The Vanishing Year(45)

“What is your name again?” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.

“Zoe Whittaker.”

One of the men stands up and pounds the board with his fist. He turns and stalks off, his partner leans back in his chair, a satisfied grin on his face. We make eye contact. “Wygram, eh?” He points to his chest and shrugs his shoulders.

I realize that Caroline hasn’t spoken.

“Hello?” I say.

“I’m here.”

“Would you meet with me? I’d come to you.” I feel like I’m ambushing her, but I’m panicky, I can feel my only tether slipping through my fingers like that goddamn yellow balloon. I look up and it’s a speck now, so high I can barely see it.

“Can I think about it? I’ll call you back in an hour.” She hangs up. No good-bye, just click, gone. I stare at the phone in my hand. The Chess Man gives me a good-natured shrug and ambles away.

I wander back to the benches. I don’t want to go home. The park seems as good a place as any. I’m nowhere near Henry’s office building or our apartment.

When Henry and I were dating he brought me here, to Washington Square Park, on a day like this. It was warmer, maybe May. The mosquitoes had settled into New York that year like overstayed houseguests. He spread a blanket, some quilted monstrosity he nabbed from Fishing Lake. We opened it out on the grass, under the trees that dipped low to the ground, shrouding us, and we kissed. In public. That amazes me now, Henry kissing in public is like saying gentle grizzly bear. There’s no fitting mental image.

I wore a navy blue dress he’d bought me, brandishing it as though it were from the Queen Mum herself. It cinched at the waist with a wide belt and an A-line skirt and reminded me of something I’d seen in an old Life magazine, a black-and-white ad for cream deodorant: Are you really lovely to love? Henry’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. I was drunk on his love, his hands, the line of muscle from his neck down to his shoulder blade, the small scar above his eyebrow, the freckle in the hollow of his ear. I wanted to memorize him.

We’d only been dating a short time, and yet by all accounts, I was becoming a contender for a Fascinating Person (capital F capital P), one of a few women who were taming the wild beasts that were New York City’s most eligible men.

“I’m going to marry you, Zoe Swanson,” he’d whispered as his fingers danced up my thigh.

“Are you now? Will you at least ask me?” I teased, biting at his bottom lip.

“I’d never give you the chance to say no.”

“Oh, bless my stars.” I toyed with his hair, my voice a thick syrupy accent. “Who would ever say no to Henry Whittaker?”

“My first wife. She said no. Twice, actually.”

I sat up, pushing his hand off my leg. “Your what?”

“I was married before. You didn’t know?” Henry had a way of phrasing things, just so, to delicately pass off blame. As though I should have been able to glean this information out of his inky, black silence. Blood from a stone.

“No. I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.” I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them. “What happened? Is there an ex–Mrs. Whittaker, slowly funneling all your money?” A thought occurred to me. “Oh my God, Henry, is there a Henry Jr.? I can’t be a stepmother. I mean, I guess I could be, but I don’t know how to be—”

He pulled my arms away from my knees and kissed my palms one at a time. His lips were soft, slightly greasy like hour-old ChapStick. “There’s no Henry Jr. My wife . . . she died. In a car accident. Three years ago.”

Henry lived in the abrupt.

“What? How? What was her name? Oh God, Henry, that’s terrible!” My heart had thudded in my chest.

“Her name was Tara. We were driving home from a dinner. The next thing I know we’re at the hospital and the doctors are talking about life support and feeding tubes and that was it. It was over and twenty-four hours later, I was a widower. Married one minute, the next . . . not. It’s so strange how life can happen that way.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, details. I’ll tell you one day.” He kissed me full on the mouth, his breath coming in huffs, his hands gripping my waist as though he were drowning. He needs me now, I’d thought at the time. Still think. Sometimes.

But then, he never did tell me. I’ve broached the subject on any number of occasions. It’s the wrong time. Later. I’m tired. The excuses are endless. I have, periodically, pushed the issue. His stalwart chin, sticking out as he shakes his head, disappointed.

My phone vibrates in my hand. I somehow manage to answer it without breathing.

“Can you come Friday? I’ll give you an hour.”





CHAPTER 15



I leave Washington Square and hop on the F train at the West Fourth Street station. The subway is mostly empty because it is two o’clock on a Monday. In April, people walk. They’ve been confined to subways and cabs for four months, so come spring the sidewalks flood with people: no distance is too long. A lone violinist hunkers down in front of the subway door, his bow crying a haunting melody that I don’t recognize, the upturned baseball hat at his feet is empty. When the brakes squeal at Twenty-Third Street, I bend down and fold two dollars behind the brim. He gives me a watery smile and returns to his swaying.