Garden of Lies (31 page)

Rachel forced herself to swallow the pasty, stringy lump.

“I thought her name was Shannon.”

“It used to be. She changed it.”

“You’re not thinking of changing yours, are you?” The thought of having to call him

something like “Tonto” or “Seagull” made her want to laugh.

He grinned. “Sure. How does Acapulco grab you?”

“Funny. Very funny.” Now she was giggling in spite of herself. Still the same old Mason. She

felt herself relax.

“I’m sorry, that was mean of me. What I said about Yale. I’m just not quite used to seeing you

in a ponytail. But I’m happy for you, Mason, honestly.”

“No offense taken. Hey, want to see the rest of the place? Shan—Cheyenne and I have the

whole top floor. Dove and Gordy share the second with Lisa and Joe. Have you met Joe? The

house used to belong to Joe’s grandfather, he was some kind of botanist. It was Joe’s idea to hold

the wedding up at the greenhouse. ...”

Rachel followed Mason up a wide staircase with a carved oak banister and charmingly turned

spindles. The third floor, where he lived, was really an attic. She followed him around the low

whitewashed room, ducking to avoid hitting her head on the sloping ceiling. Someone—

Cheyenne probably—had sewn curtains from a [178] madras bedspread. A queen-size mattress

on the floor was the only furniture aside from a chest of drawers.

Mason sat down on the mattress, his legs crossed Indian style. He caught her somewhat

dismayed look, and said, “I know, kind of bare, but it’s only temporary. Till the end of summer.

Then we’re moving into the city. I’m starting with the Legal Aid Society in September—did I tell

you? I got fed up with corporate law, rich assholes all trying to rip each other off. You have any

idea how many decent people get shipped off to penitentiaries every day because they can’t

afford a good lawyer? Of course you’ll find a fair number of incompetents in Legal Aid, the ones

who’re there only because they can’t get anything better. But, hey, I’m
choosing
this. I want to

help.”

Rachel dropped down beside Mason, and kissed his cheek. She felt proud of him, of his

courage, his commitment.

“Poor Delia Street,” she said.

“What’s Delia Street got to do with it?”

“I was just thinking, where would Delia have been if Perry Mason had gone over to Legal

Aid?”

He laughed, and leaned over to dig out a plastic Baggie from under a corner of the mattress.

“Want to smoke one? For old times’ sake?”

He rolled a joint, and they passed it back and forth, toking in companionable silence. It felt

good, right somehow to be sharing this with Mason on his wedding day. Just what she needed to

take her mind off herself, her heartache.

Then Mason asked, “So what’s with Dr. Kildare these days? Too busy saving lives to fall in

love and get married?”

“I was in love once,” she said. “At least I thought so at the time. Think I’ll stick to saving lives

from now on, starting with my own. ... Hey, you know, I’m getting used to the idea of you with a

ponytail. In fact I kind of like it. I must be stoned.”

“Grew it myself.”

“The ponytail?” She giggled, feeling more and more lightheaded.

“This.” He held out the joint. “Up in the greenhouse.”

“I kind of figured.”

“Pop suspects, I think. He out and out asked me if I was up [179] to any funny stuff. He kills

me. I guess he still holds it against me, that I wouldn’t go into the business.”

Rachel took a long drag, coughing on the sweetish smoke. It’d been a long time since she’d

gotten stoned, probably too long. She leaned back on the mattress, supporting herself on one

elbow. She could see through the low window, to where the sun was setting in a tangerine haze

over the river.

“You want to hear something really radical?” she said. “I’m thinking of going to Vietnam.”

Mason stared at her. “Shit, Rachel, are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Until now she hadn’t been sure, but somehow saying it seemed to make it real.

Mason stared at the smoldering joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Wow. I knew

this homegrown stuff was good, but not
that
good.”

She laughed. “Okay, I’m a little stoned, but I
am
serious.”

“Bar none, this is the craziest idea you’ve ever come up with.” His brown eyes opened in

exaggerated, comic-book disbelief.

