Silent Treatment

'He's black, right?'

'Exactly,' Harry said excitedly. 'Do youremember what he was wearing? What he did that night?'

'He had a hat on. A cap. .'

'Good. That's right. What else?'

She gazed up at a building, then shook herhead sadly.

'Nothing. I'm sorry, Harry. I really am.It's like trying to remember who sat next to me in the third grade. I know Iwas there, and I can pull up some hazy pictures, even the dress my teacher usedto wear. But no real detail.'

Harry recalled how quickly she had noticedJennifer's pin and Dickinson's hairpiece, how rapidly she had reacted duringthe Dweeb's role-playing scenarios. The specialized area of her cerebral cortexresponsible for awareness had been functioning well that night — perhaps evenmore sharply than usual. But her ability to file information, or at least toretrieve it, had clearly been damaged — badly damaged, it appeared.

'It's not surprising, I suppose,' he said,hoping his concern and disappointment weren't too obvious. 'The concussion, thesurgery, the alcohol, the withdrawal, the medications — considering all that, Ithink you've done pretty damn well.'

'I'm sorry,' she said again. 'I'll keeptrying. If something comes back to me, you'll be the first to know.'

'Thanks. Hey, enough. I call for a changein the subject. Let's talk about art.'

'And war heroes.'

Over the years, in most social situations,Harry seldom carried the conversation. Thoughtful was the way heexplained that trait; boring was Evie's frequent retort. But MauraHughes was extremely easy to talk to. He rambled on as they walked andsuddenly, he found himself talking quite candidly about the Corbett curse andhis episodes of unusual chest pain — things he hadn't shared with anyone.

'So,' she said when he had finished,'who's your doctor?'

'I'm getting one,' he said too quickly.

She stopped, took his arms, and turned himtoward her. Concern shadowed her face.

'Promise?'

Harry had no idea how long he stared intoher emerald eyes before he responded.

'With all that's going on, I won't saywhen. But I promise.'

The light changed. They crossed Columbusand were half a block from Central Park when she said, 'I think you should knowthat my performance this evening notwithstanding, I have a steel-trap memoryfor things that people promise me. And I can be an incredible nag when I wantto be.'

'I have a feeling you can be an incredibleanything when you want to be.'

Harry was totally surprised to hear thewords spoken in his voice. Was he actually flirting?

'That's a nice thing to say, Harry,' sheresponded. 'Especially considering that at this point, you've known me longerin the DTs than out.'

'Tell me, what tipped you over the edge?'

'You mean drinking?'

'Yes.'

She laughed.

'You think there has to be some tragedy,some horrid, dark event in my past that sent me reeling into the bottle?'

'I … um … I guess that's what Iassumed, yes.'

'Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you.There's certainly a lot in my past that I wish had never happened. But nosingle cataclysmic tragedy. In fact, if anything, alcohol was a godsend — atleast for a while.'

Maura talked of her upbringing bywell-to-do parents — her summers at riding camps, her years in boarding school,and finally her abbreviated enrollment at Sarah Lawrence. By then, rebellionagainst her parents' lifestyle and hypocrisy had opened a gap between them thatwould never be bridged.

'Eventually, my. . my father sufferedsome big financial reverses and my mother left him. He died in a car crash.. somewhere outside of Los Angeles — far from sober, in case you were wondering… A woman in the car with him was also killed.'

When she spoke of her father, Harrynoticed a striking change in her expression and her voice. The muscles aroundher jaw tightened. Her speech became strained and halting. An opaque shadeseemed to descend over her eyes — a protective membrane, shielding herfeelings.

'What about your mother?' he asked,anxious to help her off the subject.

'Mother's still alive. But neither Tom norI ever hear from her except every other Christmas or so. I doubt she's sobervery often either. Probably because my parents never even spoke of suchmatters, for as long as I can remember I've been acutely sensitive to things inthe world that were tragic or unjust.'

She told of spending several years tryingto write the great American novel, including two years on a Navajo reservationin Arizona. But her writing lacked fire, and her experiences with the Navajosand others who were poor and oppressed only seemed to heighten her sense ofimpotence. It was as if the harder she struggled to have her life make sense,the less it did.

'One day, not so much for answers as fortherapy, I dusted off my paint box and stretched a few canvases. I had takensome lessons in high school, but never got into it. This time, from the verybeginning, painting felt right to me. I wasn't bad either, but nobody seemed tonotice my work. Then a wonderful thing happened to me — Southern Comfort. I discoveredthat drinking freed something up inside me — or maybe smoothed the rough edgesoff. I don't know. But I do know that the more I drank, the better I painted.'

'Or at least thought you painted,'Harry corrected.

'No. You may not want to believe it, but Ireally was better. The galleries saw it, and so did the people who buyart. For a time, my work was in great demand. I actually bought that buildingmy apartment's in. Then, without my realizing it at first, I began spendingmore and more time either drinking or sleeping off hangovers, and less and lesstime painting. It's been about three years since I did anything anyone wasinterested in. I don't remember my last sale.'

'You never got treatment from an alcoholcounselor or tried AA?'

'For what? There were always reasons Idrank — relationships that were in the dumper, injustices, bad reviews,professional snubs. I saw a therapist for a while. She said I just had anartist's temperament and passion. And besides, I always sincerely believed Icould quit whenever I wanted to. Now, after what's happened to me, I'm not sosure.'

'That's a start.

'What?'

'Realizing that you may not be able toquit any time you want to. .'

The restaurant Harry had recommended wason Ninety-third near Lexington. They entered Central Park at Ninety-seventh. Itwas eight-forty-five, but there was a fair amount of lingering daylight. Theytook a paved footpath down to the reservoir. The air was warm and still, thewater mirror-smooth.

'I really love this city,' Harry said.'Especially the park.'

'Do you often walk through here at night?'

The walkway around the reservoir, as faras they could see through the gathering dusk, was deserted.

'This isn't what I would consider nightyet, but the answer is yes. I don't tempt fate by bushwhacking, but the roadsare safe enough here.' He skimmed a small stone across the water. 'Ta da.Thirteen skips. A new world record.'

'How come I only counted eight?'

'I can see I'm going to have trouble withyou.'

Enjoying the quiet comfort they were feelingwith one another, they headed up a wooded path toward the road. The lastvestiges of daylight had given way to evening.

'Listen, Harry,' she said. 'I've beenthinking, and I want to propose a deal. You think I should be going to analcohol counselor or AA. I think you should be seeing a heart specialist tohave that pain of yours checked out. The deal is this: you agree to face up toyour problem, and I'll agree to face up to mine.'

'I already promised you I'd do it.'