Second Nature (12 page)

“Gee whiz.” Robin grabbed a doughnut. “And I thought my problem was Roy’s ability to be intimate with dozens of people.”

“You don’t know that,” Stuart said. “I’ll grant you the one affair, but the rest was probably all for show. Narcissists prefer bragging about who they’re fucking to actually doing it. They might have to relate to somebody once they’re in bed.”

“The trouble with you is, you’re giving Kay too much power,” Robin said, veering away from any explanation of her own failed marriage. “Your happiness depends on you.”

“Self-help,” Stuart said tiredly. “Spare me.” He opened the bottle of Prozac and gulped one down. “See?” he said. “I’ll bet Kay had this filled for me.” When Robin shrugged, Stuart grinned broadly. “She still cares.”

“You’ve got bats in the attic,” Robin said.

“That I do,” Stuart said. He tapped his head. “Right in here.”

“Go to a bar,” Robin suggested. “Go fishing.”

“Nothing interests me,” Stuart said. “It’s the first sign of depression.”

Robin went to the refrigerator and began putting the groceries away. She found an ancient bunch of broccoli forgotten from Stuart’s last visit and, holding her nose, tossed it in the trash. Between Stuart and her grandfather, she could easily wind up as a full-time caretaker if she didn’t watch out. Already she was thinking of what she needed to bring to Stuart next time: sponges and paper towels, coffee and a new mop. She might have been angry, if only Stuart didn’t look so pathetic.

He was, and always had been, the best keeper of secrets Robin had ever known, far better than Michelle, whose expression always betrayed her, leading her straight into honesty, whether she wanted to go there or not. All through their childhood, Stuart had kept his mouth shut; a hundred times their grandfather had questioned him about Robin’s bad behavior and a hundred times he had stared right back at the old man with his hazy expression while he knew fully well who had tied the sheets together to sneak out the window and who had shattered the stained-glass panels by slamming the door too hard. She had never once repaid him with anything more than a grin, and now, perhaps, it was time.

“I’ve got something that would interest you,” Robin said.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Stuart muttered.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I couldn’t. I shouldn’t even tell you now.”

“You’re making me anxious,” Stuart said. He reached for another doughnut, but Robin stopped him.

“Remember when you killed my parakeet?” she asked.

“Not that again.” Stuart moaned.

“You insisted you knew the best way to catch him, and you broke his neck.”

“Are you still holding me responsible for the death of that damned bird? I was ten years old. The door to his cage was faulty. Is this memory supposed to cheer me up?”

“I’m just reminding you. You don’t always know the best way to do everything.”

“All right, I killed your parakeet. Now can I have my doughnut?”

Robin grabbed her brother’s arm. “I’m serious,” she said.

“You certainly are,” Stuart agreed.

“Come to dinner tonight,” Robin said. “But you have to promise you’ll keep it secret once you know.”

“What are we? Six years old?” Stuart laughed. But when he looked at his sister’s solemn face something happened. Although it seemed impossible, he felt a tiny sting of interest.

“Well, all right,” Stuart said, doubtful as he was. “You have my word.”

 
 
He arrived at the back door at seven-thirty, carrying a six-pack of dark German beer. Robin was waiting for him, and she quickly drew him inside. She had changed into white slacks and a clean T-shirt, and her hair was still wet from the shower.

“I think Kay may be sneaking out on a date tonight,” Stuart said worriedly. “So this better be good.”

“Oh, shut up and come in,” Robin said.

“The perfect hostess,” Stuart said.

There was marinara sauce heating on the back burner, and the pasta, already poured into the colander, had grown stringy and cold. Robin hadn’t been able to concentrate on the meal because she and Connor had argued. What was the point in telling Stuart? That’s what Connor wanted to know. Why tell anyone at all? Because he’s my brother, Robin had shouted,
because we can trust him.
She had stopped at that, just shy of the real truth: Because he needs this.

“I probably should have gone over to see the old man,” Stuart said, uncapping a bottle of beer. “But I didn’t have the heart to listen to him rant and rave. And Ginny, with her cane, clomping about, dusting. I need quite a bit more Prozac before I’m ready for that.”

“Actually, Grandpa’s been having a visitor every day,” Robin said. “It’s cheered him up.”

“How much are you paying this visitor?” Stuart asked.

“Nothing,” Robin said.

“Oh, come on. No one in his right mind would spend time with Old Dick.”

“Not that you’re projecting your own feelings,” Robin said.

