thought of Donny T. in the backseat of Eddie Garrity’s Bonneville, counting dollar bills in the dim light of a single lamp on the pier. Maybe it wasn’t the risk that had been the draw all those years ago: maybe it had simply been the money.
— I want to tell you about Billie,
Thomas said, startling her, until, looking at him, she saw that this had been the nugget of his thoughts all along; and she reflected that his need to tell this story again and again was probably not so very different from that of a woman who had recently given birth and felt it necessary to describe the ordeal in detail to whoever would listen. She herself had done the same.
— I play it over and over again in my head,
Thomas began.
I always imagine that if I could just reach in and tweak some tiny detail, just one fact, I could easily change everything.
Thomas slid down in his chair and propped his legs on the edge of a hassock.
It was a bogus assignment in the first place. Jean had been hired by the
Globe
to take pictures of a place where two women had been murdered a hundred and some odd years ago. In eighteen seventy-three. At the Isles of Shoals. Do you know them?
Linda nodded.
I’ve never been there, though.
— Rich had this idea, since it was summer, that we could combine Jean’s assignment with a little vacation. Sail up to the islands and around, maybe head on up to Maine.
Thomas paused.
I hate sailing. It was always Rich’s deal.
Thomas shook his head.
He’d brought a woman with him, a woman he’d been seeing, someone I’d met some months before at a party. Her name was Adaline, and she was perfectly nice — in fact she was quite lovely — but in an entirely unintentional way, she was dangerous. Have you ever had that feeling about someone? That he or she was dangerous?
Linda thought a minute. Only about herself, years ago.
— I think now that Adaline was a sort of catalyst. For some twisted thing that was playing itself out amongst the three of us — me and Jean and Rich.
Thomas was silent a moment.
Actually, Adaline reminded me of you. She looked just like you did in Africa. I hadn’t seen you since then, so in my memory, you were still that person. And what was uncanny was that she wore a cross.
He put his fingers together, remembering.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. And she knew my poetry. And was very flattering about it. And I’ve never been very good at ignoring flattery.
— No one is.
— And Jean saw this — how could she not? — and it ate at her, as it would at anyone. I don’t think Jean was by nature a particularly jealous person. It was just that, on that boat, you couldn’t get away from it; whatever was happening on the boat, you had to live with it. It was in your face, hour after hour after hour.
— And Rich saw it too?
Linda asked quietly.
— I have to assume that he did. Why else did he decide to fuck my wife then, on that trip? Jean and he had known each other for years. I don’t think there had been anything between them before that.
Thomas’s eyes went inward, searching the past.
No, I’m sure not. I’d have felt it, I think.
Linda nodded.
— We were all tense. And Jean and I . . .
He glanced away and back again.
To say we were having problems sounds banal. And it was, it was banal. But they weren’t problems in the way that one can define a problem and then try to solve it and move on. No, it was more that the texture of the marriage had gone wrong.
Thomas sighed.
— And so what do you do with that? Together you have a beautiful five-year-old girl. You get along well enough. There are no crises to speak of. Do you destroy a marriage because something vague doesn’t feel right? And, of course, you don’t know for certain that the marriage is irrevocably broken. Part of you is always hoping you can make it right.
— Define “right.”
— See? That’s the problem. In a marriage, you’re always working towards something, but you’re never sure when you’ve got
— I want to tell you about Billie,
Thomas said, startling her, until, looking at him, she saw that this had been the nugget of his thoughts all along; and she reflected that his need to tell this story again and again was probably not so very different from that of a woman who had recently given birth and felt it necessary to describe the ordeal in detail to whoever would listen. She herself had done the same.
— I play it over and over again in my head,
Thomas began.
I always imagine that if I could just reach in and tweak some tiny detail, just one fact, I could easily change everything.
Thomas slid down in his chair and propped his legs on the edge of a hassock.
It was a bogus assignment in the first place. Jean had been hired by the
Globe
to take pictures of a place where two women had been murdered a hundred and some odd years ago. In eighteen seventy-three. At the Isles of Shoals. Do you know them?
Linda nodded.
I’ve never been there, though.
— Rich had this idea, since it was summer, that we could combine Jean’s assignment with a little vacation. Sail up to the islands and around, maybe head on up to Maine.
Thomas paused.
I hate sailing. It was always Rich’s deal.
Thomas shook his head.
He’d brought a woman with him, a woman he’d been seeing, someone I’d met some months before at a party. Her name was Adaline, and she was perfectly nice — in fact she was quite lovely — but in an entirely unintentional way, she was dangerous. Have you ever had that feeling about someone? That he or she was dangerous?
Linda thought a minute. Only about herself, years ago.
— I think now that Adaline was a sort of catalyst. For some twisted thing that was playing itself out amongst the three of us — me and Jean and Rich.
Thomas was silent a moment.
Actually, Adaline reminded me of you. She looked just like you did in Africa. I hadn’t seen you since then, so in my memory, you were still that person. And what was uncanny was that she wore a cross.
He put his fingers together, remembering.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. And she knew my poetry. And was very flattering about it. And I’ve never been very good at ignoring flattery.
— No one is.
— And Jean saw this — how could she not? — and it ate at her, as it would at anyone. I don’t think Jean was by nature a particularly jealous person. It was just that, on that boat, you couldn’t get away from it; whatever was happening on the boat, you had to live with it. It was in your face, hour after hour after hour.
— And Rich saw it too?
Linda asked quietly.
— I have to assume that he did. Why else did he decide to fuck my wife then, on that trip? Jean and he had known each other for years. I don’t think there had been anything between them before that.
Thomas’s eyes went inward, searching the past.
No, I’m sure not. I’d have felt it, I think.
Linda nodded.
— We were all tense. And Jean and I . . .
He glanced away and back again.
To say we were having problems sounds banal. And it was, it was banal. But they weren’t problems in the way that one can define a problem and then try to solve it and move on. No, it was more that the texture of the marriage had gone wrong.
Thomas sighed.
— And so what do you do with that? Together you have a beautiful five-year-old girl. You get along well enough. There are no crises to speak of. Do you destroy a marriage because something vague doesn’t feel right? And, of course, you don’t know for certain that the marriage is irrevocably broken. Part of you is always hoping you can make it right.
— Define “right.”
— See? That’s the problem. In a marriage, you’re always working towards something, but you’re never sure when you’ve got
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