Quinn (13 page)

Quinn leafed absently through the magazine and set it down with a sigh. Pointing a toe at
Middlemarch,
she said, “Planning on finishing that today?” Will was about halfway through the six hundred pages.

“If the storm keeps up, there won't be much else to do. Maybe I'll get through it.”

Quinn felt the stirrings of panic. She got off the couch and began to pace back and forth. “If it clears up a little, do you think we could go somewhere? Maybe there's somebody you'd like to visit?”

“Nobody's around now. It's not a regular vacation time.”

“What about your old buddy Henry Watson?”

“He's in Boise.”

“Oh.”

She peered out the window again. “I think it's letting up,” she said hopefully. There was a break in the whiteness; she could make out the shape of the tree.

“Come here,” Will said.

Obediently she went to sit beside him.

“Let's neck.”

“We can't. Not …”

He kissed her. “You need something to do. I can tell.”

Quinn glanced nervously toward the kitchen door. Will had slipped his hand up inside her sweater. “Oh, God,” she said. “You're doing this to torture me.”

“You've got blizzard fever. I recognize the symptoms.”

“And you've got the cure, huh, doc?”

“That's right.” His fingers brushed her nipples. A great throbbing had begun between her legs.

“Will?”

Susan Ingraham appeared in the doorway. Quinn sat up, blushing furiously. Susan was merciful, allowing a tiny smile but no comment.

“It's clearing.”

Quinn stood to look outside and saw that indeed the snowfall had nearly stopped. Occasionally the wind tossed a billow back into the air, but that was all. Will had already picked up his book again. Cool customer, Quinn thought. Or maybe he was used to getting caught messing with girls on his parents' sofa.

“I need some things at the A&P,” Susan said. Will raised his eyes above the page. “Oh, heavens, you've got that Do Not Disturb look.”

Quinn was startled to hear her familiar accusation come out of Susan Ingraham's mouth.

“I'll go!” Quinn's offer was almost a shout. “Please. I'd like to.”

“You'll get lost,” Will said, starting to get up.

“I don't like to have you drive a strange car in a new place,” Susan said.

“I've been past the A&P. Sit down, Will. Besides, I can drive anything, really. Just give me a list. I'd be happy to go.”

Will and Susan looked at one another, then Will shrugged. “Okay, if you're sure.”

“Positive.”

Quinn knew that Susan was watching out the window and was relieved when the jeep started right up. It felt wonderful to drive. As soon as she rounded the bend out of sight, she roared into fourth gear and began to sing.
Oh my darlin
'
, Oh my darlin
'
, Oh my darlin
'
Clementine
…
Tomorrow maybe she'd get to the store again. There'd be people in the supermarket, and noise. It was lovely out west; but she was beginning to long for a little tumult, a crowd. Even a traffic jam would help. The novelty of rustic quietude was beginning to wear off.

When she got back, Will helped her unload the groceries. After the last bag had been deposited on the kitchen counter, Quinn followed Will back outside again. He walked ahead of her toward the trees beside the house, his figure disappearing now and then in swirls of snow kicked up by a gusty wind. There was an immense drift against a fence that marked the end of the Ingraham property, and Quinn watched him flop backward into it like a small boy pretending to be shot by the bad guys. When she reached him, he was completely buried except for his face and the protruding toes of his boots. “I'd just as soon lie here forever,” he said. “Come on down.” He yanked a leg out from under her, and she fell down next to him with a whoosh. He grabbed her in a hug and rolled them both over and over in the snow. Quinn laughed, enjoying the new experience of a playful Will. Finally, breathless, they let go of one another and lay side by side in their soft white cocoon.

“Is it true that you get really sleepy before freezing to death?” Quinn asked drowsily.

“Urm,” Will said.

“Then I think I'm dying.” She hopped to her feet and hauled him, protesting, back into the house.

After dinner Susan let Quinn help with the dishes. Quinn was pleased to feel less like a guest, and shooed Will out of the kitchen.

Susan had been to Boston once when she was a teenager. They talked about the city for a few minutes, and then Susan said, “Quinn, I wanted to tell you.” She hesitated. Quinn stopped drying the gravy boat and looked at her. “I wanted to thank you. We knew over Christmas that something had happened with Will, and when you called that day I put it together. He'd been terribly unhappy about … I'm sure you know … about this girl who was killed …”

“Yes.”

