The Shadow of Your Smile

Too restless to stay seated, he stood up again. The musical extravaganza had opened and closed last Monday night. A week later, he was still adding up the cost of the debacle. One critic had written, “Producer Peter Gannon has effectively presented small dramas, suitable for off-Broadway, but his third attempt at a musical is once again a resounding failure. Give it up, Peter.”

Give it up, Peter, he thought, as he opened the small refrigerator behind his desk and took out a bottle of vodka. Not too much, he cautioned himself, as he unscrewed the bottle and reached for a stem glass from the tray on top of the refrigerator. I know I’ve been drinking too much, I know it.

After he had poured a moderate amount of vodka into the glass and added ice cubes, he replaced the bottle, closed the refrigerator, and sat down again. Then he leaned back in his chair. Or maybe I should turn into a drunk, he thought. Blotto. Out of it. Not able to string two sentences together. Not able to think, but able to sleep, even if it’s a drunken sleep that ends in a blinding headache.

He took a long sip of the vodka and with his free hand reached for the phone. Susan, his ex-wife, had left a message telling him how sorry she was that the play had closed. Any other ex would have been thrilled that it flopped, he thought, but Sue meant it.

Sue. One more constant regret. Forget about calling her. It’s too painful.

As he was withdrawing his hand, the phone rang. When the caller’s number came up, he was tempted to pretend he wasn’t in his office. Knowing that would solve nothing, he picked up the receiver and mumbled a greeting.

“I expected to hear from you before this,” a querulous voice told him.

“I meant to call you. It’s been pretty hectic.”

“I don’t mean a phone call. I mean my payment. You’re overdue.”

“I… just… don’t… have… that… much… now,” Peter whispered, his voice strangled.

“Then… get… it… or… else.”

The phone slammed in his ear.

21

When she woke up on Tuesday morning, Olivia Morrow felt as if a quantity of her small stockpile of remaining energy had disappeared while she was sleeping. For some odd reason, a scene from Little Women, a book she had loved as young teenager, became fresh in her mind. Beth, the-nineteen- year-old who is dying of tuberculosis, tells her older sister that she knows she will not get well, that the tide is going out.

The tide is going out for me, too, Olivia thought. If Clay is right, and my body is telling me he is right, I have less than a week to live.

What shall I do?

Pulling on her reserve of strength, she got up slowly, put on a robe, and made her way to the kitchen. As she walked the short distance she was too exhausted to reach for the kettle and sat on a chair in the dining alcove until her breath became stronger. Catherine, she begged, give me direction. Let me know what you want me to do.

After a few minutes she was able to get up, make the tea, and plan her day. I want to go back to Southhampton, she thought. I wonder if the Gannon House is still there, and the cottage where Catherine and Mother and I lived…

The cemetery in Southhampton was where generations of Gannons were entombed in an imposing mausoleum. Where Alex was entombed. Not that I have the feeling that he’ll be waiting for me on the other side, she thought sadly. Catherine was his love, but when she died she certainly wasn’t looking to be reunited with him.

Or was she?

A childhood memory that had been coming to the surface of her mind over and over in these past few days once again filled her mind. Am I making this up, or did I witness it? she wondered. Is my mind playing tricks or am I remembering seeing Catherine in her habit shortly after she entered the convent? I thought the novices were not allowed to see their families for a while. It was on a dock, and there was another nun with her. Catherine and Mother were crying. That must have been when she sailed to Ireland…

Why does that suddenly seem so important to know? she asked herself. Or is it that I am trying to reject death by dragging up scenes from my childhood, as if I could begin to relive my life?

She would call the car service and go out to Southhampton today. Even in a few days it may be too late, she thought. I wonder if I can get that nice young man who drove me last week? What was his name? Yes, I remember. It was Tony Garcia.

She finished sipping the tea and debated about forcing herself to have a slice of toast, then decided against it. I’m not hungry, she thought, and at this point what is the difference if I eat or don’t eat?

She got up slowly and carried the cup to the sink, rinsed it out, and put it in the dishwasher, suddenly acutely aware that this kind of mundane activity would soon be over forever.

In the bedroom she called the car service and was disappointed to learn that Tony Garcia was not coming in today.

“He’s supposed to be available,” an aggravated voice told her. “But he phoned to say that his wife and kid are sick and he has to stay home.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Olivia said quickly. “It’s not serious, is it? He told me about his little boy having had leukemia.”

“Nah. It’s just a bad cold. I swear if that kid gets sniffles, Tony makes a big deal about it.”

“In his case, I would, too,” Olivia responded, an edge in her voice.

“Yeah, of course, Ms. Morrow. I’ll send a good driver for you.”

At noon the driver, a heavyset man with a windburned face, appeared in the lobby. This time she was already there waiting for him. Unlike Tony Garcia, he did not offer her his arm on the way to the garage. But he did tell her that he knew she was a good customer and that everyone said what a nice lady she was and if she wanted anything like to stop on the way to Southhampton if she needed a restroom, just say the word.

She had fully intended to ask him to take the tote bag with the Catherine file from under the blanket in the trunk, but decided against it.

I know by heart those letters Catherine wrote to Mother, she thought. I can read them in my mind. And I don’t want this man to get them out, then put them back in the trunk later. He’s obviously already discussed me with other people.

And why am I hiding the file? What is the point?

She had no answer, only an instinct to leave it in the trunk for the present.

It was one of those unexpectedly warm October days with the sun high and bright, and puffs of clouds drifting through a tranquil sky. But even though she had worn a warm cape over her suit, Olivia felt chilled. When they were on the way across town she asked the driver to slide back the cover of the overhead glass panel so that the filtered sun could warm the backseat of the car.

What was that prayer or psalm her mother kept at her bedside in her last year? It began “When in death my limbs are failing…” Maybe I’d better look it up and start reciting it, she thought. I know it gave Mother comfort.

With the heavy traffic it took nearly half an hour to get to the Midtown Tunnel. Olivia found herself looking with new eyes at storefronts and restaurants, remembering the times she had either shopped or eaten in one or the other of them.

But after they had gone through the tunnel and were on the Long Island Expressway the drive seemed to go quickly. As they passed the various towns Olivia found herself reminiscing over friends long gone. Lillian lived in Syosset… Beverly had that beautiful house in Manhasset…

“I don’t have the street address in Southhampton,” the driver said as they approached the town.

Olivia recited it to him and just doing so brought back the scent of the salt water that had wafted into her room in the cottage. Even the cottage faced the ocean, she thought. And the Gannon House was so beautiful, with the wraparound porch. The Gannons always dressed for dinner.

Another memory. Catherine walking on the beach, barefoot, her long hair swirling behind her. I know I’m right.