“Darth Caesar?” Bette asked, already overhead. “As in, the divine Julius?”
“You should have heard them this morning,” Ceci said, squatting. “Princess Leia was a Vestal Virgin.”
This morning—Kit might have heard something in the sister’s tone. He and Bette hadn’t come out till nearly eleven, after which Bette had wasted no time asking about lunch. Now the mother hooked both boys into a prolonged hug. She kissed their hair and murmured how she’d missed them. Seemed like an unnecessary fuss, and she hadn’t yet met Kit’s eye.
“God,” Bette went on, “Darth Caesar. It’s an image for the American ‘70s. The dying Empire tries to preserve itself as a high-tech fairy tale.”
Her nerves were pretty obvious too.
“The new Caesar wants to make himself immortal,” she went on, “and so he turns to Industrial Light and Magic.”
On your feet, Viddich. If the weekend’s going to amount to anything, on your feet. Five minutes later he and Bette were back in the cold. Their unmatched strides crunched first over the walkway’s oyster shell, then over the frozen beach. There was sun by then, a break in the weather, but the wind seemed to flatten it, dirty it. Kit and Bette left no shadow.
“So you told her, right?”
“I’m afraid I did, Kit.”
He squatted and took up a stone. He chucked it into the surf and reached for another.
“You must have expected it,” she went on.
He nodded but didn’t stop, chucking sidearm.
“And surely you realize, Kit — Ceci’s discreet. You’ve seen how strong she can be. I believe it’s surprised us both, this weekend, seeing how strong she can be.”
Over the fogged crossing, the Woods Hole channel, gulls hovered unmoving. Kit let his throwing arm drop.
“Oh, honestly.” Bette paced behind him. “Kit, I had to talk about it. I had to talk about that and, well. I had to talk about everything. There’s this business of having babies, for instance. This very strange business of, well, maybe you and I are trying to have a baby and maybe we’re not. On that little matter we’re coming across rather impressionistic, I’d say.”
“I’m closing the paper,” Kit said.
Her pacing stopped. Still in his squat, he twisted, finding her face.
“I’m closing Sea Level,” he said. “Temporarily for starters, but maybe permanently. Maybe for good, Betts.”
Bette had a lot of color. Out here her hair — she’d forgotten her hat — was less hay, more frizz.
“I’ve gotten too close,” Kit said. “It’s what this time away was about. It’s integrity, it’s real life.”
“Kit,” Bette said, “won’t you let me have this?”
“Integrity and real life.” Kit shook his head. “Hoo boy. Believe me, Betts, I know what those words sound like.”
“This moment Kit, just this one moment. Please. Won’t you let me have it?”
“I’m not a bad guy, Betts. I’m a good guy.”
“My moment, Kit. Mine. Let me have it.”
Aw, Viddich. As Kit got to his feet he resisted the impulse to put his arms around her. He resisted the impulse to apologize, to tell her he loved her, to blurt out more examples of what a hero he was.
“Let me, Kit,” she said. “Me. I mean, I haven’t even had a decent opportunity to scream about Thursday night yet.”
She was his type, the bony ticking type, the kind of woman that had always put him in big hurry to prove himself. Upright, he kept his posture slope-shouldered and acquiescent. But for a long moment there was only the ragged surf, the tangled winds. Bette’s look softened just perceptibly.
“Are you actually closing the paper?” she asked.
Kit didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wished he still had his stones. Stones, a scrolled newspaper, something.
“You’re actually going to go in Monday morning,” she asked, “and tell people they’re out of a job?”
Patience, husband. “I haven’t thought about what I’m going to tell people, Betts.” He repeated that the shutdown might be only temporary. He’d see what things looked like in a month or so, after he’d worked through the ramifications of what had happened in Monsod. “I might need new money, too. There’s a conflict of interest with Mirinex.”
Bette said she wasn’t surprised — and none too hopeful about the money, either.
“I guess,” Kit went on, “there’s one woman I’d like to keep on salary if I can.”
“Oh? A woman? Would that be Zia?”
That was more like it, the kind of slam Kit had been expecting. And his usual response was to start sounding all lofty and professional, Mr. Top-of-the-Masthead. Not this time. Plain and simple, Kit explained that he’d meant his Administrative Assistant. Corinna Nummold, Betts. “She’s got a kid.”
Bette shook her head. “Kit, I must say. I still find it hard to believe.”
“If I don’t close,” he said, “I’ll never figure out why this happened.”
Her hair was frizz, a ratted frizz, a punk-rock cut. “Why what happened? Monsod, you mean?”
“I don’t know why it happened, Bette. Something went wrong, I mean I did something wrong. Me, I did it. And I don’t know why.”
Her eyes glittered. “You don’t know why you had to hit him a second time.”
Ow, there’s a slam. And that was Bette’s way, sure, getting in a shot when you least expected it. Kit resisted various new impulses. He folded his arms and nodded.
“Well, Kit, I would have thought that was what you were trying to find out Thursday night. That’s what you were looking for when you didn’t come home.”
Plain and simple, he apologized. “Like I say,” he went on, “I have to figure this out.”
“Oh. You do realize, Kit, this isn’t necessarily all about you. This ugly business.”
“Bette. I realize there’s other guys involved. Bad guys, good guys, and they’ve all got their story. Sure. But besides them, there’s me. I’m sorry, like I say. I’m half-crazed and I’m having nightmares and I’m very sorry about what I did. But just coming out to the beach and saying that — it’s not enough. Not nearly. Also I need to know why.”
“Well, why. The way you described the incident yesterday, it sounded like self-defense.”
Kind words, but Bette didn’t look any less like a punk. “Yeah, I could call it self-defense.” He made a face. “Aw Betts, those are just words. Words, words, words. I’d like to think I can do better than that.”
“Well, Kit. All things considered, I’d say you can see why I need some time alone.”
Her hair exploding in the wind, her face battered by crying — who was this person?
“I need some time alone, Kit. I need to be alone, and I need, oh. To be free to move. I need the car, Kit.”
“Betts, please. You need—”
“Kit, let me have this. Let me say this. I need to be alone and I need the car. I might do some traveling.”
Kit cast around for help. Up behind Bette the lights in the Cottage had gone on, a buttery blur in this cold.
“There’s public transportation from Woods Hole, Kit.”
Also Bette’s hair and face was in stark contrast to the rest of her, the undertaker’s coat and the square-toed boots. The first time he’d seen her, in the lobby of the Globe building, he’d gone under before this kind of impact. There too she’d overwhelmed the landscape. She’d made the turnstiles and switchboard disappear simply by flashing her ID.
“I need you now,” he said. “I’m scared.”
Did her look soften? Did her shoulders relax?
“Please, Betts.”
“Kit,” she asked more quietly, “do you believe in history?”