The hand holding the knife dropped from my throat and rested on my breast. “It could have been perfect,” she said. “For both of us. I would have done anything for her. Why wasn’t it enough?”
“ ‘Some people,/No matter what you give them/Still want the moon,’ ” I said.
Livia whirled me around to face her. “I offered her the moon,” she said furiously. “She didn’t want it. She wanted to move away, have a child, grow things, make art, make choices. After she’d taken away all my choices.”
“Not all of them,” I said. “Livia, you can still decide how this will end.”
For what seemed like an eternity, we looked into one another’s eyes. It was the most terrible intimacy I had ever known.
Finally, she said, “I can decide, can’t I?”
“Of course,” I said.
My intent, that she spare me and give herself up to the authorities, was so clear in my own mind, it never occurred to me that Livia had seen another answer in my words.
She took a ring of keys from her pocket and handed it to me. “This one opens Solange’s office,” she said, indicating the key marked with Solange’s office number. “She’s bleeding heavily. You should go to her. I’ll call 911 myself.”
Relief washed over me. “You won’t regret this,” I said.
Livia reached out and, with a hand that was as cold as death, she touched my cheek. “Even when I turned against you during Kevin’s case, you never told.”
“Told what?”
Her face crumpled with shame. “How I debased myself the night my husband left me.”
Clear as a Polaroid print, the image of Livia drunkenly attempting to light the candles on her birthday cake flashed before my eyes. “Every life has some terrible moments,” I said. “But there’s always a new moment, another chance to regain our dignity.”
Livia’s eyes never left my face. “That’s true, isn’t it?” Her lips brushed my cheek. “Sisters forever,” she said, and I felt something inside me shrivel.
I held Solange’s hand as we waited for the ambulance. She floated in and out of consciousness, moaning, talking a little. Once she whispered, “ ‘God says, “Take what you want. Take it, and pay for it.” ’ Don’t forget the fat priest, Joanne. Livia has to pay…” She closed her eyes then, drifted into the twilight sleep of one whose pain is too great to be borne in any other way. As we heard the sirens that announced the arrival of the police and the ambulance, Solange’s eyelids fluttered. “We killed her with our love,” she murmured, and I shuddered at the truth.
As the attendants strapped Solange to the stretcher and took her away, the police streamed into the hall. I directed them to Livia’s office, and then returned to my own. For a few moments, I drank in its ordinariness: the pictures of my kids and of Alex and Eli, the familiar spines of my books, the comforting roundness of my Brown Betty.
The officer who burst through my door didn’t look much older than Angus. “Livia Brook’s not there,” he said, and his voice cracked with frustration. I followed him into the hall.
Uniformed police were everywhere. Robert Hallam, striding smartly towards me in a blue blazer and grey flannel slacks, was a welcome emissary from the everyday world. “Do you have any idea where she could have gone?” he asked.
I shook my head. “She said she was going to call 911. I was so anxious to get to Solange, it never occurred to me that Livia would try to escape. There’s nowhere she can go, except…” I touched my cheek, remembering Livia’s wintry kiss, the way she had leaped at my words when I said she could still decide how the nightmare would end.
I touched Bob Hallam’s arm. “She may have decided to choose her own way out,” I said.
His face showed nothing. “Do you know her home address? Usually, that’s where they go.”
“I can’t imagine that would be Livia’s choice,” I said. “After her marriage broke up, she moved into a condo, but I think it was just a place to go at the end of day. This was her home.”
“You think she’s still here?”
I held up the ring of keys Livia had handed me. “Let’s check Ariel Warren’s office.”
I let Robert open the door and walk in ahead of me. The office was shadowy, but I could see that she wasn’t there. I tried to put myself in Livia’s place; where would I go? The answer was not long in coming. I led Robert down to the wide concrete walkway that runs along the outside of our building.
The evening was soft and filled with birdsong. Livia’s body had landed on the little hill where Ariel had taught her last class. I wondered if she had known, if she had planned it that way. In death, Livia seemed too insignificant to have planned anything: a broken doll, as lifeless as one of Bebe’s Barbies. The poppy shawl lay on the grass beside her. One of her fingers touched its edge, pinning it to the ground. As we watched, a gust of wind came up and lifted the shawl into the air. For the briefest of moments, it swirled, a flash of pure beauty, an emblem of what might have been.
The Monday after Livia’s suicide, Kevin Coyle became acting head of our department. The decision had been unanimous, but his appointment gave new meaning to the term “hollow victory.” No one wanted to be department head. It was the end of May: holidays had been planned, arrangements had been made to deliver learned papers at conferences in exotic places. Like grade-school kids, we were all sick of school. The last thing any of us wanted to do was hang around the office.
But Kevin revelled in his new status. He moved his shining new computer and his coffee-maker into the department head’s office and plunged into his duties. There weren’t many. Livia had left our affairs in order, but Kevin managed to keep busy. Every afternoon, he visited Solange in hospital. He told me they talked little but played endless games of cribbage. Somewhere between hands, Solange convinced Kevin to enrol in a Women’s Studies class that was being offered that summer. Eager as a freshman, Kevin went straight to the bookstore and purchased his texts. When I came to pick up my mail, I often spotted him reading one of them, underlining and harrumphing at some fresh oddity about the lives of girls and women.
Charlie was back on the air. Eli kept me posted. Apparently, Charlie had lost none of his edge, but one day the sadness in his voice had become so overwhelming that Eli called the station and invited Charlie to meet him and his psychiatrist, Dan Kasperski, for coffee. The two men had hit it off so well that, when Charlie asked, Dan accepted him as a patient.
Alex came home with a fresh tin of hemp oil that we managed to empty by the end of his first week back. After one particularly gratifying hour of lovemaking, Alex lay back on his pillow and grinned at me. “As Truman Capote once said, ‘Home! And Happy to Be.’ ”
I rolled over and snuggled in. “Imagine a kid from Standing Buffalo quoting Truman Capote.”
Alex kissed the top of my head. “You forget,” he said. “I’ve been to the big city.”
Busy with Alex, plans for the boys’ graduations, Taylor’s endless end-of-term activities, and my own marking, I never seemed to get around to calling Bebe Morrissey. Characteristically, Bebe took matters into her own hands and invited me over.
Rain was threatening the afternoon I pulled up in front of EXXXOTICA, but the marigolds in Ronnie’s iron pots were cheery, and Kyle, who was installing a cinder-block front walk, was cheery, too. As soon as he recognized me, he threw down his shovel. “Great to see you,” he said. “I’ll take you up to Bebe. There’s a ton of customers in the store. Rainy days and full moons are good for business, at least that’s what Ronnie always says.”
Business was indeed booming. Ronnie was at the cash register, ringing up a stack of videos. She waved when she saw me. “Come talk to me before you leave,” she said.
“Absolutely,” I said. Then I followed Kyle up the narrow stairs to Bebe’s room.
There were fresh circles of rouge on Bebe’s wizened apple cheeks, and her white hair was brushed into an aureole as insubstantial as dandelion fluff. “Well, we got her,” she said by way of greeting. “We got our murderer, that Livia Brook. I’ve made a whole scrapbook on the case. It’s over there on the chest. I thought we could look at it together while we had our snack.”
As I drank my chocolate milk and perused Bebe’s album, I thought there were worse ways to spend a rainy afternoon. The milk was comforting and, mounted in the scrapbook, the grainy newsprint pictures of people I had known so well already seemed distant, part of a painful but receding history.
