There was a vast quilt of moonlight-diffused clouds, no stars. âUse âTobias,â all right?â Toby said.
âWhat?â
âIn your report to the Tecoskys. Naomi said every month you send a report to Izzy and Stefania. Saying how everything is. Saying how the swans are doing. What the tree surgeon did, things like that. So Iâm asking, when you tell them about my breaking in, refer to me as Tobias, not Toby. They know me as Tobias.â
âYou fucking idiot.â
âI donât care if you tell Izzy and Stefania. Iâm just asking you to use Tobias.â
William appeared on the porch. He wore threadbare brown corduroy trousers, a blue work shirt, bedroom slippers. âSince Iâll stay in the car, Iâve got slippers on,â he said. âLetâs go, Toby. Iâll sit in back. Youâre my chauffeur. That car has ashtrays in back, doesnât it?â
âIncluding on the pull-down armrest in the middle.â
âIâm not allowed to smoke. Itâll feel good just sitting there in the company of all those ashtrays, though.â
âIâve got French cigarettes I bought in London,â Toby said.
âDonât show them to me.â
They walked to the Buick. David called from the porch, âToby, I donât have to write the TecoskysâI can telephone them directly. They have telephones over there.â
William stopped and beckoned David over. When David stood a few steps away, William said, âThe crisis is over. Weâre going to the moving pictures. The swans are on your watch. I noticed theyâre still on the pond.â William slowly crouched into the back seat and shut the door. Toby got in behind the wheel, revved the engine, let the idle even out, mist swirling in the headlight beams. He gunned it in reverse all the way to the road.
Swans in the House
W HEN THE BUICKâS lights disappeared, David went into the main house to assess the damage. As he passed the kitchen the telephone rang, always a startling thing in an empty house. David stood there through five rings. He felt like the thief. The answering machine recorded Maggieâs voice: âHey, Pop, itâs me. Where are you? Iâm in my apartment. I had a
day.
Things at work are fine, but I went to the doctor this morning. Guess what? My official due date is November nine. I finally couldnât stand it and had them tell me, so Iâm telling youâyouâve got a granddaughter on her way. And no, donât you tell David, please. When I want to tell him, I will
myself. Call me, okay? I want to know you got this news. Itâs not even nine oâclock but Iâm going to bed. Me, the night owl. Love you. Bye-bye.â
David thought,
Never mind the due dateâno one told me Maggie was pregnant to begin with!
He went to the guesthouse, circled November 9 on the calendar, sat drinking coffee, thinking back to the night he and Maggie had last slept together, February 10.
Though it seemed impossible, the fact was, between the accident in London and February 10 of this year, he and Maggie had not met each otherâs eyes, let alone had any sort of conversation. Nor
since
February 10, for that matter. From his kitchen window, David occasionally glimpsed her driving up to or away from the estate, or strolling with William to the pond and back. Now and then heâd impulsively telephoned Maggieâs office, and her assistant, Carol Emery, would say, âTheyâre in France,â or âTheyâre in New York,â or even âTheyâre in town,â but he had the distinct feeling sheâd been instructed to keep such information to a minimum.
Early on the morning of February 10, Maggie drove to the estate, stayed late, and while driving back to Halifax she stopped at the all-night diner for a cup of coffee. There was blowing sleet. Maggie had the windshield wipers going. In the parking lot, before turning
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