A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [39]
Neil Dubbin had asked, but the truth was Gordon had never considered suicide as a way out. The most vital elements had died inside, died before he got there. After a while he stopped noticing the horizon’s lethal scroll of razor wire. The letters and visits he initially yearned for soon became cruel reminders of a lost world. His father’s trembling head and stroke-frozen face seemed only further proof of his crime. In a way, he had been glad when his father finally died, glad for his father, relieved for himself and his mother, who seemed happier, less burdened. From then on, her letters brightened with details of Dennis’s busy life or her trips with friends, and then her pride in Lisa, who was exactly the kind of girl a mother would want for her only son, one letter so guilelessly confided. But he knew what she meant. He understood. It was all part of the price.
The phone rang and he grabbed it on the first ring. A breeze lifted the curtain as the room filled with Jilly Cross’s voice. She apologized for not calling sooner. The condo had gone under agreement, but another had come on the market this afternoon. It was perfect, just the right size, still in Collerton, which she knew he preferred, but in a much better neighborhood—and, she added, still in his price range. “I thought of you immediately!” she said, and he grinned. “Can you see it tonight? I’ve got to make a few more calls and then I could pick you up.”
“Yes, of course.” He had to check on something first and then he’d call her right back to tell her when.
He dialed Delores’s number, then hung up quickly, confused when he got the recording. He was supposed to be there in twenty-five minutes, so why hadn’t she answered? Maybe she was busy cooking. He called again, listened to the tape. “Hello, Delores?” he said in a rush at the beep. “Delores, this is Gordon. Gordon Loomis. I can’t . . . The thing is, I have to . . . that is, you see . . . well, let’s see now, what should I do? Maybe you’re at the store. Maybe you’re not home yet. I’m going to call you there. That’s what I’ll do. I’m going to call you at the store.”
Listening, Delores froze, hand inches over the phone. She’d heard that tension in so many men’s voices. If she answered, he’d say he couldn’t come. But at least he wasn’t leaving the message on her machine the way others had done. The phone rang again. He sounded frantic. “Hello, Delores? Delores, this is Gordon Loomis calling you back. I mean, I called before and you weren’t there, so now I’m calling back. I just called the store, but you’re not there. And now you’re not home, either, so I don’t know. I’m not sure, maybe I’ve got the wrong night. I thought you said this Friday. But maybe you meant—”
“Gordon!” she cried, as if in a breathless run for the phone. “I couldn’t really hear who it was. I was busy cooking and then I realized it was you, and yes, you’re right. I did say Friday. Tonight. In fact, everything’s just about ready. . . .” The countertops were cluttered with cucumber peels, onion skins, and discarded lettuce leaves, bottles of spices and oils, the sink filled with bowls and pans. Her shoulder crimped to the phone, she turned on the hot water and began to scrub the encrusted fry pan.
He couldn’t come. There was an appointment, a very important appointment he had forgotten until just a few minutes ago. “I’m sorry—”
“No!” she cried. It was all the unanswered letters, the long, hopeful drives to Fortley, her prideless efforts to keep the conversation going, telling him things he so obviously had little interest in, her sisters, nieces, nephews, neighbors, the store, her boss, and the illicit sensation of speaking Albert’s name to another man, this man she had grown to care deeply about. But then, as with Albert, the secret had taken on its own life, its significance swelling with an imagined complicity that required no acknowledgment on his part. It suddenly seemed so twisted. Yes, it was. It was.