The Widow's Season (15 page)

She had telephoned Margaret from the station, ensuring that a pot of tea would be waiting when she got home, and together they had held vigil at the kitchen table until a police officer arrived at the door. It was David’s friend Carver Petty, come to say that a yellow kayak had been spotted upside down in a tangle of branches. There was no sign of David.

Sarah’s blood had registered the news before her mind, going suddenly cold, her teeth chattering so hard she could only reply to Carver with a low, animal moan. She remembered experiencing the initial stages of shock, her tongue all thick and fuzzy, her body bending double. Margaret was instantly at her side, settling her on the couch with a down comforter, raising her feet and rubbing her hands and answering the phone calls that came every fifteen minutes. David’s cell phone had been found . . . his water bottle . . . his paddle. The objects from his journey were returning one by one, all except his body. By ten o’clock the police had given up for the night, and Margaret had begun the round of calls to family and friends, which had brought Nate to her couch that morning, listening silently to every word, never altering the even rhythm of his breath.

That afternoon he had gone with them to see the motorboats drag the river. While she stood arm in arm with Margaret, watching the divers emerge, circle, and submerge, he had paced the bank like a retriever, eager to fetch. Then, as now, there was no aura of tragedy about him. Resignation perhaps, and loss, but no sign of acute sorrow. Apparently his tears had all been spent on Helen—
after the first death there is no other
.

Now, as Sarah studied him from across the table, she looked for telltale signs of grief—worry lines, thinning cheeks, eyes glassing over. If she sensed that he was in pain she would have to tell him everything; David had no right to cause suffering. But Nate’s fingernails on his silver fork were so clean, misery seemed incompatible with such impeccable grooming.

She flagged down the waitress and asked for the check, then turned back to Nate. “After the show Judith wants a group of us to celebrate at a local bar. There’s going to be a zydeco band, visiting from out of town. You should come.”

“Thanks.”

“And you’re welcome to spend the night. There’s liable to be a lot of drinking, and you won’t want to be driving back over the mountains at midnight.”

Nate nodded. “How about if I leave my bag at your house on Friday evening and we drive to the opening together?”

“Fine,” Sarah agreed. “Friday it is.”

Friday came with Sarah sitting in Margaret’s kitchen, squeezing a quartered lemon over a cold salmon fillet. The salmon lay on a silver platter, framed with cherry tomatoes carved like miniature tulip heads, that were stuffed with cream cheese and minced black olives. Margaret stood watch at the stove, stirring a pot of peanut sauce while she sipped a glass of Pinot Noir. “Can you check the grill?” she asked, and Sarah lifted a plate from the counter and walked out onto the deck.

November had taken hold of Virginia; the trees were bare and the air smelled of burning leaves. She raised the lid from the grill and leaned forward to warm her face. Inside were two dozen small skewers of chicken, lightly charred for satay. She flipped them with pincers hanging at the side of the grill, removing the finished ones and replacing them with raw strips from a nearby tray. They sizzled and spat as they touched the grill. Carrying the plate into the kitchen, she dumped the skewers into a large wooden salad bowl.

“How many do you think we have?” asked Margaret.

“About forty-five.”

“We’ll need twice that many.”

Sarah poured herself a glass of wine, then leaned against the sink as she surveyed the room. Yesterday she had joined Margaret for an afternoon of baking with a few mutual friends, and now the counters were overflowing with dozens of mint brownies, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and key-lime tarts.

“This is more elaborate than my wedding.” She swirled a sip of wine across her gums.

Margaret walked over and toasted Sarah’s glass. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

“You are a star.” Sarah rested her head against Margaret’s neck.

“The show is going to be brilliant,” Margaret said. “I stopped by the gallery yesterday to check on their kitchen, and I chose a painting for myself, a landscape with stormy clouds over a barn. You’ll have to help me decide where to hang it.”

“You should get a nicer frame for that one. David just hammered some black wood around the edges.”

Margaret shrugged. “Frames can be distracting.”

She returned to the stove while Sarah finished her wine. “Tell me what to do next,” Sarah said as she poured herself another glass.

