One afternoon, Maggie Heath called and invited him to a concert at Tanglewood, a Mahler symphony. He was to meet her outside the gate. It was a lovely afternoon for a concert, nearly the last of the season, and Nate was glad to go. The sun was hazy, the air humid, the sort of weather that made him want to sleep. Maggie was dressed in a white eyelet sundress, her skin so pale it looked almost lavender. “Well, hello there,” she said, standing on her tippy toes to kiss him. She stood back, appraising him with motherly concern. “You look neglected.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“The apartment? Is it all right?”
“It’s very,” he hesitated, “musical.”
“I know, I know. The goddamned piano. But it was really cheap. You can’t find apartments around here in August. And you have to admit, it’s big on charm.”
“No argument there,” he said.
“He was a very good pianist, you know. Back in the day.” She smiled, and the sunlight brought out the pale blue color of her eyes. She was the kind of woman who was constantly accused of being cute, he thought. Her strawberry-blond hair was pulled back under a pink headband and her skin was covered with freckles; it looked as though someone had sprinkled her with cinnamon. “I’ve brought a picnic.” She held up a little basket.
“Marvelous.”
“Come, Jack’s waiting. He’s over there.” She pointed far into the distance, across a sea of blankets. He followed her to their spot on an Indian tapestry and Jack Heath stood up to greet him. “Hello there, Gallagher.” They shook hands. “Welcome to the Berkshires. Help yourself to a beer.”
The concert was just about to start. Nate took a bottle of beer out of the cooler. It was Guinness, and he was thirsty and it tasted good. Maggie gave him a lawn chair and they all sat down as the music began. Nate stretched out his legs and looked around. Many people had brought picnics; some were already drinking wine. Some of the women were wearing dresses and straw hats. Several people were napping, newspapers spread across their chests, hats across faces. Children ran barefoot throughout the maze of people, jumping from blanket to blanket. There was a large tree in the distance with low-hanging limbs that seemed to beckon the children; Nate counted seven perched on its leafy boughs. There were parents and babies and teenagers and old people and there were lovers, rolled together under the late sun. The symphony had a tone of longing that filled him with a momentary despair and he had to make a conscious effort to smile, wanting to reassure Maggie that he was enjoying himself immensely. He was glad for the fact that he was not required to talk. In dutiful silence, Maggie opened her basket and began to fix him a plate. The basket was neatly packed. He noticed a thin volume of poetry, Sylvia Plath, tucked in alongside the plastic containers. He watched as she fixed him a plate of fried chicken and bean salad and corn bread. Everything about her, the deliberate way she moved, her small body efficient as a gymnast’s, her solicitous gaze, the white dress, her prim pink mouth, made him feel somehow lost. It seemed to him that something was being established between them that he felt he had no control of. It unraveled between them while binding them up. He sensed her wanting him to like her, to trust her. He sensed her needing him too, perhaps even desperately. She seemed intent on gaining his approval, in the way that a child would—but perhaps he was just imagining it.
When it was over, he thanked them and said good-bye and Maggie squeezed his hand, gazing up at him. “Don’t be a stranger.”
7
The Heaths lived in a small clapboard house on the outskirts of campus. Maggie had called to invite him over for dinner to kick off the school year, which started tomorrow. He turned onto the Pioneer campus then pulled up a narrow dirt driveway that led to the house. Originally one of the guest cottages, it was situated on a secluded bluff overlooking the lake. Under a canopy of ancient oaks, the house had a storybook quality with its lovely stone chimney, green shutters, and bluestone terrace. It was a warm evening and he’d begun to sweat under his blazer. Maggie Heath opened the door with a smile. She was dressed all in pink down to her painted toenails, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, girlishly tied with a ribbon. “You’ve got some catching up to do,” she said, holding up her drink. “What do you like, gin?”
“Whiskey, if you have it. I’m not much of a drinker,” he said, wanting to dispel any suspicions she might have based on his infamy at Choate, but it was a blatant lie and she probably knew it.
“Oh, you’ll come to value the pastime. The winters here are very long.” She poured him a generous glass of scotch. “Come, come sit down. Jack’s washing up. He’s been at the club all day, playing golf. Do you play?”
“Not well.”
“You should go out with him sometime. You’d have some fun.”
He doubted that; he wasn’t terribly fond of the game. She led him into the living room and they sat on adjacent couches. On the coffee table was a tray of cheese and crackers. A wall of windows overlooked a stone terrace and the lake. The room seemed to simmer with disorder. It had a certain “make-do” quality, as if, any minute, the Heaths might pick up and leave. The couches were covered with Indian tapestries, the sort college students hung on their walls, and books were recklessly shoved on the shelves as if with contempt. There was a goldfish bowl on the table, the water in which had evaporated, only an inch or two remained. A green slime clung to the rim and the poor, lone fish seemed to be struggling for air, tilting onto its side like a slowly sinking boat. Nate had grown up in a house like this, with cheap furniture and books all over the place, and there was something about being with Maggie that brought it all back to him. She was a kindred spirit, he thought hopefully, a sister he’d never had. Looking at her now, he could still see the girl he remembered, serious and determined, but she was thinner these days, and there was something vulnerable about her that hadn’t been there before. She looked almost breakable.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“You’re going to love it here,” she assured him. “There’s just something about the Berkshires.” She delivered the comment like advertising copy. “I don’t know what it is, exactly. It’s a feeling, I guess.” She seemed lost in thought for a moment as she looked out at the lake. He followed her gaze. The surface of the lake sparkled in the sunlight.
