The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [47]
“Apparently,” Somers said.
The investigator was enjoying this, Kathryn thought.
“How did you discover her?” she asked.
“She’s listed in his military records.”
“And Jack’s father?”
“Deceased.”
She sat on the nearest chair and shut her eyes. She felt vaguely drunk, the room swirling unpleasantly behind her eyelids.
All this time, she thought, and she had never known. All this time, Mattie had had a grandmother. A grandmother for whom she had been named.
But why? she asked herself.
Jack, why? she silently asked her husband.
THEY WALK ALONG THE BEACH IN THE FOG. Mattie, in a Red Sox jacket, runs ahead to look for crabs. The beach is flat and shallow, curved like a shell, the sand the color of weathered wood with a calligraphy of seaweed written along its crust. Behind the seawall are the summer houses, empty now. Too late, Kathryn realizes she should have told Mattie, only five, to take off her shoes.
Jack’s shoulders are hunched against the cold. He wears his leather jacket always, even on the coldest of days, unwilling to invest in a parka, or perhaps too vain, she has never been exactly sure. Her own flannel shirt hangs below her jacket, and she has a woolen scarf doubled around her neck.
— What’s wrong? she asks.
— Nothing, he says. — I’m fine.
— You seem subdued.
— I’m OK.
He walks with his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead. His mouth is set in a hard line. She wonders what has happened to upset him.
— Did I do something? she asks.
— No, he says.
— Mattie has a soccer game tomorrow, she says.
— Good, he says.
— Can you be there? she asks.
— No, I have a trip.
There is a pause.
— You know, she says. — Once in a while you could bid a schedule that gave you more free time, more time to be at home.
He is silent.
— Mattie misses you.
— Look, he says. — Don’t make it worse for me than it already is.
From the corner of her eye, she can see Mattie twirling in circles on the beach. Kathryn feels distracted, pulled toward the man beside her by a gravity that seems unnatural. She wonders if he’s feeling well. Perhaps he is simply tired. She has heard the stories, the statistics: Most airline pilots die before they reach retirement age, which is sixty. It’s the stress, the strain of the unusual schedules. The wear and tear on the body.
She moves toward him, tucks her hands around his stiffened arm. Still he stares straight ahead.
— Jack, tell me. What is it?
— Drop it, will you?
Stung, she lets his arm go and walks away.
— It’s the weather, he says, catching up to her. — I don’t know.
Apologetic now. Mollifying.
— What about the weather? she asks coldly, unwilling to be so easily mollified.
— The gray. The fog. I hate it.
— I don’t think anyone likes it much, she says evenly.
— Kathryn, you don’t understand.
He removes his hands from his pockets and hikes his collar against the cold. He seems to slip further into his leather jacket.
— Today is my mother’s birthday, he says quietly. — Or would have been.
— Oh, Jack, she says, going to him. — You should have said.
— You’re lucky, he says. — You’re lucky to have Julia. You say you didn’t have parents, but you did.
Is this a note of jealousy that she hears?
— Yes, I am lucky to have Julia, she agrees.
Jack’s face is pinched and red. His eyes are watering from the cold.
— Was it very bad when your mother died? she asks.
— I don’t like to talk about it.
— I know you don’t, she says gently. — But sometimes talking about it can make it better.
— I doubt it.
— Was she sick a long time?
He hesitates. — Not too long. It was quick.
— What was it?
— I told you. Cancer.
— No, I know, she says. — I mean what kind?
He sighs slightly. — Breast, he says. — In those days, they didn’t have the kinds of treatments . . .
She puts her hand on his arm.
— It’s a terrible age to be left without a mother, she says. Just four years older than Mattie, she thinks suddenly, and the realization makes her go cold all over. It is agonizing to think of Mattie left without