Falling Together (47 page)

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t cry,” said Pen. She turned her face to kiss his palm.

They sat like that for a little while, before Pen pulled carefully away and wiped her eyes.

“They caught him,” said Pen. “The kid who did it. It wasn’t hard. Between the video camera outside the bar and the one at the bank, they got the whole thing.”

“A kid,” said Will.

“Nineteen,” said Pen. “A nineteen-year-old out of his mind on meth.”

“He’s in prison?”

“Yes. There wasn’t a trial. They made a deal. He’ll stay in for a long time, but not forever.” Pen sighed. “I tried so hard to hate him. I wanted to hate him every day, every second of every day, for the rest of my life because of what he did.”

“You couldn’t?”

“His sister called me. After it was all over, months after.”

“And she talked you out of hating him?”

“Sort of, but I was already giving it up, even though I tried so hard not to. I found out later that my dad told the kid, Joseph Cort, that he’d give him his wallet if he’d give my dad a minute to talk him out of it, out of ruining his life, which, as far as I can tell, was already a complete shambles. My dad was actually holding the wallet out, ready to hand it over, when the kid freaked and hit him. Joseph Cort killed my father with one of those little wooden bats they give away at baseball games. Every time I felt the hate slipping away, I would think about that bat. But even before I met with his sister, I knew I couldn’t keep it up.”

“You should not have had to meet her.” Will sounded angry. “It wasn’t fair of her to ask you.”

“I know, but she needed it so much, for me to know who he used to be. Her little brother. Maybe I needed that, too.” She gave a grim laugh. “I guess I’m not so good at hate.”

“That’s okay,” said Will. “You’re good at everything else.”

“I’ve never told anyone that story, not since I told the police. I’m glad I told you, though. I feel better, clearer. Talking to you has always made me feel clearer.”

Will nodded.

“You know, I wanted you, at my dad’s funeral.” Pen hadn’t intended to say this, but once she started, she kept going. “I was so sad and sick and empty, and I wanted you and Cat so much, but mostly you.” As soon as Pen said “mostly you,” she realized that it was true. “I even thought you were there.”

Will glanced quickly over at her. “What?”

“I mean, you weren’t, but I thought that you were. I even looked for you.”

Will looked stricken. “I wish I had known that you needed me.”

“No, Will,” said Pen soothingly. “How could you have known? Please don’t look like that. I didn’t mean that you let me down.”

“I would have gone to find you if I’d known. I swear.”

“You don’t have to swear. I always knew that,” said Pen. “But thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“I’ll thank you if I want to thank you.”

She nudged him with her elbow and smiled at him, and kept nudging and smiling until he smiled back.

She told him, “I e-mailed my mom this morning from the Lolas’ computer.”

“The Lolas have a computer?”

“They do. I e-mailed my mom from it and told her that when I got home, we should all have dinner: me, my mother, Augusta, Jamie, Mr. Venverloh and his sons, the whole gang. I told her to put it on the calendar.”

Will gave her his sudden, lovely, open smile, all the regret from a moment before gone.

“So I guess you decided to keep everyone,” he said.

Right at that second, as they sat there, somewhere in the dark ocean, and in Cebu, and in Wilmington, Delaware, all over the world, countless living bodies were living their countless, precious, mysterious lives.

“I guess I did,” said Pen.

T
HE FAMOUS
C
HOCOLATE
H
ILLS OF
B
OHOL DID NOT LOOK PARTICULARLY
edible to Pen, as they bubbled up, brown and smooth, out of their flat, green, ruffled surroundings, turning the landscape into something out of Dr. Seuss, but her first thought upon seeing them was that of all the people she could think of who would love them (Jamie, Patrick, her mother), Cat Ocampo would love them the most. She would complain every step of the way up the long, steep flight of stairs to the overlook (Pen stopped counting at step 110), but once she arrived at the top and beheld that crazily whimsical view, she would squeal, jump for joy, and, almost definitely, grab the person closest to her and kiss him (or her, but probably him).

After the snorkeling trip, they had spent two days searching for Cat, splitting up, going to the other side of the island and into the city, scouring beaches, restaurants, shopping malls. Nothing. Now, they were doing as Lola Lita had suggested, hitting all the tourist stops, beginning, at Augusta’s request, with the Chocolate Hills.

Augusta had been exploring the overlook with Will, but now she appeared, pink-cheeked, wild-haired, dressed in a rainbow of color.

“Can we do it, can we do it, can we do it?” she squealed. She was jumping straight up and down with her arms pressed to her sides, a specifically Augusta variety of overwrought jumping that Jamie called “popcorning.”

Pen smiled. “Maybe. Do what?”

“Check this out,” said Will, and he took Pen by the wrist, leading her down some stairs toward a crowd of people, a camera on a tripod, and a large screen that turned out to be a giant, slightly washed-out photograph of the Chocolate Hills. Pen looked from the wan photograph of the view to the view itself, sunlit, rich with color under the blue sky, and unmistakably real.

“But…?” she said.

“Wait,” said Will.

As they watched, a college-aged couple stood in front of the backdrop and, at the photographer’s cue, jumped into the air, arms raised in victory.

“Oh. My. Goodness,” said Pen blankly.

“It makes a
picture
that looks like they’re jumping over the hills!” cried Augusta with joy. “They print it out
right here,
and you can take it
home
with you!”