“That’s some view.”
“It is nice,” she said. Her forehead tightened. “We do love it here.”
Somehow he wasn’t convinced. “You’ve got some good books. Who’s the Pound fanatic?”
“Oh, that would be Jack. At one point he was writing a dissertation on him. He’s got a stack of papers someplace.” She got up and went to the bar and came back with the whiskey and the gin.
“I didn’t realize Jack had his doctorate.”
“Oh, he didn’t finish.” Her voice swelled with doom. “We had our daughter, Ada.” She frowned, attempting to explain, pouring more gin into her glass. “He left his program to work.”
“He can always go back to it,” Nate said, encouragingly.
She nodded politely, but Nate could tell it wasn’t in the cards.
“What about you?”
“Me?” She blushed.
“Aren’t you some kind of poet?” She’d been editor of their high school literary journal. “You rejected me, in fact,” he complained.
“Did I?”
“I’ve never quite gotten over it.” He smiled. “You were good.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “I write occasionally. When I’m inspired. Or depressed.” She said it as a joke, but he found himself believing that depression might be routine for Maggie Heath.
“Inspiration is a fickle enterprise,” he said, sounding suddenly like his father. “Depression is a far more reliable source of motivation.”
“Sad but true.” She laughed.
“I’d love to read them sometime, if you’d let me.”
“No you wouldn’t. They’re awful.”
“My favorite kind. Have you published any
?” He knew she hadn’t.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She made a face. “Speaking of which, I loved your stories. Jack too. We’re really thrilled to have you here. I hope you’re working on a book.”
“I’m actually writing a novel.”
“That’s wonderful. Do you have a publisher?”
“No. Not yet.” He looked down at his hands. “Hopefully, one day.”
“Of course you will,” she said. “You’re very talented.” She was curled up on the sofa, her bare feet tucked beneath her. “I’m not surprised you turned out to be a writer. It must have been fascinating growing up in that house. All those famous people coming and going.”
“Rarely fascinating,” he said. “But I’ll admit it wasn’t typical.” In truth, he’d resented his parents’ open-door policy—his mother endlessly doting on guests, cooking elaborate meals. As a boy he’d felt somehow in the way. The poets were the worst of the lot. Drunken freeloaders who’d stay up half the night reciting their tortured verses while Nate and his parents squirmed on the couch. There’d been one man—his name was Stevens—a bald, chain-smoking academic in a black turtleneck who was forever posing like his book jacket photo— he’d won some tony poetry prize—who’d turned him on to heroin. Nate remembered the man’s convertible, some party in New Haven where they’d scored and the reeling euphoria afterward, under the stars. Once he’d had a taste, there was no good enough reason to stop. Unlike his fellow classmates, the people he got high with were real, flawed just like he was. And there were girls—all kinds of girls; girls who sat at his mother’s dining room table in their thrift shop Pucci dresses or the college girls in their little tweed jackets, who’d come back to campus for alumni weekend—some had begun to publish what Stevens had called horny-girl poems—his father found them appalling—who’d ride his hips all night on his narrow bed and slither out like rodents at dawn, knowing he had to be up for school in the morning.
“Tell me about Brooklyn, the high school there. I imagine it was a difficult place.”
“It’s a whole different world.” He suddenly felt protective of his work there, his students. “They’re good kids,” he said. “It’s a rough place to grow up.”
“I know rough,” she said with disdain. “Before we came here we were at the Remington Pond School.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Up in Maine. Kids with major issues. We had a hard time. It was hard on Ada.” She frowned. “We did six years up there.”
“You make it sound like a prison sentence.”
“For me it was,” she said quietly. “I felt very—” She began to say something, but stopped when her husband entered the room.
“Very what?” Jack Heath walked toward Nate and held out his hand. “Hello, Gallagher.”
Nate stood up and they shook hands. “Jack.”
“Isolated,” Maggie said. “Remington Pond.”
“Ah yes.” Heath was freshly showered and smelled of aftershave. He had on a starchy white oxford shirt. His khaki trousers were meticulously pressed. “Did she tell you what happened?”
“I didn’t want to spoil the evening,” Maggie said pointedly. The moment languished. She looked at Nate and explained, “There was an accident.”
“A girl was killed,” Jack confessed. “We left shortly after that.”
Nate thought better than to ask for specifics. “Wow, that’s too bad.”
“Yes, it really was,” Jack said. An awkward silence filled the room. Then a car pulled into the driveway and Maggie looked relieved. “There’s Greer.” She stood up and went to the door.
“Our chief financial officer,” Jack said, then added in a whisper, “Otherwise known as a bitch on wheels.”
