Real Life (27 page)

“Are we going to take the boat?”

When he first devised the plan, he had meant to. He'd had a longing, all summer, to row the pond in the dark, but he had imagined a starry, moonlit night. This night was so dark he could see nothing; even with the flashlights he imagined the boat getting stuck in the marshy weeds, or going over the falls. He had concluded it was a bad plan. And now that Nina had asked him—humbly too, deferring to him as the expedition leader—he felt obliged to veto the idea. “Too dark,” he said. “Too wet. Too damn much trouble. Let's walk around by the road.”

They took the chicken way, shining their lights ahead of them—two circles on the wet grass, then the shiny black causeway, then the Garners' grass and the concrete steps up to the house. Nina took his arm the whole way, chattering to him in a half whisper. “I hope you're positive that they're gone for the weekend, Hugo. They would kill us, everyone would kill us if we got caught. My sister would kill me, and then she'd tell my parents, and they'd kill me, and then I'd have to kill myself I'd be in such trouble.” The guitar bumped between them; Nina stumbled and tightened her grip on his arm. “I hope you don't think I'm joking. Don't forget what super-conventional people my parents are—not like your wacky auntie who lets you do whatever you want. And don't forget what a loss to the world it's going to be if I have to commit suicide.”

He knew she was joking, of course—and yet from her nervous chatter he could tell she was having second thoughts. Panic and dismay choked him. What if she decided to fink out? What if she said, Let's just forget this, Hugo, I'm going back to my sister's to watch TV? He didn't think he could bear it. It wasn't just to be with her. Even if he spent the evening in her company, watching television at the Verranos', it wouldn't be the same as this—this daring act that would bind them together, plus the wine that would give him the courage to kiss her.

He tried to make his voice sound off-hand and reassuring. “The Garners aren't coming back until Monday afternoon,” he said. “They're all the way in Albany, New York. They have this new grandchild they haven't even seen before. They're not exactly going to leave the minute they get there, Nina.”

It was the first time he had spoken her name. In the dark—they were hurrying over the causeway—it sounded intimate and thrilling. He wondered if it did to her. She said, “Well, if we get caught I'm counting on you to get me out of it. Say you kidnapped me and forced me into it at gunpoint.”

“Believe me, I would, Nina. It's all my idea. I'll take full responsibility.”

She squeezed his arm, and he tensed it, making a muscle.

It was raining again, lightly, as they approached the Garners' house. “Around back,” Hugo said. They were still talking in whispers—absurd, but he couldn't stop himself. What if—it had never occurred to him—what if they had some kind of house-sitter staying there? Somebody to water the plants and look after the place? “Let's check things out first,” he said, and they circled the house, making far too much noise, he thought. Nina's guitar bumped against the porch post and she cursed, and when he kicked a metal trash-can cover that had blown into the path it sounded like a whole orchestra tuning up. But the house seemed deserted. There were no lights, no movement, no strange cars. He and Nina stood by the cellar door, her arm still through his. He could hear his heart beating, Nina's soft breathing, the rain pattering down through the leaves: no other sound.

Nina said, “Well?”

“Looks okay to me.”

“So let's get in, Hugo, I'm sopping.”

“Right,” he said.

The cellar door was closed with a padlock. He had spent two days in that cellar clearing out old lumber and boxes of junk and the dirt of ages, and he knew that the padlock no longer had a key, it didn't need one, all you had to do was press down on it hard with your palm, wiggle it, and pull up.

“You shine the light,” he said, and bent to the lock. He could see his hands in the circle of light, and the old wooden cellar door, and the latch across the middle, padlocked. What if they'd changed it? he thought, and the familiar panic rose up again. But it was the same, an ancient brass lock that gave instantly when he pushed and pulled. He crouched there looking at it. This was it, then. He felt sick—were they really going to do this? Nina hit him lightly on the back with her fist and said, “Come on, Hugo. Let's go,” and he pulled the padlock through and lifted the latch and the doors. The cellar loomed like a dungeon, pitch dark. He felt, for a moment, dizzy, looking down into it. He thought of rats, burglar alarms, traps.

