Whisper Her Name Read online

  She was twisting her cup around and around in the saucer, gazing at it as if fascinated, but Constance suspected she was looking back through time to that terrible afternoon. She waited.

  “I was helping Mother get a barbecue dinner ready,” Tricia said after a lengthy pause. “The boys had settled down in the rec room, playing Ping Pong, the stereo on. Mother heard a motorboat and looked out the window. She dropped a pan of beans and ran out. I ran after her, down to the shore. Two boats were out there, the rowboat was upside down, and a couple of men were diving. They pulled Howard out and put him in one of the motorboats. There was an ambulance on the shore at the other side of the lake. I don’t know when Dad and my brothers began racing around to cars, but we were all there in two cars, speeding back into Stillwater, following the ambulance to the clinic.” She stopped again, even longer. “They didn’t get Mary Beth out for almost another hour. Howard didn’t wake up until late in the day on Labor Day.”

  Constance saw movement at the screen door again, and this time it opened and Charlie walked out carrying a tray with glasses on it. He had a dish towel draped over his arm. “Your drinks, madam. Gin and tonic, I believe it was.” He put the drinks and napkins down.

  “You believe right,” Constance said. “Thank you.”

  Charlie picked up the carafe and cups, put them on the tray, bowed and returned to the house.

  “He’s not all bad,” Constance said.

  “A godsend,” Tricia said and she took a long drink.

  “Just a little more if you’re up to it,” Constance said. “Did you notice the change in Howard immediately after he recovered?”

  Tricia drank again before answering. “No. They wanted to keep him in the clinic for another day, but he insisted that he had to go to the funeral, and in the end we all did. Afterward, Mother and Dad went to his apartment with him, supposedly to get some clothes, but when they got there, he said he really wanted to be alone and they had to leave. Mother talked to him every day for a couple of weeks, and he seemed to be okay, grieving, heart broken, but coping. He was due home for Christmas, but we had a snowstorm and he couldn’t make it. He came in February, and again he seemed okay. Quiet, somewhat remote, but not, oh, I guess the word is hostile. He seemed terribly sad, withdrawn, reflective. But later in the spring, when Lawrence called him, he hung up on him. He never came home again and I doubt he ever talked to my brothers again. He would take Mother’s call and mine, and never say anything much. And that’s how it was until his death.”

  “You said you kept him informed of the family’s doings. Did he respond?”

  “Never. He didn’t seem to care what was going on with anyone. I told him he had to come home for Dad’s funeral, that Mother needed him, and he showed up. He stayed in a hotel, but he was at her side through the funeral service and at the cemetery, then left the next day. He didn’t attend her funeral.”

  “Thank you,” Constance said after a minute. “I know this has been difficult. It really is peaceful out here. A good place to unwind now and then.”

  Tricia drained her glass. “Did you ever blow the dandelion puff of seeds? You know how they scatter out in all directions? That’s what happened to our family after that summer. Scattered in all directions. You can never put them back.”

  5

  EVE PARISH SAT CROSS-LEGGED ON HER FUTON in her newly furnished study. The futon, she had discovered, really was comfortable enough to use as a bed. A guest bed, she added to herself silently. She had a perfectly good bed already. For the first time in her life she felt almost rich, with a living room and a study, a personal bed and a guest bed. Luxury. She had been listening to a tape and making notes, but as often as not she was simply admiring her new living quarters or thinking about the events of the past few days.

  “I feel like I’m caught up in a whirlwind,” she had said to Jenna on her Saturday-night phone call. Jenna had laughed, but that’s how Eve felt. Her furniture had been delivered, she had filled the bookcase, with enough books left over to leave one more box still almost full, and she had bought a desk lamp and curtains for the study. The armoire was still tied up, as if it were a hostage. The man who delivered it said that was to keep the doors from flapping and breaking. She would get around to freeing the captive soon, Eve now thought, as she had before. She would get to it before Jenna’s visit. But the big event, wonder of wonders, was that she had interviewed Dorothy Dumond. That was the biggest puzzle, she mused. “What a coup,” Jenna had said, but it didn’t feel like that, Eve thought, regarding the tape recorder.

  Dorothy Dumond had called her on Wednesday. “Did the desk and other things arrive satisfactorily?” she had asked. When Eve assured her that everything was fine, she had said, “Please meet me for a cup of coffee or tea tomorrow at the Lakeview Café. I should like to make amends for my behavior and tell you about Earl’s childhood and youth. You may bring a tape recorder if you like.”

  Eve had met her on the upper deck of the café and sipped iced tea while Dorothy talked and drank chardonnay. It turned out not to be a chat or an interview, but rather a monologue.

  She began to listen again to the tape, skipping long passages, making notes now and again of material she might find useful. Dumond was saying, “Of course, coming along so late in Mother’s life, when she already had two daughters nearly grown, Earl was a surprise. And for him, poor little boy, it meant that he had four mothers, counting our grandmother who was still with us, watching and guarding him at all times. I’m fifteen years older than Earl, and Esther was eighteen years older. She passed away from meningitis when she was twenty-two, and grandmother passed a year later. That made Mother and me even more protective, I’m afraid. So, he had a lifetime of experience living with women, learning about women, how they acted, how they thought, their emotional states, everything that he poured into his masterpiece. He was a sensitive child, so aware at such a young age of the nuances of emotions, the needs of others. Critics marveled at his ability to grasp a woman’s psyche the way he did. However, I, we, simply took it for granted.”

