Strange Fits of Passion (15 page)

That's why it's so—Jesus—unbelievable. I have trouble believing it even now. I just can't see it. I mean, you hear about these kinds of stories once in a while, but it's always some poor woman with six kids in Arkansas or Harlem, and her husband is an alcoholic kind of thing. Rarely do you hear about this kind of thing with people like Harrold and Maureen.

You would think there'd be a hint of something somewhere. And Harrold was no alcoholic. I mean, he drank like the rest of us drank. A martini at lunch maybe, maybe two if the occasion called for it. Cocktails at dinner, that kind of thing.

Although I will say, the last couple of months I was at the magazine, he did seem to be in a bit of a slump. We all get them; I really didn't think too much about it. Was he drinking more then? I really can't remember. I do remember thinking that maybe he was bent out of joint a bit by Stein. Stein was straight out of Columbia, a whiz kid. Very sharp. Very. He was at the magazine a couple of months, and already he was stepping on Harrold's toes. Flavor of the month, that kind of thing. It coincided with Harrold's slump, put the edge on the slump, but I knew Harrold would pull out of it. He'd just had a baby. I could remember what that was like—up all night, out of it all day. I figured he was cutting some slack for a few months, then would pick up speed. And then I left, and really never gave it another thought.

Until I heard. Absolutely stunning. Really.

But it's a hell of a story. In fact, I don't know if you've given this much thought, but you might have a book there. You know, maybe an
In Cold Blood
kind of thing. It depends on what you get, how it shapes up. There are some interesting themes here: the secretiveness of it all, the fact that it was them. Like Scott and Zelda run amok kind of thing.

Yeah, it's a possibility. Tell you what. You put the piece together, send it over to me when you've finished it, before it comes out. I'll take a look, let you know.

She had a lover up in Maine, didn't she?

For the book, we'd want to know about that. These complexities. Makes a better story. It might have some bearing on her motives, don't you think?

I heard a sound. A muffled sound of tires crunching over gravel. A car or a truck was moving slowly down the lane, as quietly as it could, a sleepy vehicle at daybreak. I tossed back the covers and went to the window. I found my cardigan on a chair and put it on. The floorboards were cold underneath my feet. Outside, there was a field of gray, that half hour of lightening before the sun would rise. I watched the black truck roll along the sand to the dinghy. A man got out. It was the same man as yesterday, although I could see only the yellow slicker clearly through the field of gray; his features were indistinct. The water was still and flat, and when he sculled out to his boat, there was a perfect rippled wake behind his oar.

The rumble of the motor was a complaint, a boat disturbed too early and grumbling under her skipper. I saw flashes of the yellow slicker on the bow, in the wheelhouse, then moving in the boat in its graceful arc out to where the sun would rise.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched the boat disappear. I wondered where he was headed, how he knew where to go, what it would be like when he got there—another expanse of gray, with colored buoys bobbing in the water? I didn't know what time it was for certain, but I knew that it had to be early: no later than six-thirty, I imagined. To be on the water by six-thirty, I thought, required rising at five-thirty. In the dark with his wife at his side, his children sleeping in another room. And this was in December, with the longest nights of the year. What must a lobsterman's life be like in June, when daybreak came at four or earlier? Do lobstermen eat their supper in the late afternoon, I wondered, go to bed before their children?

I touched a finger to my lip; it was swollen still, and tender. I was aware, too, of other places that I didn't want to touch. There was something wrong with my knee. I wasn't sure what, exactly, but it burned under the kneecap, as if I'd wrenched it in a fall. I thought that perhaps the cleaning yesterday hadn't helped it much, the crouching and the bending.

I heard the baby stir and went to her and lifted her out of the crib. I carried her to bed and pulled the covers up high over us so that we were a warm package together underneath. I nursed her this way and she drifted back to sleep, and perhaps I did too, but I remember listening to the sounds of my new surroundings, trying to orient myself to where I lived. There were the gulls, roused now and cawing over the point, and there was a breeze that was coming with the sunrise.

