Sweet Lamb of Heaven (13)

I accepted the pour of wine into my glass and raised it; we toasted Burke, Gabe saying something I didn’t catch about rare hothouse flowers (Burke is a horticulturist). There was a rowdy crowd from town that night, some large-bodied, friendly-looking women out celebrating a remission; one of them had a tumor that had responded well to treatment. Everyone drank on Burke’s dime and I embraced once again the sentimental illusions offered by wine—what was wrong with them, after all? I’d clearly been hasty.

“You know what they say about horticulture, right?” Gabe was saying, still on his long-winded toast. “Dorothy put it best: ‘Well, you can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.’ ”

I watched Burke laugh and raise his glass; I recalled a half-joke the voice had told. Have you heard the one about the Buddhist fly? It was a lovely iridescent fly, ran the riff, that flew through a room buzzing I am one with the universe, I am one with the universe. The fly felt the descending peace of its enlightenment, the liberating lift of air beneath its gossamer body. How beautiful it was! How beautiful the very air! How blessed was its flight!

The swatter fell.

You were not one with the universe, my friend, said the voice. But now you are.

But Don was serving a good Shiraz. In its flow I decided Lena and I should go see my family, we should sit at the table with them and be thankful for what we had. I recalled our dusty old centerpiece of orange-and-red silk leaves and decrepit Indian corn, which my mother always trots out with an enthusiasm that borders on the poignant.



I HAVEN’T FILED for divorce and custody yet, though I could and probably should—partly because I know it would hurt Ned’s career and therefore anger him, partly because it also presents complications for me, since I removed our child from him without a written agreement.

It took me years to leave, years of deciding and planning—far longer than it had taken me to get married in the first place—and by the time I was ready it was past Lena’s fourth birthday. I should have divorced him before we left, when he had no legal leverage over me. I don’t know why I didn’t—ineptitude. I must still have been spellbound, and I didn’t know how serious his politics would get, I didn’t anticipate a fight. I expected a quiet, long-distance divorce about which he would be indifferent, as he was about me, as long as he got to keep a lot of money.

Or maybe I was afraid, just afraid to take a direct and final action. Maybe it was common cowardice.

When I told him we were leaving he never once objected: there was no tension around our departure. And I only decided to evade him later, when he started stalking us instead of asking for a visit. It was only in the White Mountains that I knew his motives were strong and impersonal, as, with Ned, any motives must be. It was then that unease crept into me.

But there’s no proof I didn’t spirit her away against his will, only a few emails after the fact that wouldn’t bind anyone legally.



WHEN I DECIDED to make the trip I hadn’t told Don the details of our domestic situation. He only knew I wanted to keep a low profile at the motel—that much was obvious. So I finally took him into my confidence about Ned, I told him the story. I included Ned not wanting a child, his proven disinterest, until his Alaskan PR campaign, in a family reunion; I left out, needless to say, our visitation by the possibly divine.

To my relief Don didn’t see me as a kidnapper. Rather he was alarmed for us, he tried to convince me to skip the dangers of a Thanksgiving in my parents’ house and spend the day with him and the other guests. He promised to cook a prize turkey, with something vegetarian for Lena; he would bake pies, pumpkin, fake mincemeat, and pecan.

But I felt bad for keeping her from her grandparents so long, and from my brother Solomon, Solly for short, and others in her family she’d spent too little time with—only a rare Christmas, a few weeks’ summer vacation she’d been too young to remember well. Alaska is far from Rhode Island. On Ned’s side she’d never known relatives; even if he hadn’t been estranged from his parents, he wouldn’t have taken her to meet them since he never took her anywhere.

We had to go, I said. I was betting Ned wouldn’t dare approach me in my family’s presence—my family with whom he’d always played the part of a thoughtful, upright man, my family without whose financial gifts to us he never could have started his first business, from which all else had sprung.

I was more afraid, I told Don, that he would corner us afterward, because it was when we were away from my family that he could coerce me effectively. An in-person encounter between Ned and me is my main anxiety. The prospect fills me with the fatalistic certainty that I wouldn’t be able to pull away from him right off, not with Lena’s eyes on us. Somehow I’m certain of this despite its weakness, its irrationality, despite the fact that I know it would be wrong, dead wrong for me and for her too.

If Ned gets to us physically I fear he’ll outmaneuver me. From the day I left him and felt the welcome release of distance the prospect of his presence has terrified me. Always since then, whenever I think of seeing him again, I’m a deer in the headlights.

If he was watching my parents’ house for the holidays, some men in suits and leather shoes might follow us when we left.

“If you have to go, have someone in your family drive back with you,” suggested Don.

“But he could still follow us, and then he’d know we were here,” I said. “From then on. And we’d just have to move out. I don’t want to go yet, and Lena doesn’t either.”