“I’m not talking about joining the army or anything. I’d work for a private hospital, Catholic

Relief. There’s plenty of civilians being shot at, maimed, over there, as well as soldiers. I don’t

see that it could be any worse than working in Legal Aid.”

Mason reflected on this, squinting his eyes as the smoke rose up around his head. “Yeah, you

could be right about that. Anyway, who am I to judge? According to Pop, I’ve pretty well

screwed up my life, so who am I to be telling you what to do? Besides, I know you well enough

to know you’ll do it anyway.”

Mason fished a roach clip from an ashtray on the floor near the mattress, and finished the joint

in silence. Rachel thought then that if she’d had a brother, she would have wanted him to be just

like Mason.

“I’ll drop you a postcard,” she told him.

“Just don’t write ‘Wish you were here.’ ” He tapped his chest, grinning. “Heart murmur. Four-

F. Bummer, huh?”

Rachel pulled herself to her feet, feeling heavy, tired, but also better than she had in weeks.

Yes, she would go ... that was the answer ... put all this behind her. ...

A new life, like Mason.

[180] “Let’s go down,” she told him. “Cheyenne might wonder what you’re doing up here with

another woman on your wedding day.”

“Relax, Cheyenne’s not like that. She doesn’t believe you can own anyone that way.” He

hoisted himself off the mattress.

Rachel stared down at his sandaled feet, at the weirdly angled little toe he’d broken waterskiing

one summer in Deal when they were kids. It made her feel sad somehow, as if Mason’s bent toe

stood for a carefree part of her life she’d lost forever.

Then she leveled a stern gaze at Mason. “Listen, Buster, just don’t ever test her on that, you

hear? If you love her, don’t mess with a good thing.”

Mason saluted, one corner of his mouth twisting up. “Not a chance. She’s all I can handle, and

then some. Listen, I’ll tell you something I haven’t even told my parents. Cheyenne and I ... well,

she’s three months pregnant. I’m going to be a father. Can you dig it?”

Rachel, a searing pain in her chest, felt as if he had touched a live wire to her heart. That goofy

look of happiness on Mason’s face. It made her think of David, how distant he’d been, how cold.

Oh God.

Then she pulled herself together. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“It’s something else, isn’t it? Me getting married, having a kid. You maybe going to Vietnam.”

He turned to her as they were heading toward the stairs. There were little red razor nicks along his

jaw, she observed. He’d shaved off his beard this morning, he told her, out of respect for his

parents. It would have been too much, seeing him looking like Jesus Christ on top of everything

else. “Just don’t stick your neck out too far over there.” Then he added, “Oh, hell, why did I say

that? For you, that’s like saying ‘Don’t think about elephants.’ ”

She patted his shoulder. “Okay, I promise. I won’t think about elephants.”

Out on the landing, she heard a commotion downstairs, someone crying out, a door slamming,

the hammering of footsteps on the stairs below.

“Rachel? Rachel?” Mama’s voice anxiously calling her. Someone [181] hurt? She thought

absurdly of those old cartoons, Bugs Bunny screeching, “Is there a doctor in the house?”

But as the white circle of Mama’s face surfaced out of the stairwell, Rachel froze. Her heart

felt as if it had stopped.
Oh God, something bad ... something bad must have happened to ...

“Rachel,” Mama gasped. “It’s Daddy—”

Chapter 9

Sylvie sat in the old red velvet rocking chair in her bedroom, sewing a button on Gerald’s shirt.

She guided the needle through the buttonhole. Such tiny buttons, and so fine, the old-fashioned

kind made of polished bone, not plastic. Just like Gerald to watch over every detail. His shirts all

custom-fitted by the same house on Savile Row that his father had used before him.

Sylvie glanced up briefly at the tall leaded windows and saw with some surprise that the

afternoon was nearly gone.

Somewhere she heard a sound, a knocking. But so far away it had to be coming from

downstairs. Oh well, let Bridget take care of it. She imagined herself laying the shirt out for

Gerald, so he could wear it tomorrow, with his natty blue herringbone suit and that lovely Dior tie

Rachel had given him for Father’s Day last year. ...

The knocking grew louder, more persistent. Why, it wasn’t downstairs at all, it was right

outside her bedroom door. And she heard a voice as well.

