The Drowning Tree

  “But you don’t wish that you never had her.”

  It’s such a wild suggestion, even for Christine, who has a habit of saying exactly what she’s thinking, that I stare at her. Blood rises to her skin and fills the curve of her cheek, making her face appear fuller than usual. She looks away and then says, softly, “I mean, you had to give up a lot when you had her.”

  “You mean not graduating from Penrose or going abroad to study art the way I wanted to? Lots of people dream of becoming a painter and don’t … who knows if I would have even if I hadn’t had Bea.”

  “So you don’t mind the loss of freedom?”

  “No, not that kind of freedom, at least.” I take a sip of my water, wishing it were wine, and look away from Christine, toward the river and the light on the boat landing in the park beyond the train station’s parking lot.

  “What I do miss is freedom from fear. Like right now,” I say, half laughing, trying to ease the tension that has crept into our conversation, “I’m waiting for Bea to get home from the kayaking trip she took upriver today. She spent the morning rowing against Poughkeepsie, but she still couldn’t wait to get out on the river when we got back. She should have been back an hour ago and I can’t help worrying that she’s tipped over and been dragged under by a current. The Hudson is full of treacherous currents—we’re not far from what the Dutch called World’s End. The current there tends to sink ships a whole lot bigger than Bea’s little kayak.”

  Christine follows my gaze out over the water. Without the sun on it the river looks cold and forbidding, the current moving relentlessly to the sea. “I remember what World’s End is, Juno,” Christine says reprovingly.

  “Well, then, you’ll understand why what looks like a pretty view to you looks like a death trap to me. Trust me, it’s not a pretty way to look at the world.”

  Francesca, hearing the tremor in my voice, rises to her feet and lays her long delicate muzzle in my lap. I stroke her silky ears, looking down into her large, liquid eyes to avoid Christine’s gaze.

  “I’m sorry, Juno. I know it’s been hard raising her alone. Have you seen Neil at all … I mean other than those astral visitations we spoke of earlier?”

  I laugh, relieved to hear Christine venture a joke even if it doesn’t seem as funny as it did before when we were crossing the college lawn. “No, no visits in the flesh. As far as I know he’s still at Briarwood,” I tell her, “but you know, all kidding aside, I do dream about him—a lot. Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t projecting himself into my dreams.”

  I look up at Christine, expecting her to appreciate the humor, but instead it appears she’s taken me seriously. “And what is he like in your dreams? I mean, is he the way he was when we first met him—charming, funny Neil—the artist who did those incredible paintings …” She pauses for a moment, looking away from me toward the water, and then speaks in so soft a whisper I have to lean toward her to hear what she’s saying. “Or is he the way he was at the end—the way he was out on the river that day?”

  I stare at her a full minute before answering, shaken by the memory of that day. Maybe bringing up such an intimate memory is Christine’s way of bridging the distance that’s grown between us these last few months, but it has the opposite effect, making me pull back and retreat into an apparent chilliness I don’t really feel. “Christine, I was just kidding, I don’t really dream about Neil,” I finally tell her, although the truth is I wasn’t kidding. Neil has been invading my dreams almost nightly.

  Christine nods and then sits up. Her hair, caught on the torn vinyl webbing of the chair, comes loose from its knot and cascades over her shoulders as she stands up. She bends down and takes a brush out of her bag and brushes it—a fan of dull gold that nearly reaches to her waist—and then briskly coils it into a rope and knots it at the nape of her neck. I can feel the weight of the lie I’ve told between us, closing off the possibility of her telling me something. I’m sorry for it, but I’m not willing to talk about those dreams or relive that day on the river.

  “I’d better get going,” she says, handing me her empty glass and picking up her bag, “or I’ll miss my train.”

  I TAKE THE DOGS AND LET US OUT THE FIRE ESCAPE DOOR, DOWN AN OUTSIDE FLIGHT of rusting metal stairs—warning Christine which steps to avoid—to a narrow grassy alley in between the north wall of the factory and the fence surrounding the train station. We have to walk toward the river, over the train tracks, and past the waterfront park to get to the station, but it’s quicker than going around by River Street—plus I get to take a glimpse at the landing beach where Bea should be coming in any minute. As we pass the park the dogs’ ears prick up and they strain against their leashes.

  Christine peers into the shadowy park toward the water and checks her watch. “I’ve still got a few minutes if you want to see if she’s come in.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” I ask, unable to disguise the relief in my voice—relief, not only at the chance to check on Bea’s whereabouts, but also at Christine knowing so well that this is what I’d want to do. There’s still time, I think, following Christine, who is in turn trailed by the two ecstatic greyhounds, to mend the distance that’s grown between us in the last six months.

  We pass the old boathouse, which was used in the twenties by guests at Astolat who paddled across the river and in my day by Rosedale high school students looking for a place to make out and smoke cigarettes. Now it’s the headquarters of Hudson Kayak. I hear voices from the water and then the thump of heavy plastic on sand as two narrow-prowed kayaks nose up the beach. Paolo and Francesca strain toward the farthest kayak and I let go of their leashes.

  “Hey,” I hear Bea’s voice as the dogs splash into the water, “what are you guys doing here?”

