DUE PREPARATIONS
FOR THE
PLAGUE
JANETTE TURNER HOSPITAL

Copyright

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by

Fourth Estate

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Janette Turner Hospital 2003

The right of Janette Turner Hospital to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007149285

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007485338

Version: 2016-06-15

I have often asked myself what I mean by preparations for the plague … and I think that preparations for the plague are preparations for death. But what is it to make preparations for death? or what preparations are proper to be made for death?

Daniel Defoe, Due Preparations for the Plague (1722)

To state quite simply what we learn in a time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise.

Albert Camus, The Plague

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Book I: OLD MOLE

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Book II: FOG

1. Salamander

2. Chien Bleu

3. Phoenix One, Phoenix Two

4. Phoenix Three

5. Lowell

Book III: CODE NAME: BLACK DEATH

1. Code Name: Tocade

2. Code Name: Geneva

3. Code Name: S

4. Code Name: Black Death

5. Triage

Book IV: VANISHING POINTS

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Book V: JOURNAL OF S: ENCRYPTED

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Book VI: IN THE MARSH

1.

2.

3.

Book VII: THE DECAMERON TAPE

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

Book VIII: AFTERMATH

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Keep Reading

Acknowledgment

P.S.: Ideas, interviews & features …

About the Author

About the book

Read on

About the Author

Also by Janette Turner Hospital

About the Publisher

Book I

OLD MOLE

Hamlet (to the ghost of his father):

Well said, old mole! cans’t work in the earth so fast?

Hamlet, Act I, Scene v

Nobody chooses his parents,

but everyone invents them.

Adam Phillips

1.

Brightness falls from the air, and so do the words, which rush him. They swoop like starlings from the radio hooked to his belt, though before brightness, before Queens have died young and fair, the broadcast was blurred murmur, bits of music, bits of talk, voices heard but not listened to. Now the phrases flock about Lowell and he bats at them, distressed. Dust hath closed Helen’s eye, I am sick, I must die—but no, Lowell thinks, I must not—Lord, have mercy on us, and yes, Lowell prays, Lord have mercy, because in spite of the fact that the reader has a mellow voice, a soothing and expensive poetry-reading voice, an unmistakably National Public Radio voice, what Lowell can hear is his own father in shadow duet, word for word and line for line, and then suddenly, with a sharp change of tone, Forty thousand feet, he hears, severed fuselage … the fatal plunge …

Shocked, he almost loses his balance on the ladder. Death, he hears, and it is plummeting at him, no question, final cure of all diseases. The news commentator says these words. (Does he really say them? Is it possible?) The paint can, mad rudder, swings wild and a length of eavestrough comes away in Lowell’s hand. He throws himself forward across the steeply pitched roof and lies sprawled there. The tiles beat against his heart like frightened birds.

Oblivion has taken to offering herself this way, quick and shameless. She tries it once or twice a week. She sickens him because he is not immune to her whorish charms. He can feel the ladder with his feet and if he puts his weight on the top rung, he thinks the whole contraption of self-erected scaffolding will stay firm. Probably. Perhaps. The brush is still in his right hand, the can of Milky Way White (high gloss, oil-based, exterior finish) in his left. There is a comet’s tail of spilled cream across the cedar shakes and he will have to climb down for the turpentine.

Later, he thinks, looking below. He feels queasy. Anniversaries of the airline disaster are a very bad time. Every year, every September, this sort of thing happens, even though every year, as September approaches, he believes he has put it all behind him, he believes he has laid the ghosts, he believes he will feel nothing more than a dull, almost pleasurable sort of pain, like a toothache. And then: Shazam, he is a wreck again.

Have the words really come from his radio? Or from the messy attic of his mind? He supposes he could check, call the station, order a cassette, replay the show, and if they really had been spoken, what would that prove? A convergence of inner and outer worlds? Thoughts and fears escape, Lowell thinks. When the pressure inside the head builds too high, thoughts fly the coop and speak themselves back at us through other people’s mouths. He dips his brush in the can and paints a long wide stripe on the fascia board. From two storeys down, through the window, he can hear the phone ring. The house is not his, but even so he fears it will be that girl again, that young woman, the one who will not let sleeping dogs lie. He knows this is irrational. He knows there is no possible way she could reach him here. Even so, whenever he hears a telephone, he trembles. He fears it will be that young woman. Samantha. That is her name. He never returns her calls.

“There are too many unanswered questions concerning the deaths,” she says on his answering machine, but he will not listen. “We are gathering data,” she says, because of course Lowell is not the only one to turn manic at anniversary time. “If you are interested, I have extensive information on the hijacking and on the death of your mother.”

Lowell erases her messages.

“We have new information,” the voice of Samantha says, said, yesterday, last week, the week before, “we have just received startling new information from a woman in Paris,” whom Lowell erases from the machine immediately and entirely, though less successfully, less entirely, from his memory and from his sleep, a certain Françoise of the seventh arrondissement in Paris who had intended to be on that flight, the fateful flight, that hovers blackly whenever Lowell thinks of it—and even when he does not—like a vulture above his head.

“She has unexpected ties to your father,” Samantha says, the voice of Samantha says, speaking of Lowell Hawthorne’s father, “which I think will be of interest to you. Of considerable interest, I think you will find—”

Lowell cuts off her call.

