The Deep End of the Ocean Page 17

  And then Beth would have the last fifteen minutes, the fifteen minutes to get through that she usually spent watching Paul Crane, across the street, doing endless chip shots on his frost-nipped lawn under the lights from his garage. After fifteen minutes—it was a reasonable interval—she could run for the stairs. Vincent would be in bed. She would even look in on him, blurring her eyes to avoid seeing the bed he lay in, and say, “’Night, honey.” He never answered. He fell asleep quickly. That was good.

  On good days, Beth sometimes went downstairs into her office and threw things away. She filled bags with out-take shots, old negatives and contracts, her clips, her anthologies, phone numbers she would never need again. She liked the feeling of stripping away her former life, liked the release from any obligation except living until night. One afternoon, Pat had discovered her throwing away her Rolodex and stopped her. Beth let him—she could always throw it away some other day, when he was at the restaurant.

  She thought, briefly, of actually dismantling her darkroom, but she knew that she would never be able to dispose of huge stable objects such as sinks and trays without Pat’s noticing. At night, she would mentally scan her own room, thinking of what things she could throw away the next day. Shoes, perhaps. She had far too many.

  When Candy showed up on the porch that afternoon, Beth had had a good morning. She had showered and fed Kerry her cereal on her own. She let Candy come in, returned her hug, and felt puzzled by the way Candy held her at arm’s length and looked her over, top to bottom.

  “Beth, what you are wearing is very strange,” Candy said.

  Beth asked if Candy wanted coffee. Candy said, “Sure.” And Beth went into the kitchen to measure out the coffee in spoons. Laurie always said it tasted better if you measured it.

  “Did you hear me, what I said before?” Candy asked, when they were sitting at the kitchen table, Candy holding a drowsy Kerry in one arm.

  “Yes,” Beth said. She tried to remember.

  “You are wearing something that looks funny.” Bethwas, in fact, wearing ordinary wool pants. They were pants from the seventies, which she had discovered not long ago during a closet raid. She had no idea how much weight she’d lost, but on impulse she had tried on these pre-childbearing pants, with their wide legs and eccentric wraparound belts, and found that they nearly fit. There had been perhaps three pairs, which Beth now wore regularly, with either one of her sweatshirts or one of Pat’s shirts.

  “I’ve lost a lot of weight,” she told Candy. “And these are just fine for working around the house.”

  “What about for working working?” Candy asked then.

  “I’m…uh…retired,” Beth said. “I can’t imagine…you know. I took pictures of news things and people and weddings and stuff, Candy. I couldn’t do that now. I don’t think I could take pictures of…food, even.”

  “But you might want to—you know, sometime,” Candy said. “Don’t you think? I mean, didn’t you always work?”

  Beth nodded.

  “Oh,” Candy said. “That’s what I thought.” She went on to tell Beth that the seminar she was attending was being held at the big new conference center west of town. “The Embassy’s cheaper, though, so I’ll get a room there.” But Beth told her no, of course not, she must stay here, it would be fine. Candy smiled. “I’d like that.” What the conference was about, she went on, was the psychological profiling of felons. “It’s the big new thing,” Candy explained. “You get to find out that almost every criminal is between twenty and forty, medium height, white or black, drank milk as a child, had a little trouble with alcohol in college, and had a mother who always bugged him to practice the piano.”

  “I think I dated that guy,” Beth said.

  “I think my brother was that guy,” Candy agreed. “It’s my belief that this is all bullshit, actually. I don’t really think there are any more bad guys percentage-wise than there ever were. What I think is that there are simply more people, you know? There are more people, and less room for them, and less money.”

  She was not mentioning Ben, Beth noticed. That wouldbe because there was nothing new to say. Beth had learned not to ask. Candy would tell her anything, no matter how seemingly minute or insignificant. But attention was shifting away from the case. Beth knew that.

  “Did you see the story in People last week?” she asked Candy then.

