Garden of Lies (48 page)

This isn’t happening,
she told herself.
I’m just tired after last night, that phone call from

Nonnie, all her whining about how everything hurts, how no one visits her. The old bat still

thinking she can pull my strings, even from Syracuse. How could I sleep after that? No wonder

I’m exhausted. Yes, this has to be some kind of hallucination, a sort of nightmare. ...

With a fierce sweeping motion, Rose gathered the sodden newspaper up and shoved it into the

wastebasket.
Nothing there now, nothing at all. Why don’t I just clean up this mess? And this

dress, this pretty flowered dress Brian bought me for my last birthday, I’d better soak it in cold

water or it’ll stain
—

[286] Yes, that’s what she should do. Go home, now, this minute. Before the stain had a chance

to set. Because once it set, no amount of scrubbing would get it out, no amount of soap or spot

remover. Brian’s pretty dress. It might be ruined forever.

And then that picture projected itself into her mind, and the words below.

...
The young Columbia graduate was to be sent home from Okinawa with a Bronze Star ...

but forged orders to return illegally to the combat zone where he almost had been killed

weeks before ... defying virtually insurmountable odds to rescue the beautiful doctor who had

saved his life ... the woman he loved. ...

The woman he loved,
Rose thought.
But that’s me. I’m the one Brian loves. We’re going to be

married. As soon as he gets home, as soon as
—

I
have to get this stain out. Damn, it’s probably set by now. I must get home. I must ...

Then she was rising, feeling disjointed, like a marionette with its strings tangled, her arms

jerking at odd angles, her legs buckling, out of control. She was reaching for her purse, her arm

stretching on and on forever, as if made of elastic, her hand at the end of it like something viewed

from the wrong end of a telescope.

Now she was walking, the corridor lined with doors leading to lawyers’ offices stretching

before her, a tunnel that seemed endless. The carpet made of quicksand, dragging at her feet.

Keep going. Go home. Yes, got to get this stain out, so Brian can come home. ...

The massive double doors to the elevators. A car sliding open, then another. People pouring out

into the hallway, streaming past, some nodding to her. All except one man, who held back as the

others headed for the office doors. A big man, not tall, but solid—she imagined him solid all the

way through like a tree trunk—wearing a tan jacket, carrying a briefcase, his broad, handsome

face ruddy, as if he’d dashed up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, his graying brown hair

crinkling up from its comb tracks. Max Griffin.

Rose felt her confusion recede a little. This man would help her. He had before, hadn’t he?

With that scholarship for the fall. And his talking to her, not like a boss, but like a friend.

A corner of a paper, she observed, was sticking out from his [287] battered leather briefcase.

She saw it as if looking through a magnifying glass, his hand gripping the briefcase’s worn

leather handle, his powerful-looking wrist—all those appointments at the racquet-ball court—and

the stainless Rolex strapped to it. The face of the watch was scratched, which he probably hadn’t

even noticed.

But now he was dropping the briefcase, stepping forward to grip both her elbows, seeming to

support her whole weight almost.

“Rose! What is it? You’re white as a ghost. Are you sick? Did you hurt yourself?”

She shook her head. Why should she be sick? And how could she have hurt herself? No ...

nothing so awful ... just this silly stain ...

“I spilled my coffee,” she told him. “And now I’ve got it all over me, and I ... I have to get

home. My dress. I’ll make up the time. Please. I have to go home.” Her voice, she thought,

sounded tinny, strange.

Max was looking at her oddly ... his square prizefighter’s face seeming to grow even squarer,

his blue eyes sharper.

“Come on then,” he said gently. “I’ll take you home.”

She felt boneless, unable to protest. “Yes, home.”

He steered her into the elevator, gripping her arm hard. Then they were in a taxi, swerving

through the traffic, the windows rolled down and the sticky summer air rushing at her. Yet she

felt cold, so cold, as if there were snow on the ground, snow all around her, inside her, freezing

her heart. White noise like a blizzard roared inside her head.

And everything was running together, all the colors of the city, the bright summer dresses of

the women, the gay patchwork of magazines lining the shelves of a newsstand, the hot dog

vendor’s striped umbrella, all smearing together, turning muddy.

She began to shiver, her teeth chattering. She wanted to make herself stop, but she couldn’t.

Max, his voice seeming to come from a great distance, through buzzing static, was saying,

“You’re ill, Rose. I think I should take you to a doctor.”

A doctor? What for? There was nothing wrong with her.

She shook her head, and wrapped her arms about herself, determined to stop the shivering.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “This is silly. [288] You shouldn’t even be here, wasting your valuable

time like this. You have to be in court in an hour.”

“Never mind court. I’ll get a continuance. It’s you I’m worried about, Rose. You’ve got to tell

me what happened. You look as if someone died.”

Yes.
A voice rose from the rushing static in her head.
Brian, he’s gone. The same as dead.

Rose brought her hands out in front of her as if to ward off a blow, as if the terrible thought

was being aimed at her from outside, about to strike her.

“No,” she cried. “No!”

Max held her then, pinning her arms. “Rose, for God’s sake, what is it? What happened? Tell

me!”

She shook her head, violently.
Please ... don’t make me say it. If I tell you, that will only make

it more real.

“I only want to help you,” he pressed. “But I can’t unless you tell me what’s wrong. Rose?

