The Lightning Keeper (32 page)

Although she would not dwell on the specifics of her intimacy with
Fowler, this conversation had forced upon her the realization that whatever “normal” might mean to her, it meant something else to Olivia. Her face burned with the knowledge that Olivia's definition must be based on her experience with Toma.

She would find a way to ask someone, Lucy, as a last resort. Or she would find a book. Surely, in these times, doctors addressed such issues frankly, steering a course between evasion and impropriety? But how would she get such a book? Mrs. Hawley at the library could not be trusted to keep this information to herself. She was sure that her relations—conjugal relations, in that hideous term—were adequate, even if what she liked best came before, and afterward. But she would have given anything to have access to a wise person of her own sex, someone she did not know, or who had a voice and no face, someone who could relieve her of this burden and explain what Olivia was talking about. What stains?

Harriet closed her eyes. When she opened them again she saw that her earrings were not where she had put them down last night, and where she had seen them only an hour ago. She was absolutely certain of this.

 

T
HE STACK OF MAIL
on Toma's desk had dwindled to this one tattered item: the address in Cetinje, the fierce profile of Prince—now King—Nikola, and Lydia Harwell's neat italic hand. There were two folds of paper within, and he read first the one that fell out most readily.

 

There was a knock, which he ignored, and Harriet opened the door.

“I am not disturbing you, I hope?”

“No, please come in.” He put the pages back in the envelope and made an effort to smile at her.

“Fowler told me what was happening here at the works, and that you had taken this office. Everything is so changed.”

“Not everything. I told them that they are to do nothing to this building.”

“I am glad. And here is the famous photograph of my grandfather.”

“As I say, nothing has changed. A little cleaning is all. Will you sit down?”

“Thank you. I have come to invite you to dinner with Dr. Steinmetz.”

“Dr. Steinmetz writes to me nearly every day, but not to tell me he is coming back to Beecher's Bridge.”

“Oh, but he is. And it was such a success last time. Please say you'll come. I hardly ever see you any more, except by accident.”

“It was you who were the success, I think.”

“Is it hard for you to appreciate his good qualities?”

“Ours is a professional relationship. Perhaps I see another side of him.”

“He writes the most charming letters. This morning I received a little package with two little cuttings from his cactus house wrapped in cotton wool, and very specific instructions on how to get them started. He writes that one will have a yellow flower, and the other scarlet, and I am hoping that they shall have their first tiny roots by the time he gets here. He has an idea of how my glass house might accommodate both orchids and cacti. Wouldn't that be wonderful?”

He said nothing.

“Oh, Toma, it is almost as if you were jealous of Dr. Steinmetz.” It was a curious thing for her to say, and the word hung in the air.

“I know him differently, that is all. He does not write to me of his cactus plants or his crows.”

“I think you judge him too harshly. He has the sweetest nature.”

“What else does he send you?”

“Let me think. There was a picture of him and a child—a step-grandchild, I think, though I am not clear on the connection. It almost broke my heart: they are practically the same size, at least in the picture. Also a book about lightning.” She could see the bitter line of his mouth. “Imagine, Toma, how lonely his life must be.”

He fastened his eyes on hers. “I have known loneliness.”

“Of course you have, but not his kind of loneliness, his…deformity.”

Toma's fingers began to drum on the envelope. “Did I ever tell you about my father?”

“Yes, of course. Such a brave man. And to live without a leg, I suppose that is like a deformity.”

“He is dead.” Toma pointed to the letter. “I have just learned of it.”

“You are angry at me. I am sorry about your father.” She rose from her chair and he from his.

“Please sit down. I should have said it differently.”

“And I—” She dropped into her chair. “Here I am going on and on
about dinner parties and Dr. Steinmetz. Will you tell me what happened?”

He saw how close she was to tears, and he could not answer her question. “He was old. That is reason enough. Let us talk about something else.” He put the letter in the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Well. You are looking very smart. I remember bringing your clothes to the silk mill, and I don't remember these.”

He looked down at his jacket and the plain black silk of his tie against the white shirt. “No, these are all new. I belong to General Electric, as Steinmetz would say.”

“And he told you to buy these clothes?”

“No, it was the engineers, practically the first words they spoke when they got here. It would never do, when it came to hiring workmen, for the manager to be dressed like the stone mason. These were the exact words.”

“The manager. Well, it suits you, I think. But look at all these letters! How do you keep up with them?”

“It is all I do, and most of it is from one office or another at Schenectady. I sometimes think they have stolen my wheel and left me to do the paperwork.”

She laughed. “You do sound just like Papa complaining about his paperwork, and of course he didn't really know how much there was.”

“Alas, I have no secret helper.”

“Perhaps I…” She shook her head and did not finish the sentence. “Surely all this construction means that things are going well?”

“I am very busy, it is true, so busy that I must leave the work on the wheel to Larssen and Piccolomini, and they push it in a direction I do not understand. Testing the parameters of scale, they call it, which means Let's see how big we can make it. I sign off on everything, but it is their work. And they are working for Steinmetz, not for me.”

“Toma, you make it sound as if he were your enemy.”

Toma sat back in his chair and stared at her. The letter in his pocket was like a live coal. “Harriet, do you not know that my people are at war with his?”

“But he is not a soldier, you cannot blame the war on him!”

“And he has written newspaper articles about the war, saying that it would be good for Europe if Germany wins.”

“I have not seen them. But I am sure he means no harm to you.”

“I am not thinking of myself, and one can do great harm without meaning to.”

“Toma, this is America, not Europe, and Dr. Steinmetz is an American, as he told me himself, with an emotion he could not conceal. And if there is anything I can do…perhaps I can speak to him?”

“Oh, Steinmetz is a scientist, an engineer.”

“He is a man, Toma.” Her face wore an expression almost of reproof, but she went on in a gentler tone, “I think that for a start you should call him Dr. Steinmetz.”

“All right, I will. And what shall I call you?”

“You must call me what you used to call me. I don't see why there must be any awkwardness between us just because I am married.” Her smile was encouraging, but it lacked conviction. She hurried on, “And please say you will come next Friday?”

“I will come. And I will be charming to Dr. Steinmetz.”

“I hope it will not be awkward for you to come alone?”

“No.”

“At seven then?”

“At seven.”

“Toma?” They stood by the door now. She had her hand on the knob, and she was not looking at him, but at the floor, at the familiar worn planks. “I am curious to know…”

“Know what?”

“Will you marry her?”

“No.”

She said good-bye without looking at him. On her way into town to do her errands, she thought about the letter she would write to Dr. Steinmetz acknowledging the book on lightning he had sent. Her appreciation must be expressed in general terms, as she could not claim to have understood everything she had read; but the letter would be embellished with her own observations of that phenomenon. Some instances were fresh in her mind—the limb of an exploded scrub oak that had sailed down like a boomerang to plunge into the Truscott lawn, or the balls of pale fire she had seen circling the crown of Lightning Knob like ghosts or emissaries from another planet. Others were dim memories: when she was six or seven years old lightning had struck the
church during the service, melting the lead in the stained glass, taking away the left arm of Jesus along with several of His lambs. Such recollections were hardly scientific, but she was sure they would be of interest to her friend.

 

A
T THE END OF
the day Harriet relaxed in a cooling bath. Had she the energy, she might have walked down to the lake for a swim, for this was the perfect time, when a long light flooded the valley of the Buttermilk, and even after the sun had set on the lake and the house, it still lay on the mountain above her. When that too had faded she would gaze at those darkening shapes and feel a strange suspension, as if the twilight as well as the water had received her, and on the walk back up the slope the clumps of white phlox would be like beacons along the edge of the mown grass.