“Shine the light in.”

It revealed nothing but the Garners' cellar, still tidy from his cleaning. He turned around to Nina and grinned nervously. “Okay, then, this is it!”

“Well, it would be if you'd just get in, Hugo. This guitar case may not be one hundred percent waterproof.”

“Sorry,” he said, and held out a hand. “Follow me. Watch out, these steps are slippery.”

They weren't, but she put her hand, trustingly, into his, and negotiated the steps down with exaggerated care, two feet on each step. “We're in,” she said. “What's down here?” She pointed her flashlight randomly into a corner, revealing metal shelves full of canned goods. “What's this? Peaches, tomatoes—what else?”

“Nina, forget it. Let's just go up.” He had begun to worry about the upstairs door. What if it was locked? What could he do? Break it down? Bang his head against it and weep? Sit down here in the cellar with Nina getting drunk on canned fruit? Go home, he murmured in some silent corner of his mind. Go home, get out of here, forget all about this.

“If you're going, go,” Nina said.

They proceeded slowly, using flashlights. Up the stairs to the kitchen, and the door: it opened silently when he turned the knob. He nearly wept with relief, or fear, he didn't know what was what at this point, and when the tears stung at his eyes he realized that he was horribly on edge, horribly frightened, horribly sure deep in his soul that this was the dumbest thing he had ever done.

He steadied himself and shined his light into the kitchen. Nothing. No one. And there was the wine cupboard, right in the beam of light. “Here we go,” he said to Nina.

Her guitar bumped against him from behind, and she giggled. “Would monsieur prefer a red? Or perhaps monsieur fancies a white this evening.”

His hands were sweaty, and sweat ran down from his armpits. He stopped, looking at the cupboard and thinking about fingerprints. Should he pull his sleeve down over his hand before he opened it? Or would Nina laugh at him?

“Don't you think we could turn on a light now, Hugo? I mean, this house isn't even visible from anywhere but your auntie's.”

He wished she'd quit saying “auntie.” “No lights,” he said. He set his flashlight on the counter, and it illuminated the room—everything unnaturally neat, everything put away. The Garners' kitchen as he had never seen it. It gave him a funny feeling, as if the Garners had died.

“We're going to stay here all night in the dark? Nothing but these flashlights? They're not going to last all that long, Hugo.”

He was startled: all night? “I thought we could take a couple of bottles and carry them over to my loft to drink.”

“Your loft? In this weather?” She pulled her guitar strap over her head and set it down, and shined her flashlight in his face again. “Spare me, Hugo. I don't get drunk in garages in the cold and rain, thank you. I stay right here and watch television where it's warm and cozy. I'll go along with no lights, but I'm damned if I'll go along with rain down my neck and my feet freezing off.”

“But we can't just stay out all night!”

“Look, Hugo, as far as your auntie knows you're tucked up in your little bed already. Right? I mean, she's not exactly going to be getting home early, is she? And doesn't she still bring her weirdo loverboy with her? They'll probably just fall into bed in a fit of passion, and won't know whether you're around or not. Won't care.”

Her fierce face scared him. “What about your sister?”

“She's used to my late hours. I've got a key.”

He said, “Who do you keep these late hours with? The guy you're in love with?”

She looked at him angrily, then her face changed and she astonished him by stepping two paces toward him and laying her head on his chest. His arms went around her, automatically. “I want to tell you about that, Hugo. I need to talk to someone.”

“You can talk to me, Nina,” he said. He laid his cheek against the scarf that bound her hair, and they stood like that for a moment. Then she pushed him away—gently, though, giving him hope for later—and said, “Open the cupboard. Let's see what they've got.” It was understood that they would stay at the Garners'.

The cupboard wasn't quite as full of wine as Hugo remembered. There were seven bottles lying in a rack on their bellies, and a squat upright bottle of brandy.

Nina took out a bottle. “Château dum-de-dum,” she said. “What's this? Ah. Red table wine, it says. Sounds cheap.”

“Are you sure? That's French, isn't it?”