What people will believe and what they will hope for and what they will do within a thirty-day radius of the anniversary of the hijacking is utterly unpredictable. This is a dangerous time. This is a time when clinical depression is epidemic and the death rate peaks, both for survivors and for relatives of the deceased. Lowell knows about this. “We have information, but we need information, we need it desperately,” the voice of Samantha cajoles, “so I’m begging you—” Sometimes she cannot speak for sobbing. Sometimes Lowell pulls the jack from the wall.

“This woman in Paris—Françoise—she says she has an avoidance instinct for anything to do with the flight,” Samantha tells Lowell’s answering machine. “But it’s also a magnet. You know that, I know that, we both know that only too well. Which is why she happened on our website. And which is why, eventually, she couldn’t resist making contact—” Erase, erase. “She thinks your father knew about Flight 64.” Erase. “Why are you so afraid to speak to me?” Erase.

“Listen,” Samantha pleads directly into his ear. “You’ve got to listen. Françoise believes she is your half-sister—”

“I have no siblings, half or otherwise,” he says, and hangs up.

“What can be worse than not knowing?” Samantha’s voice asks in a rush, anticipating digital cutoff. “The deaths could have been prevented. What can be worse than that?”

The explanation might be worse, Lowell thinks.

Everywhere, his father shrugs, brightness falls from the air. Dust hath closed Helen’s eye, his father reminds, and death is merely the final cure of every ill.

But it is after a death, Lowell knows, that riddles and slow torments begin.

2.

In the week of the thirteenth anniversary of his mother’s death—four days before the actual date—Lowell cries out in his sleep. There is a lightning flash or an explosion—he does not know what it is—some terrible intrusive slash of sound, white at the center with red capillaries rivering out. It thump-thumps at his eardrums and skin. Pain razors him, and he knows his heart is going to pop like a balloon.

“What is it, what is it, Daddy?” His daughter, barefoot and frightened, appears in the bedroom doorway and he sits bolt upright and holds the pillow like a shield. Weapon, his reflexes urge, but as he gropes for the lamp, he sees Amy’s eyes and remembers that the children are with him this weekend.

Amy, he says, but a strange sound comes out.

“Daddy, Daddy.” Amy is shivering. “Why did you scream?” She pulls at her hair, a nervous habit, and little hanks of it come away in her hand. She always has trouble sleeping at her father’s place because her father often talks unintelligibly in sleep, pleading with someone. His sheets smell of wet animal.

The pain, he tries to explain. He lurches around the room, arms outstretched. He thumps on his chest.

“Daddy, Daddy!” she quavers, throwing herself at him, hugging his thighs.

“No,” Lowell moans.

Wailing sounds, plaintive as the call of loons in fog, float through the room, and there is Jason, flannelette blanket balled into his mouth, stumbling over his pajama bottoms. Amy runs to him and holds his little face against her chest. “Jason’s scared,” she says bravely. And then, with an edge of anger: “You’re frightening him, Daddy.”

Their father turns and fixes them with his eyes. “Did you hear it?”

“Y-y-yes,” Jason blubbers, sniffling, wetting his PJs. Amy can feel a trickle of warm pee at the soles of her feet.

“We heard you scream, Daddy.”

Lowell is shaking. He bends down and hugs the children to himself. “Poor little fellas,” he says. He takes deep slow breaths. “Daddy had a bad dream, that’s all. I didn’t mean to scare you, pun’kins.”

“Daddy?”

“It’s sleepy time. Let’s go.”

He changes Jason’s pajamas and tucks the children in and kisses them and sits on the edge of his son’s bed. By the greenish glow of the night-light, he croons lullabies and pats his little boy’s behind until he hears deep even breathing.

“Daddy?” Amy whispers, as he is tiptoeing out.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“What did you dream about?”

“I can’t remember,” he says, and he really can’t. He can remember bright light, the electric sense of danger. Tree? Tree struck by lightning? Something to do with a tree and shattered glass. Pieces of metal. A great vulture overhead, as always. He can remember bloodied hands, pulsing heart, thump-thump, thump-thump. He can remember not being able to breathe.

“Where do bad dreams go?” Amy wants to know.

“They go down the garbage disposer,” Lowell says, “and they get smashed up into little pieces and then they get washed into the Charles River and carried out into Boston Harbor and they go miles and miles away into the ocean and they never come back.”

“Mine come back,” she says.

“Oh baby.” He sits on her bed and cradles her in his arms. “What do you have bad dreams about?”

“There’s one dream,” she says, and he can feel her shy away from the telling.

What rotten luck, he thinks, for Amy and Jason to have him, Lowell Hawthorne, for a father, since clearly someone, something, is a jealous keeper of the curse, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, even unto the third and fourth generation … He wishes he had a spell to break the spell.

“Look,” he says, snapping his fingers and then blowing on them as though scattering dandelion puffs. “It’s gone now, your bad dream. And mine too.”

But she is very solemn. “You were driving away,” she says. “In my dream. You were driving away in your pickup.”

“Did I have my ladders on top?” He has to make this bright and tangibly detailed, slapstick, something light as air. He mimes the sway of the ladders as he drives.

