All Things Cease to Appear Read online

  I’ll need a beer for this, he said.

  Help yourself. I’m going to bring this inside.

  The meter’s running.

  Let me just say hello.

  Most of these were Saginaw people, of course, and she knew some of them if not by name, then certainly by sight. She spotted Floyd DeBeers over by the keg. Back in the ’60s, she’d sold him a side-hall colonial in Kinderhook, which he’d promptly wallpapered with mirrored hexagons and drawings of naked women, and where over the next decade he proceeded to marry three women in succession. When the second dropped dead of an aneurysm, it had driven him into depression; he’d show up at Hack’s in his pajamas and a velvet smoking jacket, chewing on Valium. But now he’d found this new wife, Millicent, who had MS, kind soul, and used a cane. Tonight Floyd was wearing a velour warm-up suit and smoking a clove cigarette, a clear indication to Mary that he was again in the midst of some crisis.

  As she moved to the door, George saluted her. Hello, Mary. His tone, she noted, wasn’t what you’d call warm. Glad you could make it.

  She raised the cake plate and nodded toward the kitchen.

  Inside, it was roaring hot, and she found Catherine taking something out of the oven, her hands in mitts, her cheeks flushed. She set a tray of brownies down on a trivet by the sink.

  I brought you a cake.

  That was so nice. Here, let me get you some wine.

  The counters were cluttered with empty bottles, ice trays, ashtrays, platters with remnants of leftover dip, limp vegetables, soggy chips. A metal fan rattled on top of the refrigerator. Catherine found a jug of Soave Bolla and poured them each a glass.

  Cheers, she said.

  They shared a moment of quiet as they sipped. The house looks wonderful, Mary said. What a change.

  Amazing what a little paint will do.

  She was about to mention Eddy Hale when his brother Cole came into the kitchen with Catherine’s little girl. Mary blinked at him, surprised. Well, hello.

  Hey, Mrs. Lawton. He glanced uneasily at Catherine, then added, I’m babysitting Franny.

  That’s great news, son, she said, a little too loud.

  Mary watched them run back outside and thought how good it was to see him here and looking happy. Well—that does my heart good, she said to Catherine.

  She looked at her. What do you mean?

  You know he grew up here, don’t you?

  Her expression told Mary that she had no idea.

  They live with their uncle now.

  Catherine shook her head, confused, clearly wondering, Where are their parents?

  Mary waved her off, not wanting to spoil the evening. It’s a long story. Another time.

  I’ve got time right now.

  She took Mary’s hand and led her into the living room. Through the large windows you could see the dark fields, just a whole lot of nothing, and it made her worry for Catherine, because all that emptiness could make you lonesome. They sat down on the sofa and Mary told her the story of the Hales, leaving out the details that still haunted her—the shrill telephone waking her that morning, Cole’s wobbly voice on the line, Something’s happened to my parents. I think they may be dead. It was six in the morning. She’d shaken Travis awake and he’d raced over here.

  It was a terrible accident, she said, even though in her heart she knew it was no accident at all. They were good people. They were friends of mine.

  Catherine’s face was pale. How sad, she said. Those poor boys.

  It was a terrible loss, but we’ve moved on. All of us have.

  Why didn’t you tell us? That first day, when we came up here?

  I was going to, if you seemed interested enough to make an offer. But then it went to the bank. She reached over and took Catherine’s hand and held it tight. George knew, Catherine. I told him before the auction. You all paid a whole lot less because of it.

  Well, she said, taking her hand back. That’s no bargain.

  I know, hon.

  He should have told me.

  Men don’t know anything, do they?

  Catherine looked at her with relief, then shook her head. He never tells me anything.

  He probably didn’t want to upset you, that’s all.

  George does whatever he wants, she said.

  It doesn’t really matter now, does it? You’re here. You’re all settled in. You’ve brought this place back to life, Catherine.

  I sometimes feel so…

  So what, honey? Mary watched the younger woman’s face as she searched for the right word.

  Lost.

  Mary understood that feeling; she’d had it herself. You call me, all right? When you get those feelings.

  I try so hard, she said, her eyes watering. To be a good wife.

  I know.

  He’s like a stranger sometimes, she said softly. I sometimes look at him and think: Who is that man?

  It was the wine talking, Mary decided. And now wasn’t the time to get personal, not about this. She could hear George’s voice in the kitchen, and the pop as another wine cork twisted free.

  Moving can be stressful, she said, squeezing her hand. Try to let things settle down a little.

  Then Catherine raised her eyes very slowly and said, She’s here.

  I don’t know what you mean.

  Their mother. She’s in the house.

  I don’t understand.

  These two rings, Catherine said, spreading out her fingers. They’re hers.

  With a start, Mary recognized them.

  I found both right on the windowsill. I’d been washing dishes and saw a reflection of somebody in the glass. And the next morning they were just sitting there.

  Mary shook her head, not wanting to believe it. That is so strange. She didn’t know what else to say, how to ease Catherine’s obvious distress. There might be a simple explanation, she said. It could only be a coincidence. You were too busy to have noticed them before. Maybe they’d been there all along, and Ella and Cal left a lot of stuff behind. But even as she said this, she remembered seeing these rings on her friend’s fingers at the wake, and thinking it was strange nobody had bothered to take them off. Somebody must have removed them afterward, she decided, and then the boys just left the rings behind, but that didn’t seem likely. Those boys adored their mother and never would’ve forgotten something like that.

