Eden Close (3 page)

He has imagined that in lists there is control, but as he walks from room to room, the house seems about to slip from his grasp. His mother's room, now too bright under the overhead electric light, the room she left at dawn one morning five years ago to find her husband cold as tiles on the bathroom floor, the room she then slept in alone, is a labyrinth of snares and complications. There are only so many boxes of things Andrew can rescue from his and his parents' past to take back with him to his apartment in the city. And he sees at once that unless he hardens himself or designs a selection system, he might spend an entire day just in here.

Should he, for instance, take the quilt his mother made when he was ten—a year of her labor (he can recall it clearly) each night after supper, the basket of pieces beside her, her plump fingers nimble with a needle? What will he do with it? He has no wife to give it to, no closet big enough to store it, for it is a massive thing: It kept his parents warm even on the bleakest January nights.

And what of the oak chest of keepsakes at the foot of their bed, things his own mother saved from her mother, and doubtless things that his grandmother saved from her own mother's house? Such a process of distillation, like the corridors of endlessly repeated, though smaller, images in two mirrors; and such a burden, he thinks, these cartons filled with the leavings of lives gone before you. Will Billy one day open drawers in his father's apartment (depressing thought! Will Andrew now progress no farther in his domestic life than his expensive, cheerless condo?), taking objects that seem to contain some essence of his father, or of his own past, and bring them back to his own drawers and closets in Greenwich or Santa Fe?

Andrew picks up the watch his father wore and wound every night going up the stairs to bed. He knows he will take this, a watch his father inherited from his own father, but what of the Omega lying beside it on his father's bureau—the surface of the bureau undisturbed but for dusting? The Omega was a gift to his father when he left the dairy at his retirement. Andrew did not come to the retirement dinner—there'd been a critical business trip, a trip Andrew has always regretted making—and he doesn't know if his father ever even wore the Omega or if he would want it saved.

Andrew's father was plant foreman when he retired. But for most of the forty years he spent at the dairy, he drove a truck. (At his mother's insistence, the more accurate title "milkman" was seldom used in the house.) Andy was always asleep when his father left for work (at a punishing three
forty-five in the morning), but when he returned from school, the truck would be there, and if he had a friend with him, they would clamber up into it with its bright green and red Miller Dairy sign, competing for the privilege of sitting on the high burnished leather seat and placing their small hands on the oversized steering wheel, the stem of which came all the way from the floor. Andrew remembers his father's gray overalls with the red embroidered script on the pocket, and the way, in winter, his father would wear so many layers underneath for warmth that he looked nearly stuffed. It wasn't until Andrew went to college and the boys around him spoke of their families that he first thought of himself as a WASP. But so humble were his father's circumstances (and, in truth, the circumstances of all his father's ancestors, most poor farmers) that Andrew wondered for a time if there might not be such a category as failed WASP. Andrew remembers vividly the afternoon his father came home with the news that he'd been promoted to foreman at the plant, releasing him from his position as a driver. He is not sure he ever saw his mother quite so jubilant—the way she kept kissing his father and throwing her arms around him and laughing, as if it were another era and she'd won the lottery.

He sits on the edge of the bed. He wonders who made the bed, for it was here that his mother was found. He assumes it must have been Mrs. Close, who came to his mother after the phone call. ("Your mother called Edith Close at about eight this morning and said she had a terrific pain in her head," Dr. Ryder revealed in his hoarse, authoritative voice on the phone the night Andrew arrived. "By the time Edith got dressed and went over, your mother had already passed away. She found her upstairs. It was a massive stroke, mercifully quick. Be glad for that. But you watch yourself, Andy, both your parents dying of cardiovascular diseases in their sixties; you watch your diet.")