  “I was hoping you didn’t,” Candy told her. “But actually, Bethie, much as I despise most of the sharks, I really think this isn’t such a bad idea. It’s like free leafleting. Every kid goes to a doctor’s office sooner or later. It could be our key, you know? One of those reality TV shows would probably be a good idea, too.” She paused, swirling the coffee gone cold in her cup. “You or Pat would probably have to chat, though.”

  Beth said, smiling, “No.”

  “No for you or no for Pat?”

  “I’m not his mother. I don’t care what he does.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is, huh?”

  “I mean, I don’t care who he talks to. He doesn’t seem to do it much, anymore, though.”

  “Maybe he can sense you don’t like it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Beth—” Candy said then, and waved to Jill as she came in the door from school, handing her the baby, who woke up and kicked in delight, saying “Joo! Joo!” and gurgling. “Do you have any money?”

  “Do you need some money?”

  “No, I meant, do you have any money in the house? I thought we could go shopping.”

  Beth started to laugh. She thought she might laugh hard enough that the coffee would come up in brown strings, so she tried to keep it under some semblance of control. Everything, it seemed, made her stomach revolt in recent months. “Candy,” she finally gasped. “I don’t go shopping. What would I go shopping for?”

  “Some clothes, maybe.”

  “I don’t want any clothes.”

  “Would you do it for me?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not very hospitable. Maybe I want some clothes.”

  “You live in Chicago. They have much better clothes there than they have in Madison. Anyway, you always wear the same thing. And they have beige blazers anyplace.”

  “Beth, that’s not true. I have a quite varied wardrobe at home. Leather studded with nails, mostly. Some gold lamé. What I want, I want to go shopping. Jilly,” she called, “where’s a good mall?”

  Jill, changing the baby, called back, “West Towne. The Limited and stuff.”

  “Sounds good.” Candy got up. At that moment Vincent opened the door. To Beth’s astonishment, he flew into Candy’s arms, holding her, wrapping his legs around her as she picked him up—easily, Beth noticed, fragile as Candy looked.

  “Did you bring Ben?” he asked.

  “Sport, not yet.” Candy looked about to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m going to keep on looking till I find him, though. I promise. So, Vincent, school okay? Playing basketball?”

  Vincent slid his eyes over toward his mother. “I’m not playing this winter.”

  “Oh, well, time enough for that. Listen, Vincent, I have a big problem.”

  “What?”

  “I’m taking your mommy to the store, and I have to have someone to guard my badge while I’m gone.” She took out the leather case that held her gold shield. “This is a detective’s badge. It’s very valuable.” She winked at Beth. “It’s real gold, for one thing. And it has powers. Do you have any idea of anybody who could guard this thing, I mean guard it with his life, while I’m gone?”

  Vincent lowered his voice. “I think I could do it.”

  “I don’t know.” Candy pretended to back off a step. “I don’t know, Vincent. You’re a smart kid and all, but you’re only what—eight? This is the kind of responsibility I wouldn’t normally let even a kid, like, twelve do for me. It would have to be a very trustworthy kid.”

  “I am,” said Vincent. “Ask Jill. I make my own bed.”

  “Well, Jill, what d
o you think?”

  “I think the captain is up to the assignment,” Jill said. “But you can’t take it to Alex’s or anything, big buddy.”

  “Can I ask him over and show it to him?”

  Candy pondered, tapping her teeth. “Can this…Alex be trusted?”

  “He’s my best friend,” Vincent confided.

  “Well, then, yes. It’s unorthodox procedure. But this once, okay.” She turned to Beth. “If you haven’t got any money, have you got some bank cards or something?”

  “Yes, she does,” Jill sang out. “They’re in the envelope taped to the fridge. They won’t recognize her signature, though. They only know mine. I’m Beth Cappadora now.”

  “Not today,” Candy told her, palming the card. “Do you want to put on something…? Well, it doesn’t matter. Come on, Beth. Let’s go.”

  The light off the snow was pitiless on Beth’s eyes. Her ancient pea coat felt bulky—she hadn’t been farther than the mailbox very often since fall. Even the motion of Candy’s car was like a fresh sensation, something only vaguely familiar. “It’s cold,” she told Candy.

