Howard Norman - Next Life Might Be Kinder

THOUGH AT THE beach tonight Elizabeth didn’t stick around very long, she did talk a blue streak. Mainly she asked questions. Naturally, I wrote down as much of what she said as I could manage. “What do you think Cyrano’s was really like — I mean the original Cyrano? Was he a real person? I should know that. Did you give away my sweaters, other than the one I’m wearing? Should you give them to charity? I think you might’ve kept them all. Do you ever wonder about the titles of the books I set on the beach? Of course, curious man, curious Sam my husband, of course you do. Did we do most things right? I think we were regular people, don’t you? Do you think we didn’t see friends very often because we didn’t much like rock-and-roll and they did? We chose to huddle around the shortwave, didn’t we? Of course we could’ve tuned in to a rock-and-roll station on the shortwave, but we chose not to. We chose, we chose, we chose, we chose. Where were you when the creep bellman caught me in the lift? I’m hoping and praying you didn’t hear anything. I have to go now, Sam. I’m sorry but I just don’t feel like having some big serious conversation tonight, darling. I know it’s not the first time you’ve heard that.”

When Elizabeth left the beach, I turned to go back to the cottage. When I did, I saw Lily Svetgartot standing inside Philip and Cynthia’s house, looking out the window.

With Dr. Nissensen, March 8, 1973:

“I was easily able to accommodate you, Sam, but tell me,” Dr. Nissensen said, “why the urgent need for a session out of schedule?”

The previous day, Wednesday, I’d called him from the Haliburton House Inn, and he agreed to an appointment for the next morning.

“Elizabeth referred to her murder.”

“Directly or indirectly?”

“She asked a bunch of questions, and one of them was”—I referred to my own notebook—“‘Where were you when the creep bellman caught me in the lift?’”

“Where were you, in fact?” Nissensen asked.

“Sitting in a café near the CBC office. I’d just handed in my assignment. I was sitting in a café when my wife was murdered.”

“You couldn’t know.”

“To walk home to the hotel and see the police cars. To see the look on the bell captain’s face…”

“You could not have known, Sam. How could you have known?”

“Know what’s so goddamn stupid? That saying, Time heals. The truth is, what time doesn’t heal gets worse. If Padgett gets out of prison. For ‘good behavior.’ If he gets out, I’m going to kill him.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Doubt all you want. I’m capable of it.”

“If you feel helpless, an act of absolute effective action might come to mind.”

Silence for a few moments. “What comes to mind just now, what really comes to mind, is that you might think my seeing Elizabeth on the beach is absolute effective action born out of my sense of helplessness.”

“I simply feel as I have from the start, Sam, that your mind puts Elizabeth on the beach and you see her there and you speak with her there. Whether that is helping or is an act of helplessness — we keep returning to this, don’t we? Very early in our work together, I asked you if you were afraid of Elizabeth telling you the details of her death. And here last night Elizabeth wanted details of that very afternoon from you. ‘Where were you when the creep bellman caught me in the lift?’ You both have curiosities about what happened that day.”

“Eventually Elizabeth and I are going to have to talk this through. In a marriage, things have to be talked through, right?”

Silence for a few minutes.

“Are you back at work on the novel?” Dr. Nissensen asked.

“Can’t talk about it, really. Self-pity is unattractive in a person. Someone acts like, ‘Woe is me,’ it makes me sick.”

“ Can’t talk about it is different than refuse to talk about it.”

“Look,” I said, “we’re off the track here. All I was trying to say before was, Elizabeth asked me a lot of questions all in a rush, no time to answer them, and then she was gone. She said she wasn’t up for some big, serious conversation. Then she left the beach.”

“Sounds like she introduced some ‘big, serious’ subjects, though.”

“Yeah, I guess she did, didn’t she.”

“And you went back to your cottage alone and, my guess is, couldn’t sleep for thinking about them.”

“I’m feeling just like Elizabeth right this minute. I’m not up to talking about any big, serious subjects.”

“What would you care to talk about, then?”

Silence.

“I stayed at the Haliburton House Inn last night. But I can’t remember whether I booked a room for tonight. When we’re finished here, I’ll go and find out. This time of year? A Thursday? Shouldn’t be a problem either way.”

“Did you happen to notice that you nodded off about fifteen minutes ago?”

“For how long?”

“I’d say ten minutes. Then you came right back into our conversation.”

“No need for a nap later on, then, right?”

“That’s funny,” Nissensen said. “But what I’m saying is, you seem exhausted. I’m relieved to hear you’re considering not driving home until tomorrow.”

“I already booked a room, I think.”

IT WAS A conversation I loathed having, but had to have anyway, with Philip and Cynthia Slayton.

I didn’t expect for Lily Svetgartot to be included, but that’s what happened.

I’d accepted an invitation to dinner, eight P.M., and I was to bring dessert, so I made an apple pie. It’s the only pie I can make. When Elizabeth and I lived in the hotel, she made rhubarb, cherry, blueberry, apple, and blackberry pie. She was a genius at pies. We both hated pumpkin pie. I once heard her say to her mother on the phone, “Mum, I made a great chicken pot pie.” There was a pause and then Elizabeth said, “All right, Mum, but that’s what it’s called here in Canada.” Another pause and Elizabeth said, “Yes, okay, it may not qualify as a dessert, but it’s still a pie.” Another pause and Elizabeth said, “No, I did not serve my husband a chicken pot pie for dessert.”

I covered the apple pie with aluminum foil and carried it across the road. The front door was unlocked, as always, so I entered the house and called out, “It’s me, Sam. I’ve made a pie for dessert.”

When I stepped into the kitchen, Lily Svetgartot was holding a glass of wine. “Is there vanilla ice cream with it?” she asked. “Isn’t that a requirement in this country?”

“I’m not pleasantly surprised to see you,” I said.

“Philip and Cynthia have invited me to stay the night. There’s a six A.M. call at the shoot. I’ll leave at three-thirty, maybe three forty-five. The guest room has an alarm clock.”

Cynthia came in from the deck holding some dry flowers, which she put in a vase. “Hello, Sam. A drink?”

Then it happened. “Philip, Cynthia, you have been such good friends to me. But I have to say something. You have to listen to me. This woman”—I pointed at Lily Svetgartot—“is using you. She’s using you to get at me. She’s trying to get at me because she works for that egomaniac jerk fuckhead Istvakson. He wants me to tell him very, very goddamn personal things about Elizabeth. About me and Elizabeth. She’s Istvakson’s secret sharer. How can you not see what’s going on?”

“‘Secret sharer’?” Lily said. “I don’t get the reference.”

“It’s a Conrad story in which someone shares a devastating secret aboard ship,” Philip said. “I can’t remember if the ship sinks or not.”