SHUDDERVILLE FIVE (3 page)

He reached into his pocket. It began to snow. The snow was like silence falling from the sky. Like little pieces of quiet piling up. As he held out the confession to his partner, a few snowflakes landed on his palm. “Wait,” he gasped. “I remember something.”

“What?”

He watched the snow crystals melt on his palm. “Everything.”

*

Three Months Later—March 27, 1966, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Estelle Mandelbaum poured herself another glass of wine and stared at her husband’s untouched plate of chicken
cacciatore
. Late again. He worked ridiculous hours at the office, and tonight he’d forgotten to call. Usually he called. For the past three months, ever since the plane crash had taken Charlotte Ballard, Tobias had been overworked, distracted and largely absent. She wasn’t happy about it. She didn’t know what to do about it.

She sighed and gazed out the window. It was snowing again. Estelle was sick of the snow. When would spring come? What was keeping it? When would it be April already? When would the snow stop falling and the flowers start blooming and the world come to life again? These were her questions.

The wind blew hard against the house, peaking and dying away, leaving an edgy silence. Now the front door opened and closed, and she listened to her husband scrape his boots against the welcome mat. She heard his familiar gait in the front hallway, his limping footsteps and the tap of his cane. He paused in the foyer to take off his coat and scarf, and then he continued down the hallway toward the dining room. Estelle fixed her hair and put on a bored look before he appeared at the doorway, smiling tiredly at her.

“Well, hello there, young lady.”

“Hello yourself,” she said petulantly.

He was slightly jowly and grayer than when they’d first met, but just as charming and funny as ever. She recalled the excitement she used to feel just being near him; the closeness of him, his warmth, an electric thrill shooting through her. Now they were—what? Comfortable? Contented? What a curse.

“Remember how it used to be, Estelle?” Tobias said.

She sat motionless with her chin raised. The room grew still.

He walked over to the table and sat down beside her. He hooked his cane over the back of a chair and nudged a few strands of hair out of her eyes with his thumb. He studied her face. “Where did I go wrong?”

The wind came roaring back, swelling and hissing through cracks in the house. These Boston winters were long and unpredictable. She shook her head slowly. She’d been trying not to revisit the past. The decisions they’d made, the emotions they’d felt. She’d been trying very hard not to sift through the layers of blame—whose sperm wasn’t working? Whose eggs were defective?

“Thanks for calling to say you’d be late,” she said with a smirk.

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Forget it.” He stroked her arm, and she let his warm fingers play with her delicate, cold, blue-veined left hand. He turned it over like a leaf. “Let’s get naked,” he suggested.

She laughed. “Sorry, buddy. Not in the cards.”

“Come on. Admit it. You’re still in love with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You never change, do you?”

“You want change? Go stand in front of a traffic light.”

“Ha. I’ve heard that one before.”

“Okay, but admit that you love me. You’re nuts about me. Admit it.”

She laughed. “Not tonight, buster.”

“What’s not to love? Is it my breath? I have no plaque or tarter on my teeth, see?” He grinned, showing her his long, narrow, white teeth.

She laughed. He was funny tonight. Just like his old self.

“Ah. See?” he said with a wink. “I’m handsome as ever.”

“Hmph.”

“Let’s go upstairs. No? Why not?” he said. “Give me one good reason.”

“We exhaust me,” she confessed.

“Ditto, kiddo.” He leaned forward and sniffed her hair. “Mm. You smell like vanilla.”

“You’re a pest,” she said with an ambiguous mixture of affection and annoyance.

“Estelle, Estelle.” He let her go. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms. He was a handsome man in her eyes. Good-looking and smart. And yes, she wanted him. “What if I told you something? Something you wouldn’t believe?” he said softly.

“So tell me.”

“Please. I’m serious. Can we be serious for a moment?”

“Okay,” she said more thoughtfully.

“What if I said you could have any wish you wanted? Any wish at all? What would it be?”

“A wish?” Estelle frowned. “That is a strange question.”

“Humor me.”