“Yes, and all your paint cans and stuff. And the baby-sitter hasn’t come and Jason and me are running and running because we want to get in the pickup with you and you won’t stop and you keep shouting that Mommy will come.”

“Sweetheart,” he says.

“But she doesn’t. And we wait and wait, but she never comes, and we are all by ourselves and it gets dark.”

“Oh, Amy, baby.” He cups her face in his hands. “I will never drive away and leave you, never ever. And you know that Mommy and Daddy would nevernevernever—”

The phone rings and both of them jump. Amy will not let go of her father. She clings to him as he shambles down the hall.

“Yes?” he says. “What? Who is this?”

…

“Yes, this is Lowell Hawthorne.”

…

“Yes, that …”

…

“Yes.”

…

“Yes, it is.”

Amy feels the muscles in his arm flinch and go still as he listens. He hangs up.

“Daddy?”

He remains leaning against the wall, and Amy, who comes to just above his waist, holds on to him so tightly that she can feel the button on his pajama jacket like a cookie cutter against her cheek. The pain reassures her. She wants to wear his sign. She can smell the wet animal smell again, mixed in with the smell of paint and paint thinner which can never be completely scrubbed off.

“Who was it, Daddy?”

He does not hear, or at any rate does not answer, but scoops her up and carries her back to bed.

“Daddy, who was it?”

“It was nothing,” he says. “Nothing to worry your little head over.”

“Daddy, if you don’t tell me, my dream will come back.”

That is the trouble with a curse, Lowell thinks: no eject button. You’re stuck with it. Around and around and around forever and ever amen.

“It was a hospital,” he says. “In Washington, D.C. Your Grandpa Hawthorne died.” Massive heart attack at the wheel … dead on arrival … fortunately no other cars on the road …

“How did he die, Daddy?”

“His car crashed into a tree.”

Lowell can hear the sound of impact, the flying glass. He remembers that in his dream he could not breathe.

3.

Lowell thinks that his losses may have become simple at last. He thinks they may have become simple and respectable and therefore manageable. He thinks he will be able to speak of them almost lightly. My mother died in that airline disaster of ’87 when I was sixteen years old, he will be able to say, and the effect on my father was devastating. Our lives were never the same.

He tries out a version of this first with Amy and Jason three days after his father’s death, the day before he flies down for the funeral in Washington. His ex-wife has agreed to his pleas for an extra visit, “but try not to upset them,” she warns, when she drops the children off. “I mean it, Lowell.”

“I won’t,” he promises, and indeed, he has no intention of discussing dark matters, but Amy has her grandfather’s wrecked vehicle very much on her mind. From the window of her father’s apartment, she watches cars pass. “Which ones will crash into a tree?” she wants to know.

“None of them,” Lowell reassures her. “Your grandpa’s car crash,” he explains, “wasn’t an ordinary … it was a different sort of thing. It’s not the first time in our family, pun’kin. I’ve never told you how your grandma died, but she was in a terrible accident too, and that affected Grandpa, you see.”

“I don’t like cars,” Amy says. Her lips quiver. She hangs on to the sleeve of her father’s sweater with one hand. “Did Grandma’s car hit a tree too?”

“No. No, no, oh no, sweetheart, that was something totally different. Grandma was on a plane and the plane was hijacked.”

“What’s hijacked?”

“Some bad men with machine guns wouldn’t let her plane fly back to New York.”

Huge-eyed, Amy digests this information. “Where did it go?” she asks.

“Well, it went to other places where it wasn’t supposed to go, and then it landed in Germany and all the children got off the plane, because nobody, not even bad men, wants children to get hurt.”

“Did Grandma get off the plane?”

“No,” he says. “The plane took off again, and then it landed somewhere else and then it blew up and everyone was killed.”

Amy begins to cry. “But maybe Grandma wasn’t on it then,” Lowell adds hurriedly, appalled with himself. “Maybe the bad men let her get off somewhere else first, because they said they did that. They took ten hostages off the plane before they—That’s what they said on TV. So maybe your grandma—”

Amy is sobbing convulsively, gasping for air. “I want Mommy,” she says.

“Yes,” Lowell says, panicky, “right. I’ll drive you back to Mommy’s place now, okay?”

“I don’t want to go in your pickup,” Amy sobs. She seems to be choking. A thin stream of bile trickles over her chin, and when Lowell wipes her mouth with a tissue, she throws up over his hand. “I want … Mommy … to come … and get us.”

“I’ll call her, I’m calling her now,” Lowell promises. Amy’s eye sockets look dark and bruised, and there is a bluish tinge to her lips. He holds her while he dials her mother’s number.

Rowena, his former wife, is exasperated. “I was afraid of this,” she says. “I’ll be right there.” In his driveway, she says despairingly, “For God’s sake, Lowell. As if their nightmares weren’t vivid enough. You have to tell them about planes blowing up.”

“Oh God.” Lowell rakes his fingers through his hair. He knows he is incurably inept.

“They already have counseling once a week,” Rowena says. “Jason’s been wetting the bed ever since you moved out.”

“That wasn’t my choice,” Lowell reminds her.

“Especially when you are flying down for the funeral,” she says. “When they know you’ll be on a plane.”

