The Glass Butterfly (15 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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“The night of the accident—it was so dark, you know, foggy, wet—it wasn't as if we had to go. Elvira wanted to—well, that doesn't matter. It wasn't her fault. I was the one who wanted to come to Torre, to get out of Lucca for a while. Everyone in Lucca was angry at me, my sisters, our friends—everyone.” He uncorked the bottle, and refilled his glass to the brim. “We were just dressing for the trip, and the chauffeur was bringing the car around.”
His voice turned to gravel, low and grinding and ominous. Doria's arms prickled.
“I remember glancing out the window as I was putting on my coat, and noticing how dim the headlights of the car were through the fog. I felt—” He glanced up at her, unsmiling. “This is like one of my operas, I know. But I felt this overwhelming sense of dread. Of something awful about to happen.”
“The
fé,
” she whispered.
“Perhaps.” He puffed fiercely on his cigarette, and held the smoke in his lungs for a long time before he released it in a cloud. “How different things might have been, if I had listened to my own heart. But I was so arrogant, so sure of myself . . . and now I have a wife who is never happy, a constantly aching leg, and my muse has abandoned me. I'm a wreck.”
“You're not a wreck, signore,” Doria said gently. She stood, and put her chair back beside the card table. “You are tired, and your leg hurts. You're a little drunk, and you're worried about the opera.”
He flicked the manuscript with a dismissive finger. “Mademoiselle Minnie!” he said with a derisive snort. It was what he called the principal character in
Fanciulla,
especially when it was all going badly. “I hate her!”
“In the morning you will love her again.”
He set his glass unsteadily on the desk, nearly knocking it to the floor. He took a last drag on his cigarette, and dropped it in the ashtray. Doria reached past him to grind it out, then blew out the candles, cupping them with her hand to keep the wax from splattering the piano. She handed him his cane, and offered him her elbow. “Let me help you to the stairs,” she murmured.
There was a sob in his voice.
“Grazie,”
he said. He took the cane in one hand, and her arm with the other. “
Grazie tanto,
Doria
mia
. I'm sorry to be such bad company.”
She clicked her tongue as a mother might, though she was thirty years younger than he was. She led him toward the stairs, and as she guided him up, he leaned heavily on her shoulder, his steps uncertain in the dark. “Elvira thinks I should not be alone with you.”
“After all this time, that whole year I nursed you?”
“You know how she is,” he said, with a theatrical sigh. “My policeman. She watches everything I do, every step I take.”
A creak from inside the bedroom he shared with his wife made her shiver.
Noticing, he patted her shoulder. “Don't worry, Doria
mia
. She scolds and shouts, but it doesn't mean anything. It's just noise, because she's so unhappy.”
“Yes, signore,” Doria said.
“You should feel sorry for her.”
“Yes,” Doria said again. “Good night, now, signore.”
She stood back, waiting until he was safely inside the bedroom, the door closed, before she went back down the stairs. It was nearly one, she saw from the hall clock. She would have to be up again in only five hours to begin preparations for breakfast.
She wondered, as she trudged wearily through the kitchen and into her own bedroom, at what Puccini had said. She tried to find it in her heart to feel sorry for Elvira, for his sake if for no other reason, but sympathy eluded her. Perhaps, she thought, as she stripped off her clothes and fell into her bed, she was just too tired.
13
Chi c'è là fuori nel giardino? Una donna!
 
Who is out there in the garden? A woman!
 
—Suzuki,
Madama Butterfly,
Act Three
C
het Bingham drove Jack home after the Thanksgiving dinner was over. Kate had insisted on picking him up that morning rather than letting him drive the Escalade. Jack was pretty sure they had been afraid he wouldn't show, and they might have been right. The whole day felt hollow, despite the crowd around the Binghams' table and the good food, music, and friendly conversation. In years past, Tory and Jack had always gone to the Binghams' for dessert. Jack liked the tradition. He had also liked the quiet dinner he and his mother had enjoyed at home.
He'd never said that, though. It was as if, by not telling her, he was retaining control somehow. It didn't make sense, and he had figured that out when he went away to school. It wasn't that she tried to control him unnecessarily—not really—he had seen how the parents of other guys, mothers in particular, called and e-mailed and generally hovered over every detail of their lives. It wasn't Tory who was controlling—it was Jack who couldn't bear to be controlled. It was one of the many things he meant to tell her, if—no, when—he got the chance.
Although it was hard to admit it, he was glad Chet was with him as he approached the dark house. Ever since the deputy's visit, he had been uneasy around the place, especially at night. Now the house bulked before him, its blank windows and oppressive silence daunting. “Can I give you some coffee?” he asked Chet.
