The Last Time They Met Part 23

"It's you," he says. "It's all you."

"Isn't that a song t.i.tle?" she asks.

They have on sungla.s.ses. Beyond them, the world is all aglitter. On their way to the beach cottage, they pa.s.sed the Giant Coaster, St. Ann's Church, and the diner, all of which were encased in ice. The sun made a sheen against walls that were too bright for the naked eye; it made the branches of the trees seem to have come from Paradise.

"A different kind of Heaven than we imagined," she says.

"What?"

"It's a wonderland," she says, admiring.

Thomas has retrieved his car. He has, along with most of the rest of the other holdouts in town, finally had chains put on his tires. There is still February to go, and March, and who knows what freak storms April might bring?

"They cost me twenty bucks," he said earlier. "Worth it, though. Otherwise, I couldn't have picked you up."

He kisses her. Though they are parked - - daringly daringly - - in their usual spot, Thomas argues that the cop isn't likely to start his rounds so early in the afternoon. in their usual spot, Thomas argues that the cop isn't likely to start his rounds so early in the afternoon.

"Why are you doing it?" Linda asks.

He knows precisely what she is referring to. "Donny T. asked me to," he says.

"That's not a very good reason," she says, leaning forward and turning on the radio. There has been no school this day, but it's taken Thomas all morning to get the car towed. She inhales deeply. She can't get enough of his smell, that scent of toast. It seems to her the essence of human warmth.

"Last night at your house?" she says. "That was a disaster."

"It was OK," he says.

"No, it wasn't," Linda says. "She hated me."

"She's overprotective."

She puts her face in her hands. "I can't believe I wore that sweater without a bra," she says.

"I loved it," Thomas says. He touches her breast and stops, an animal waiting for the signal to approach.

"It's OK," she says.

"Whatever it is, you should tell someone."

"I would tell you if I could," she says. She thinks a moment. "I would tell G.o.d if I could."

"Isn't He supposed to be able to see and know everything anyway?"

"It's part of the contract. You have to be able to tell Him what you've done."

"It's illogical."

"Well, of course," she says.

"I don't want to be rude," Thomas says a few minutes later, "but do you really think G.o.d cares?"

The question doesn't shock or even surprise Linda. It's a query, phrased differently, that has gnawed at her for some time: the illogic of caring whether Darren sleeps with Donna before marriage when the Holocaust has happened. Logic demands common sense: G.o.d can't possibly care about premarital s.e.x in the face of all that horror. Yet the thought that He might not care fills her with despair.

Thomas removes Linda's sungla.s.ses, and she squints.

"Take yours off, too," she says, and he does. They sit face to face.

"I have to ask you this," he says.

"OK," she says, ready for anything. Curiously buoyed up in fact.

"Please tell me what happened."

But her confidence is false. She opens her mouth to speak and can't.

Thomas puts his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes. She runs a finger down his chest. Beyond them the sun sets. The sparkle in the dunes goes out, and the temperature drops.

"Where did you live before here? Before the Home, I mean?" he asks.

"Marshfield," she says.

"Oh."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I guess there are quite a few things I don't know about you."

She is silent.

"Where did you go in the summers?"

"Thomas."

"Can't you just answer one lousy question?" A testy note in his voice she has never heard before stiffens her shoulders.

"What is this?" she asks.

"When you go to Confession," he asks, "do you confess letting me touch your breast?"

She pulls her blouse closed.

"Will you tell the priest about last night? About when I lifted your skirt?"

She is tight-lipped, staring straight ahead.

"Will you?" he asks.

She puts her sungla.s.ses back on.

"How detailed do you have to get?"

"Thomas, stop."

The diamonds on the winds.h.i.+eld are gone. She pulls her coat tightly around herself. "Take me home," she says.

"I just want to understand what you're all about," he says.

The wind from the ocean rattles the loose bits of the Skylark and waffles against the windows. There is frost inside the car as well, she realizes. She can see their angry puffs of breath.

"I guess I'm angry," he says.

"With who? With me?" she asks.

"I guess I'm angry at you."