“All right,” Stuart allowed, as he put the rest of the beer in the refrigerator. “A masochist might enjoy it.”

“Stephen likes going over to the carriage house. He reads to Old Dick.”

“God bless him,” Stuart said. “He must be an idiot.”

At the counter, where Robin was cutting up cucumbers, the knife slipped and she sliced a patch of skin off her thumb.

“Jesus,” Stuart said when he saw the blood in the sink.

“It’s nothing.” Robin held her hand under a stream of cold water when Stuart insisted. When she looked up from the sink she saw Stephen in the doorway. He was wearing the sports jacket they’d bought at Macy’s. Homer had followed him downstairs and was rubbing against his legs. Blood didn’t bother Stephen, but when he saw that Robin had cut her hand he winced, as though he’d been the one to feel the knife. He began to approach her.

“It’s all right,” Robin told him as he came near. “I’m fine. You remember Stephen from the picnic?” she asked her brother.

“The man who reads to the old monster.” Stuart nodded. “You have my sympathies.”

“No, Stuart,” Robin said. “This is what I was talking about. The secret that would interest you?”

Stuart looked at her blankly. “Yes?”

“I took him from the hospital. He was never transferred upstate.” Stuart hadn’t even blinked. “The Wolf Man,” Robin said finally. “Don’t you see?”

“Very amusing,” Stuart said. “In a sick kind of way.”

“I didn’t plan to take him,” Robin said. “It just happened.”

“No,” Stuart told her. “Not possible.”

Stephen’s throat had become so dry that it hurt. He went to the refrigerator and got the orange juice, then took a long swallow right from the carton, the way Connor always did. Robin had asked for Stephen’s permission before telling Stuart, and of course he’d agreed. What else could he do? Even if he risked being taken back to the hospital, he couldn’t have said no to her. Not now.

“You expect me to believe this is the Wolf Man?” Stuart asked.

Stephen placed the carton of orange juice on the counter. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“Yes, you should be,” Robin said. She turned to Stuart. “Don’t you see? He’s not who you thought he was.”

“You took a mentally deficient patient suffering from prolonged traumatic stress out of my ward and into your home? Is that it? Because if that’s the case, I should congratulate you on not being murdered in your sleep,” Stuart said. “Yet.”

“Will you shut up!” Robin said. “Don’t you see what this is? Don’t you appreciate it? He could talk all along. He chose not to. Well, now he will. He’ll talk to you, and all you have to do is agree not to discuss the case or publish before he’s gone. You can’t tell anyone.”

Stuart sat down on a kitchen chair. The cat he had always despised rubbed against his legs, but he didn’t bother to push him away. Stephen leaned up against the counter, staring at Stuart. Stuart shook his head. Still there it was, right in front of him. The face that might easily have been set among painted gold stars on a blue ceiling was the one he could have seen months ago if only he had looked at what was beneath the hair and the beard. Homer had leapt into Stuart’s lap, but Stuart paid no attention. He no longer cared about the ruined dinner, or the beer he had planned to get drunk on. That wasn’t what he was interested in. On this glorious August evening on this glorious island he had hated for so long, he had just received a gift even he wasn’t foolish enough to turn down.

Lydia Altero grew more generous by the day. The small feral cats, which avoided people at all costs, now came to the side door of the bakery where she was working for the summer to beg for bits of butter and saucers of cream. When customers ordered a pound of cookies, Lydia tossed in extras, free of charge: buttery moons dipped in dark chocolate, raspberry hearts, sweet macaroons. Each day business was better, and the owner of the bakery, the Russian housepainter’s sister, raised Lydia’s salary and kissed her on the cheeks. Women on diets threw caution to the wind and ordered anything Lydia recommended. The Simons’ little boys begged to be taken to the bakery after camp, and they swore that Lydia smelled like sugar frosting. Matthew Dixon, who had always loved sweets, was too tongue-tied to speak to her; instead of going into the bakery for danish and brownies, he stood on the pavement near the window hoping for the chance to watch her slice bread or brew coffee.

Even at home, Lydia’s generosity seemed limitless. When she discovered that her little sister had borrowed her favorite white sweater, Lydia did nothing more than laugh, and when Jenny admitted she’d also taken several pairs of earrings, the dangling ones she wasn’t yet allowed to wear, Lydia declared that the earrings should now be considered a gift. She fixed café au lait for her startled father one Sunday morning and espresso on weekdays, and although she no longer spoke to her mother and could not imagine ever speaking to her again, she was gracious enough to keep her luminous eyes downcast each time her mother was in the room, even though she could have easily announced, with a single glance, that she had possession of the whole world and her mother had nothing at all.