  To her relief, little Franny ran into the room, followed by Cole, a welcome interruption. They’d been running around. Cole was flushed and sweaty and his shirt had come untucked. Momma, me and Cole want ice cream!

  Catherine put on her motherly face. Cole and I, she corrected her. So you do, do you? Ice cream it is! She took Franny’s hand. Come into the kitchen. Cole, what flavor?

  Here, let me help, Mary said.

  They went into the sweltering kitchen. Music was playing in the yard. George had turned his speakers out the window. Our house is a very, very fine house with two cats in the yard. A chorus of singing guests joined in, nearly shouting. Life used to be so hard! Through the screen, Mary watched Justine and DeBeers belting out the chorus, their faces full of joy. There was a sassy odor in the air, marijuana.

  Time to go, she thought.

  She glanced through the screen door and saw Travis standing on the edge of the property, his arms crossed over his chest, looking displeased, impatient. Well, it wouldn’t kill him to wait another five minutes.

  Catherine fixed them ice-cream cones—Franny wanted chocolate, Cole a scoop of that and vanilla—and in that moment he was the happy boy Mary remembered from when his mother was alive.

  I’m going to put her to bed, Cole. You can probably get going.

  Why don’t I take you home? Mary said.

  My brother said he’d come.

  Nonsense. Go and get your things. I want my husband out of here before he arrests somebody!

  —

  WITHOUT HIS BROTHERS around, Cole was quieter than usual. He sat in the back seat, impassive, looking out the window. Mary coul
dn’t get those rings out of her head. Unlike her cynical husband, she’d been inside enough creepy houses to believe in the possibility of ghosts or, as the experts called them, entities. Sometimes you just got a feeling. Like stepping into ice water, your whole body went rigid. She’d felt it herself at the farm when she’d gone in to clean up right after the accident. She’d stripped their bed and put the bundle of sheets on the back seat of her car, and, driving home that afternoon, she had the strangest feeling that Ella was sitting back there, too, and she kept looking in her rearview mirror, half expecting to meet her eyes. When she got home she shoved the sheets into the machine, dumping in plenty of soap, as if to prove who was the boss here. Then she fixed herself a stiff drink and stood there watching the sheets churn in the little window. But when she thought about it now, without the hysteria, she decided there might be some truth to it. After all, where does your spirit go when your body dies? It has to go somewhere. If you were happy, maybe you went to heaven. If you were troubled—and Ella Hale certainly had been—maybe you stayed around to sort things out. It seemed to make sense, although it wasn’t anything she’d say out loud.

  She couldn’t help wondering where she’d go herself. She had unfinished business of her own. When she dared to imagine herself inside a coffin, the darkness, the closed-in feeling, she experienced a terror so violent and intimate that she almost couldn’t breathe.

  How do you feel about biology this year? Travis was asking Cole.

  Travis Jr.’s struggling, she added, joining the conversation.

  It’s not so bad, Cole said. We’re dissecting a pig. It’s kind of cool.

  Then Travis asked, How is it, working for the Clares?

  All right, I guess. We painted the barns. Now we’re starting on the house, but it’s pretty much just Eddy now, ’cause of school.

  Good for you, Mary said.

  They came out really good.

  What’s he like, Mary asked, Mr. Clare?

  He’s all right. Not around all that much.

  She knew she shouldn’t but went ahead and said, I think he’s strange.

  I don’t know, the boy said, but she could tell he was just being polite.

  Now, now, that’s not the important thing, Travis said, giving her a look. How’s the pay? That’s what I want to know.

  Pretty good, I guess.

  I’ll tell you what. I admire a man who saves his money.

  Yes, sir.

  They drove a few minutes in silence before pulling up in front of Rainer Luks’s putty-colored row home, which had once housed mill workers back in the early nineteenth century; now most of those residents worked at the plastics factory over on Route 66, but some were young weekenders who liked the big windows and tall ceilings and narrow backyards.

  Say hello to your uncle for us.

  He opened the door. Thanks for the ride. Say hi to Travis.

  You bet.

  They watched him go inside. He’d grown tall like his father and had the same loping walk.

  I’m glad we brought him home, Travis said. They were smoking marijuana at that party. I could’ve had a field day.

  Good for you for restraining yourself.

  I can’t do parties. We ought to know that by now.

  She reached across the seat and took his hand. Take me home, Travis. We’ll make our own party.

  But ten minutes after they got home her husband was asleep. Mary fixed herself a drink and brought out the thick photo album. She flipped through it eagerly and found a snapshot of her and Ella, a little yellow now from the years under plastic. They were out on the steps, smoking, their toddlers, Cole and Travis Jr., playing at their feet. She and Ella were both wearing cardigans and plaid skirts, their lips painted red. They had their hair in rollers. She could remember they’d done each other’s hair that day. Those soft rollers were all the rage.

