Galilee (27 page)

There was a sublime little moment on the front step, when—after she'd called out to Sherrie and before the answering call came—she stood there and listened to the sounds of the night around her. There was no traffic: just the gentle hiss of the leaves of the holly tree that had grown unchecked to the side of the house, and the rattle of a piece of loose guttering, and the tinkle of the wind chime that hung from the eaves. All familiar sounds; all reassuring. She took a deep breath. Everything was going to be fine. She was loved here; loved and understood. Maybe there'd be some people in town who'd look at her askance and spread rumors about what had happened, but here she was safe. Here was home, where things were as they had always been.

And now here was Sherrie looking a little fretful, but smiling to see her daughter on the step.

“Well this
is
a surprise,” she said.

T
he night after Rachel started her drive to Ohio, Garrison invited Mitchell out for dinner. It was a long time since they'd had a heart-to-heart, he said, and there was no better time than the present. When Ralph brought him to the restaurant Garrison had chosen, Mitchell was certain there'd been a mix-up. It was a dingy little Chinese place on Canal Street and Mott; not the most welcoming of neighborhoods. But Ralph hadn't made an error. Garrison was there, sitting toward the back of the narrow room at a table that could have seated six but was set for two. He had a bottle of white wine in front of him, and was drawing on a Havana. He offered Mitchell a glass of wine, and a cigar, but all Mitchell wanted was a glass of milk, to settle his stomach.

“Does that really work for you?” Garrison said. “Milk just gives me gas.”

“Everything gives you gas.”

“That's true,” Garrison said.

“Remember that kid Mario, used to call you Stinky Geary?”

“Mario Giovannini.”

“That's right, Giovannini. I wonder what the fuck happened to him?”

“Who cares?” Garrison said, sitting back in his chair. “Hey, Mr. Ko?” The manager, a rather dapper fellow with his hair plastered to his pate so carefully it looked as though it had been painted on strand by strand, appeared. “Can we get some milk over here for my brother? And some menus.”

“I'm not hungry,” Mitchell said.

“You will be. We've got to get your energies up. We've got a long night ahead of us.”

“I can't do that, Gar. I've got two breakfast meetings tomorrow.”

“I took the liberty of canceling them.”

“What for?”

“Because we need to talk.” He took out a box of matches and carefully rekindled his cigar. “Chiefly about the women in our lives.” He drew on the cigar. “So . . . tell me about Rachel.”

“There isn't a lot to tell. She was up at the farmhouse—”

“—with Margie.”

“Right. Then she decided to take a road trip. Nobody knows where.”

“Margie knows,” Garrison said. “The bitch probably suggested it.”

“I don't know why she'd do that.”

“To cause trouble. That's her favorite thing. You know what she's like.”

“Will you see if you can get some answers out of her?”

“You'd be better off trying instead of me,” Garrison replied. “If I ask for something we're guaranteed not to get it.”

“Where's Margie tonight?”

Garrison shrugged. “I don't ask 'cause I don't care. She's probably out drinking somewhere. There's three or four of them just go out and get plastered together. That bitch who was married to Lenny Bryant—”

“Marilyn.”

“Yeah. She's one of them. And the woman who ran the restaurants.”

“I don't know who you mean.”

“Thin woman. Big teeth, no tits.”

“Lucy Cheever.”

“You see you've got a good memory for these women.”

“I had an affair with Lucy Cheever, that's why.”

“You're kidding. You did Lucy Cheever?”

“I took her down to New Orleans and fucked her brains out for a week.”

“Big teeth. Small tits.”

“She's got nice tits!”

“They're fucking minuscule. And she's never sober.”

“She was sober in New Orleans. At least some of the time.”

Garrison shook his head. “I don't get it with you. I mean, she's got to be fifty.”

“This was five or six years ago.”

“Even so. You could have any piece of ass you want and you go spend a week with a woman who's ten, fifteen years older than you are? What the fuck for?”

“I liked her.”