  Eve skipped ahead. “We have been here in the valley since before the Civil War. My great-great grandfather was a cofounder of the college, and we have always had a family member on the board of trustees.”

  #

  Fast forward. Dorothy had gone on at length about the prestige and honor of the Marshall family. She had mentioned her own short-lived marriage to Edgar Dumond, so briefly it had been more like a footnote than a comment. He had not worked out, never fitted in.

  Eve listened again. “Andrea was different, out of her depth, perhaps. Her mother’s name was Briacchi, something like that. She did odd jobs, office work, I think, but never successfully, I imagine. She was a single woman and they had a precarious economic situation and moved around quite a bit. For Andrea to find herself in such a settled community with relationships and ties that extended through generations might have made her feel like an outsider, no matter how hard I tried to reassure her. They lived in my house, you know. They had the entire upper floor for themselves. When Earl began his novel she must have felt even more excluded. Oh, she corrected his spelling, and perhaps some typos, things of that sort, but he was so engrossed, so driven, and she was left adrift. After she dropped out of school I thought she might seek employment, but she didn’t. She would go out for walks, go up in the woods behind the house and stay away for hours with never a word about where she had been or what she had been doing. And up all night watching television while he was writing. Many times I could hear it, even with my door closed. Some days she didn’t even get dressed until late in the afternoon.”

  Skip. There had been a lot more about how Andrea didn’t fit in. “I told her I felt it was my duty to warn her. A man doesn’t give an expensive present to a young woman and expect nothing in return. That scholarship was very expensive, you understand. It included everything, even generou
s living expenses. I warned her that the day would come when Howard Bainbridge would insist on collecting. She was offended and pretended that she didn’t know he had provided the funds for the scholarship. I warned her about the deaths of all those young women who got involved with Bainbridge men. I was simply trying to make her comprehend the situation she had found herself in regarding him. For her to become as indignant and even arrogant in her refusal to admit that he was her benefactor was a transparent falsehood. I’m afraid she put herself in jeopardy by her refusal to admit the truth of the matter.”

  Eve turned off the tape recorder again. Dorothy had hinted that Bainbridge had come to the area, that Andrea was meeting him secretly throughout that last year of her life. “Oh, I never saw him or heard that he was around, but she was going somewhere, and as attractive as she was, I doubt that she was alone for hours and hours at a time. Perhaps by then she felt trapped, felt that she had to accommodate him in return for his previous generosity.”

  Skip. “I could tell it was hurting poor Earl. Sometimes I could hear them quarreling, not the words, you understand, but I could tell he was upset with her. I mean it was like having a parasite that he, of course, loved beyond belief, but a parasite nevertheless. He wouldn’t hear a word against her, and if I tried to make him see how unfair it was, he became enraged with me. That poor boy, writing his heart out, trying to finish up in school, and her out running around, staying up all night. It was so sad.”

  Close to the end of the tape Dorothy had talked about the night that Andrea died. “I don’t know why she used my station wagon, but she did. I always left my keys on the table in the foyer and she used them. I also don’t know why she pulled off the road where she did. There wasn’t a guardrail in those days, but I insisted that we had to have one and it’s there now. Afterwards, Earl was devastated. He was so infatuated with her, of course, and he blamed himself for being neglectful. They had drifted apart, of course, but it was not his fault. I don’t believe he realized that it was happening. So many artists are compelled to put their art first, I suppose. It was called an accidental death, small consolation to Earl. He cried like a baby when he learned that she had drowned, and he couldn’t eat or sleep. After a week or two he felt that he had to leave the area, leave her ghost, leave school, everything. He packed up his personal belongings, the computer, disks, manuscript, all of it, and he left. He lived alone in a cabin up in the Pocono Mountains and he devoted himself to the novel. He had completed a draft, but he said he had to rewrite parts, polish it, whatever writers do after it’s basically finished. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Dorothy had finished her wine and stood. “Ms. Parish, please understand that I was abrupt with you for a reason. After our tragedy here, after his success, vultures descended wanting the inside story, as they said, details of his private life, her private life. I felt sullied by them, their lust for sordid details. I’m afraid that memory overcame me when you said you planned to write about his work. I understand the difference between a respected academic work and what those creatures did and I reacted inappropriately. It will interest you to know that Earl is coming for a visit on Saturday. On Sunday he’ll be at the Campus Bookstore to sign some books at about two in the afternoon. You might wish to introduce yourself at that time.”

  Eve removed the tape from her recorder and put in a new one. She had met Earl. The meeting was fresh in her mind. She had gone to the bookstore on Sunday. He had been at a table with a stack of books. A store clerk was hovering along with one customer. He signed her book and turned to smile at Eve.

  “Hello, Mr. Marshall. I love your novel. It’s wonderful. Will you please sign it for me?”