  “It’s January, Beth,” Candy said. “It’s traditionally cold in January.”

  “It’s just that I haven’t been…getting out much.”

  “So I see.”

  At the sight of the teeming mall—didn’t people know Christmas was over? What did they find to buy, endlessly buy, forever?—Beth nearly begged for mercy. And people who read People might recognize her face. (Had her face been in the story? It had definitely been in some stories.) People would remember. They’d stare.

  “I don’t know, Candy,” she said, trying to sound just a little bored, restless. “It’s so crowded in these joints.”

  “We’ll only go to one store. I just don’t know what one store. So bear with me.”

  They ended up at a place called Cotton to Cotton. “I like cotton,” Candy said. “It never wrinkles, and if you put a lot of it on, you’re as warm as if you were wearing wool. Layers, Bethie. That’s the ticket.”

  And Beth was stunned; Candy was as good at clothes as she’d been at makeup that horrible night. After studying Beth’s face in the relentless fluorescent overheads for a few long moments, Candy said, “Purple. Teal. Gray. Real blue. Maybe a little red.” And she’d gone off for armloads of skirts and tunics and vests and belts, sweaters and jackets, which she’d draped over Beth as she stood, mute as a mannequin, in the middle of one of the aisles.

  After forty minutes, Candy had filled four shopping bags, and Beth had surrendered her card. On the way home, she told Beth, “Now, the deal is, you can wear any one of those things with any other one of those things. So if one is dirty, just pull out another one and put it on. They all go together, even the belts. And you can wear black shoes with every single thing. Flats or heels. You do have black shoes, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Beth.

  “So you don’t have to think about it. You just pull out whatever is there and you put it on. See? And when we get home, I’m going to hang them all in your closet for you, in one place, and then we’re going to take all the disco pants and…make a bonfire or something. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Beth said.

  The clothes still had the tags on them two months later when Laurie, who had called a dozen times, increasingly sorrowful, showed up one night as Pat was just about to head back to the restaurant. Beth, upstairs sitting on her bed, heard her ask Pat, “She still won’t talk to me, will she?”

  “I think she would,” Pat replied. Beth could tell by the muffling of Pat’s voice that he was giving Laurie a hug. “I think she’s over it. I mean, Barbara Kelliher has called her a zillion times telling her how great the response was to the story, how she’s had to have new posters made five times. I think she understands.”

  “I think she hates my guts,” Laurie said. But Beth could hear her tripping up the stairs; even on this errand into Rochester’s mad wife’s room, Laurie was bouncy.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” said Beth.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Curing cancer,” Beth said. “I just put away my test tubes.”

  “Oh, well, good,” Laurie said, sitting down on the bed. “Can you please just forgive me? Just get it over with? We are never going to agree on this, Bethie, but we’ve been friends for a thousand years, and you know, you have to admit that you know, I would never, ever do anything knowingly to harm you.”

  “I know that,” Beth said.

  “Good, because I have something I want you to do for me.”

  The nerve, Beth thought. But she asked, “What?”

  “I want you to take a picture.”

  “I don’t do it anymore.”

  “Just this once. There’s a lot of dough in it. A lot.”

  “How much?” Pat asked, walking in.

  Beth said, “I don’t do it anymore.”

  “They’ll come here.”

  “I don’t do it.”

  “Just let me tell you.” It was a wedding announcement picture, but the bride—the daughter of a client of Laurie’s husband, Rick—couldn’t go to a studio for the shot.

  “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing. Except she’s…very pregnant.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Well, Beth, her family are immigrants from China. To some people it still is a big deal. She’s very modest.”

  “Not when it counted,” Beth said, starting to feel like some evil old spider crouched in her den, which wasn’t how she’d intended to appear at all.

  Laurie sighed. “Anyhow, this girl’s mom and dad are modest, and very rich. So I said I knew someone who could take the picture in a very private setting, and make it look…like she isn’t. A real magician. You,” Laurie said.