  In the dim light from the boathouse I can just make out Bea’s lanky figure unfolding itself from the low boat. The rubber and nylon spray skirt that kayakers wear to seal themselves into their boats makes her look like a Victorian lady with a bustle. She steps out of the plastic hull into ankle-deep water with all the grace of a titled socialite dismounting from a coach and four, but then ruins the effect by tumbling to the sand to wrestle with the dogs. This is what she’s like these days—my fifteen-year-old—one minute a graceful woman, the next a gawky child.

  “What’s up, Mom?” Bea asks wiping wet sand from her lycra biking shorts.

  “I’m just walking Christine to the station,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying not to sound as if I’d been imagining her drowned for the last hour. Kyle, who runs the kayaking rental and tour operation, gives me a skeptical look as he drags his kayak up the sand. I recently confessed to him—over a bottle of Valpolicello—how nervous I am when Bea’s out on the water.

  “Hey, Aunt Christine.” Bea straightens up and leans toward Christine to kiss her on the cheek, being careful not to drip on her. But Christine steps forward on the sand, teetering a bit in her high-heeled boots, and hugs Bea to her. When she steps away her hand lingers on the damp ends of Bea’s long braid for just a moment.

  “I’m sorry I missed your lecture, Aunt Christine, but we thought about you. We paddled across the river and up the Wicomico onto the grounds of Penrose’s abandoned estate. There are all these cool statues underwater.”

  “The sunken gardens of Astolat,” Christine says. “Penrose was inspired by the Sunk Gardens at Great Dixter, which he saw on a trip to East Sussex in the twenties. I didn’t realize there was much left of them—or that the property was accessible.”

  “Yeah,” Kyle says while motioning for Bea to grab the front end of the kayak, “it’s private property but if you enter from the river no one stops you. You have to know what you’re doing though. Some of the statues are half submerged. The first time I saw one I thought it was a dead body. Scared me half to death.”

  Christine turns toward Kyle, who’s coiling a nylon towline. He’s wearing lycra bike shorts and a Polartec fleece vest half unzipped over his bare chest. Beads of river water on h
is arms—deeply muscled from paddling and rowing—catch the light from the boathouse. It’s hard to imagine him being scared off by a bit of garden statuary. “I’d love to see what’s left of Penrose’s landscape designs,” Christine says. Kyle tosses the coiled towline and gives Christine a more careful look. Even in this light, Christine’s gold hair and sapphire blue eyes are striking. I can’t blame Kyle for being drawn to her—men always are—or Christine for the flirtatious lilt to her voice. I’ve learned over the years that she does it without meaning to. It’s like there’s so much extra energy in her that she gives off sparks.

  “You’d love it, Aunt Christine,” Bea says. “Why don’t you come up next weekend? I’m sure Kyle would take you …”

  “We’d better get going or we’ll miss your train,” I say, making a mental note to lecture Bea later on the penalties for trespassing. “Bea, would you take the dogs home?”

  Christine hugs Bea again and waves toward Kyle. As we’re passing the boathouse I remember to ask about Eugenie’s notebook.

  “That officious secretary of Gavin’s demanded I give the original back,” Christine tells me. “I told her I still needed it for research and she said she would make me a copy, so I asked her to make you one while she was at it. If that wasn’t too taxing for her. Make sure you get it from her.”

  I thank Christine, trying not to laugh at her aggravation. Fay Morgan is famously protective of Gavin and everything to do with Penrose College. We cross over the trestle to the southbound side—Christine already has her ticket so we bypass the station—and descend onto the brightly lit platform, where I notice that she’s covered with wet sand.

  “You’re going to be miserable all the way back to the city,” I say, batting at her damp dress.

  “Tell me about Kyle,” Christine replies, swatting my hand away. “Did I notice something going on there?”

  “With Bea? Don’t be ridiculous, she’s fifteen, he’s our age.…”

  “I’m not talking about Bea.”

  I sigh and look up the tracks to see if the train is coming. “Bea’s been dying for me to go kayaking with her so Kyle’s given me a few lessons …”

  “Lessons, hm …”

  “And we’ve had a few glasses of wine afterward … he’s really an interesting guy. He’s been everywhere, reads a lot, knows everything about computers and the stock market …”

  “Juno,” Christine reaches forward and brushes back a strand of my hair that’s come loose from the ponytail I wrangled it into before her lecture and tucks it behind my ear. Pre-Raphaelite hair, Christine always too-generously called my unruly masses of dark red curls. “You don’t have to be a snob on my account. The man doesn’t have to have a PhD or wear a business suit to be a great guy. It seems to me you’ve spent altogether too much time alone since Neil. You deserve someone wonderful.”

  “Nothing’s happened yet. I mean with Bea around, I just didn’t think it was appropriate.”

  “Come on, you’ve been a single mother for … what?… thirteen years? I know you date. What about that curator from the Frick?”

  “I used to see him on weekends when Bea stayed with my dad, but he got a better job offer in Chicago and wanted me to move.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I couldn’t very well leave the glass business when I’ve spent all this time building it up and uproot Bea from her school … besides, I just didn’t feel that much for him. Not enough to disrupt our lives.”