“Is that right?” muttered Pen.

“You can also use brooms,” said Will, pointing to a couple of skinny, brown, witchy looking items leaning against the guardrail, “to make it look like you’re flying.”

“Fabulous,” said Pen.

“Just exactly the kind of thing you like,” said Will, deadpan except for his wicked eyes.

Taking this exchange as a yes, Augusta squealed, clapped her hands, skipped to the back of the line, and resumed popcorning.

Pen stared at the background, then said, slowly, “Not me, but I can think of someone who would love it.”

Will nodded. “It’s true. She never met a piece of kitsch she didn’t love.”

An idea lit up his face, and he pointed to an easel-propped bulletin board on the other side of the backdrop from where they stood. It was covered with photo samples.

“You don’t think…?” said Pen.

“Probably not,” answered Will, but they were already on their way, squeezing behind the backdrop, mumbling “Excuse me” to the sightseers in their path. When they got to the easel, Pen turned to look at Augusta, who waved and blew kisses, movie-star-fashion.

“Stay right there,” mouthed Pen, pointing.

Augusta gave her a thumbs-up. Pen knew that Augusta wasn’t going anywhere, wouldn’t get out of that line for all the miniature bananas in the Philippines.

It was a big bulletin board. Some of the photos were faded and dog-eared, but some looked new.

“You start from the top,” said Pen. “And I’ll start from the bottom.”

“Don’t bother,” said a dreary voice. Jason. “She’s not there.”

Jason looked even worse than he sounded, moist and slump-shouldered in his light blue golf shirt. In the merciless sunlight, Pen could see his scalp, shell-pink and vulnerable, through his pale hair, and when he took off his sunglasses, Pen saw that his eyes were bloodshot, watery, underslung with dark circles. They were the saddest things she had seen in a long time.

“I think I’m going crazy,” he said hoarsely, squeezing his head between his hands, hard.

Uncertain of what to do, Pen turned around to look at Will, who said, “You know what? I should probably go stand in line with Augusta.”

“That’s great, thanks,” said Pen out loud. She narrowed her eyes and whispered, “Weasel!”

Ignoring her, Will clapped Jason on the arm, said, “Hang in there, man,” and vanished behind the backdrop.

When Jason walked to the rail of the overlook and leaned against it, heavily, with both hands, the people around him discreetly moved away. Maybe they could sense his desperation or his need for breathing room. Maybe they noted his size and feared for the stability of the guardrail. In any case, the sight of him standing there, alone, was too much for Pen. She moved to his side and, after just a moment’s hesitation, her arm hovering in the air behind him, she placed the arm around his shoulders, which were shaking.

“Hey, Jason,” she said softly. “It’ll be okay.”

He shook his head. “I’ve been scanning faces for so long that it’s literally making me sick. I feel like I might puke.”

“Well, why don’t you give it a rest for a while?” said Pen quickly, resisting the urge to take a step away. “Because you know what? If you’re anywhere near her, she’ll see you first anyway.” She gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You don’t exactly blend in, you know.”

Jason mustered a feeble smile. “I’m like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man walking around this place. You know, from
Ghostbusters
.”

“Except he was mean, wasn’t he? And you’re nice.”

Jason gave her a skeptical look. “You think I’m nice? Honestly?”

“Honestly?” Pen shrugged. “I think you’re a lot of things, nice being one of them.”

“Fair enough,” said Jason. “So here’s another question for you: do you really want me to find her?”

“Yes.”

“Come on. Yes? Just like that?”

Pen took her arm away so that she could face him squarely.

“Yes, I want you to find her. I think you need—. I think you
deserve
a conversation, at the very least. You need a chance to be at peace, one way or another.”

“Because I’m her husband, you mean.”

“Because, as far as I can tell, you have loved her with a true and open heart for as long as you two have been together. And because no one should ever, ever leave without saying why.”

To Pen’s horror, Jason started to cry, to weep, his face crumpling, his body quaking, the tears pouring out from under his sunglasses, which he took off and handed to Pen, before pulling the collar of his shirt up and over his face, so that he was inside it, his fists clutching the blue fabric against his forehead. Jagged gasps and awful, puppylike whimpers came from inside the shirt. Pen looked around helplessly for Will and Augusta, but she couldn’t see the photo line from where she stood. She thought about putting her arm around Jason again, but he was so pulled into himself that touching seemed like the wrong thing, so she stood there, gazing out at the rows and clusters of funny brown peaks because sometimes, she decided, all you could do for someone was stay.

After a little while, he slowed and sputtered to a stop, and Pen handed him his glasses, and he put them back on.

“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“It’s just that you were right. I have loved her to the best of my ability, and, fuck, do I hate that.”

“Why?” said Pen, surprised.

“Because if I’d been an asshole, cheated or slacked off, well, there would be something for me to fix, right? There’d be hope.” Quickly, he added, “Not that there’s no hope. I totally believe that she loves me and that I can get her to come home. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Pen.
Sure you do,
she thought.

“I’m just saying that if she
does
want to end us, well, then I got nothing. Zip. No leverage.” He whacked his forehead with his fist, once, twice, three times, leaving a vaguely butterfly-shaped red mark on his forehead. “If she doesn’t want me, then loving her to the best of my ability all those years was about the most stupid-ass thing I could have done.”