Chapter 27

A promiscuous pair, cooking and contemplation: prone to come together at the slightest provocation.

Effen breaks the bread and seasons the bread and stuffs the squabs and dresses the squabs to the grief-laden words of church music from the Thirty Years War. His eyes are on what he’s doing, and he’s aware of what he’s doing and how much time he has to do it, but not one motion passes as an end in itself. Everything Effen does is accompanied by thoughts he can’t control and memories he can’t suppress.

He’s asked Farrell over for that long-delayed dinner, but already the evening is scarred. Gustie spent the day at work saying nothing except what was necessary for her job, and Ben heard her crying in the bathroom. When she emerged, Effen asked her into his office for tea. He mixed the tea as she liked it, with lots of cream and sugar, and gave her a little plate of fresh cookies from the bakery. But neither the bergamot in the tea nor the rose-like, almond scent of the cookies could dispel either her silence or her gloom. She sat on the edge of the sofa, the plate in one hand, the cup and saucer in the other, though the coffee table was in front of her. When Effen tried to take the items from her, meaning to place them on the table himself, she tightened her grip, clearly not of a mind to let him take anything. He arranged a lacey napkin on her lap. She wasn’t wearing the most expensive skirt, but it was one of too few skirts in her closet. It pained him to think she could ruin it.

As he leaned over her, she seemed not to hold her breath, but to take a deep breath and not exhale. He was close enough to see her tweed jacket rise and become still. To catch the diluted fragrance of the perfume she’d applied earlier that morning. To note the sheen on her cheeks, where she had wept off her makeup.

To see accusation, despair, and something akin to longing dammed behind her lack of willingness to speak to him. He doubted he could express a similar conflict within himself. He stepped back. She rose and placed the tea and cookies on the desk, then left as silently as she had spent those few moments alone in his company.

He had done nothing then. He’d let her go. But now, within moments of Farrell’s arrival, he knows he should have gone after Gustie, and stopped her at the door, and shut the door, and closed the drapes, and drawn her into the wordless understanding reached by two bodies joined as one. But perhaps that would have been just as damnable as the nothing that he did.

At least Farrell is coming for dinner and a little musical offering. He can handle that. She’ll expect nothing more.

Why, then, did he ask her to dinner if he doesn’t want to give the more she might expect?

The sight of the black velvet flute bag reminds him that Farrell’s also there because he’d like to accompany her on the harpsichord.

He takes her coat and she at once assembles the Grenser and begins to warm it in her hands. Would she like something to drink? A little burgundy? Soda? Water? She pleasantly refuses anything at the moment, thank you, and he decides against some burgundy for himself. For a while, they’re like two kids in the college practice rooms, joking over false starts and how Farrell’s got to tune the flute to the harpsichord. She’s got Marcello and Vivaldi oboe concertos, which can also be played on flute, and a book of 18th century arias. They settle on the arias, which are shorter than the concertos. Effen can sight-read without losing his concentration and run off to check on the squabs, which are ready, alas, too soon.

Effen’s got fresh flowers and candles on the table, but he keeps the room’s modest antique brass chandelier lighted. He hopes Farrell doesn’t note the redundancy. Again, he’s wary of the prospect of “more” spoiling what should be a nice, uncomplicated few hours between people whose history suggests they’re more than acquaintances yet less than friends.

They chat about Bruton’s publicity strategy for Fair Mantle Village. The innocuous topic leads to Mount Can’t. Farrell mentions hearing how Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming is really a massive active volcano that could wipe out a hundred square miles of the United States if it erupts. “I sometimes wonder if that’s what we’re dealing with here.” She says this as she buries her nose in the wineglass for a sip of burgundy. “Can’t you imagine living with something that can blow up under your feet at any moment?”

“Oh, I don’t think something like that will happen here.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I believe New Jersey’s not a volcanic breeding ground.” Good heavens, did he have to say “breeding?” “Are you afraid to be here?” Where is “here,” in Fair Mantle or The House?

“I can’t help thinking about the possibilities, including being obliterated without prior notice. Makes me think of all the things I wanted to do with my life and didn’t.”

“Such as?” Marry? Start a family? Have lots of kids? Effen imagines Farrell doing all he’s mentioning, and none of it in a wedding gown – or any other apparel. Is she leading him on?

She pushes the nearly blackened skin off the squab’s little leg with the tip of her knife. “Small things, really. I always wanted to ride a horse again. And, now this may sound trite and silly, but I’ve always wanted to waltz. I grew up with my grandmother playing recordings of Strauss waltzes in the background, and I thought it would be fun. It’s a lovely dance, with a lovely structure.”