  “Have you felt that much for anyone since Neil?”

  It’s the second time she’s brought up Neil tonight and I have to quell the desire to tell her to mind her own business. But if anyone has a right to ask me about Neil, it’s Christine. When things fell apart—when Neil fell apart—it was Christine who stayed with me day and night until I was able to get out of bed and start taking care of Bea again. It was Christine who convinced me to move back in with my father, revive the glass business, and go to community college at night to get a business degree.

  I shake my head. “No. To tell you the truth I’m not sure I ever want to feel that much for anyone again. You remember what I was like when I fell in love with Neil—it was like the rest of the world turned gray and he was the only part in color—like one of those windows that’s all in grisaille except for the central figure. Sometimes I wonder now if that weird glow Neil gave off wasn’t his madness.”

  “But what if Neil was well again, do you think …” I miss Christine’s next few words in the blast of the whistle from the approaching train. When the noise subsides her head is bent and she’s rummaging inside her bag and again I miss something she says because she’s talking into the bag instead of to me. It sounds like she’s saying something about the dogs.

  “What about the dogs?” I ask as she straightens up. She’s got her hand on a file folder, as if she’s going to take it out, but then she seems to change her mind and slides it back into the satchel.

  “No, I meant Dante’s Paolo and Francesca,” she says, “I was thinking of another line from The Inferno. Something Francesca says to Dante, ‘Love, which absolves no one beloved from loving …’ Do you think that’s true? That if you love someone enough they’ll have no choice but to return your love?” Christine has turned to face me in the open door of the train and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it—what a question to ask on the threshold of a departing train!—but when I see how serious she looks I don’t laugh. I think for just a moment about how much I loved Neil, and how I hoped and believed that as long as I loved him that much everything would turn out all right. That my love would save him from going crazy. What can I say? The only truthful answer I have isn’t the one she wants to hear.

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I tell her.

  She smiles but I can see she’s disappointed. She starts to say something but another commuter brushes past her and she shrugs her shoulders. “I’d better find a seat,” she says.

  When the door closes I move in the same direction on the platform that I saw Christine head in inside the train. During college we often saw each other off at this train station—on holidays when Christine went home to Poughkeepsie, or when I was going down to the city to visit Neil—and whoever was left on the platform would always wait and wave. “Just like in those old wartime movies,” Christine would say, “when the heroine runs along the side of the train and the hero waves from the window.” Would she remember now?

  When I see her through the window I think she has forgotten. She looks suddenly very tired, like all the currents of energy that have kept her afloat today had drained out of her. This is the way she looks, I realize, when she doesn’t think anyone is looking at her—as if it were the gazes of others that held her aloft. It frightens me to see her this way because I know that for Christine moments of excitement and triumph have always been followed by periods of desolation. She looks now as if a heavy weight has descended on her. Then she sees me and her brow smooths, her blue eyes ignite, and for a moment she looks as if that weight has been lifted. It’s only for a moment, though. By the time she lifts her hand to wave to me her eyes are empty and unfocused, as if she were looking not at me, but at someone over my shoulder.

  I wave to her and try to mouth a better answer to her question because I’ve thought of one that’s not quite a lie, but then the lights flicker inside the train and instead of Christine I see my own reflection in the dark glass. Still, I stand on the platform, waving until the train pulls out, because even if I can’t see her, I’m hoping she might still be able to see me.

  I SPEND MONDAY OVERSEEING THE REMOVAL OF THE LADY WINDOW. USUALLY Ernesto and my father handle this part on their own, but on a project this big I think it’s a good idea for me to be there. I’ve also asked Robbie—a recent Parsons graduate who’s apprenticing with us—to photograph the window before and after we take it down. Lead came that looks perfectly good in situ can deteriorate rapidly in the removal process. I want to make sure that when I present the bill to Gavin Pen
rose we have a detailed record of every stage of the restoration.

  It turns out that we need all our hands just to dig the putty out of the stone slots holding the window.

  “Man,” Robbie says after a half hour applying hammer and chisel to the hardened putty, “they were making sure this window wasn’t going no place.”

  “Augustus Penrose didn’t do anything halfway,” my father answers, his voice, even though he’s on the scaffolding working with his back to me, ringing clear in the vaulted space. On the other side of the window is a watery shadow: Ernesto, who is working on the outside of the window removing the exterior putty.

  “Dad, you’re not wearing your mask,” I say.

  He swerves around so quickly that the scaffolding rocks on the uneven stone floor, and he grins at me. “How’d you know that with my back to you?”

  I look up from the bottom edge of the window and smooth away a film of dust from the Lady’s dainty red and gold slippers. “From your voice—it’s not muffled.”

  “Would you listen to that, Robbie! She could tell from the sound of my voice! When she was little she knew from my footsteps on the front stoop whether I’d stopped off at Flannery’s on the way home.”

  “You’d take off your work boots so as not to wake Mom when you’d been drinking,” I say, striking the hammer until a plume of flesh-colored dust fans out over the glass. “If you don’t care about your own health—” I point to the mask still dangling around his neck “—think of the bad example you’re setting for Robbie here.”