The Drowning House by Elizabeth Black

Author:Elizabeth Black
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780385535878
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2013-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

THAT EVENING, ELEANOR CALLED ME into the room that had been my father’s study. “It’s for you. Michael.” She stood cradling the phone against her neck and shoulder as if it were a pet animal or a small child, although I had never seen her hold either. Something about her pose struck me. I steadied the Leica and shot from my hip. The shutter clicked.

Eleanor said, “I can’t believe you haven’t phoned. You owe him that much.” She took her hand from the receiver and spoke into it. “She’s right here.” She replaced her hand. “Just try,” she said. “Make an effort.” She gave me a look and left the room.

The study was still very much my father’s. Sitting there among his things—the walls of books, the Audubon prints, the gold fountain pen on the desk—confronted with their persistent reality, it was hard to believe I’d ever had another life. This space was what endured—the stripes of light, the complex old-house smell.

Michael said, “Hello? Clare? This is the third time I’ve called.”

Of course. He had been keeping track, carrying the information around with him, hefting it the way he did the handful of change in his pocket, trying to determine its worth. His voice was clear and full of energy. I could almost see it zinging through the wires, shooting out the receiver. This is important, it said, pay attention. Juries always paid attention to Michael.

There was a pause, and I could feel him adjusting his manner, taking it down a notch from what he would have offered a client or a colleague. Measuring out exactly the level of response our relationship required. “I called to see how you are,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

I thought of my father then, and how he had objected to any other reply. It’s a formal exchange, for God’s sake. A social gesture, not an invitation to rehearse their symptoms. Do they expect me to give medical advice on the street? In the end, he had stopped asking people how they were. Instead he went directly to the weather talk that was always acceptable on the Island.

I tried to listen to Michael, who was describing a trial that involved a hit-and-run. I owed him that much. It was one of many debts I had incurred—a small one, but still, another mark on an invisible score-card. Had there been a time when our marriage wasn’t an exercise in assessment? I remembered Michael’s proposal. What he’d said was, “I love you enough to marry you.” I didn’t know how much that was, but I was equally sure that Michael did, exactly. At the time, it had reassured me.

I spoke into the phone. “Do you miss me?” I asked.

There was a pause. Then Michael said, “Of course. Well, there’s a lot going on. So the car made it okay?”

“Yes. Otis cleaned it up.”

“Otis?”

“He works for Will. Will Carraday.”

“You found places to stay on the way down?”

“Yes.” I knew Michael meant overnight, that he was thinking of motels, bed-and-breakfasts along the route he had drawn.

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