So Bob continued on with the story. He told her this:
—
A trooper had looked at Bob with seriousness, asking, “Where is Matthew Beach?” And Bob told him that Diana had sent Matt to the hotel on the river. The trooper nodded and then said, “We’ll need to see him. He’s next of kin.”
“But he’s no longer under suspicion,” Bob said.
The trooper was a tall man, as tall as Bob, and he looked at Bob and said, “Right.”
Bob had sat down then. The weariness he had felt increased, and he thought for a moment that he could go to sleep if they would let him.
The tall trooper said to Bob, “Bring him home, we’ll get her out of here as soon as the medical examiner shows up and does what she has to do.”
—
Bob had gone outside to wait. It was sunny and warm, what a glorious day it had been out there by the Beaches’ home on that day in May. All the shrubs by the windows were green or had white flowers now, a very slight breeze moved through them. There was the sound of birds. He had sat on the front steps, dazed. And then he had texted Jim, who had been expecting him the next day. Jim texted right back: Fuck.
As Bob sat there his legs started to tremble slightly, and he understood it was from a sense of vast relief. His legs trembled more and then they finally stopped. He called Margaret and told her, and her voice was soft as she said, “Oh Bob.” He said, “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, Margaret, I have to stay here with him for a while.”
“Stay for the night, if he needs you,” Margaret said.
Bob just sat there, hearing the birds. A strange calmness had come to him. He called Matt and said, “Come on home, son.”
A slight breeze had blown the bright green leaves up a little bit and then back down; he remembered this now.
—
Lucy said quietly, “You called him son.”
“I did.” They had reached their granite bench, and Bob pulled out a cigarette.
Lucy stayed quiet, as though absorbing all he had said. Then she said, “Her husband going off with her best friend—I think that’s what finally did her in.”
And Bob nodded. He turned his face to her and said, “How are the girls, and Aiden?”
“Oh, they’re all fine. Just fine.” Lucy waved her hand. She said, “Tell me more.”
“Turns out the Connecticut police were supposed to be watching her house, but she’d left early in the morning. Apparently, no one saw her go.”
Lucy glanced at him and shook her head slightly.
“I feel—” Bob hesitated. “I feel awful. I mean physically awful as well. I feel like I’ve been put into a washing machine, and I’m sort of on the spin cycle.”
“Yeah, of course.” Lucy said this quietly. Then she said, “I keep thinking of that story Olive told me about Janice Tucker, and how I thought Janice was a sin-eater. Like you are. Oh Bob. Please take care of yourself.”
“Matt said I look like shit.” He gave a small smile to Lucy, who said, “You don’t. But you do look exhausted.”
They spoke more, in quiet tones, there was an intimacy to the way they spoke to each other, this is what Bob thought. The leaves on the birch trees were out, all the bright green leaves were there, and they could not see the river as clearly as they could in the winter. When they stood up they bumped into each other—Bob had turned, and Lucy had turned—and they stepped away from each other quickly.
As they walked back, Lucy said little. And Bob said, “You’re right, I am exhausted. Talk to me, tell me anything.”
So Lucy told him about an elderly couple she had seen by the elevator in the lobby of her building in New York. “They were old, Bob. Like maybe ninety, and she had a cane and was shorter than he was. He was a big man, I don’t mean fat, but he was big and tall, and he was leaning toward her and laughing, I mean he was really laughing, his chest shook with laughter—and then—” Lucy turned toward Bob. “And then he reached over and touched her face. Her hair. He smoothed her hair back behind her ear. Bob! It was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in ages.” She added, “And then they sort of hobbled off, slowly.”
“Nice,” Bob said.
“It was so nice.”
After they parted, Bob felt a surge of deep sadness. He did not know why.
—
But later that night as he got ready for bed, he had this thought: Make it go away, please make the whole thing go away. He meant his feelings for Lucy.
7
“Come in!” yelled Olive, and Lucy Barton walked in. It was the very end of May now and the weather was hot today, right out of the blue, and Lucy was wearing a dress with small flowers on it, and also green sneakers on her feet.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Lucy said, placing her bag near her feet and sitting down on the couch.
Olive said, “Now, I happen to know the point to this story. Is it an unrecorded life? It is. But it is more than that. So, see if you can guess the point by the time I’m done.” Olive straightened the thin jacket she had on; this jacket, which was new, tended to fall slightly off her right shoulder, which bothered her.
“I hope I can,” said Lucy, and Olive said, “Hope you can too. It came to me a few days ago. Now listen.”
Lucy leaned back on the uncomfortable couch, then rearranged herself, sitting back up, crossing her legs. “Go.”
“Okay. Now, years ago—a million years ago—I taught with a man named Muddy.”
“Muddy.” Lucy said this.