“Rowena, couldn’t you come too? Couldn’t we bring them? Don’t you think that might—”

“Out of the question,” Rowena says. She says it quietly, more in disbelief than in anger. “Lowell, are you completely blind? Every time they’re with you, Amy runs a fever afterwards, and Jason wets the bed.”

Lowell, stricken with remorse, leans in the back window to kiss his children goodbye, but they flinch away from him slightly before submitting. He feels the pain of this like a razor blade in his heart. He is never sure which might inflict greater damage: not spending enough time with his children, or spending time with them. He is highly infectious with doom. “I’m sorry, Rowena.” It is his own desolate experience that there is nothing anyone can do. Nothing will shelter children from life. The young, the fragile, the vulnerable, all are at catastrophic risk. “I guess I thought, you know, if I told them about the hijacking, it might explain why their grandfather—”

“Call them when you get there,” Rowena says crossly. “And call them when you get back. Otherwise they will worry themselves sick.”

“Yes,” he promises.

“Oh, Lowell,” she says, not without tenderness. “You’re such a mess.”

He thinks of telling her that things might begin to improve. It could be different now.

“And you won’t do anything about it,” she says. “You’re stuck, and you don’t even try to get unstuck.”

You don’t even try. The injustice of this is so monumental that Lowell can think of nothing to say.

Rowena turns the key in the ignition. “And for heaven’s sake,” she says in parting, “when you get back, get a new muffler on your pickup. The noise scares them.”

At Logan Airport, he leaves the pickup in the long-term lot. He checks in for the Boston–Washington shuttle, leisurely, because there is time to kill, time to kill, and then he looks at his boarding pass and sees the word terminal and a panic-bird big as a bald eagle picks him up in its talons and carries him off, jerking him along corridors and up and down elevators and into restrooms and out again and into the shuttle that weaves between parking lots and then back again until it drops him abruptly and unceremoniously and he finds himself sequestered in the middle nook of a bank of Bell telephones, a cozy and semi-private and semi-safe spot. He needs to talk to his children again, he must speak with them, but when he gets Rowena’s answering machine, he hangs up without saying a word. Instead, he talks to a waitress in Starbucks. “Flying down for my father’s funeral,” he explains. “He died violently, just like my mother. I think I’ve always been waiting for it. Other shoe to fall, you know?”

Later, circling high above Boston, he tells the passenger seated next to him in the plane. He tells a cabdriver in D.C. and he tells the manager of the funeral home. He edits and fine-tunes as he goes.

“The explosion devastated him,” he says. “It was the second time my father had been widowed.”

“Sixteen years old?” The passenger next to him, a woman, touches his wrist. “It’s a terrible age to lose your mother.”

“He lived under a curse,” Lowell says.

“Shock takes people funny ways,” the D.C. taxi driver says. “Takes a long time to wear off too. You just go ahead and get it off your chest.” He eases into the Beltway traffic. “I get a lot of funeral business.” He looks at Lowell in the rearview mirror. “Arlington,” he explains. “That where yours is?”

“Yes,” Lowell says.

He has several evening hours to kill, hours to kill, and he moves like the Ancient Mariner from this bar to that. He drinks beer, only beer, and only Sam Adams. “It’s a kind of a statement,” he tells the bartender. “A reaction against the cocktail parties I had to endure. My father tried to keep me in those social circles, and I won’t touch spirits or wine.” After two schooners of Sam Adams, he leans toward the guy on the next barstool.

“My father gave the impression,” Lowell says, “of a man soldered to doom.”

His listener grunts and glances momentarily sideways, then returns to the TV screen. “Yankees gonna win,” he tells Lowell gloomily. “You a Yankee fan?”

“No,” Lowell says.

“Good.”

“My father knew in his bones he was doomed,” Lowell explains. “He accepted it, he didn’t think he had any choice, but he took it like a man. He made a vow he’d give no sign. At any rate, that was my theory when I was sixteen years old, and I still hold to it.” He orders another drink for himself and for the ball-game watcher. “Of course, it cost him,” he says.

He shakes his head sadly.

“Manager oughta change pitchers,” his neighbor complains.

Lowell says, “He should have changed games, but he was stubborn.”

“At times,” he tells someone else in a different tavern at the dangerous end of M Street, “you would have thought he was a robot. You would have thought some kingpin was pushing buttons on his remote. I mean, even the way he moved. He had this strange jerky—I don’t know, as though his clockwork was jammed.”

Lowell’s clockwork moves smoothly on amber juice.

“Hey, listen, pal.” A black bartender, big as a house, bends toward him. “Don’t want to be nosy, it’s your funeral. But don’t you think you’ve had a few too many?”

“I asked him once,” Lowell says, as though earnestly refuting the bartender’s claim, “is it the Mafia or something? Because it wasn’t just the Soviets, you know. They kept tabs on all sorts, the Mafia, the Klan, the neo-Nazis, the crazy Unabomber types, you name it. And you and me, we’d be a lot more worried about a Mafia contract than the Soviets, right?”

“Listen, pal,” the bartender says, “I don’t think you fully understand where you are. What part of town, I mean. I think you got the wrong joint.”