The older man nodded, and climbed out of the driver's seat. “That would be great, Jack. I'd be relieved to have a moment away from the thundering herds,” he said.
Jack knew he didn't really mean it. Chet, stout and graying and cheerful, adored his children and his grandchildren. It was obvious to everyone who knew him, however he might bluster sometimes and complain about the noise in his house.
They walked side by side up to the front porch, and Jack unlocked the front door. He opened it and switched on the lights. The mail from the day before—the mail from the whole week, in truth—still lay waiting on the hall table. Chet raised an eyebrow at the pile. “Yeah,” Jack said. “I need to go through that.”
“Tell Kate if you need help,” Chet said. “She's good with that sort of thing.”
“I know.” Jack glanced at the stack of mail, then away. He went to the mailbox every day, pulled out the envelopes and circulars. He flipped through everything to see if there was anything that might be from Tory, some hint of where she was, before he added it all to the pile.
“There might be bills in there,” Chet said.
“Yeah. I'll check it tomorrow.” Jack gave Chet a rueful look as he led the way into the kitchen. He glanced around, and felt a rush of self-consciousness. It wasn't just the neglected mail. The kitchen—in fact, the whole house—was significantly less tidy than when Tory was here. Bread crumbs and smears of butter marred the granite countertop, and dirty glasses and plates sat in the sink, waiting to be put into the dishwasher. He pulled out the coffeemaker, saying, “Sorry about the mess.”
Chet laughed. “Did you see our house, with all the monsters tearing through it?”
“Yeah. But there's only me here.”
“I know, son. I'm sorry about that.” Chet pulled one of the tall stools up to the island and sat on it with a little grunt, adjusting his belt as he did so. “Listen, Jack—I've been hoping to have a moment with you.”
Jack was spooning coffee grounds into the filter. He glanced across at Chet, and saw that the older man was staring down at his folded hands. His round cheeks, so often creased in a ready grin, drooped. Jack braced himself. “Go ahead.”
“It's just—well, Kate and I are worried about you.”
“I'm doing okay.”
Chet looked up, and gave Jack an approving nod. “Yes, you are. You've been doing great with all this.”
Jack pushed the button on the coffeemaker, and it began to bubble. “The thing is—” he began, but Chet rushed on. A slight flush stained his round cheeks, and Jack was sure he had prepared his statement, and wanted to make certain he got it out.
“I spoke to the sheriff's office,” Chet said.
Jack turned to face him. “Did you? Why?”
“Well.” Chet cleared his throat. “I hope you won't mind, but you're so young, and all on your own. They thought it was better if it came from someone you know.”
Jack kept his back braced on the counter. The coffeepot gurgled, and the darkness beyond the windows seemed to intensify. “What is it?”
“It's about declaring your mother—deciding she's really—” Chet pursed his lips, and cleared his throat as if he couldn't bring himself to speak the word.
“Dead,” Jack said. He shifted his shoulders. “I understand that's what it's about.”
“Right.” Chet sighed, and folded his hands together on the counter. “It's just—man, it seems harsh.”
“It
is
harsh.” The coffeepot gave a final gurgle, and Jack turned to pick up the pot. He carried it to the counter, and set it on a trivet. As he took cups from the cupboard, he said, “What did the sheriff say?”
“Well, it's about this ‘death in absentia' thing,” Chet said. He took a cup from Jack, and poured coffee for both of them. “I don't know if this comes from the police or from a judge, but the sheriff said that if the preponderance of evidence—those were his words—if the preponderance of evidence points toward death, then the missing person is declared dead.”
“I thought it took seven years,” Jack said.
“Not always, I guess. After 9/11, they told me, there were a lot of declarations made in a hurry. They can make a death declaration whenever they think it's reasonable, and in Tory's case, it seems they do.”
“That's why we're not having—what do you call it—probate?”
“You don't have to worry about probate,” Chet said. “Your mom's will was clear, and it was up to date. Her usual efficiency. Everything goes to you, so—”
“But not if she's not dead.”
“They think she is, Jack.” Chet blew on his coffee, then set down the cup without sipping. “I'm sorry to have to say that to you, son, but it's been more than six weeks. We have to face the facts, tragic though they are.” He gave Jack a sympathetic look, and Jack knew he should feel grateful. Chet was doing the best he could. He added, as if more persuasion were needed, “The sheriff called it ‘the balance of probability.' The probability being that Tory is no longer alive.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. His voice was rough, and he shook his head, hoping Chet understood. “I got that.”
“Have some coffee, son. Let's talk it through. You're going to have bills, the mortgage, life insurance, all the things we have to deal with when someone dies.”
Jack filled his cup, and pulled a stool up to the island opposite Chet. “I appreciate that you're trying to help me. I do. And Kate, too—she's been great.” He sat down, and fingered the cup. “Mom's not dead, though. She'll be back.”