“Mama? Are you in there? Mama!”

Rachel? What a lovely surprise. Perhaps she’ll stay for supper.

“Come in, dear,” Sylvie called brightly. “It’s not locked. Just stuck. These old doors. Give it a

hard push.”

My Lord, how awful she looks,
Sylvie thought as her daughter came into the room. Hair

stringy, flat, as if she hadn’t washed it in days. Face puffy, eyes swollen. Poor child.

“Oh, Mama.”

Rachel crossed the room and kneeled at Sylvie’s feet. As she tilted her face up, a dusky

sunbeam caught it and lifted it from the gloom, illuminating it like a tortured soul in a Goya

painting. Something in her expression stirred Sylvie from her lethargy, and made [183] her feel

cold. A bone-deep cold that no amount of blankets could warm.

Go away,
she thought.
Leave me be.

Rachel pressed her face into the folds of Gerald’s shirt spread across Sylvie’s lap. Her voice

rose, muffled and thick with tears. “I miss him so much. It just doesn’t seem possible that I won’t

see him again. When I walk through this house, he’s in every room. Oh God, Mama, it’s like he’s

here,
so close I can even
smell
him. Only I can’t see him or touch him.”

Rachel began to weep, shoulders jerking, hot tears soaking through the dressing gown Sylvie

had not changed out of since this morning.

“Hush now.” Sylvie smoothed her hand over Rachel’s head, feeling the hard curve of skull

under the springy silken hair, and the tender little hollow at the nape of her neck. When Rachel

was a tiny baby, Sylvie had stroked her to sleep just like this. “Don’t cry, my darling.”

Sylvie felt a wonderful sense of peace. As if she had indeed left the present behind, and were

suspended in another time, a time of happiness, a baby warm in her lap, its sweet powdery

fragrance filling the whole room.

Then the coldness began to seep through her again.

“Mama, I miss Daddy, but it’s you I’m worried about.” Rachel’s words tugged at her, forced

her deeper into the cold black place she didn’t want to be. “You haven’t cried once. And you

won’t eat. You haven’t been out of this room for a whole week. Bridget called me this morning.

She was in tears she was so upset.”

“There’s nothing for either of you to be upset about,” Sylvie replied. “I’m perfectly fine. I just

don’t seem to have much of an appetite, that’s all. And much as I love Bridget’s cooking, she

does
get a bit heavy-handed with the butter and eggs. She’s been trying to fatten me up for years.

Even sneaks cream into my coffee when I’ve specifically asked for skim milk. It’s like a war with

her, you know. And she just can’t accept losing.”

“Oh, Mama.” Rachel lifted her face, damp and swollen from crying. “Can’t you at least cry?

It’d be so much better if you could.”

Sylvie flinched from those bruised-looking eyes. No, no, she couldn’t let herself cry. If she did,

she’d never be able to stop. Like an ocean wave snatching her under, drowning her.

[184]
Oh, if only Gerald were here.

But that was what Rachel was reminding her of, wasn’t it? That Gerald was not coming back to

her. Ever.

Then something cracked open inside Sylvie, pressing against her chest, hurting, forcing the air

from her lungs. Tears rose up her throat in a great choking wave.

And it all came rushing back.

Gerald complaining of chest pains at Mason Gold’s wedding, collapsing before she and Rachel

could get him out to the car. Then the emergency room, all those doctors, nurses, paramedics

swarming over him, pounding on his chest, poking him with needles, wires, tubes, trying to shock

his heart into beating. But it was too late by then. Too late ...

The funeral, two days later, was hazy in her mind. How unreal it had seemed, like a dream, or a

movie she was watching. Temple Emmanuel, so crowded, Gerald’s friends, his clients,

employees, people from the Opera. Hundreds, all of them wanting to squeeze her hand, kiss her

cheek. And Rachel, close at her side, so good, so strong, remembering names, murmuring the

right words of appreciation.

Sylvie saw in her mind the cemetery glittering under a shroud of snow, that awful blanket of

artificial grass, so wrong, worse than the gaping hole underneath. Someone had left a bouquet of