“I got the feeling something dangerous was yanking his strings,” Lowell explains earnestly. He leans back, straining against fierce bonds. “It was like there was this hidden force dragging him one way, but he dug in his heels and kept on going in the other. Or tried to.” Lowell’s body jerks itself around, fish on a line. “It was probably only me who noticed,” he says. “Maybe I imagined it. He got kind of distant after the plane exploded. Even more so, I mean. Couldn’t reach him. Work gobbled him up.”

The bartender rolls his eyes.

“Depressed?” Lowell asks, on the bartender’s behalf. “You think so? Good question, when you think of the way my mother … But he never had any patience with stuff like that. No excuses, no whining. He couldn’t stand wimps who let personal matters … the therapy junkies spilling their guts, you know the type. Common as dirt in this neck of the woods, I bet. I bet you hear a few sob stories. Confessions a dime a dozen around here, I’ll bet. And now it’s all over,” he says. He looks around the bar and pronounces solemnly and drunkenly, “My father, Mather Lowell Hawthorne, died on September ninth in the year 2000, just four days short of the thirteenth anniversary of the death of my mother.”

“R.I.P.,” the bartender says. “Go home and sleep it off, pal. You’ve had enough.”

“For which death, he seemed to hold himself responsible,” Lowell announces. “Against all logic.”

He lifts his glass.

“You celebrating?” the bartender asks.

Lowell watches the light move through his beer.

Mather Hawthorne was already dead, the coroner has explained to him, at the point of impact with a shagbark hickory. Lowell closes his eyes and imagines the scattershot of nuts, kettledrummers of death. Although the wreckage of the car is absolute, and although Lowell’s stepmother (his father’s young third wife) was barely able to identify the body, the mortuary certificate indicates, Death due to natural causes: heart attack.

“Fortunately,” Lowell explains in an all-night hamburger joint, “the accident happened in the small hours of the morning and there were no other cars on the road. My father was only sixty-seven.”

Lowell can imagine himself repeating all this, casually, from time to time, and after several drinks, to strangers at parties and in bars.

4.

At the cemetery, Lowell feels strangely lightened. He wonders if the sense of freedom, the sense of a lifelong congestion clearing, might be what other people call happiness. He wonders if he might be able to begin to be as other people are. Now officially orphaned, he feels for the first time in his life not-lonely. Rain is falling lightly, which seems appropriate. An old self is being washed away. Lowell feels clean and new. He is barely able to restrain himself from a gregarious impulse to tug at the sleeve of one of the other pallbearers, a total stranger in an officer’s uniform, some former colleague of his father’s no doubt, and say: I was an only child. For many years, I tried with all my heart and soul to please my father, but I was a disappointment to him.

He manages not to splash confession on the pallbearer’s sleeve, but he does nod at his stepmother and smile. She is small and pale and looks, Lowell thinks, rather striking dressed in grief. Is she beautiful? He supposes so; his father always had an eye for women; but since this thought evokes the memory of Lowell’s own mother, he shies away from it. Even so, his stepmother or the occasion or something else makes him smile again. His smile goes on too long. Elizabeth, his stepmother, raises an eyebrow in surprise and stares at him.

Words, intoned, drift between and obscure Lowell’s view.

… exceptional service to his country … Mather Lowell Hawthorne, guardian of our most precious … unsung work, and invisible, but essential to the preservation of liberty and justice for all.

Mather Lowell Hawthorne’s widow is not much older than her stepson, who now, on impulse, pulls a gardenia from the wreath that she has placed on his father’s coffin and hands it to her. Some of the mourners exchange glances. Elizabeth begins to cry then, soundlessly. Her hair, rain-wet, clings to her cheeks, and Lowell wonders if perhaps they may begin to become not-lonely together.

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of Mather Lowell Hawthorne, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope …

“I hardly knew my father, really,” Lowell tells Elizabeth later, hours later, over drinks in a quiet lounge. “I worshiped him when I was little. He wasn’t often home, but when he was, he used to sit on my bed and tell me stories. Strange stories to tell a child, I suppose, but I was greedy for them. I hung on his every word: Greek gods and goddesses, the Iliad and the Odyssey. My favorite was Odysseus tied to the mast, trying to hurl himself into the sea while the sirens sang.”

“How old were you?”

“Four. Five.”

“Must have given you strange dreams,” Elizabeth says.

“I still have mermaid fantasies. I get a humming in my ears whenever I see a woman with wet hair.”

“Sometimes,” Elizabeth says, lowering her eyes and studying the stem of her glass, “in the middle of the night, I would find him reading Homer in his study. He said it calmed him.”

“That was always his first love. But he won prizes in math and science too, and that’s where he went.”

“He claimed all he ever really wanted to be was a classics professor.”

“Sometimes I believed that,” Lowell says. “But mostly I didn’t. What made him take the direction he finally did, I’ve never understood.”

“They needed linguists,” she says. “In Intelligence. That’s what he told me. Especially ones with scientific training as well. An old friend from his prep school recruited him, he said.”

“He used to have me reciting Homer in Greek at dinner parties when I was six,” Lowell says. “Like a little parrot. His personal performing dwarf. Still, he was less strange to me then than later.”

“It was like living in parallel universes, he said. All the time. Simultaneously.” Elizabeth sighs and turns the stem of her wineglass in her fingers, clockwise, three revolutions. “I was never sure which one he was in when he was with me.”

