“Poor Jamie,” I said softly. “He had no idea what was coming toward him.”
I remembered all the times my father had gone out and shot baskets with my brother, how often even that had ended in some kind of brawl, ended with Jamie stomping up to his room, slamming the door behind him. At those times, my father had often lingered beneath the net, the ball bouncing up and down on the cement drive, rhythmic as a heartbeat, while he stared vacantly toward the backyard. I could see the look on his face, an expression of helplessness and bafflement, as if he were lost in a terrible bramble, pricked and bleeding, with no way out.
“My father was confused,” I told Rebecca. “Maybe, in the end, he just wanted to get out of that confusion.” I looked up at her emphatically. “Things were heating up in our house,” I told her. “Tension. Hatred. Maybe he couldn’t find any other way to clear the air.” I considered it a moment. “So he just blasted his way out.”
“A sudden explosion, is that what you’re saying?” Rebecca asked. That your father just blew up one afternoon?”
I nodded.
Rebecca said nothing.
“Maybe Jamie was the focal point of that confusion,” I added after a time, “the center of the storm, you might say, but not the whole thing.”
“Did you ever see them talking?” Rebecca asked. “Jamie and your father?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“So they weren’t faking love anymore?”
“No, they’d gone beyond that point, I think,” I said.
It struck me that perhaps this was the line that my father, and all these men, had finally crossed, the one that divided genuine from counterfeit devotion. Somewhere, they had decided that they would no longer live behind their own paternal mask, that the long masquerade was over.
My eyes drew over to the picture of my father on his wedding day, the luminous smile that adorned his face. “Maybe that’s where the fakery began,” I said as I tapped the photograph softly, “from right here, from the very first day.”
Rebecca watched me silently.
“So that his whole family life was a lie,” I added quietly, in a voice that was even, controlled.
In a rush of images, I saw all the postcard moments of our family life, the holidays spent together, the bloated turkey on Thanksgiving, the lighted tree at Christmastime. I saw all our little celebrations, saw my father as he’d stood beside the blazing candles of countless birthday cakes. Each in turn, I watched him lift us into the uncluttered air, Jamie when he turned five, Laura the day she won the fourth-grade spelling bee, me on the day I first rode my bike without training wheels.
“All a lie,” I repeated softly, my lips hardly parting with the words. “Can that be possible?”
Rebecca’s eyes fell toward the picture of my brother in his ruin, a gesture that gave me the only answer I required at the time.
NINE
A WEEK PASSED before we met again. As always, it began with a phone call to my office, and it ended with the two of us seated in the front room of her cottage by the lake.
From the beginning, it was clear that during the intervening days, Rebecca had thought a great deal about our last conversation. She began with a reference to it.
“We were talking about faking love,” she said, as she took a seat opposite me. “You were saying that your father might have faked it from the beginning.”
I nodded.
“What about his love for Laura?” Rebecca asked. “Was he faking that, too?”
I shook my head determinedly. “No. Absolutely not.”
Rebecca took a picture from her briefcase and handed it to me. It showed Laura as she lay on her back, her chest blown open, her soiled feet pressed toward the camera. I gave the picture back to her.
“I don’t care what that shows,” I told her. “I saw his face when he was with her. She relieved him. She gave him the only happiness he may have had in our family.”
I could tell Rebecca remained doubtful.
“I know that my father loved Laura,” I repeated, almost wistfully. “Because I loved her too. Especially toward the end. Especially that last year when it became …” I hesitated to say it, but found that I couldn’t keep it back. “… romantic.” I shrugged. “Or at least that’s the way it felt.”
Laura was sixteen that year, and so beautiful that there were times when I’d catch her in my eye, and simply stop, dead still, and watch until she passed from view. So beautiful that I’d begun to dream about her. They weren’t the sweaty, lustful fantasies of teenage boys, but the atmosphere was always luscious nonetheless, a sensual world of glades and humid leaves, warm mists and jungle fragrances.
In dreams, Laura came to me in such places. Of course, it was never really Laura, but only a presence I recognized as her, a smell, a taste, but never the person that she really was, the teenage girl who ate dinner across the table from me, and slept in the room next door. Still, it was a powerful presence, and after each dream, I was left with the odd sensation of her actually having passed through me, like a wind through a cloud, leaving me in a strangely suspended state of excitement and delight. The following morning, while she ate her eggs obliviously across the table, I would smile inwardly, remembering my dream, and with the strange sense that I’d cunningly stolen something from her during the night, then triumphantly slinked away.
“I was in love with my sister,” I said. “If we’d been allowed to grow up together, I’m sure I would have found another romantic object.” I shook my head. “But she died at the height of her power over me, and so, I had all this love left over, like money I couldn’t spend.”
“You couldn’t spend it with your wife?”
“It’s not the same.”
I half expected Rebecca to lean toward me and begin a wholly different inquiry, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked at me very shrewdly, as if taking some part of me in for the first time. Then she said, “I know.”
For a moment, we stared at each other softly. During that brief time, I felt an undeniable connection to her, a sense of having shared the same dark space. But it lasted only an instant, for almost immediately, Rebecca shifted in her seat, as if to break free of some invisible net.
“How about Laura?” she said. “Did she have a ‘romantic object’ in her life?”
I suppose it was not until that moment that I fully realized just how much I’d buried since the murders, how much I’d repressed.
“Yes, she did,” I said. “A boy named Teddy Lawford.”
Rebecca drew a small pad from the table beside her chair. “Was he from Somerset?”
“No. They met on Cape Cod. My father had rented a cottage there for the last week in August 1959.” The nearness of that day in November struck me. “It was just three months before the murders.”
Rebecca’s eyes tensed slightly, but she said nothing. Instead, she merely allowed me to continue, her pen still poised above the white paper which bore nothing but Teddy Lawford’s name.
“Teddy was seventeen,” I began.
As I spoke, I could see him quite clearly in my mind, tall and lanky, with light brown hair. He had grayish eyes that seemed to change depending on the light, something Laura had later commented on. His amiable, divorced father was a large, beer-barrel of a man who’d spent his life selling auto parts in Boston. He’d rented the cottage next to ours for the summer, and Teddy had watched a series of families move in and out of it over the preceding weeks, some staying no longer than a few days before they were replaced by another. But we had been the first, I later heard Mr. Lawford say, who’d shown up with a lovely girl nearly his son’s age.