“You liked her.” Mr. Ko had returned with the menus and the milk. “Get me a brandy will you?” Garrison said to him, “We'll order later.” Ko withdrew, and Garrison returned to the mystery of his brother's liaison with Lucy Cheever. “Was she good?”

“Will you just let it alone? I've got more important things to think about than Lucy fucking Cheever.” He drank half of his glass of milk. “I want to know where Rachel is.”

“She'll come back. Don't worry.”

“What if she doesn't?”

“She will. She's got no choice.”

“Of course she's got a fucking choice. She could decide she wants a separation.”

“She could, I suppose. She'd be stupid, but she could.” He drew on his cigar. “Does she know anything she shouldn't?”

“Not from me she doesn't.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning she talks with Margie. Who knows what the hell they've discussed.”

“Margie knows better.”

“Maybe when she's sober.”

“You've had Rachel sign some kind of prenuptial agreement, right?”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Don't raise your voice.”

“I told Cecil to have her sign it.”

“I convinced him it wasn't necessary,” Mitchell said. Garrison snorted at the absurdity of this. “I didn't want her thinking she was entering a business arrangement. I was in love with her, for fuck's sake. I still am.”

“Then you'd better make sure she keeps her mouth shut.”

“I know,” Mitch said.

“Well if you know why the fuck didn't you have her sign the prenuptial?” He leaned across the table, catching hold of Mitchell's arm. “Let me put this really simply. If she tries to say anything about our business, family business, to anyone, I'm going to slap a gag order on her.”

“There's no need for that.”

“How do you know? You don't even know where she is right now. She could be sitting down talking to some dickhead journalist.” Mitchell shook his head. “I mean what I say about the gag order,” Garrison reiterated. “I don't mind being the heavy if you think you've got a chance of patching things up.”

“It's not a question of patching things up. We've had a bad time, but it's nothing permanent.”

“Sure, sure . . .” Garrison said, his tone wearied, as though he'd heard this kind of self-deception countless times before. “You tell yourself whatever the fuck you need to hear.”

“I married her because I feel something for her. That feeling hasn't gone away.”

“It will,” Garrison replied, waving Mr. Ko over, “Trust me, it will.”

Mitchell discovered he had a better appetite than he'd expected. The food was good, though Garrison was able to tolerate far spicier versions of the dishes than Mitchell. Twice during the meal he exhorted Mitchell to try a forkful of something he was eating, and Mitchell was left gasping, much to Garrison's amusement.

“I'm going to have to start educating your palate,” he said.

“It's a little late for that.” Garrison glanced up from his plate, his spectacles slightly fogged.

“It's never too late,” he said.

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“You've always had a more delicate stomach than me. But that's got to change. For all our sakes.” Garrison set down his fork and picked up his glass of wine. “Did you know Loretta goes to an astrologer?”

“Yes, Cadmus let it drop one day. What's that got to do with anything?”

“Last Sunday I got a call from Loretta. She wanted me to come over to the house. Urgently. She'd just been to see this astrologer, and he was full of bad news.”

“About what, for God's sake?”

“About us. The family.”

“What did he say?”

“That our lives were going to change, and we weren't going to like it very much.” Garrison was cradling his wine glass in his hands, staring out past his brother with middle distance. “In fact, we're not going to like it at all.”

Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Why the hell does Loretta waste money on this bullshit—”

“Wait. There's more. The first sign of this . . .” Garrison paused, searching for the word “ . . . big change, is that one of us is going to lose our wife.” His gaze finally came back to Mitchell. “Which you have.”

“She'll be back.”

“So you keep insisting. But whether she comes back or she doesn't, the point is she left.”

“Are you telling me you
believe
what this guy was saying?”

“I haven't finished. He said the other sign was going to have something to do with a man from the sea.”

Mitchell sighed: “That's so lame,” he said. “She probably told him something about the situation . . . and he just fed it back to her.”

“Maybe,” Garrison said.

“Well what's the alternative?” Mitchell said, a little irritably, “That this dickhead's right, and we're all heading for disaster?”

