The Last Time They Met Read Online Free PDF Page A

show itself in fresh tears years later.
    — What are their names?
    — Maria and Marcus.
    — Maria and Marcus . . . ?
    — Bertollini.
    — Your husband’s name.
    — Vincent,
she said, not adding that he had died.
    — It’s so I can imagine it.
    She nodded.
    — You dress beautifully now.
Thomas kept his eyes on her face as he said this, though she knew that he had already assessed her.
    — Thank you,
she said simply.
    — Billie would have been twelve this spring,
Thomas said.
    The name, spoken aloud, was too sad, too harsh. She could see, in the tightness of his mouth, the cost of this.
    — The boat was waterlogged and rotten. The head smelled. You could hear Rich fucking in the forward cabin . . .
    For a moment, he could not go on.
    — We were on our way to Maine,
he said, the tremor in his voice momentarily under better control.
Rich and his girlfriend were on the boat. And Jean, my wife.
He glanced up at Linda.
And our daughter, Billie.
    — Thomas, stop,
she said quietly.
You don’t have to do this. I read about the accident when it happened.
Indeed, she could remember only too well the way she’d been turning the pages of the
Boston Globe
as she did every morning (Vincent with the
Times
at the other end of the table; her hand was sticky with jelly, she remembered), and the way the words THOMAS JANES and DAUGHTER and DROWNED had been, with what seemed like impossible and screaming capitals, all contained within the same headline. The way Vincent had instantly put down his paper, saying:
Linda, what’s the matter?
    A waiter, balancing plates, created an artificial pause.
    — It wasn’t Jean’s fault, though I blamed her.
    Linda watched Thomas’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass. She could not dictate how he would tell this story.
    — God, how I blamed her. I would have killed her on the boat if I’d had the strength or courage for it.
    Linda pressed her folded hands against her mouth. How we struggle to hold in what we would say, she thought.
    She looked around the room, at all the faces — avid and intensely curious — turned in their direction. This was awful. They could not do this here.
    — Thomas,
she said, standing.
Come with me.
    ----
    They moved along a quay that jutted into the lake. The drizzle made a net around her hair, her face. Thomas walked with his shoulders slightly stooped, his hands tucked into the long pockets of his trench coat. He had knotted the belt loosely, one of the ties longer than the other. His shoes had not been polished in some time. It wasn’t poverty that made him so unkempt, she knew; it was merely lack of care. Another’s care or his own.
    — You live in Hull still,
she said.
    — Yes.
    — And how is Rich?
    — He’s fine. He’s married now, with two boys. He married a doctor, as it happened. The boys are great.
    She could not imagine how Thomas managed to play with other people’s children, or even to talk to them. Would the ache be constant? Would there be an hour, five hours together, when one simply — and blessedly — forgot?
    — I see your aunt occasionally,
Thomas said.
She always tries to pretend she doesn’t know me.
    — Can you blame her?
    — No, of course not. I hardly blame anyone now except myself. I suppose this is progress.
    The wind was raw against the open neck of her blouse. She clutched the lapels of her raincoat.
I won’t ask about your wife,
she said.
Though I would like to.
    — You mean Jean?
    She nodded, knowing they couldn’t speak yet of Regina. Possibly not ever.
    — Oh, I can talk about Jean.
He seemed to have recovered from his tremulousness in the restaurant. Linda imagined that grief might show itself in a random pattern: some moments would be unbearable; others would be merely bits and pieces of a bad story.
I don’t blame her,
he added.
I said that. She was a good woman. Well, still is, I suppose.
    — You don’t see her?
    — Oh, God, no. I don’t think either one of us could bear it. After a year or