hats and ran from their cars into houses or stores. Rugs were set out by back doors, but despite any precautions, black footprints were tracked across floorboards and carpets; dozens of umbrellas were ruined and had to be tossed out with the trash. At the Haddan School, the features of Dr. Howe's statue turned moody and dark, and those who approached him walked on quickly, their feet slap-dashing through puddles that seemed to be made out of ink. Betsy Chase may have been the only one in town who used the black rain to her advantage; she decided to send her students out to photograph the village in the midst of these strange circumstances. Although most of the prints that were later developed were nothing more than murky splotches, there were a few memorable images, including Pete Byers sweeping black rain off the sidewalk, Duck Johnson shirtless and grim as he hosed off canoes at the boathouse, and two black swans, hiding beneath a wooden bench.
When the rain finally stopped, the gutters flowed with algae and the town stank of mildew and fish. There was some flooding in the usual places: the hollow around town hall, the backyards of those who lived closest to the railroad tracks, the dank cellar of Chalk House. A hydraulic pump was brought in and while people fussed about how to best siphon out the muck that had collected in the basement at Chalk House and worried about what the next serious storm's effect would be on the structural integrity of the building, Betsy took the opportunity to go upstairs to the attic, to Gus Pierce's room, empty now, save for the desk and the bed. The windowpanes were splattered with black algae and only a faint, fish-colored light streaked through. Rain had seeped beneath the window, darkly staining the sash. In spite of the dim lighting, Betsy shot a roll of film, recording every angle of the room.
Once in the darkroom, Betsy was prepared for any oddities that might surface, but the film yielded only ceilings and doors, white walls and the single bed, unmade and unremarkable. That evening, when she met Eric for supper, Betsy was still wondering what she had done differently with that first roll of film. She found herself disappointed that another image had not appeared.
“Do you ever think about what comes after?” she asked Eric at dinner. Because of the season, the kitchen was serving turkey soup and potato-leek pie. The dining hall had been decorated with pilgrims' hats, which swung from the ceiling on strings.
“Chair of the department,” Eric said without hesitation. “Eventually a university position.”
“I meant after death.” Betsy stirred her soup. Bits of carrot and rice rose to the surface of the cloudy broth.
“Luckily, we can both be buried in the Haddan School cemetery.”
Betsy thought this over, then pushed her bowl away.
“How did you know I was the right person for you?” she asked suddenly. “What made you so sure?”
Before Eric could answer, Duck Johnson ambled over to join them, his tray loaded down. “Are you going to eat your fruitcake?” he asked, always hungry for more.
“Guess who was invited to Bob Thomas's for Thanksgiving?” Eric announced as he passed on his portion of dessert.
“Congratulations.” Duck nodded cheerfully. “Atta boy.”
Only the chair of each department was invited to the dean's dinner; this year, when Helen Davis declined, Eric had stepped up to take her place. This arrangement, however, was news to Betsy, who had been planning a trip to Maine over the long holiday weekend. It would be good to escape, not just from the school, but from any possibility of running into Abel Grey as she went about her errands in the village.
“We can go to Maine anytime,” Eric assured her.
Betsy wished she wasn't reminded of Helen Davis's warning. Nonetheless, who didn't have doubts every now and then? Every couple needn't always agree or spend every moment in a delirium of happiness. Look at Carlin Leander, who should have been pleased that Harry McKenna was so enamored of her. The other girls at St. Anne's followed him across campus like a flock of trained birds, but Carlin had begun to avoid him. She could feel Gus's disapproval whenever she was with Harry and in time she began to notice the traits Gus had warned her about: the smile that could be turned on and off at will, the selfishness, the certainty that his own needs were at the very center of the universe. She pulled farther and farther away from Harry. If he brought her chocolates, she said she could not stomach sweets. If he came to call, she sent one of her roommates to inform him she was already in bed, far too tired or sick to see anyone at all.
Harry, always so accustomed to getting whatever he wanted, only wanted her more when she withdrew.
“He's worried about you,” Amy Elliot told Carlin, for Harry had begun to confide in Amy, a good listener when it served her purposes. Amy had a little girl's voice that belied her determination to get what she wanted, which in this case was Harry. Since Carlin already had him, Amy had begun to take on her roommate's style, in the hopes that some of Carlin's luck would rub off. She wore a silver clip in her hair, and her brand-new black woolen coat echoed the lines of Gus's old coat. “What's wrong?” Amy asked. “Because if you don't want Harry anymore, believe me, there are plenty of us who do.”
Girls like Amy believed they'd be granted whatever they wanted, if they only crossed their fingers or wished upon stars, but Carlin knew better. She carried her grief with her; she couldn't let it go. Betsy noticed this phenomenon when she photographed the swim team for the alumni newsletter. As she developed that particular photograph, Betsy began to wish Abel Grey were beside her, so he might see for himself what had begun to appear in the tray of developing fluid. If anything, love was like light, illuminating what no one would have ever guessed was there in the darkness. Carlin Leander was at the far end of a line of smiling girls, her grim expression separating her from the group. Her arms were crossed and a frown tilted her mouth downward, but even though she stood apart from the others, Carlin wasn't alone. He was right there beside her, leaning up against the cold, blue tiles, made out of equal parts liquid and air, a fish out of water, a boy with no earthly form, drowned both in this life and the next.
* * *
WHEN MATT FARRIS FAXED OVER THE REPORT from the lab the results were exactly as Abe's father had predicted. The water was clean and clear, with only trace amounts of fish eggs and algae, nothing more.
“Don't bother me,” Joey said when Abe approached him with the report. “I'm writing up our monthly expenses.”
Abe stood there, shirttail out, with an expression that might lead a person to believe he'd never heard of monthly expenses before. Ever since the night he'd looked through Betsy Chase's window, he had been preoccupied and more than a little confused. He'd forgotten to take out the trash so often it was piling up in his back hall; he hadn't once checked his mail, so that stray bills and circulars had begun to overflow from the delivery box beside his door. This morning, he had mistakenly taken one of his grandfather's old suits from the back of the closet. Once having settled the jacket onto his lanky frame, he was surprised to find that it fit. He hadn't thought he was as tall as his grandfather, but it turned out that he was, and because he was late, he'd worn the suit to work.