“He was always somewhere else. Even when he was with us, he wasn’t with us. I never really knew him at all.”

“I didn’t either,” she says.

“I wanted so much to please him, but he kept on raising the bar. I could never measure up. So of course I chose to measure down. Easier to get his attention.”

“I had the same problem,” she says. “I could never measure up either.”

“That’s not true.” Lowell stares at her. “You were the ideal Washington hostess, he told me. Everything my mother wasn’t, he said.”

“I tried,” she says. “I was sad when you stopped accepting our invitations.”

“Not your fault,” he assures her.

“You and I never got a chance to know each other.”

“No. Well. Nothing to do with you.”

“So why?”

“Well, he just made me too nervous. I always felt like I was twelve years old again, not measuring up. And then, Rowena … I mean, my own marriage falling apart. I didn’t want one of his third-degrees.”

“Your father was sad too. When you stopped coming, I mean.”

“That’s a laugh. My father couldn’t stand sadness. My mother was sad for years, and it irritated him. It irritated him to have me around.”

“I think you’re wrong,” she says. “I think he missed you. He was very proud of you.”

“Oh no, believe me, he was embarrassed by me. He sent me to his own boarding school—”

“Yes, I know.”

“—but I blew it. Loser in a school for winners. My father’s name was on all the honor boards, Mather Lowell Hawthorne, gold medal in this, gold medal in that, Latin, Greek, math, physics, athletics, glee club, drama club. Awful. Like a millstone around my neck. Most expensive private school in Massachusetts, and I could always see him thinking sow’s ear when he looked at me.”

“He kept a photograph of you on the bedroom dresser.”

“He did?”

“You’re wearing your school blazer and holding a silver cup.”

“Oh yeah. That. Cross-country run. Only prize I ever won. Yeah, I’m good at running. Running away’s my specialty. But there you are. The way my father calls it, you win or you lose. He was a winner, I was a loser. Like my mother.”

“You seem to me very like your father,” she says. “Sharp-minded and courtly and sad.”

“Courtly! Me?” Lowell laughs. He looks curiously at his reflection in the dark plate glass behind the bar.

“He could be so gentle,” she says. “It’s not true that he never showed his feelings. He was always sad. Always haunted.”

“He was haunted,” Lowell agrees. “My mother did that. You know she left him for another man before the … I never forgave her. They were both on that plane.”

“No, I didn’t know,” she says. “You mean they went down together, your mother and her—?”

“Not down. You know the details. The hijacking, the explosion.”

“Hijacking?” she says, leaning forward, avid. “I don’t know details. I hardly know anything. He’d never—He just said she died in an airline disaster.”

Lowell is stunned. “September ’87,” he says. “Paris to New York, the nerve-gas hijackers—”

“Oh my God. That hijacking.”

“Air France Si—I can’t say it. I’m superstitious about the number.”

“No survivors.” Elizabeth presses her hand against her lips. “Isn’t that right?”

“Except for the children.”

“Oh, the children, that’s right, I remember now. I remember seeing those poor little children on TV.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“No. Nothing. He’d never say a word about the past. I’ve always been curious.”

“Look,” he says uneasily. “It isn’t something I can talk about.”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry.” She plays with her wineglass, puddling spilled wine with her finger. She draws an S in the liquid on the low table. “Was the man’s name Sirocco? The man your mother left him for?”

Lowell frowns. “It was Levinstein. Violinist.”

“Who was Sirocco?”

“I have no idea.”

“He was tormented by Sirocco,” she says. “He used to cry out in his sleep.”

“My father?”

“He never mentioned Sirocco to you?”

“Doesn’t ring any bells. Mafia, maybe? They gathered intelligence on all sorts.”

“What exactly was Mather’s role?” she wants to know.

“I never exactly knew. Not precisely. Gathering information and misinformation and deciding which was which, I suppose. He was a spook, and then after the hijacking, when he stopped junketing all over the planet, he trained spooks. That’s all I know. Maybe he still did other stuff too, I really don’t know. He used to say someone has to do the dirty work to keep the country safe. I never got much more detail than that.”

“Nor did I,” she says.

“When I was little, he was always flying off to talk to ‘contacts’. He’d never tell us where, but I’d pick up clues, you know. He’d bring back presents and say, Got it in a bazaar in Cairo, or, The wives of the camelmen in Afghanistan make these. Stuff like that.”

“We never traveled anywhere by plane. He wouldn’t let me fly alone either.”

“Planes spooked him after ’87. Plus I think, you know, he was pushed into semi-retirement. I think they were afraid he was losing it. Kept him in Washington.”

“There used to be a car and a driver,” she says. “Every day. And then suddenly, no more official limo, and he had to use his own car. Mostly he shut himself up in his study with his computer and his books.”

“They put him out to pasture,” Lowell says. “Short life span in Intelligence, he always said that.”

“It gnawed at him,” she says. “It wasn’t just the nightmares. Sometimes he would disappear all night. Just driving round the city, I think.”

Lowell stares at her.

“I could tell from the mileage,” she says. “I’d check the odometer. He could put in fifty, sixty miles in a night.”

“I told you he was a stranger to me. I knew the mailman better.”