Effen envisions his collection of CDs. At the same time, he tells himself, “Don’t.” But how can he not do it? It would be like fulfilling the wish of a dying child.

“I can’t help you with the horse, but I know I can do something about the waltz.”

He has no recordings of waltzes. The closest he has are movements and arias that have the three-quarter beat of a waltz. The slow tempo of “Lascia ch’io pianga,” “Let me cry over my cruel fate,” from Handel’s opera Rinaldo, is perfect for a beginner. If Farrell catches on, maybe they’ll move up to the faster pace of a Schubert laendler. He sets the CD player on repeat, then, with one hand on her waist, guides her through the basic box step of the waltz. There’s enough room between them that she can look down and watch their feet. She giggles.

“Look at me, not at the carpet,” Effen says, and she obliges, giggling less and less.

The aria’s one-two-three beat isn’t steady, as in a real waltz There are dramatic holds and slowing downs. Effen can feel Farrell stop trying to follow a consistent beat. She anticipates the holds and slowing downs. They’re Effen’s as well as the aria’s. Would she be no less responsive to a lover, or would she lie there, dense as a receptacle, waiting to be acted upon?

By the dozenth turn around the dining room, they’re no longer in the starchy, arm’s-length stance of teacher and pupil. Farrell is so close that she won’t be able to look at Effen without pulling away. He doesn’t remember drawing her near. It must have happened in the contentment that settles upon two people who have nothing to fear from each other.

Effen finds something assuring in Farrell’s participation. He remembers carrying Mary through the snow to The House. It seems to him that Farrell is in the grip of the same trust the little girl had shown during her rescue. But while Mary trusted he would bring her to a safe, warm place, what does Farrell trust him to do? Is she waiting for him to propose the “more” he thought she might want?

Farrell steps back, brushing Effen’s face, but not his eyes, with her glance. Her cheeks are sunset-red, a color that Effen supposes has nothing to do with the alcohol in the burgundy or the exertion of the waltz. “Where did you learn to do that?” Another woman might have framed the question in adoration. Farrell oozes annoyance.

“My father. He and my mother liked to dance, especially on New Year’s Eve, when they’d party until dawn. He taught me only the steps, Farr. It’s the person you’re with who turns the steps into a dance.”

She waves aside the inference. “No. Not me.”

The statement strikes Effen not as a coy attempt at false modesty, but as an order not to think of her as someone to be desired. He wants to crush her by the shoulders, bend her backwards and convince her otherwise with a kiss that would make the channel between her legs weep for his touch.

How can he say what she should know without sounding as though he’s accusing her of something, or without sounding as though he wants revenge? He watches her face for the smallest hint of an unpleasant reaction. “I wish you had come to me when your mother died. It hurt that you didn’t.”

Farrell’s face offers no expression. “I didn’t think you would want to be bothered with me.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Nobody wanted to be bothered with me. Not my family. Not my friends. They all proved it. I was out of work and with Mom twenty-four hours a day for the better part of a year, and all the while, nobody called or visited or did so much as offer to help us.”

“Did you ask for help?”

“Why should anybody in my position have to ask? But that’s how it is in this world. If you have trouble, forget it; you’re a burden. People want to be bothered with you only if you can give them something in return.”

“Bruton is helping you.”

“No. Bruton is using me.”

“Hosting someone in your home for an indefinite period of time is hardly using that person, don’t you think?”

He waits for an answer, but she doesn’t reveal what burdens her breathing and drags her stare to the floor. “I don’t understand,” he nudged. “Why are you so willing to see the worst in people?”

“I see them as they are.”

“You see what you choose to see.”

“I see what people choose to show me.”

Is this the same woman who kissed him for rescuing Anne from the police? The woman who waltzed with him, coming close to him, anticipating every held beat in the aria? Was he wrong to read affection in those actions?

He wants to soothe her as he’d soothe a frightened child—by hugging her, and smoothing her hair, and assuring her nothing will harm her so long as he’s there. It’s more important for him to protect her than to make love to her. He doesn’t want to see her suffer any more, and he doesn’t want to be the cause of her suffering.

It seems she enters his embrace as though teetering into bed after a long, tough day at work: eager for the promise of sleep but tense with the fear of bad dreams. She doesn’t color her hair. The faint, crisp scent must be a touch of spray.

The moments pass with “Lascia ch'io pianga” repeating itself. There's no other sound from The House or the street. There’s no need to play another recording. No need to do anything, really, except find refuge in each other’s presence.

Then Farrell issues a warning. “I’m not used to this kind of attention, France.”

“Get used to it” almost skims out on his breath.

He considers she’ll expect him to help her get used to it.

He can’t.