“Yeah,” Garrison said. “That's the alternative.”

“I prefer my version.”

Garrison sipped his wine. “Like I said . . .” he murmured, “you've always had a weak stomach.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Garrison gave a rare smile. “That you don't want to even contemplate the possibility that there's something going on here we should be taking seriously. That maybe things
are
falling apart?”

Mitchell threw up his hands. “I can't believe I'm having this conversation,” he said. “With you, of all people. You're supposed to be the rational one in the family.”

“And look where it got me,” Garrison growled.

“You look just fine to me.”

“Jesus
.” Garrison shook his head. “That goes to show how much we understand one another, doesn't it? I'm chewing antidepressants like fucking candies, Mitch. I go to analysis four times a week. The sight of my wife naked makes me want to puke. Does that help paint the picture for you?” He eyed his wine. “I shouldn't really be drinking alcohol. Not with antidepressants. But right now I don't give a fuck.” He paused, then said, “You want something more to eat?”

“No thanks.”

“You've got room for ice cream. Allow yourself some childish pleasures once in a while. They're very therapeutic.”

“I'm putting on love handles.”

“No woman on the fucking planet's going to throw you out of bed because you've got a fat ass. Eat some ice cream.”

“Don't change the subject. We were talking about you mixing drink and pills.”

“No we weren't. We were talking about me getting a little crazy, because it's done me no fucking good staying sane.”

“So get crazy,” Mitchell said. “I don't give a shit. Take the next board meeting naked. Fire everyone. Hire deaf-mutes. Do whatever the fuck you want, but don't start listening to some crap from a fucking astrologer.”

“He was talking about Galilee, Mitch.”

“A man from the sea!?
That could be anybody.”

“But it wasn't
anybody.
It was him. It was Galilee.”

“You know what,” Mitchell said, raising his hands, “Let's stop talking about this.”

“Why?”

“Because the conversation's going round in circles. And I'm bored.”

Garrison stared at him, then expelled a long, strangely contented breath. “So what are you doing with the rest of the night?” he said.

Mitch glanced at his watch. “Going home to bed.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Alone.”

“No sex. No ice cream. You're going to die a miserable man, you know that? I could arrange some company for you if you like.”

“No thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

Mitchell laughed. “I'm sure.”

“What's so funny?”

“You. Trying to get me laid, like I was still seventeen. Remember that whore you brought back to the house for me?”

“Juanita.”

“Juanita! Right. Jesus, what a memory!”

“All she wanted to do—”

“Don't remind me—”

“—was sit on your face! You should have married her,” Garrison said, pushing his chair back and getting up. “You'd have twenty kids by now.” Mitchell looked sour. “Don't get mad. You know it's true. We both fucked up. We should have married dumb bitches with childbearing hips. But no. I choose a drunk and you choose a shopgirl.” He picked up his glass and drained the last of his wine. “Well . . . have a nice night.”

“Where are you off to?”

“I've got an assignation.”

“Anyone I know?”

“
I
don't even know her,” Garrison said as he headed away from the table. “You'll see. It's much easier that way.”

T
here was a time in my life—many, many years ago; more years than I care to count—when nothing gave me more pleasure than to listen to songs of love. I could even sing a few, if I was drunk enough. On occasion, before I lost the use of my legs, we'd venture out together, my wife Chiyojo, Marietta and myself, to see traveling players in Raleigh, and there'd always been a spot or two in the show when the mood would become sweetly melancholy, and a crooner, or a quartet of crooners, or the leading lady with a handkerchief clutched to her bosom, would offer up something to tug at our hearts. “I'll Remember You, Love, In My Prayers,” or “White Wings”; the more grotesquely sentimental the better as far as I was concerned. But I lost my appetite for such entertainments when Chiyojo died. A plaintive ballad about love irrevocably lost was a fine thing to indulge in when the idol of your affections was sitting beside you, her hand clutching yours. But when she was taken
from me—under circumstances so tragic they beggared anything a songwriter might dream up—I would start to weep as soon as a minor chord was played.