“There was no one I could ask about it,” she says. “Everything’s classified, or else that was his excuse.”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Lowell says. “I know the routine.”

“He said if I mentioned anything to anyone, our lives were in danger. I never knew whether to believe him or not.”

“I never knew either,” Lowell says. “This calling out in his sleep … did he do that often?”

“Toward the end, every night. Arguing with Sirocco. Shouting at him. Or with Salamander. That name mean anything?”

“Not to me.”

“They stalked him. They terrified him. Especially Sirocco.”

“I guess I suspected he was losing it. But he kept such a tight hold on himself.”

From the pocket of her black suit jacket, she takes the gardenia that Lowell gave her at the graveside and holds it in the palm of her hand. The edges of the petals have turned brown. She reaches for Lowell’s hand and opens it and places the gardenia in it. “And now we have both lost Mather,” she says. “Permanently.”

At that point, he is able to cry; well, not cry, exactly, not cry in any luxurious or extravagant or consolatory or even noticeable way, but he does become aware of functioning tear ducts, of a physical sense of swollenness, of overflow which moves him profoundly. The fact of grief moves him, as of some precious thing long mislaid. He is overcome by this reentry into the experience of emotion per se, and he thinks of it as an atmosphere emanating from Elizabeth. She drives him back to the airport and he wears dark glasses and stares out the window all the way.

“You could stay the night, Lowell,” she offers.

He turns then, but does not remove his dark glasses. They sit for some time, not speaking, on the fifth level of the airport parking garage. When she turns the key in the ignition, as though agreement has been reached, he says, “Thank you, Elizabeth, but I can’t. Rowena says Amy and Jason will panic if I don’t get back tomorrow, and I know she’s right. The kids … you know, I have a bad effect on them, but they need to see me. They need to know I’m okay. I promised I’d take them to the Public Garden tomorrow.”

“You will need to go through your father’s things,” she says, “and decide what you want. Give me a call when you’re ready. You can stay at the house.”

“All right,” he promises. “And anytime you’re in Boston …”

But weeks pass, and they do not make contact with each other again, and then Dr. Reuben calls Lowell.

5.

One month after the funeral, Lowell receives a letter of sorts and certain documents in his father’s handwriting. Dr. Reuben delivers the package, and the circumstances are strange.

“I’ve just flown up from Washington,” Dr. Reuben says. “Your father wanted me to do this personally.”

Lowell tries to put a face to the voice on the telephone. “Do I know you?”

“No, you don’t, and I’m afraid I don’t know Boston. We need to meet somewhere central and very public. Where do you suggest?”

“I don’t understand,” Lowell says later. They are walking side by side in the Public Garden. Lowell marvels at the shine on Dr. Reuben’s black leather shoes. His own sneakers are badly scuffed.

“I was your father’s psychiatrist,” Dr. Reuben explains.

“I see. I didn’t know he—I never thought he had any time for that sort of thing.” Lowell is mesmerized by the flash of black leather alongside his own paint-spattered joggers. He and his father’s psychiatrist are out of step. His sneakers do a quick-step, skip-step, to bring themselves into alignment, but Dr. Reuben stops abruptly—startled or perhaps affronted by the maneuver—and looks back over his shoulder. When they move forward again, they are still not in step.

“Precautions had to be taken,” Dr. Reuben says. He seems to be embarrassed, and is seized by a fit of coughing as though the words are too peppery in his mouth. His eyes water. “At least,” he says, “your father believed so.” He gives way to another short paroxysm of coughing and then laughs in a self-deprecating way. “Your father was very convincing. You know what I’m talking about?”

“I’m not sure,” Lowell says.

“To tell you the truth, I can’t tell if all this is necessary, or if I’ve been swept up into his condition.” Dr. Reuben looks sideways at Lowell, waiting.

“His heart condition? Congestive heart failure, they said—”

“No,” Dr. Reuben says. “I mean paranoia.”

Lowell thinks: This is a trap. My father has arranged for this. He’s paid someone to keep tabs and report on me. He’s keeping postmortem files.

“He believed he was to be murdered,” Dr. Reuben says. “Does that surprise you?”

“What?” Lowell says.

“Murder wasn’t his word for it. Eliminated, he said. I actually tried to get hold of the police report, you know, to see if brake lines were cut, anything like that. But just as he always said, the police reports were classified. Still, I think suicide is equally likely.”

“He had a heart attack at the wheel,” Lowell says. “There was a medical report.”

“Hmm. Maybe. I was unable to see a copy of that report.”

Lowell frowns. “Well, I saw it.” Then he thinks about it. “Maybe I didn’t. I guess they told me and it didn’t occur … It was classified too?”

“Classified.”

“Did you know it was the anniversary—?”

“Of course. That’s why I believe it was suicide. I’ll tell you what I think. I think he made the arrangements I’m about to discuss with you, and then his conscience was clear. It was the thing he had to do, and then he could eliminate himself. But either way, it’s … well, really, I’m ethically bound. There are only two sacrosanct relationships, aren’t there? Priests and shrinks. He might have been mad, or he might have been right. I’m supposed to be the one who can tell.” There is something plaintive about the laugh this time.