“It was an awful shock for him. But it's been almost two years and he was still, well, subdued.” She smiled. “Not that he isn't always on the low-key side.” Quinn returned her smile. “You've been good for him. We hope to see a lot more of you.” Susan had reddened, and a soapy dish slipped out of her hands into the sink. They both lunged for it and, laughing, rescued it before it crashed.

Their last night in Idaho, Will took Quinn to the movies in Red Falls. Quinn's expectation of a tiny mountain village wasn't far off the mark: Main Street, and a dozen smaller roads that led off it for a few hundred yards and then died. There was a coffee shop, a five-and-ten, a drugstore, and the Red Falls Municipal Building, which housed one lawyer, a dentist, the town clerk, and two empty offices. The Bijou theater showed films two nights a week. Will said it was miraculous that
The Sound of Music
had made it to Red Falls within a year of its being released, the usual offerings being recycled Jerry Lewis movies.

The theater was more than half empty, and its heating system wasn't functioning at full efficiency. But Quinn enjoyed the movie anyway and told Will he just didn't want to admit loving it.

They stood outside and looked up and down the darkened street for a place to get something to eat. The luncheonette two stores down was just closing, but Will convinced the proprietor to serve them a quick snack. There was one other patron at the far end of the counter, a man in work clothes who was chain-smoking cigarettes.

Quinn sipped her coffee. She thought about her suitcase lying open on the bed, ready to be packed. The Boston flights were full, so they had reserved seats on an early plane to Kennedy Airport. From New York they would catch the train to Boston. Quinn could hardly wait.

Quinn was quiet on the eastbound flight, but this time Will felt her silence emerged from uneasiness rather than absorption in the experience of flying. Each time he had asked how she felt about Idaho, Quinn responded with enthusiasm, but her praise never occurred unsolicited. Will did not like to think what this meant.

They barely made their connection with the Boston train in Grand Central Station. Breathless, they flung themselves into their seats just as the doors slid closed.

Will liked trains. There was more room for his long legs, he was free to walk around, and there was the absorbing panorama that whizzed past the window. Trains held the capacity to thrill. But there was no romance in a Greyhound bus, just endless gray highways with the intermittent littered service area.

Train windows were like skimming a book Will wished he had the time to read. Looking out, there was a general overview of the landscape, but certain impressions registered with greater intensity than others. The frustrating element was that oftentimes a provocative image was snatched past the window too quickly.

Once there had been the house on the line somewhere between Spokane and the Bitterroots. It was a cold January day like today, Will remembered, but every window in the place was raised and the front door was flung wide. More astonishingly, all apertures in the gleaming white structure were filled with people: there were three upstairs windows, each with a head poking through; a window on either side of the front door, again each framing a person, one of whom hung partway out to converse with an upstairs occupant. The other waved at the train as it hurtled along half a mile across the snow-covered field. At the front door a portly woman swept the steps.

The image stunned Will. It was maddening to careen past and know he would never see the house again exactly as it appeared in that particular crystal moment.

Another time on the Springfield to Boston route, Will was tantalized again. Despite the fact that it had been a dazzling spring day, the scene was a grim contrast to the eccentric gaiety of the house in Idaho. There were wild flowers strewn along the roadbed, and the trees were fuzzy with new leaves. Will had been gazing at the blur of foliage and wondering how far spring had progressed back home when, about an hour outside of Boston, a figure appeared beside the tracks. Because of a long curve up ahead, Will spotted the woman several moments before his window reached her. The train slowed on its way up an incline. He watched her stumble toward the speeding cars, then recoil. She straightened, and as Will passed she stared through the window. For a fraction of a second he caught her expression head on. What he saw there froze him. The strong face was a collage of disciplined planes that gave nothing away, that seemed only to endure. But the hazel eyes were circles of terror. They screamed at him as they met his own curious ones, and their image remained with him still. Will had thought of the last pages of
Anna Karenina,
and from then on always pictured Tolstoy's heroine as the handsome, tormented woman beside the train to Boston.

Will had always been afflicted with what he came to call “urgent visual imagery.” Now and then his eyes seemed to sustain experiences apart from the rest of his mind and body, in vivid moments that cried out to him years later—to be painted, photographed, expressed in some fashion and thereby released. He had tried sketching, but the primitive scratches that emerged seemed pitifully inept. He tried verbal description, but somehow language was too clumsy for the fragility of the pictures in his mind. He wondered if photography could encapsulate them. Perhaps one day he would experiment with a camera, though he could never be sure of having his equipment on hand when assaulted with one of those moments that demanded recording.