  “You could do it, Bethie,” Pat put in. “You wouldn’t have to go out.”

  “Take a picture of a pregnant woman? Me?” she sneered. Oh, Pat, if money had lips, we’d never have kissed, Beth thought. “You’ve got to be nuts.”

  “Please, Bethie, this once,” Laurie pleaded. “Let me get over my guilt by doing you a good turn. If you hate it, just never do it again.”

  “This is not a good turn. This is a setup,” Beth said. “Anyhow, I can’t, because I threw out all my paper and stuff.”

  “I’ll get you paper. I’ll get you supplies,” Pat offered eagerly.

  Beth sighed, longingly thinking of her pills and the lure of her down comforter.

  “When?” she asked.

  It was an astounding thing, what happened. When they came, the boy chipper, the girl sullen, both their mothers glowering, Beth set them up as briskly as she would have arranged fruit on a plate. And when she began to shoot, she realized that this was exactly how she saw them. She remembered what a high-school art teacher had told her, one of those tiny, utterly basic things that transform a pattern of thought: that when most people see a cup on a table, they think of it as sitting flat, so they draw it sitting flat. In fact, she had told Beth, the bottom of the cup really looks curved, and that was the correct way for it to be rendered. “It’s the difference between seeing with your brain and seeing with your real eye,” the teacher had explained.

  And, for the first time in her professional life, Beth saw the couple as a series of angles and curves, planes and shadows, not as people with emotions and histories, people who had writhed in love and spat in disgust. She saw them not with her brain—her brain, she reasoned later, was gone—but with her photographer’s eye alone. She lit them as she would have lit statues, as, in fact, she had lit statues and architectural pictures.

  The portraits that resulted were stunning. The very, very wealthy father gave her a thousand dollars. Laurie turned up more subjects willing to come to Beth’s lair. And by late spring, Beth grew willing to go out to them—to shoot pictures of people-as-things that both the subjects, and, later, publishers praised for their sensitivity and humanity. Even, after a while, children.
They were just smaller apples and oranges in baskets.

  The first time she had to travel to an assignment, she pulled out a skirt of deep lavender and a red tunic, tied it with a black sash, and slipped on a pair of black shoes. She looked skinny, still, eccentric, and…not bad. By the time summer came, Beth, looking back on several months of increasing business, realized she had found a key, thanks to Candy’s wiles and Laurie’s stubbornness—a way to fill hours and appear productive, without the need to feel or even think very much, not even about whether her belt matched her shoes. She sent Jill back to Cotton to Cotton for more hues and shapes when the first ones succumbed to washing. It worked.

  Beth had found what passed for a life.

  Vincent

  CHAPTER 12

  October 1987

  His mother said even she didn’t know what the square box built into the wall on the staircase was supposed to be. She told Vincent once that back when she and Dad were kids, people liked to put telephones in little nooks all over their houses. “This house was probably built in the sixties. Maybe that’s what it was,” she said.

  “Why would anybody want a phone in the middle of the stairs?” he had asked, eagerly. But by then his mother was looking past him, the way she did that made Vincent turn his head to try to see the person she had spotted somewhere just behind him. But there was never anybody there.

  Grandma Rosie told Vincent she thought the people who originally owned Vincent’s house were good Catholics. “They would have a figure of Our Lady in there, or Saint Anthony,” she had said last Christmas Eve, when she passed Vincent crouched in the square den of a hole on her way up to bed. “It is not for little boys who are trying to stay awake all night so Santa will pass by this house and leave no presents.” She took his hand and led him to bed.

  Baby Kerry, who could talk now, called the box her “baby house.” She took her dolls and her phony waffles and the syrup bottle that looked like it was really pouring in there, and he would pretend to be the customer while she pretended to sell him waffles. Or you could sit there, all tucked up, like Vincent imagined mice would feel in their holes, and see right down into a corner of the kitchen—the corner that had the sink and the Mister Coffee. And if the dishwasher wasn’t on, you could hear everything anybody said down there.