“Hugo, just because wine is French doesn't mean it's expensive.”

Her patient, condescending voice. How was he supposed to know these things? How did she? And how did he know it was true? But he didn't want to argue with her; he was tense enough.

“All right, then. Let's take that one. I just don't want to mess around with anything good.”

“Monsieur prefers ze cheap red? Très bon. And perhaps some caviar to go weez it? A beet of truffle?” She giggled again, and then said, “Shit!”

“What's the matter?”

“You need a corkscrew for this thing, Hugo.”

He had another of his small panics, and then he said, “Well, obviously. Right here.” He opened the drawer where he knew things like spatulas and mixing spoons were kept. It had to be there. He thought hard. Had he seen where Mr. Garner got a corkscrew from? Here? No. Next drawer. Cocktail napkins, little toothpicks, an ashtray. Wait. He moved the flashlight. “Here,” he said, “I knew it was here somewhere,” and pulled out the corkscrew.

“Monsieur is very clevair,” Nina said. “I see monsieur has—how you say—cased ze joint.”

It took him a minute to figure out how to get the cork out. He managed to work the corkscrew in—a little crooked, but all right—and then tried to pull the cork out with it, until he realized that all he had to do was push down on two little wings that had come up, and the cork came out by itself. “Hey! Neat!” he said. “Look at this, Nina.”

But Nina had opened the refrigerator and was rummaging inside. “Peanuts,” she said. “Here's a big can—already opened, don't worry. Let's just liberate a handful. I'm starved.”

“I don't think we should,” he said.

She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Stealing wine is okay, but you draw the line at peanuts?”

“I don't want to just—” He couldn't tell her that the wine had a purpose, that the theft of the wine was a noble act, in a way. The wine will bring us together, he couldn't say. He shrugged, and smiled foolishly. “You're right, of course. Let's eat peanuts.”

“And salami,” she said. “There's a lot of salami here, Hugo. Pounds of it. They'll never miss a couple of slices.” She took a bite and held out the rest of the slice. “Here. Mmm. Delicious.” He took it and ate it, pressing his tongue against the side where her teethmarks were. “What about glasses?” she asked.

“Here.” He got two wineglasses down from over the sink. He had once unloaded the dishwasher and put them away up there. He thought of all the things he would do for the Garners, to pay them back for a crime they would never know about. He would shovel their snow all winter. He would give them for Christmas the wrought-iron book rack he was making in shop. He would remember to ask questions about the new grandchild.

Nina put the salami and peanuts on a plate. “Don't worry, I'll wash it. And we'll wash the glasses. Don't get all paranoid, Hugo, and spoil everything.” She picked up the plate in one hand and her guitar in another. “Now let's get comfortable. Let's watch some TV or something.”

He led the way into the sun room, carrying the wine and glasses. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“I do. After I have some wine.”

“Did you mean it, or were you joking?”

Alex looked at her quickly, then back at the road. They were driving down the Massachusetts Turnpike, back to Dorrie's, in the rain. It was the wrong time. Dorrie immediately wished she could take back the words, and his answer made things no easier: “Did I mean what?” Nothing. Forget it. “Hmm? Speak.”

She steeled herself, gritted her teeth. She nearly hated him, for dragging it out of her. “What you said. About our getting married.”

“Oh, that.” She stole a look at him and saw he was smiling. “Of course I meant it. I don't joke about important things.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, smiling too. The relief that filled her was like the cessation of an ache. The pure happiness of being chosen, accepted, loved, wanted, she assumed was waiting in the wings: for now, all she felt was the release of the tension that had been building since she had caught the bouquet, and seen Rachel through her last-minute despair, and picked up the fragments of that despair when Rachel cast it aside.

“But you don't really think I was joking about that.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Well, then. Marry me.”

She studied his profile in the rainy light. He drove with concentration, with the ironic seriousness he brought to everything. She liked to imagine him teaching, talking about Poe's poetic theory and Hawthorne's use of the grotesque, making erudite, poker-faced jokes that his students wouldn't know whether to laugh at or not. His response to “Have a nice day” was “God forbid!”