“If you could slice the baguettes, I think we’ll be in good shape.” Margaret put a chopping block on the table and placed three large bakery bags next to it. “I bought a dozen of these.”

From a drawer beneath the microwave Sarah removed a serrated knife. She knew where to find every item in this kitchen—the pots, the peelers, the decades-old sippy-cups that Margaret kept in anticipation of grandchildren.

Margaret transferred her peanut sauce into a Tupperware bowl, then sat down at the table. “Have you seen David recently?”

Sarah hesitated with the knife poised above the bread. How nice it would be to tell the truth, to let the weight of the last few weeks unravel in one long sentence.

“I saw him on Halloween night,” she began, “in a dream. He sat at my kitchen table and told me all about his kayaking trip. He said that he was all right, and that I shouldn’t worry. He’s become a sort of naturalist, a friend to the birds and the trees. And he’s painting again. His heaven is full of paint.”

Margaret nodded as she poured herself another glass of wine. “I still have dreams about Ethan. Usually he’s outside, and it’s spring, and the crab tree is blooming. Sometimes we lie down together and look up through the branches. But whenever I try to touch him, I wake up chilled.”

The front door opened and Judith came bustling in. “Well, ladies, I’ve bought all of the Table Water crackers in Jackson.” She nodded at their wineglasses. “I see you’ve started the party already.”

“Would you like a glass?” Margaret held up the bottle.

“No thanks. Too much to do. Everything you asked for is in the back of my car. I’ve got student bartenders setting up the drinks. What can I take right now?”

Margaret opened the refrigerator and loaded Judith’s arms with freezer bags full of baby asparagus. Judith and Sarah began making trips to the car, carrying tubs of crab dip, spinach dip, sour cream mixed with lemon and dill. Margaret gave them silver serving spoons, ceramic bowls, and two embroidered tablecloths, ironed and folded on hangers.

“This is the best spread we’ve ever had at an opening.” Judith smiled as Margaret handed her an almond-covered wheel of Brie. “You should think about catering. You’re much better than the usual folks I hire, and I pay them a fortune.”

Margaret attached a handwritten note to the Brie, with instructions for heating. “Cooking is an act of love. I don’t do it for strangers.”

Sarah held the car door as Judith placed a final tray of shrimp on her passenger seat. “Tell Margaret I’ll be back for the rest of the food in about twenty minutes. And, Sarah, you must get dressed. You’re the guest of honor.”

Sarah stepped back and watched Judith’s Lexus disappear down the street, then she returned to the kitchen and rinsed her wineglass in the sink. “Do you need anything else?” Margaret was sprinkling confectioners’ sugar on the desserts; a gentle snowfall drifted down from her sifter.

“I’m fine. You get going.”

 

 

 

Back at her house Sarah entered the guest room, where the mirrors still rested on the bed. Walking to the edge of the covers, she stared into the collage of glass and saw three angles of her face, eyes shaded behind falling hair. She lifted a narrow, full-length mirror and propped it against the bed. This was the first time in several months that she had examined a complete reflection of herself, and she seemed to have lost weight. Her cheekbones were more pronounced than usual, her shoulders more fragile. Mealtimes had become haphazard in recent weeks. There were days when she didn’t eat at all until three or four in the afternoon, settling for a bowl of soup and slices of buttered toast. On other mornings she feasted with such indiscriminate gluttony, the aftermath repulsed her. There were so many crumbs in her sofa, she felt as if she was leaving a trail to find her way home.

Sarah carried the mirror into her bedroom, leaned it against the wall, and began to undress. For days she had fretted over what to wear to the opening, remembering the widowed Scarlett O’ Hara in her bloodred gown. Back then, black was required for the first year of mourning; next came the grays, the mauves, the whites, the necklaces made of dead men’s teeth and lockets filled with children’s hair. She admired the Victorians’ flair for the morbid, and would have liked to pay them homage with a touch of crepe or bombazine. But she had no cap or veil, only an ivory willow comb that resembled a tree at her family home. She retrieved it from her jewelry box and walked into the bathroom. Two inches of hair gel, rubbed in her hands, was enough to twist her hair into a bun, pinned tight with a crisscrossed pair of Chinese needles. Leaning her head to the left, she pushed the teeth of the bone-white comb into her hair, and set the willow to weep above her right ear.