The train struggled over the crest of a small mountain and began its relieved descent. “I wish I were Lorenzo de Medici,” he murmured.

Quinn looked up from her newspaper. “Who?”

“I would commission people to paint things for me, things I see. Like that red barn out there. Beautiful, with the color half scraped off in whorls, as if somebody did it on purpose.”

“The hand of God.”

“I don't suppose Leonardo would have been interested in a red barn, and even if he were, it wouldn't come out the way I see it.”

“Maybe a milkmaid with a face like the Mona Lisa.”

“Yes.”

“Then you'd just behead him,” she said. “You know what I see when I look out the window?” Will watched her eyes as they flickered back and forth, back and forth. “Cars. On the turnpike over there. '57 Chevy, '59 Dodge Fury. Another Chevy. '54. I always liked that one.”

“You ought to go on one of those quiz shows and do Cars and the Top Ten. You'd be rich.”

“Yeah, but I wish I knew everything. Especially about books and music and art, like you. I want you to teach me all of it. Tell me about Bach. He was the one with all those kids, right? Will, where are you?” His face had gone blank on her. She tapped his temple lightly. “Hello?”

He blinked and looked sheepish. “You'll laugh.”

“I won't. Maybe.”

“I'm getting nervous.”

“About my parents? They'd be so flattered. Really, they're nice. Just nice plain old everyday people. You'll love them. They'll love you. Don't worry.”

“Uh huh.”

Quinn snuggled next to him. “I can't wait to see you all in the same room together. The Big Three, you and Ann and Jake.”

“Well, you just keep your hands to yourself while we're there. They'll think I'm responsible for your descent into lust.”

“You are. Hey, look at that, an Edsel. Jesus, how'd you like to have that tank named after you?”

She distracted him with her automotive litany, and by the time the train pulled into South Station, he had remembered that basically he was very curious to meet the Mallorys. He tried to keep that curiosity uppermost in his thoughts throughout the twenty-minute trolley ride to Medham.

After a hug for Quinn and a handshake for Will, John drew them into the living room, where Ann was lying on the sofa. Quinn hurried to her mother.

“Mom, you're not feeling well. Why didn't somebody tell me.” She glanced at John accusingly.

“I'm all right,” Ann protested. “Just tired.”

“This party was a dumb idea. Dumb. I knew it was dumb.”

“She's been fine,” John said. “It was the tests this morning.”

Ann looked up at Will and held out her hand. “I'm sorry I can't get up to greet you properly, Will. Did you have a good trip?”

He had been scrutinizing Ann, searching for evidence of Quinn's features. “It was fine, thanks.” Although he failed to find her daughter there, he thought Ann's face was very lovely.

Meanwhile, Quinn was attempting to adjust to the fact that her familiar living room had shrunk, now that it was occupied by the lanky limbs of Will Ingraham. He dwarfed her father's armchair, and his head towered to the top of the china cabinet. She had never been aware of how short her father was. In fact, John and Ann seemed like diminished versions of themselves, about two-thirds of their former size. They studied Will through their smiles. While Ann's face was kind, John's held a hint of challenge. Quinn saw it and decided that her father looked like a miniature deity—stern, dark eyebrows over blue eyes that emitted laser beams into the core of Will's morality. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as simple as Quinn had assumed. She and Will sat down on the piano bench, side by side. She wondered if their potent physical bond rose from her head and Will's like the shimmer of heat off the radiator by the window. Were they fragrant with the musky scent of sexual intimacy? She felt her face grow hot.

“You two smell wonderful. All fresh air,” Ann said.

Quinn laughed and the others looked a little startled.

“Tell me about the tests, Mom.”

“Oh, let's not get into that nonsense now,” Ann said. “We haven't heard a thing about your trip. How was Idaho?”

She'll say “magnificent,” Will thought.

“Magnificent,” Quinn said. “The mountains are spectacular, just like something out of
Heidi.
The Ingrahams were wonderful to me. It's all very pioneer-ish. Will is, too. Pioneer-ish.”

Will forced a smile. “We do have things like running water and television.”

“Too bad,” John remarked. “Especially the television.”

“Listen, what's happening with the party?” Quinn asked. “Who's coming and who's not?”

“Everybody's coming and nobody's not,” John said. “Who wants a drink? Beer? Tea?”

“I'd like a beer,” Will said. John nodded as if approving.

“Me too,” said Quinn.

After John had left the room, Quinn said, “You're really getting him trained.”