Outside, the wind made a comeback. It roared around the house, and she thought about how old it was—the wind. It had blown for millions of years.

He leaned forward. “If you could have anything in the world, okay?” She could smell the sweat on his skin and feel the pulse of his body. “What would you wish for?”

“Oh Toby,” she said mournfully. “I’d want to have a baby, of course!”

“Just one?”

“Two babies! A boy and a girl. That’s my fondest desire, since you ask, sweetheart. But we can’t talk about this now.” She shook her head sadly.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because it would tear me apart.”

He tugged gloomily on his left ear.

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Tug on your ear when you get upset.”

He gave her a shrug of grudging concession. “I’ve got a proposition for you. I’ll never bring up the subject again. Just tell me this once, Estelle.”

“Tell you what?”

“Are you absolutely positive about your answer? Your wish? One wish is all you get.”

She drew away from him. She thought it was cruel of him to be talking this way, but she couldn’t help herself. Her wish was crystal clear. “I want two children, Toby. A boy and a girl.”

He grinned and bit his lower lip. “Sounds nice.”

“A little devil and a little angel! That’s what I want!”

“Okay. Good.”

And suddenly she was crying. Sobbing.

He smiled indulgently and took her hand. “Okay. That’s it then.”

“Why are you asking me these things? Shouldn’t we be moving on?”

“I won’t ever mention it again. Are you okay?”

“Okay? I’ll never be okay.” He was looking at her funny. “What? Why are you being like this, Toby? Acting so strange.”

He sighed and finished off her wine. “Let’s go to bed.”

She touched his forehead with the tips of her fingers, as if he’d spiked a fever. “You can’t go around asking people what they want, Toby. It’s too painful.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

She smiled sadly and framed his face with her hands.

“Never mind,” he told her. “The issue is moot.”

She traced her fingers down his cheeks. “Moot?”

“You deserve to be happy.”

“What a crock.” She laughed.

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Time for bed,” he whispered.

*

December 23, 1965—Boston, Massachusetts

Will Ballard checked his watch and glanced out the window at the falling snow. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the lab was empty. He pushed away from his workstation, removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands in the sink. He hung up his lab coat, put on his parka, went outside, unlocked the car and drove into Boston.

He found a parking spot on Commonwealth Avenue and walked to the university campus where his wife taught advanced psychology. He sat on a gray stonewall in front of the student union and watched the snow drifting down from the sky. Large ornate flakes whirled through the air. He held up his hand to catch a few. He tilted his head to taste the melting flakes, then shivered and checked his watch. He glanced up and down the sidewalk, looking for her.

Five minutes later, she came strolling out of Randall Hall with a student. Will ducked his head. His breath froze in his lungs. The couple appeared to be exchanging wry cynical comments, and his wife seemed blissfully happy.

Will felt lost and hopeless. He waited until they were about ten feet away before he suddenly stood up.

Charlotte gasped when she saw him. “Will? What are you doing here?”

The boy smiled nervously at them.

The snow made white scribbles in the air.

He refused to pretend that everything was okay. He turned and loped away.

“Will?” Charlotte cried. “Where are you going?
Will?
”

*

He got home late that night, stumbling drunkenly out of his car and tromping up the slick steps. The Ballards lived in a family-friendly Somerville neighborhood of melting snowmen’s bottoms. He went inside, kicked off his boots, draped his coat over the arm of a kitchen chair and stood in front of the refrigerator, which smelled of sour milk, and reached behind the turkey carcass. The meat was dry and stringy, clinging to a construction of gray bones. He slid a dark green beer bottle out of the six-pack, pried off the cap and drank. He strolled into the living room and said, “Do you have something you want to tell me?”

She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wrapping paper and colorful holiday bows, and looked at him with her head tilted to one side. Frank Sinatra sang
Silent Night
in the background.

“Well?” he said. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Like what?” she said.

“Like you’re sorry.”

“About what?”

“Oh come on. You might as well confess that you’re
in love with him
.”