  He grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.” He opened the book, then flipped through it and looked up at her. “You’ve really read it, haven’t you?”

  She had highlighted many passages. “Several times,” she said. “I’m Eve Parish. I talked to your sister a few days ago.”

  “Parish,” he said, waving the clerk away. He looked Eve over with a deeper smile. “She told me about you, but she lied. She said your skin has a curious green tint and that in certain lights your eyes take on a reddish coloration.”

  “Did she mention my fangs?”

  “She hinted. She also said you’re probably FBI or something, referring to your skill as an interrogator.”

  They both laughed. Then Eve said, “Mr. Marshall, would it be possible to interview you while you’re in town? I plan to write my thesis on a couple of contemporary writers, and you’re the first among them.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “Have lunch with me tomorrow. Bring your tape recorder if you want to, but frankly, Eve Parish, I hope neither of us will ever think to turn it on.”

  #

  Eve was thoughtful as she left her apartment to meet Earl Marshall that Monday. He was as good-looking as she had expected from his picture on his book jacket. Dark wavy hair, deep blue eyes, fit, as if he worked out regularly, sense of humor, but none of it added up to the picture she had formed in her mind. His novel was remarkable in how it captured a tormented woman, her troubled adolescence, her fears and aspirations. Dorothy had tried to explain it by his growing up in a household of smothering women, and that might be enough to explain how he had been able to write the novel. But, Eve thought, it didn’t explain his attitude, his hitting on her the way he had done. She had expected an introspective man, not a casual flirt, she told herself chidingly. Her own miscalculation, of course; her unwarranted expectations. She knew that artists weren’t necessarily personifications of the art they produced, but still he had been a surprise.

  He pulled up to the Hammond house seconds after she had gone down to meet him. He was driving a burgundy BMW convertible with the top down.

  “Too much wind for you?” he asked when she got in and fastened her seat belt. “There’s a scarf in the glove compartment if you want it.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Where are we going?”

  “Lakeview Resort. They do superb lunches, and decent mixed drinks. We’ll indulge in both.”

  The resort was a few miles up the state highway, and it was obviously a playland for wealthy New Yorkers. “Tennis, golf, riding horses, two pools, lake… Whatever your heart desires,” Earl said, leading her around the main building to an outdoor dining room under an awning. “You’ll see enough skin out here to make a dermatologist drool.”

  A hostess smiled and greeted him. “Mr. Marshall, your table is this way.”

  Seated, he said, “Mai tai and a little imagination and you can put yourself on a beach in Oahu, or Tahiti if you prefer.”

  Eve shook her head. “Not for me. Too early in the day. I’ll stick with iced tea.”

  “Too bad. Do you like lobster?”

  She had eaten it once and it had been tough.

  When she hesitated, Earl said, “I guarantee you’ll like it here. They make an excellent lobster salad. But if you don’t like it, we’ll send it back and order pizza. Game?”

  “Who could resist a guarantee like that? Lobster salad it is.”

  As soon as their drinks were served Earl leaned forward and said, “For openers, no tape recorder until after we eat. And I want to clear the deck. My sister Dorothy is a prude and a snob. If you can’t trace your ancestry back to the Ark, you don’t count. This little burg is as close to heaven as you’ll find on earth and there’s no rational reason to ever go anywhere else. Paris, Rome, Florence, London may call, but you turn a deaf ear. As far as travel is concerned, I believe my sister has gone to New York City a time or two. She says there is more than enough here to keep a reasonable person occupied and content-–civic matters to oversee, like ensuring that the streets are not littered with stray objects, being a conscientious trustee of a tiny insignificant college, holding the city accountable for every penny, demanding records of every transaction, runn
ing a book club, and so on. You get the picture. But, Eve Parish, I am not my sister.” He held up his glass in a salute. “Cheers.” Before he drank he added, “By the way, no comment is required or expected.”

  She was taken aback by his words, and she felt guilty in that she had turned on her tape recorder before he had said not yet. It would have been awkward to turn it off again after he started talking and she had left it on. He had been mocking, almost bantering and lighthearted, but there was a sharp edge as well. Scorn, contempt, bitterness, genuine dislike for his sister, it was impossible to guess. She had no comment to make, and his ongoing gaze on her made her uncomfortable.

  She shifted and turned away to gaze out at the lake. There were children at play, serious swimmers, some people on floats, several paddle boats that always seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. Teenaged boys and girls were on a raft decorated with red and white flags and ribbons. The kids were pushing one another into the water, jumping in after them, shouting out numbers, a game they knew the rules for but she didn’t.

  “Do you want to go swimming?” Earl asked.

  She turned from watching the kids on the raft. “No, of course not.”

  “The way you were looking, I thought you might.”

  She shook her head. “I was thinking that any game is incomprehensible if you don’t know the rules. Whatever they’re playing out there, chess, football, life itself, wherever you find yourself at any particular time is incomprehensible unless you know the rules.”

  “You’ve got that right,” he said. “Imagine a kid growing up in a place like Stillwater suddenly finding himself in Hollywood. Big-time rule changes, baby. Real, big-time changes. Ah, lobster appears on the horizon.”