I slipped out of bed, humped up a secure niche for Caroline, and went downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal. The sun had risen; the day would be clear. The water went from gray to pink to violet even as I watched from the table. I heard another vehicle in the lane, saw a blue-and-white pickup truck emerge from the brush and stop in front of the gray fish house. A man in a pea jacket and watch cap got out, carrying a cardboard box of rope and bits of hardware. He went inside the shack, and in a few minutes I saw smoke rising from a chimney. When he opened the door again, I heard the jarring patter of a disc jockey from a radio inside. The man walked to the back of his truck and removed several lobster traps and carried them into the shack. He didn't come out again.

After a time Caroline began to cry. I brought her down, bathed her in the sink, dressed her, and set her on the braided rug. She seemed intent on mastering the art of crawling, or at least the art of balancing on all fours, despite a few comical false starts and a tendency to propel herself backward. But I was tickled by the look of concentration on her face, the tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, the goofy expression of surprise when her coordination betrayed her and she collapsed on her tummy.

I had another cup of coffee and made a list. I needed a clock and a radio and a laundromat. The soiled diapers were piling up, and Caroline was running out of clothes. I wanted to see if I could find a baby sling too. I thought if I had one I could walk on the beach with her if it warmed up some. Carrying her in my arms wasn't practical. Even though she wasn't all that heavy—only seventeen pounds—it was an awkward position for long distances, and my arms would grow tired.

In lists there was a kind of order: creating purpose out of aimlessness; rescuing a day from a vast expanse of time. It didn't matter so much that I didn't actually have the clock; it was enough just to have written it on the list. That was progress. I thought that I would dress myself, find my pocketbook, put Caroline into her snowsuit, and make my way into Machias, but for the moment I was content just to sit and look out the window, drink a cup of coffee and watch my baby daughter on a rug, or the water change its color out the window. I had forgotten the fear of the night before, or I had put the taste of it aside. This was a new sensation, drifting with the moment,
enjoying
the moment, with no urgency for the next, and I savored it, or rather, I simply let it happen.

Machias is, I think, considered a small city by the people who live around it, but I was reminded of a suburb. It had more shops and buildings than St. Hilaire, but it, too, was quiet, an only somewhat larger fishing town, on the banks of the Machias River. I saw a lumber mill, a furniture factory, a restaurant, a fish store, a five-and-ten, a gift shop, a church, a hardware store, an A&P, and one historical house that was open for tours in the summer. There
was
a laundromat. There were strollers for sale in the five-and-ten, and I would have liked one, but I was concerned about the money I had left, how long I could make it last. I bought a clock radio, however, thus crossing off two items on my list with one purchase. Along one wall, there was a small shelf of books—a paperback shelf of doomed love. I selected three:
Anna Karenina, Ethan Frame, The French Lieutenant's Woman.
In another aisle, I bought a sling and two presents for my daughter: a string of toys to hang across a crib that she could bat at, and a fuzzy yellow duck I could not resist. As I put the duck on the checkout counter, I was suddenly struck by the idea that just as Harrold had had his legacies, so also did I have mine: I was alone now with a daughter. I was alone now with a daughter for good, just as my mother had been. The woman behind the counter, a woman who looked as if she might be related to the woman who owned the Gateway Motel, had to ask me twice for my money.

I wondered then, as I was walking to my car with the baby and my purchases, what Harrold was doing. He would not, at first, go to the police; he'd be afraid that I might tell them what had happened. He'd try other ways of obtaining information: He would call women I'd known at the office; he would quiz my neighbor; he would keep a careful watch on our bank account. I didn't think he would call my mother. He would know I hadn't gone there again. And then, when I did not return, he might call a private detective whom he had gone to school with and whom he had sometimes used on a story. Harrold would have to be careful; he'd have thought the dialogue through in advance. He would say, in a voice rich with male camaraderie, that he had a ticklish situation, could the fellow help him out? He would explain that I had gone away on a trip and hadn't returned, and he was worried that something had happened to me. He'd tell the man he didn't want a fuss, we'd had a little row, and that all he needed to know was where I was. He'd ask his friend not to tip me off, and he'd say that he himself would drive to where I was, sweet-talk me into coming back—you know how women can be, he'd say—and then they'd laugh together, and one of them would say, Let's have a drink when you're in the neighborhood.