As he sits on the bed, he thinks that a marriage seen
when you're a parent too, an adult, is a different thing than the one seen from boyhood. He wonders if his parents were happy together, if they slept touching or apart (he doesn't really know; they were always private and silent in this room, and he has no memory, as other children do, as Eden said she did, of mysterious and unexplained parental sounds) and whether they had ceased to make love. His parents were older than most when he was born; his mother was thirty-one. She had, she said, nearly given up on a baby before he came, and there was a time when this caused him to imagine that he was adopted, like Eden, despite the fact he looks so like his father that he can't, even today, go into town without a man or woman there saying it:
the image of your father.
Still, as children can be, he was obsessed for months (or perhaps it was only weeks) by this notion of adoption; so much so that he conceived the idea that the two families had gravitated to the two farmhouses set apart from the town because there was about them this unnatural link.

He looks at the marriage bed and sees, suddenly and unbidden, the image of a woman rolling over, turning her back on the man. But it is not his mother he is seeing; it is his wife. He doesn't want to think of Martha just now. He gets up and shuts off the light.

The brandy, kept for company, is in the cabinet with the meat grinder over the fridge. He pours himself a generous amount in a jelly glass. The kitchen, he reflects, sitting on a white-painted wooden chair, is nearly unchanged since he was a boy. And as it did then, it gives the appearance of having been scrubbed raw. It is a farmhouse kitchen, "modernized" during the thirties, with a green-speckled linoleum floor, a white porcelain sink and stove and kitchen table, all with rounded edges. There are painted surfaces everywhere—the white tongue-and-groove boards of the walls, the pale green of the old Hoosier cabinet, the four unmatched
white chairs at the table. He thinks about the kitchen in the house in Saddle River he bought with Martha, where Martha and Billy now live, and about the shiny, stainless-steel refrigerator in that kitchen and the expensive quarry tile on the floor and how remarkably cold—literally cold—the floor is there.

When he arrived the evening of the day his mother died—by car, having driven the 270 miles north from the city—and walked in the back door (as did everyone who entered the house), the kitchen appeared as it does now; there were no leavings of a half-eaten breakfast, as he had feared to see. Edith Close again, he imagines, silently officious, cleaning up the clutter of death.

Thinking of Edith Close, he remembers again, and abruptly, the terrible sound in his dream of a woman crying. He swirls the golden brandy in the jelly glass and recalls the sequence of events, an exact sequence he has not thought of for years. His father again picked up the phone and dialed the police. Then he went alone through the kitchen, out the door and up the drive, his rifle tense along the side of his leg. Andy heard his father's unhurried footsteps on the gravel and the heavy patter of his mother running down the stairs. Andy pulled on his shorts and went downstairs to be with his mother, partially out of a desire to protect her, primarily out of a need to be in her presence. She was standing at the screen door, peering out at the darkness. Despite the heat, she had put on a robe (pink seersucker with lace at the edges, he sees now), knowing that there would be the police soon. The shrill wail had stopped; they both knew it had been the voice of Edith Close, but neither yet had the courage to imagine precisely what had caused it. Andy moved closer to his mother, and she shifted slightly so that he, too, could see out the screen door into nothing.

"I told him to wait for the police," his mother said, her
voice tight with strain. It was a strain he is now familiar with, the strain of cautious women with good sense, a voice men often choose to ignore.

"He has a gun," Andy said, knowing instantly she would not for one minute think that a help.

"A gun!" his mother cried. Her voice rose like the other, as if it, too, might spiral up into the night. Was this freedom a special province of women? he wondered. "What good is a gun in the pitch dark? You can't see a hand in front of you out there."

"He'll be careful," Andy said. But he didn't know if this was true. Was his father, in a crisis—a life-threatening crisis—a cautious man? He had never witnessed his father in physical danger; he doubted that his father knew himself how he would react until each footstep was taken.

He could feel the tension in his mother's body, a static current running along her arm, causing even his own arm to raise goose bumps. She stood with her hands clutching her robe closed—still, intent, warding off, as if by her will alone, the sound of another gunshot. His father would say later that he felt no danger, but Andy thought his father must already have been forgetting his fear when he said it. Had his father not imagined the consequences of being seen by a gunman, possibly a murderer, on the dirt drive as the man ran wildly into the cornfields?