Chet gave him a sad, paternal look. For a moment Jack was afraid he was going to reach across the island to pat his shoulder, or worse, take his hand as if he were a child. He breathed a heavy sigh, and his plump cheeks drooped. He said, “It's natural, I'm sure. I don't know much about these things, but I suppose you haven't accepted it yet.”
“It's not that.” Jack turned to the side, angling his body so he didn't have to see the pity in Chet's gaze. “I accepted it at first. When the dean told me. It was a shock, and I was practically—well, I could barely move. But then, on the train, I knew—I just had this feeling—” He stretched out his legs, and stared down at his worn sneakers. “I know she's not dead, Chet. I can't explain it.”
“I'm sure that's a comfort, but—”
“No!” Jack shook his head so his shock of hair fell over his eyes, and he had to push it back with his hand. “No, it's not a comfort! There's something wrong, some reason she's not here, and I have to find out what that is!” He made a fist on the countertop beside his coffee cup.
“I'm sorry, Jack,” Chet said quietly.
“It's okay. I didn't mean to raise my voice.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
A silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the hiss of steam from the coffeemaker and the rush from the furnace as the heat came on. Jack said finally, “I shouldn't have said anything. I knew no one would believe me. I didn't believe in Mom's premonitions, either.”
“Did she have those?”
“All the time. She stopped telling me, though, after—I used to make fun of her. They were so weird, you know. Embarrassing.”
“Yes.” Chet gave a hollow chuckle. “There's nothing a parent can do that's worse than embarrassing his kid.” Jack wished he could laugh about it, acknowledge that it was normal, something all families experienced.
Chet drained his coffee cup, and set it down. “Look, Jack,” he said. “I sure don't want to be the bad guy here.”
“You're not.” Jack turned to face him, resting his elbows on the counter. “You're a good friend who's trying to help out a dumb kid.”
“Not dumb. You're a smart young guy. But this is a hell of a situation.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“I think you should do your best to face the truth, though, son. The sheriff believes your mother died, and he's ready to declare that to the court. It will free up Tory's estate so you can manage things.”
Jack chewed his lower lip, and twirled his coffee cup on the counter. He didn't want to argue with Chet. Not only wouldn't it do any good, but the poor guy had obviously been waiting for the chance to say this. He finally said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Well, nothing now. The sheriff will report to the court, and when there's a declaration of death, there will be forms to take to the bank, to the insurance companies, that sort of thing.”
Jack felt a rush of irritation. This wasn't what they should be talking about. They should be trying to think where Tory had gone, how they could find her, what had made her flee, not how to take over her finances. He gritted his teeth against making some stupid remark that would just upset Chet.
“You okay, Jack?” Chet asked, in his grandfatherly way.
“Yeah. Yeah, Chet, I'm just thinking.”
“Well. No need to worry about it just now. It will all take a bit of time.” He climbed off the stool, and carried his coffee cup to the sink. “No reason you shouldn't go back to school,” he said, feigning casualness. “Kate and I will keep an eye on the place for you.”
Jack was on more certain ground here. “I took a leave of absence.”
Chet paused, the cup in his hand over the sink. “I suppose I can't talk you out of that.”
“Well, it's sort of a done deal. I called the dean—I've missed most of the quarter anyway. They call it bereavement leave, so I'm okay.”
“Kate's not going to be too happy with me,” Chet said, shaking his head. “That was my real assignment tonight, to talk you into going back to college.” He turned to face Jack, leaning his back against the edge of the sink. His paunch strained at his shirt, and absently, he fidgeted with the waistband of his slacks. “I would think, Jack, you'd want to be with your friends.”
“They e-mail me.”
“No girlfriend?”
Jack shook his head. “No.”
Chet put his head to one side, and smiled. He looked younger when he smiled, less weary. “Come on, Jack, a good-looking young guy like you? There must be girls. Or even—” He colored, and waved an embarrassed hand. “Well, I'm old-fashioned, but if you're not . . . I mean . . .”
Jack gave a brief chuckle. “I'm straight, Chet, if that's what you mean. And yeah, there are girls, but . . .”
“Nobody special, huh?”
Jack didn't know how to say it. He would have liked to confide in someone, someone with real-life experience. He'd even thought of it, once or twice. He'd considered going to the counselor at school, but it seemed such a lame thing to do, and he didn't know how he would find the words. He could hardly tell Chet, especially not right now, about his problems with girls. He liked them fine. There had been two or three he liked a lot, but the feeling didn't last. It never lasted. He figured there was something wrong with him, something that made him irritable and restive in his relationships. It was the same thing, he feared, that made him draw back from his mother. And hurt her.

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