He wouldn't say I'd kidnapped his child. Not yet. That would be his trump card, his ace in the hole. He'd save that for later, in case I did speak up, went to the police before he got to me. What was hitting a wife, he would reasonably argue, compared to stealing a baby?

There were three trucks in front of the fish house when I returned from Machias; one of them I recognized, a red pickup with gold-leaf scrollwork under the driver's-side window. Indeed, no sooner had I entered the cottage and put the baby down than I heard a knock on the door. Willis had a package in his hands, and he spoke to me. This is how I remember it:

"Brought you some fish," he said, walking into the kitchen. "Haddock. Caught this morning. Not me. André LeBlanc brought it in."

I took the package from him. He put his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders up underneath his denim jacket. He looked as if he were freezing. I said that I had to get some packages from the car.

"Don't you move," he said. "I'll get them for you." And before I could respond, he was out the door.

He brought in all the packages from the five-and-ten and the bundle of laundry from the laundromat. I saw that he was wearing the same pair of jeans as yesterday, the same navy sweater.

"I have to put the baby in for a nap," I said.

I thought that he would leave then, but he said instead, "No problem," and walked over to the window, looking out at the point.

I took off my coat and scarf and carried the baby upstairs. I sat on the bed and nursed her, and when she was finished, I laid her down in the crib and pulled her blanket over her. Below me, I could hear footsteps on the floorboards, the refrigerator opening, a chair scraping the linoleum.

When I came downstairs he was sitting at the kitchen table. He had an open can of beer in front of him.

"You don't mind," he said, lifting the can in my direction.

I shook my head, stood uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"Get one yourself," he said genially, as if it were his kitchen, as if we were old friends.

I quickly shook my head again. I turned the heat on under the coffeepot, stood by the stove while I waited for the coffee to warm up.

"Let me pay you for the fish," I said.

He waved his hand. "Wouldn't hear of it. Think of it as a housewarming present." He laughed. "No, seriously," he said. "I didn't even pay for it. LeBlanc gave me a coupla pounds of fish; I just skimmed off a pound for you. I been waitin' for you over at the fish house. I got pots do to myself, but it's too fuckin' cold out there. Anyway, I feel like takin' a coupla days off."

He looked around the cottage. He snapped a beat with his splayed fingers on the table. He bobbed up and down in his chair for a measure or two. I wondered what music he was listening to. "You like the Dead?" he asked.

I nodded noncommittally.

"I gotta get a tree," he said. "Jeannine likes it early. Says it gives her somethin' to look forward to. She puts it in a corner of the trailer. I worry about fire, that's the only thing."

"Fire?"

"You have a fire in a trailer and you're dead. Just like that." He snapped his fingers. "It's like fryin' in an aluminum box. It's the biggest problem with a trailer, fire. So I only allow the kids to have the lights on when I'm in the trailer with them—the lights on the tree, I mean. And I'm a son of a bitch about keepin' it watered. The minute the needles start fallin' off, I get rid of it. But any tree I get won't shed until Valentine's Day." He laughed again. "I'll cut it myself, in the woods across from the Coffin place. Sit down, take a load off your feet."

I poured the heated coffee into a mug, took the mug to the table. He kicked out a chair with his boot, an invitation. I sat down, took a sip of coffee. I'd let it boil, and it burned my tongue. Willis looked at me, seemed to be studying my face. He looked away toward the living room.

"Baby asleep?" he asked. He looked back at me.

I nodded.

He stood up, walked to the refrigerator, took out another can of beer. He opened the can and drank it almost entirely down. He returned to the table, stood just to the side of me. He was looking out at the point, with the can in his hand.

"So what's the story?" he said. "You and your old man are definitely split, right?"