Andy and his mother saw the flashing lights just a split second before they heard the siren, coming fast along the straight flat road from town. One, two police cars, an ambulance following—the town's entire force. And then another vehicle, half a minute later: the fire chief. The vehicles swung into the drive and over the lawn, spewing themselves every which way like children's toys, leaving the drive free for the ambulance. The police cars and the ambulance lit up the night with eerie flashing beacons, red and blue, out of
sync, so that Andy could see through his own screen door the back door of the other farmhouse and the bedroom windows upstairs to the north and west, awash in the unnatural pulsing lights. Two policemen ran from one of the cars to the back stoop and into the Closes' kitchen. From the ambulance, turning around and backing down the drive to the Closes' back stoop, another man alighted, swinging open its wide rear door.

"I'm going out there," Andy said suddenly.

"You stay here," his mother insisted. "Your father said."

But Andy was already through the door and down the steps. He put his hands in the pockets of his shorts and walked toward the edge of the circle created by the ring of official cars. The humid night was thick with mosquitoes; they whined at his ear, and he slapped at one on the back of his neck. He heard, too, the slap of the screen door behind him and turned to see his mother walking carefully down the back steps on the sagging treads, her curiosity stronger than her husband's admonition. The crows and summer birds, aroused at the wrong hour, had lost their fright and were silent now. Andy could hear the low, muffled voices of men at the front and sides of the house, searching already with powerful flashlights for someone or something, though no one outside the house yet knew what it was they might be expected to find. The headlights of a car—a Chevy?—approached the house, the driver slowing to see what the commotion was, perhaps suspecting an accident. Andy watched the car pull over. A man and a woman got out and crossed the road. They stood at the edge of the drive, staring at the scene, puzzled. And then, he knew from the soft furry breath at his arm, his mother was beside him.

Impulsively, he put his arm around her and jerked her toward him. It was the first time he had ever touched her quite this way, from his full height, as if he were now the
stronger of the two. It was a scene he thought he had seen somewhere before, on television possibly, in a show. The son, grown, towering over the mother, assuming the role of protector, steadying her while a husband is taken off in handcuffs or on a stretcher. The image, lasting only seconds, was inexplicably delicious. It was not unlike a similar and baffling feeling he sometimes has even now when he hears of someone else's bad news and has an irrepressible and horrifying urge to smile.

The Closes' back door swung open hard. It was De-Salvo, the thick-necked, heavyset police chief. Andy knew him from the hockey games. His face was pocked along his jowls. He had a son who years ago had made All State as a wing, and though his son had left the town, the father still haunted the games, as if to catch some echo—a shout skimming across the ice, a hand on his shoulder with a reminiscence—of his son's triumph. DeSalvo gestured sharply to the man standing at attention by the ambulance. As swift as skaters, the attendants slid up the back stoop with the stretcher and into the house. (Paramedics? Andrew doesn't know if they were called that then. Were they not simply volunteers, roused from their beds, as he was, by calls in the night?) His mother moved her face closer to his bare chest. Unconsciously, he braced himself for what the night might deliver next. But didn't the urgency of the stretcher imply injury and not death?

Andy could see the man and the woman at the end of the drive edging along closer to the house. A policeman was patrolling the front and spotted them too; he barked at them to move back. Andy thought he could imagine the prurient curiosity of the couple, exciting them enough to trespass, and how they would tomorrow assault whoever would listen with the details, their own status momentarily and satisfyingly enhanced. Then the policeman, turning back to his task
at the front of the house, saw Andy and his mother and raised his flashlight to them. Andy brought his hand up to shield his eyes.

"You there," the officer called.

Andy, his arm still raised, nodded. It was Reardon. He saw again the diffused beacon of a flashlight against the steamed-up window on the driver's side of his father's Ford, and Reardon's face, peering and smirking in the darkness as he watched Andy's date worry her hair with her fingers.
Move along now,
Reardon had said with something like amusement or satisfaction on his face.
Not safe to park here this time of night.
Andy and his date, a girl he hadn't known well, had driven home in silence.