The real question was her clothes. She owned two black cocktail dresses, both cut higher above the knee than seemed appropriate for a widow. But she was not a widow, only a dark pretender. She spread the dresses across her bed and stepped back to consider them. Spaghetti straps would not do. The faux widow required, at a minimum, a bra. The second dress was tight, with elbow-length sleeves that hung from the ends of her shoulders. With black stockings and high heels she would look more seductive than sorrowful, but her only alternatives were ankle-length tea dresses in floral cotton.

Nate’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway as she held the dress against her breasts. Wrapping herself in a towel, she knocked on the window and waved at him to come inside. Black lace underwear suited the dress, and a necklace of glass rubies with matching earrings that hung like drops of glittering blood. She held her perfume bottles up, allowing lamplight to shine through the gold and sapphire glass. Allure, Obsession, Tender Poison. She sprayed Vanity on her throat and wrists and into her hair, and walked into the bathroom, where she opened the wall cabinet.

Here were the Prozac and Lunesta, waiting for their time to come. Sarah pushed them aside and revealed a silver case untouched for almost a year. Placing it on the counter, she lifted the lid and began thumbing through mascara, eyebrow pencils, and old lipstick. A dusting of Smoky Glow seemed best for her cheeks, a layer of Auburn Mist for her eyelids. She highlighted her brow bones with a subtle gold glitter, used a crimson pencil to outline her lips, and colored between the lines with Beaujolais Nouveau.

Inside her bedroom, she shuffled through her chest of drawers and found a black velvet purse. Some tissue, a comb, forty dollars, and she snapped the golden clasp. Looking into the mirror, she rubbed her cheeks with the heel of her palms and sighed. It would have to do.

Nate was waiting on the sofa, absorbed in a coffee table book of Kandinsky paintings. He wore a white-ribbed turtleneck and a dark sport jacket, looking very much like a stylish sea captain.

“Ahoy there,” she said as she walked into the room.

“Wow.” Nate closed the book and rose to his feet. “You look terrific.” He reached inside his jacket. “I have something for you.” His fingers opened to reveal a red rosebud backed with a tip of fern.

“How sweet.” She laughed as he pinned the flower above her left breast. “I feel like I’m going to the prom.”

Nate took her coat from the closet and held it as she slid her arms through. Then he opened the front door and bowed his head. “After you.”

 

 

 

They arrived fifteen minutes into the opening and found the gallery already packed; a wave of noise greeted them when they opened the door. Sarah hadn’t been near a crowd since the memorial service, and the presence of so many bodies in one space seemed unnatural, but retreat was not an option. Heads had turned; friends were converging.

The first to reach her was the English department chair, a grand-fatherly man who took her hand within his two warm palms. “My dear, such a beautiful exhibit. It’s marvelous.” Next came a pair of nurses who raved about the paintings and insisted on how much they missed David. Behind them Sarah saw the Fosters, the Warrens, the Doves, Carver and his little girl, and the red-haired soci ologist from Margaret’s widows group.

When Nate pulled her coat from her shoulders she felt completely exposed. Her dress was too short, her heels too high, her throat too pale and bare. But Judith, God bless her, emerged from the crowd in a see-through chemise that revealed a black lace bra and freckled breasts.

“What a stunning entrance! You two light up the room.”

While Nate left for the closet, Judith took Sarah by the arm. “The turnout is amazing, and they love the work.”

Sarah scanned the room. These were the people from the memorial service, whose repetitive condolences had filled her with contempt. Then, she had been absorbed in the isolation of mourning, wanting nothing more than her bed, her cat, and an oversize bottle of Chardonnay. But now there was comfort in this return of the faithful. The electric friction of so much silk and cashmere gave an odd impression of life’s continuity.

Sarah tilted her head. “Is that Bach?”

“That’s my surprise.” Judith led her by the elbow. “Come and see.”

Beside the bay window overlooking the garden, Judith had arranged a flute-and-guitar duet. Sarah recognized the guitarist as their student housesitter from the previous summer. The girl smiled and nodded before turning back to her fingers, which tapped at the frets in a percussive accompaniment.