“I heard that, Jack,” Maggie called, opening the door.
“You’ll see.” Heath flashed a grin. “Watch out.”
“I stand warned,” Nate said as Greer Harding burst through the door behind an unruly bouquet of white daisies.
“For you, darling,” Greer said dramatically, handing Maggie the flowers. “I thought you’d like these.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’ve completely taken over my garden.”
“Let me get a vase.” The women went into the kitchen and Jack wiggled his eyebrows ominously at Nate and whispered, almost like a threat, “She’s got the goods on everyone.”
“Is that right?”
“I don’t know how she does it—it’s scary, really—our very own KGB. I’d be terrified if I were you.” He smiled at his joke, but under the circumstances Nate failed to see its humor.
The women came back into the room. They were talking about the traffic. “Who’s responsible for it, that’s what I want to know?” Greer said.
“Yo-Yo Ma’s playing tonight,” Maggie said. “It’s the last concert of the season.”
“Good,” Greer said. “Now everyone can go home. Those motorcycles! ”
“Look, aren’t they beautiful?” Maggie had put the flowers into a white pitcher and set it down on the coffee table.
“They are indeed,” Jack said.
“Greer Harding, Nate Gallagher.”
“Don’t get up,” Greer said.
But he did anyway. “Hello, Greer,” Nate said, shaking her hand.
“You weren’t supposed to be this cute,” Greer said in what he suspected was an uncharacteristically generous tone and then added, considerably less generously, “I just finished one of your stories. You’re an interesting man, Mr. Gallagher.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. “Well, thanks.” He tried to smile. “I’m just an ordinary guy.”
“I’m guessing you have few ordinary qualities.” She held her gaze on him longer than necessary. The back of his neck prickled with sweat.
“What are you drinking?” Maggie prompted.
“Whatever you’re having. Anything—as long as it has alcohol in it.” Greer dropped onto the couch, apparently more than comfortable in the Heaths’ home. “A good deal of alcohol, I might add.” She had on a white tennis shirt and chinos and her silver hair was cut short, like a man’s. She’d taken off her shoes at the door and was barefoot now; he noticed she was wearing a toe-ring. There was something frightfully attractive about her, he thought. “Where’s Ada tonight?”
“Out in the rowboat somewhere.”
“Good for her. It’s a perfect night for it.”
Maggie handed her a drink. “Cheers.”
“Cheers, darling.” They clinked their glasses. “I have an announcement, in fact. We have a new student.”
“The Squire boy?”
“That’s right. Edward Squire—Teddy. His mother called this afternoon to say he’d be starting. She left a message on the machine.”
“Talk about last minute,” Maggie said, displeased.
“He’s a legacy,” Jack told Nate. “The grandfather passed away a few weeks ago, died of a stroke. He was well known in the area.”
“That’s an understatement,” Greer said. “He was notorious.”
“He was a great director,” Jack clarified. “With the theater festival here. They live up on Prospect Hill. One of those big old houses.”
“With major hedges, I might add,” Greer said. “Very tall, very thick, very very green. The wife’s money, you know—they were in cosmetics. Shampoo, I think. Anyway . . . she’s long dead. Now that was a tragedy.”
“The old man built our gymnasium,” Jack added.
“Guilt can be very motivating,” Greer said, raising her eyebrows with relish.
“She’s a single mother,” Maggie proclaimed the fact like a curse.
“An artist,” Greer confirmed. “We have no information on the boy’s father.”
“Apart from all this fascinating gossip,” Jack said wryly, “they’re a marvelous addition.”
“The boy’s grades weren’t so marvelous,” Maggie said. “His test scores . . .” She shook her head as if they were too awful to utter.
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“He does have something of a checkered past,” Greer conceded.
“Test scores aren’t generally conclusive,” Nate said. There was a brief pause as his comment lurked among them like a foul odor, informing him that dissent of any kind among this group was not favorable. He cleared his throat as if to clear the air.
“Well, for his sake,” Greer said at length, “I sure as hell hope not.”
They took their drinks out onto the terrace to watch the sunset. They sat in the wrought-iron chairs watching the sun’s gradual descent behind the trees.
“Look at that. The leaves are already starting to change,” Greer said.
“It’s beautiful here,” Nate said.
“Maybe it’ll inspire you, Gallagher,” Greer said.
“No doubt.” He looked over at Maggie and tipped his glass at her. “Here’s to inspiration.”
“And poems about the changing leaves,” Maggie said wistfully.
“God, there must be thousands,” Greer said.
“Good old Robert Frost,” Jack said. “Let’s have a toast to the old boy.”
Nate was feeling the whiskey now. It was amazing what a glass or two could do for an evening. Someone nearby was having a fire and the air smelled of wood smoke. Loons were singing to one another across the lake. He couldn’t imagine a more pleasant setting and he felt good sitting there with the three of them and he thought that perhaps they might all become good friends. He didn’t have many friends in the city. Aside from an occasional beer after work with some of the other teachers, he didn’t go out much, and on weekends, if he wasn’t visiting his father, he was alone.