She and Connor couldn’t hide what was between them much longer, even Lydia knew that. They tried to avoid each other in public places, where they might not be able to stop themselves from throwing their arms around each other, and when Connor did come into the bakery, as he did almost every day, to pick up sandwiches for himself and his mother and Stephen, he always got something wrong. Today, he tripped over his own feet and ordered three curried chicken sandwiches instead of one vegetable melt and two roast beefs, and Lydia just tossed her head, delighted by his confusion. Later, when Robin and Stephen and Connor had stopped working to have lunch, and were sweaty and hot and streaked with dirt, Robin unwrapped her sandwich and asked Connor why he couldn’t keep their lunch orders straight. As she picked pieces of chicken off the sandwich and ate the bread plain, Stephen looked over at Connor and grinned broadly.

“What’s so funny?” Connor said, embarrassed. “Cut it out,” he demanded, and when Stephen did not, he gave him a shove.

Stephen laughed and shoved Connor right back.

“Oh yeah?” Connor said.

“Yeah,” Stephen teased him.

Connor went to tackle Stephen, but somehow Stephen moved out of his way and Connor was the one who flopped on the grass and was pinned. Together, they rolled on the newly turned section of the Feldmans’ lawn, knocking over Robin’s iced tea and a burlap bag of grass seed. When Robin finally insisted they stop, they both lay in the dirt on their backs and laughed for so long Robin thought they might choke.

“You know what?” she said. “I’m bringing our lunches from now on.”

Connor sat up, instantly gloomy. He thought of Lydia waiting for him behind the counter at noontime, the little bag of heart-shaped cookies she always added for free already packed up.

“Don’t do that,” Stephen said, slowly raising himself on his elbows. He still had that grin. “Connor doesn’t mind going to the bakery.”

As soon as Robin turned to wrap the remains of her sandwich, Connor gave Stephen one last shove, but he was smiling now, too. The truth was, he was actually relieved. It didn’t really matter if Stephen knew about Lydia. That just made it even, since Lydia knew all about Stephen. Just a few nights before, when it was nearly morning and they still didn’t want to leave each other, Connor had blurted out the truth. He had argued with his mother when she told his Uncle Stuart, but this was different: Connor simply could not keep anything from Lydia. When he told her about the Wolf Man she had listened with shining eyes, her face pale in the moonlight. Another girl might have said,
That’s not true, that can’t be possible,
but not Lydia.

“The people who put him in handcuffs should be locked up,” she had said, which, as far as Connor was concerned, was the perfect response. “I’ll never tell,” she vowed.

Her solemn face was perfect as well. Why wasn’t everybody in the world in love with her?

“People are such morons, they would never understand him,” Lydia decreed. Indignant, she shook her head.

At this, Connor had threaded his hands through her long hair and kissed her, and then he backed away, self-conscious about his own passion, and thrilled by it as well. Now, as he and Stephen worked side by side on the Feldmans’ lawn, Connor wondered whether perhaps he had made a mistake in telling Lydia their secret. It would have been better if Stephen had remained a shadow that men talked about on winter nights; he should be drinking from a clear, green stream, not from a thermos of iced tea. Lydia was right. They could not begin to understand him. They couldn’t even hope to try. Goodwill was the most they could offer him, and still something awful would probably come of it.

Stephen was concentrating on turning the earth; his white T-shirt was flecked with mud. When he came to one of the holes dug by the moles whose tunnels had wrecked the Feldmans’ lawn in the first place, Stephen was supposed to dig into it, then insert a packet of poison. Instead, he crouched down. After making certain that Robin and Mrs. Feldman, who were up on the front porch settling the bill, could not see, he reached in and took the sleeping mole from its burrow. Connor shielded his eyes from the sunlight. In only a few hours, he would be running to meet the girl he loved. The day was so hot and clear it seemed as if summer would last forever. But in fact, August was nearly half over. The edges of the leaves on the maples and the elms would soon begin to curl; in a month, they would start to turn crimson. Why this should make him feel like crying, Connor had no idea, but he turned his back, allowing Stephen to deposit the mole in the ivy beyond the new lawn they were putting in, even though it would surely find its way back by nightfall to ruin their day’s work.