He made arrangements, Lowell thinks wearily. Surprise, surprise. So there will be conditions. There will be expectations. And still Lowell will not measure up.

For a month, one calm month, he has been almost at peace.

“This is not a situation I have ever encountered before,” Dr. Reuben says. In the Public Garden, the trees are turning red and gold. “And even now I can’t swear that I haven’t been infected with his … condition. I mean, I can observe myself becoming paranoid, which is an interesting and curious thing for a psychiatrist to observe in himself. Do you see that man staring at us?”

“Where?”

“The man on the bench over there.”

“The one reading the newspaper?”

“He’s staring at us.”

“He’s watching that little kid on the tricycle.”

“Maybe,” Dr. Reuben says. “But you see what I mean? Now that he’s gone, I’ve started to think like your father. Just the same, it seems better to err on the side of caution. And I made your father a promise. I did make him a promise. And I could tell that once I had made that promise, something shifted within him. His conscience was clear. Or as clear as past events would ever permit. Let’s sit here for a while.”

From a bench beside the pond, they watch the swan boats with their cargo of tourists rock gently in one another’s wakes. Willows trail in the water. Families throw crumbs to the ducks. “You will make of his message what you will,” Dr. Reuben says. “Even I haven’t seen the tapes or the journal, you understand.”

“You’ve got something to give me from him.”

“Indirectly. I have a key to give you. I will leave it on this bench and I want you to put your hand over it, very casually, and stay like that for a full ten minutes after I walk away.” He gives another embarrassed laugh. “I am quoting your father’s directions verbatim. If nothing else, he had a finely developed sense of the dramatic.”

Lowell thinks about this. A phrase comes back to him suddenly, falling out of a willow tree: the necessary rituals of risk.

Where are you going, Daddy?

I can’t tell you that, son, but I’ll bring back a present. One for Mommy and one for you.

When will you be back?

I can’t tell you that, Lowell.

For show-and-tell, we have to share if our daddy is on a trip and we have to show pictures.

I’m sorry, Lowell, but I can’t tell you where I’m going.

What will I say in show-and-tell? Will I say that my daddy is not allowed to tell where he’s going?

No, no, you mustn’t say that I can’t say.

What will I say?

You could tell them that your daddy’s on a business trip to Hawaii.

You’re going to Hawaii?

No, I’m not going to Hawaii, but that’s what you can say in show-and-tell.

I can tell them a lie?

Sometimes, when you have to look after the whole country, a lie is not really a lie. These are the necessary rituals of risk, Lowell. Do you understand? If you say anything, you could put lives in danger.

It was a catechism that Lowell often rehearsed to himself. I must never never say that I’m not allowed to say.

“This key?” Lowell asks. This damned key to a Pandora’s box of secrets that he has no wish to know.

“It’s the key to a locker at Logan Airport,” Dr. Reuben says. “International terminal. Locker B–64.”

Lowell chokes.

“Are you all right?”

“That was the flight number,” Lowell says.

“Air France 64, yes. You can see a great deal of planning went into this. Don’t drive or take a taxi, take the subway. I’m quoting your father again.”

“And I must never never say why I’m not allowed to say.”

“Excuse me?”

“His rules,” Lowell says. “The necessary rituals of risk.”

“He felt hunted. I can tell you that. He was a man in mortal agony. That might make it easier to forgive him. Planning this gave him a little peace at the end.”

“So what is in the locker?”

“I don’t know precisely. A journal, I believe. And some papers, possibly classified ones. And some videotapes—I don’t know of what—but the tapes are of crucial importance. Crucial, your father said. I haven’t seen any of this material. I didn’t put it there. Your father put it there and gave me the key, and made me promise to hand-deliver the key to you.”

“When did he put it there?”

“I don’t know exactly. But recently, obviously.”

“My father was in Boston recently?”

“Yes. He saw you, he said.”

Lowell feels an oceanic surge of rage and grief. “He was good at watching. It was the thing he did best.”

“He himself always felt watched.”

“He was a control freak,” Lowell says. “A spook. A puppeteer. I don’t know why I thought the grave would stop him.”

“He was a tormented man,” Dr. Reuben says. “I think the key will tell you everything you need to know.”

Lowell sighs. “The key is to lock me in for life. I’m shackled to him.”

“You have a lot of anger locked inside you.”

Lowell laughs. “Oh shit. Wow. That’s clever. People pay you for that?”

“The key is under my hand on the bench now.”

“What if I throw the key away?”

“That, of course, would be up to you. But I would advise against it.”

“Sacred last will and testament. Honor thy father.”

“No. I would advise against it for much more pragmatic reasons. Because a message sent from beyond the grave, but thrown away unread, is going to haunt you. If you’re in an unstable state already, and I sense that you are … well, I know that you are. I know a great deal about you, naturally, because your father … Anyway, that sort of reactive impulsivity could be the coup de grâce, it could drive you over the edge. I’m going to put my hand back in my pocket now and I’m leaving. Please put your own hand over the key. There should be no need for further contact between us, but can I recommend strongly that you seek professional help?” He takes six steps and returns. “I would also request, however, that if you seek professional help, as you certainly should, you never mention my name.”

He walks away and does not look back.

Lowell places his hand over the key and sits watching the swan boats until the light fades.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.