“No, you thought you’d just come down here.”
I start to nod, then stop. This is almost the longest conversation we’ve ever had.
“Could you close the door?” I ask.
He stares, turns, pushes it. It shuts with a crack.
When he looks back at me, his features have softened. But his voice is still hard: “What is it you need?”
I feel dizzy. “Can I sit?”
He doesn’t move.
I drift to the sofa, sink into it. He stands statue-still for a moment, the keys jumbled in one palm; then he jams them in his pocket, tugs off his jacket, tosses it into the bedroom. I hear it land on the bed, slither onto the floor.
“This isn’t cool.”
I shake my head. “No, I know.”
“You wouldn’t like it if I went into your space. Uninvited.”
“No. I know.”
“You’d be fuck— You’d be pissed off.”
“Yes.”
“What if I’d been here with someone?”
“I knocked.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?”
I say nothing.
He watches me for another moment, then walks to the kitchen, kicking his boots off. Opens the refrigerator door, grabs a Rolling Rock from the shelf. Chinks it against the edge of the counter, and off pops the cap. It hits the floor, rolls beneath the radiator.
When I was younger, that would have impressed me.
He presses the bottle to his mouth, sips, slowly walks back to me. Slanting his long body against the drafting table, he sips again.
“Well?” he says. “I’m here.”
I nod, gazing up at him. “Have you met the woman across the park?”
His brow creases. “Who?”
“Jane Russell. Across the park. Number—”
“No.”
Flat as a horizon.
“But you did work there.”
“Yeah.”
“So—”
“I worked for Mr. Russell. I never met his wife. I didn’t even know he had a wife.”
“He has a son.”
“Single guys can have kids.” He swigs his beer. “Not that I thought about it that far. That was your question?”
I nod. I feel tiny. Study my hands.
“That’s what you came down here for?”
I nod again.
“Well, you’ve got your answer.”
I sit there.
“Why do you want to know, anyway?”
I look up at him. He’s not going to believe me.
“No reason,” I say. I push my fist against the armrest, try to stand.
He offers me his hand. I take it, his palm rough against my own, and he pulls me to my feet, smooth and swift. I watch the bands of muscle shift in his forearm.
“I’m really sorry for coming down here,” I tell him.
He nods.
“It won’t happen again.”
He nods.
I move toward the stairs. I feel his eyes on my back.
Three steps up, I remember something.
“Did you—didn’t you hear a scream the day you were working there?” I ask, turning, my shoulder pressed against the wall.
“You already asked me that. Remember? No scream? Springsteen.”
Did I? I feel as though I’m falling through my own mind.
51
As I enter the kitchen, the basement door clicking shut behind me, Dr. Fielding calls.
“I received your voicemail,” he tells me. “You sounded concerned.”
I part my lips. I’d been prepared to share the whole story, to decant myself, but there’s no point, is there? He’s the one who sounds concerned, always, about everything; he’s the one magicking my medication to the point where . . . well. “It was nothing,” I say.
He’s quiet. “Nothing?”
“No. I mean, I had a question about”—I gulp—“going generic.”
Still quiet.
I forge ahead: “I wondered if I could go generic on some of them. The drugs.”
“Medications,” he corrects me, automatically.
“Medications, I mean.”
“Well, yes.” He sounds unconvinced.
“That’d be great. Just because it’s getting expensive.”
“Has this been a problem?”
“No, no. But I don’t want it to become a problem.”
“I see.” He doesn’t.
Silence. I open a cabinet by the fridge.
“Well,” he continues, “let’s discuss this on Tuesday.”
“All right,” I say, selecting a bottle of merlot.
“It can wait that long, I assume?”
“Yes, absolutely.” I twist the cap off the bottle.
“And you’re sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Completely.” I fetch a glass from the sink.
“You’re not mixing with alcohol?”
“No.” Pouring.
“Good. Well, I’ll see you then.”
“See you then.”
The line goes dead, and I sip.
52
I travel upstairs. In Ed’s library, I find the glass and bottle I abandoned twenty minutes ago, brimming with sun. I collect them, ferry the whole lot to my study.
At the desk I sit. And think.
Spread across the screen before me is a chessboard, pieces already in place, night-and-day armies braced for battle. The white queen: I remember claiming Jane’s. Jane, in her snowy blouse, saturated with blood.
Jane. The white queen.
The computer chirps.
I look toward the Russell house. No signs of life.
GrannyLizzie: Hello, Doctor Anna.
I start, stare.
Where had we left things? When had we left things? I expand the chat box, scroll up. GrannyLizzie has left the chat at 4:46 p.m. on Thursday, November 4.
That’s right: just as Ed and I had broken the news to Olivia. I remember how my heart thrummed.
And six hours later I dialed 911.
And since then . . . the journey outside. The night in the hospital. The interview with Little, with the doctor. The injection. The ride through Harlem, sun aching in my eyes. The hustle inside. Punch, snaking into my lap. Norelli, circling me. Alistair in my house. Ethan in my house.
That woman in my house.
And Bina, and our Internet searches, and her prim snores in the night. And today: Ed, disbelieving; that phone call from “Jane”; David’s apartment, David’s anger; Dr. Fielding’s voice croaking in my ear.
Has it only been two days?
thedoctorisin: Hello! How are you?
She cut me off cold, but I’m taking the high road.
GrannyLizzie: I’m fine, but more importantly I am SO sorry for leaving so abruptly the last time we spoke.
Good.
thedoctorisin: That’s all right! We’ve all got things to do!
GrannyLizzie: It wasn’t that, I PROMISE. My internet gave up on life! Rest in peace internet!
GrannyLizzie: This happens every couple of months but this time it was on a Thursday and the company couldn’t get anyone out here until the weekend.
GrannyLizzie: I’m SO sorry, I can’t imagine what you must think of me.
I put the glass to my mouth, drink. Set it down and sip from the other glass. I’d assumed that Lizzie didn’t want to hear my sob story. Me of little faith.
thedoctorisin: Please don’t apologize! These things happen!
GrannyLizzie: Well I feel like a real rhymes with witch!!
thedoctorisin: Not at all.
GrannyLizzie: Forgive me?
thedoctorisin: Nothing to forgive! I hope you’re doing well.
GrannyLizzie: Yes I am well. My sons are visiting :-)
thedoctorisin: :-) indeed! How nice for you!
GrannyLizzie: Wonderful to have them here.
thedoctorisin: What are your sons’ names?
GrannyLizzie: Beau
GrannyLizzie: And William.
thedoctorisin: Great names.
GrannyLizzie: Great guys. They’ve always been a huge help. Especially when Richard was ill. We raised them right!
thedoctorisin: Sounds like it!
GrannyLizzie: William calls me every day from Florida. He says HELLO THERE in his biggest voice and I smile. Gets me every time.
I smile too.
thedoctorisin: My family always says “Guess who” when I talk to them!
GrannyLizzie: Oh I like that!
I think of Livvy and Ed, hear their voices in my head. My throat swells. I swallow some more wine.
thedoctorisin: It must be very nice to have your sons with you.
GrannyLizzie: Anna, it is SO nice. They are back in their old bedrooms and it feels like “old times”.
For the first time in days, I feel relaxed, in charge. Useful, even. Almost like I’m back on East Eighty-Eighth, in my office, helping a patient. Only connect.