  She thought of the Clares living in that house and a feeling went through her. Poor Cole, working for those people, in his own house. Imagine what his mother would think. They’d stolen the place right out from under those poor boys. It just wasn’t right. And nobody, not one person, had stepped in to see if they could help. Not even her and Travis. They were as guilty as anybody else.

  A sick feeling coursed all through her. Guilt, that’s what it was.

  And the Clares—well, they’d gotten a hell of a deal.

  How sad that we’ve come to this, she thought. A world of unreliability. A world of takers.

  2

  AFTER EVERYONE had gone and they were cleaning up, she said to George, Why didn’t you tell me about the boys?

  Tell you what? His voice was sharp.

  Their parents died in this house, George.

  So? Does it matter?

  Yes, it matters. Did you know?

  He just looked at her.

  How could you even buy this house, knowing what happened to their parents?

  I didn’t think it was a big deal.

  Not a big deal. She could hardly contain her anger. How could you be so insensitive? Why didn’t you tell me?

  Because I knew what you’d say.

  And you didn’t care?

  It’s a little late to be having this conversation, don’t you think?

  You’re right. We should’ve had it before we bought it.

  As usual, you’re overreacting.

  She shook her head. I don’t like this house, she said. It was a mistake.

  You’re being ridiculous.

  Something about his expression—the flat, cold stare, his flagrant indifference—stirred something wild in her. On impulse, she walked out, shaking, and got into the car and drove. It was very dark, no moon, and the road was empty, as if she were the lone survivor of some global catastrophe. Unwittingly, she glanced at the empty seat beside her, half expecting to see someone there—some vision—but there was nothing, no one. Only the black window, her vague reflection in the glass.

  She drove into town, to the house where the boys lived with their uncle, and parked at the curb. The lights were out, but she could see the TV light flashing on the ceiling. She’d planned to knock, explain herself and attempt to distinguish her and George from other people, who had shown their family so little consideration. Instead, she sat there and had a cigarette. Then she thought: I’ll just keep driving. A fantasy washed over her, a vivid chronology of her escape, but ended abruptly. Because leaving Franny behind wasn’t an option.

  She started the engine and drove home.

  The next day, when Cole came to the house after school, she said, I didn’t know you lived here. I’m sorry. Nobody told me.

  She started to cry. She let him hold her. Awkwardly, the way a boy holds a woman. They stood there like that, a strange pair. Here, she said, taking off the rings. These were your mother’s.

  Cole took the rings and closed his palm around them.

  She would have liked you, he said finally. My mother. She’d be glad to know it was you.

  Part 2

  Hard Alee

  FLOYD DEBEERS OWNED a sailboat named The Love of My Life, in honor of his second wife. He moored it near the campus dock, by the boathouse and the crew team’s weight room. At one time, Saginaw had a sailing team, but then ran out of money, which was often the case. When George mentioned that he was a sailor, Floyd invited him out on the boat, a Valiant 32. It was a sturdy little boat with a canoe stern, rigged as a sloop. One Friday after work, they sailed downriver. It was a beautiful afternoon on the water.

  You’re an old salt, George said, nodding at the tiller.

  I’ve considered converting it, though a wheel takes all the fun out of it. It’s something like being a little deaf—you might get the experience, but you miss things. I bought it for my wife. She loved a good sail. They’d met in boarding school, he explained, at St. George’s. His wife had been from Watch Hill.

  He let George take the tiller and went down below to retrieve a bottle of bourbon and two glasses with ice. What about your wife? She a sai
lor, too?

  No—she’s not a water person.

  How’d you meet?

  College.

  What does she do?

  She’s busy with our daughter now. Our time’s kind of limited.

  They say you have to make time.

  George nodded. Yes, I know.

  Will you have more?

  More?

  Children.

  Fortunately, the subject hadn’t come up. She’d turned the small room at the end of the hall into her sewing room in lieu of a nursery. I don’t know, he said, and he didn’t.

  Then again, you have to want all that. Floyd poured them each a drink. Skol.

  He held up his glass. The bourbon tasted bitter.

  I never did.

  Kids?

  Floyd shook his head. I regret it now. He looked at George carefully. I think I might have been more fulfilled.

  It’s great, George said, then realized this might’ve offended him. But it’s a lot of work, too. In truth, Franny was the most important thing in his life. She was the glue that held him and Catherine together. For a moment, he entertained the possibility of leaving her. She would inevitably get custody. The judges, he knew, always sided with the mother. And maybe that’s how it should be. Catherine would undoubtedly move in with her parents. He imagined all of them living together in that ghastly house, eating their dinners off of snack-tray tables in front of The Price Is Right.

  Tacking downriver, they labored against the current. Coming back would be easier. The sun was lower now, almost white in its brightness. The water silver.

  What about you?

  Me?

  Where do you stand on that sort of thing? With your wife, I mean. Your marriage, has it been—has it turned out like you thought? Are you fulfilled?

  The question seemed oddly personal. Of course, he said, but it was such a grandiose lie that he coughed.

  Well, she’s only your first. As I told you, I’m on my third.

  It can be…

  Difficult, I know. He looked at George, assessing him. Let me guess: she was pregnant?