Howard Norman - Next Life Might Be Kinder

Philip and Cynthia have invited Bethany Dawson to dinner a week from Sunday, and invited me, too. I know what is going on there. Cynthia has been direct: “Sam, ever since you ordered those books from John W. Doull and delivered them in person, Bethany has been intrigued. ‘Intrigued’ shouldn’t be too threatening, should it? Come on, what harm, dinner together? Besides, Bethany told me you’re in the library a lot. Wear a pair of your new socks. We’ve known Bethany for ages and like her very much, and we love you, so for me and Philip it’s all good company on a cold night.”

Since being released from hospital, I hadn’t been back to Halifax, but last Wednesday I drove in to see the movie Next Life. The opening of the movie had drawn some brief fanfare in the newspapers and on the radio. Elizabeth’s murder was back in the news, her photograph reappeared in the papers, and that resurrected all sorts of emotions. How could it not? I kept pretty much to the cottage during the first week the movie was showing. Naturally, there was mention in the papers of Istvakson’s drowning, too. I truly despaired of Lizzy and Istvakson being linked in the public consciousness, but that’s the way of the world, murder and drowning entwining them in celebrity anecdote. It all just makes a person sick. Anyway, Philip and Cynthia had gone to see the movie on opening day. I suppose they thought I’d avoid the movie at all costs. I thought that, too. It ran in Halifax for a total of twenty-five days.

I attended a two-thirty matinee at the Oxford Theatre on Quinpool Road. I sat in an aisle seat, second row from the back. The movie had already started: Elizabeth and I were meeting for the first time, at the Robert Frank exhibition. (There was Istvakson’s research; or had I carelessly mentioned, during one of our conversations at Cyrano’s Last Night, how Lizzy and I had met?)

I stayed for only a few minutes. Without belaboring this, I didn’t last. I went out to the lobby. That’s when I saw Dr. Nissensen, leaving by one of the glass doors. Clearly he had lasted about as long as I had. He stood out front a moment. He wrote something in a notebook and slipped it into the inside pocket of his overcoat. Then he lit a cigarette, checked his watch, and walked down the street.

When I drove back to the cottage, I found that the Victorian chaise longue had been delivered. It was in the front hallway. (I never lock my door.) An invoice was taped to its frame. I’d finally had the wherewithal to have it shipped from storage at the Essex Hotel. Mr. Isherwood had kindly seen to the arrangements. I maneuvered the chaise longue inside, rearranging the living room chairs to accommodate it. Sitting on it, I again admired Mr. Kaufner’s repairs. There was scarcely evidence of a tear in the fabric, though when I got on my knees and traced my fingers over it, I felt its presence. I closed my eyes and heard Elizabeth laugh. I saw her lindy dress fall to the floor.

This life has seemed a touch kinder. I cannot say all the reasons why. Maybe because of late I’m sleeping upward of five consecutive hours a night. Cynthia says my bouillabaisse keeps improving. She makes no comment that it’s the only thing I cook for them. I am able to distinguish one shorebird from another, with lapses and exceptions. It’s freezing out. I’d better bundle up for the beach. Half past eleven, stars everywhere over a moonlit sea. Beautiful night, really. But I overslept my nap on the Victorian chaise longue, so I hope I’m not too late. Because I want to tell Elizabeth I’ve settled on a favorite sentence written by Marghanita Laski.

I am not here; touch me.