“Hush,” Ann protested, glancing toward the doorway. “I never asked him to. He just starts doing everything before I can get myself moving. Last night he even made dinner. Stew. Just like his mother used to make.”

“How was it?” Will asked.

Ann hesitated, then wrinkled her nose in a ladylike grimace.

“Did you eat it?” Quinn asked.

“No. Actually …” Ann smiled. “Well, I put it in my napkin and flushed it down the toilet.”

Quinn hooted. “That's my trick!”

“I know, dear, and I'm so grateful.” Ann's face was terribly earnest. When John returned with a trayful of drinks, they were all laughing.

Soon Ann started questioning Will about Red Falls. Well, that's that, Quinn thought, he's off and running now. Her eyes began to drift around the room. On the windowsill a Japanese doll made her graceful pirouette under a bell jar. John had brought her back as a souvenir from the Korean War. The bright-red silk kimono had faded from incessant exposure to sunlight, but Quinn still thought it beautiful. During the scraped-knee and black-eye period of her development, Quinn had spent many an hour with chin resting on grubby fist, gazing wistfully at the doll's creamy porcelain face, envying the mysterious femininity that would surely never be hers.

From the gallery on the far wall Quinn's own face stared out at her—many faces reflecting moments of glory long past, her life like a film reeling off the way she supposed it did when you were about to drown: the gap-toothed but grinning second grade picture, the junior high school majorette, baton held high, bony legs bare under a short white satin skirt (remembering that icy November day, Quinn wondered if the photographer had airbrushed the goosebumps away); the gilt-framed portrait of Quinn and Tommy Flanagan, queen and king of the Junior Prom. Quinn had worked on that pale blue dress every night for a month but never managed to get the bodice just right. It was a little too full for her breasts. In the photo she held her corsage close to the chest. That night, in the front seat of his father's car, Tommy had slipped his hand down the gap and touched her nipples. The delirium of the evening with its romantic music and dreamy decorations, and Tommy's warm fingers on her breasts, had all but overwhelmed her.

Graduation paraded across the living room wall. There was the formal portrait—eyes glistening with confidence, hair a soft halo. There was the collage of snapshots John had taken during the ceremony, dashing from one end of the auditorium to the other in a shiny blue suit, mortifying Quinn with the unremitting explosion of flashbulbs. Despite, or perhaps because of, Quinn's regular attendance at extra disciplinary study halls on Saturday mornings, her grade average for the four years of high school had averaged 3.91. Quinn had admitted to a base-minded and gratifying thrill that she had beat out Darlene Finney by nine-tenths of a point. Quinn was valedictorian, and John's camera had flickered throughout her speech like summer heat lightning. Her favorite picture captured for eternity the oration's stirring close. Eyebrows were knit with earnest zeal and both fists were clenched on the podium. It must have been that bit about committing oneself to action, leaping into the volcano of life, et cetera, et cetera. A dynamite finale. Professor Buxby would have tossed his cookies.

Her gaze shifted from the portrait gallery and settled on her father as he leaned forward, listening, arms resting on knees. She noticed with a pang that his favorite chair's antimacassar seemed soiled and wrinkled. Certainly the pictures hung exactly as they had for years. Certainly the rug was deeply grooved where the furniture nested in the customary niches. But there had been a subtle change. The antimacassar was dirty and a medicinal odor was in the air.

Quinn turned toward Ann and heard her say, “I hadn't done any reading in years. Except for recipes in magazines, things like that. I'm enjoying it so much. I can't imagine that I once thought it was a dreadful chore.”

Will picked up Ann's copy of
Hawaii.
She had dogeared a page about halfway through. “Do you like his books?”

“Oh, this is wonderful. It's the only way I'll ever see the world, and he makes it all come to life.”

“Why not?” Quinn asked in a piercing voice.

“Excuse me, dear?” Ann asked.

“I only meant why don't you see the world? You've always wanted to go back to Ireland.”

Ann smiled and shook her head. “Oh, I'm too much of an old lady for the grand tour.”

“Old lady!” cried Quinn.

“Reading a book isn't anywhere near as exhausting as traveling,” Ann said.

“Not to mention cheaper,” John remarked.

“Money isn't everything,” Quinn said.

“It is if you haven't got it.”

“If Mom wants to go to Ireland, she should damn well go to Ireland.”

Will saw Ann's discomfort. He slapped
Hawaii
down so hard that a spoon jumped half an inch off the coffee table. Quinn was so surprised that she stopped glaring at her father and instead gaped round-eyed at Will.