She gave him a piercing look. He loved the fleshy pinks and reds and golds of her. Her bone structure was so well-defined, she reminded him of a gazelle or a rare breed of cat. “You’re drunk. Stop drinking,” she said. “Have some coffee.”

“I don’t want any coffee.” He went back into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed the greasy platter and upended the turkey remains into the garbage, then wedged the platter into the dishwasher, dumped in some powder, banged the door shut and switched it on. It felt good to be slamming things around. “This student of yours? Owen? Are you fucking him?”

“No,” she said from the doorway. She was pale. She was watching him.

“Why should I believe you?”

It was warm inside the house, snowing outside, bright white flakes covering the sidewalks and rooftops and swingsets next door. Too many kids in the neighborhood. Charlotte wanted kids eventually. He didn’t. She had grown up in Southern California, where she’d led a very active social life. She’d once been engaged to a handsome MBA surfer-type he only knew vague things about, like his effortless laugh. He hated the men in her past. He hated that she had any past at all. He wanted her life to begin and end with him. What was so bad about that?

She heaved a disgusted sigh. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Will.”

“I’m having trouble believing that.”

“You need to grow up,” she said with an angry shrug.

The dishwasher pulsed with a furry roar. He studied her face and wondered if she was as adulterous as he imagined. He suspected she’d had at least a handful of infidelities, or maybe the truth was far worse than anything he could conjure up? It made his stomach bubble and spit. It made his heart race. She was giving him an ulcer. He looked beyond her at the mess in the living room. She’d been wrapping Christmas presents for their long-planned trip west. Presents for her parents and presents for him. A sweater. A tie. Socks. The least romantic gifts you could imagine. He always got socks from Charlotte. He always got a tie. He always got a sweater. Maybe if he was lucky a book.

“We stopped having sex,” he blurted angrily. “Two months ago. Why’d we stop having sex?”

“Maybe because I’m not happy,” she countered.

“Why aren’t you happy? What aren’t you getting from me besides my absolute attention and utter devotion?”

“You’re always working. We never go out. You don’t like my friends. Half the time it feels like I’m stuck in the castle tower, just like Rapunzel.”

“Like
what
?” he said sharply.

“It’s a metaphor.”

“I know what a metaphor is, Charlotte. Are you calling me an ogre? Do you think I’m holding you prisoner here in this beautiful house?”

“You’re always working. We never see our friends. We don’t have—listen, Will, we don’t have a life.” She frowned, and he could see it in her eyes—the big question. How long? How much longer would she have to endure this punishment? When was her prince going to come and rescue her? Her knight in shining armor? How much longer would she have to suffer with her king-ogre-husband in the castle tower?

He met her angry, impenetrable gaze. “If you leave, I’ll kill myself.”

She seemed appalled by this admission. “Do you realize how disturbing and selfish and horrible that is?” She rubbed her temples. “It’s a form of emotional blackmail. You’re giving me a migraine.”

“Well? Are you going to leave me?”

“Why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because, Charlotte, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about leaving me. I knew it. I
knew
something was wrong. I’ve known about it for months now, but I didn’t want to admit it. And look—you’re not even contradicting me now.”

“Only because I’m speechless.” She sighed heavily, as if she’d been holding her breath. “Why should I even bother talking to you?”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“Really?” Charlotte retreated back into the living room, sat on the floor, raised her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs and hugged herself.

Will landed drunkenly on the floor beside her and rested his bottle on the rug, twisting it into the weave to root it. Then he ran his hand over Charlotte’s shoulder. She shivered and twitched like a young colt beneath his loathsome touch. Her skin was the color of coffee mixed with cream.

“What’s wrong with us goes deeper than me working late at the lab,” he said, his hand wandering up into her hair, his fingers playing with her auburn locks. She wore those tight-fitting, deep-pocketed jeans he loved and a black silk blouse. Sexy. She was so gorgeous tonight. He loved her crooked smile. He loved her small aristocratic nose and her fine-boned face.

“The truth,” she whispered. “The truth is you don’t know how to love anyone.”