Rose?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” She was struck by a sudden violent wave of nausea. “Oh, Max, I

think I’m going to be sick.”

But he only held her tighter, and she felt her nausea recede a little. Then, an interminable time

later, he was helping her from the cab, supporting, no, carrying her almost up the dozens of stairs

to her tiny studio.

“It’s going to be okay, Rose,” Max soothed her. “Whatever it is, it will get better. And I’m

here. I’ll take care of you.”

No, she wanted to cry out to him.
No.
It was Brian who was supposed to take care of her. Brian

always had taken care of her, hadn’t he? Only where was he now? She needed him now, more

than ever before.

But she felt so weak, hardly able to move. She allowed Max to pull off her shoes, then her

dress ... her ruined dress ... and now, in her slip, shivering in the stifling heat ... she let him tuck

her into bed as if she were a child.

The room seemed suddenly too small, too dark, this Lower East Side studio she’d been so

thrilled with when she first signed the lease. Quaint, the doll-size kitchen, the deep clawfoot tub,

this couch that folded out into a bed. But now she was seeing how dark it truly was; no sun ever

reached her back-alley window, with its [289] grim accordion gate. She saw that the geraniums

she’d put out on the fire escape were dying, all droopy and brown. Her special place seemed now

like a prison cell, gray, dangerous somehow.

“It’s going to be okay,” Max was saying again. “You don’t have to talk about it. Just rest. Here,

drink this.” He was pressing a glass to her lips, making her swallow something. “I’ll be here. I

won’t leave you.”

His kindness triggered something inside her, as if he’d pressed a button, releasing something

awful, pain, the pain of knives piercing her, cutting her.

She couldn’t move or breathe.

She would die, surely die, from this pain.

“Help me.” She found her voice. She grabbed for Max’s hand, his capable hand with its

smooth broad palm and strong fingers; she clutched it between both of hers as if she were

drowning, hanging on for dear life.

“I’m here,” she heard him through the roaring in her ears. “I’m here, Rose.”

Part II

It is not hard to confess our criminal acts, but the ridiculous and

shameful.

Rousseau,
Confessions

Chapter 18

1974

Sylvie clipped a withered rosebud. A shame, she thought, not even allowed to bloom before it

dies.

She bent to examine the bush, noting the fine white filaments spun like cobwebs over some of

the leaves. Spider mites, from the looks of it. Well, the whole garden would have to be sprayed,

and most of the bushes cut back. It didn’t seem right somehow. This glorious June day, the sun

shining. Not a day for blight.

Sylvie lowered herself to her knees, clippers in hand, not moving. Just listening to the drowsy

hum of insects and breathing in the lovely sun-warmed scent of roses—
like to see dear Helena

bottle that if she could!
—and looking out over her garden. It had gotten a bit overgrown, the

French lace laden down with rose-cream buds crowding up against the lavender Blue Nile, and

the tea roses had climbed right off the trellis and were taking over the whole south wall.

She would never have let it get like this a few years ago ... certainly not while Gerald was

alive. But in the past six years so much had changed.

She
had changed, she realized with a start.
Not a silly chicken any longer, frightened of my own

shadow. No more apologising for what I am ... and who I’m not, what I can do and what I

cannot. Why, there are even men who find me attractive, desirable even
—
Alan Fogherty, taking

me to dinner when he’s in town, sending flowers, and Dennis Corbett at the bank, just last week

calling to say he had two tickets to the ballet.
And then, of course, there was Nikos. ...

Sylvie found herself growing hot, as if the sun were burning through her clothing. She

imagined Nikos striding about among the piled cinder blocks and steel beams of his construction

site, blue work shirt rolled up over his sturdy brown forearms, a roll of blueprints curled in his

fist, his black eyes flashing this way and that, already seeing the building as it would be when it

was finished.

[294] And her, did he see something more in the future with her? Did he ever think about that

long-ago time when they were lovers?

God, what’s happening,
Sylvie asked herself.
Is he what I want?

She was annoyed to find that her hands were trembling, and a little flutter had crept into her

stomach.

Making herself concentrate again on her roses, Sylvie began to snip. Healthy blossoms first,

that way nothing would go to waste. She held up a perfect rose cut from the blighted bush.

Snowfire, one of her favorites, also a most rare one. Perfect creamy white in the center, blushing

to a deep crimson around the outer edges of each petal. Exquisite, a small miracle.

And here she was, middle-aged—she’d be fifty-two, her next birthday—kneeling in the dirt, as

content as a child making mud pies, that was a kind of miracle too. How strange life was!

Maybe it was just this day—after so much rain. Sylvie felt the sunshine on the back of her

neck, warm and comforting as the hand of an old friend. Soon it would grow too hot, and she

would start to perspire and prickle. But right now it was the loveliest feeling in the world. She felt

strong and ... as if she could do anything she set her mind to.

She snipped another blossom and set it carefully in her basket.

Her thoughts turned to Nikos again. She remembered his kindness, those dark months after

Gerald’s death, with Rachel off in Vietnam. Calling to see how she was, telling her a funny story

to cheer her up, letting her know he was there if she needed a sympathetic ear, a strong shoulder

for her to cry on.

She felt a little ashamed. She’d leaned on him too much, taken undue advantage of his

kindness. And yet, if not for him, where would she be now? He was the one who had encouraged