"Good," she says, hugging the door now. She begins to b.u.t.ton her blouse.

"I'm not angry at you," he says.

"You should be," she says.

"Why?"

"I've spoiled something for you, haven't I?"

"That's a myth."

"It's in your bones. It's not a myth."

"Linda. Look at me."

She refuses. "Speaking of not knowing everything about a person, why don't you tell me why you're carrying drugs for Donny T.?"

"So what if I do?"

"So what? So f.u.c.king what if you do? You could go to jail, that's what."

"Linda, look at me. Please."

She relents and turns.

"This is it," he says. "You're it. If I know anything in my bones, I know that."

She is silent.

"You're my family, for Christ's sake. You're my lover and my friend and my family." He pauses. "I a.s.sume I'm yours."

It might be true, she thinks. It might be possible. And what a relief that would be, she thinks. A different way to see the world: Thomas as her family. She crosses the ocean between them and touches his hand.

"You sound ridiculous when you say f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k," he says.

Thomas opens the door of the Skylark. He reaches into the backseat and takes out the duffel bag. Linda watches as he makes his way to the beach in front of the dune gra.s.s, slipping and sliding as he goes. She sits on her hands to get a better look. The tide is high, lapping at his feet. With the strength of an athlete, he flings the bag high and wide into the sea. He watches it float for a minute until it sinks.

Her eye flickers between the vertical upright stalks of the dune gra.s.s, the horizontal clapboards of the cottage, the squares of the windowpanes. She hasn't noticed this before, but everything is a pattern. She has thought that her life until now was a random series of events. This thing happened and then that thing happened, and then that thing happened. When all along, there has been a pattern, a plan. A beautifully intricate plan.

Thomas slips into the car, s.h.i.+vering as he does so. Though his jacket is on, his s.h.i.+rt is still unb.u.t.toned. He rubs his hands together.

"What will happen now?" she asks. "Won't Donny T. be mad? How much was in there?"

"A few kilos. He'll probably put a contract out on me."

"Thomas."

"I'm only kidding. I'll pay him. I'll think of something."

In the cafeteria the next day, Donny T. is making book on how many more days of school will be canceled before the winter ends. The high bet is six. The low is none. Linda thinks the low bet is closer to the truth. The minute changes in the light - - the strength of it, the way it slants through the windows the strength of it, the way it slants through the windows - - suggests that spring is tantalizingly near. suggests that spring is tantalizingly near.

There are pockets of slush on the tile floor beneath her table. She sits alone, with only five minutes left before cla.s.s. She contemplates the iridescent sheen on the mystery meat in front of her, the congealed gravy that lies in lumps on the plate. She wishes she'd thought to bring an apple.

She watches Donny T. at his table: the deft way he takes the money from outstretched fingers; the sleight of hand as he slips it into a jacket pocket, the casual way he jots notations on a napkin, ready to ball it in his fist should an overcurious teacher wander his way. He is entrepreneurial and gifted.

She takes a bite of mystery meat and sends up a quick prayer to Mary to intercede on Thomas's behalf, to protect him and to guide him. They are nearly, but not quite, rote, these prayers. She says them for Jack and for Eileen, said them for Patty when she had the German measles, for Erin when she got a D in Latin. She thinks of the prayers as balloons and sees them squiggling up through the atmosphere, past the clouds, trailing string. Balloons of hope. A prayer is nothing if not a balloon of hope.

"Linda Fallon," a voice behind her says.

She turns and quickly swallows the lump of mystery meat. "Mr. K.," she says.

"May I join you?" he asks.

"Sure," she says, moving her tray aside.

"Don't let me keep you from your lunch."

"No, that's fine," she says. "It's disgusting anyway."

"Ain't that the truth."

Mr. K., a short, squat, barrel-chested man who tries without success to look professorial, swings his legs over the bench. He is nursing a cup of coffee, poking at it with a straw.

"You know," he says, "in addition to being an English teacher, I'm also the senior cla.s.s adviser."

"I know," she says.

"And to make a long story short, I was going over the list of students applying to college, and I didn't see your name."

"No."

"You didn't apply."