The Echo of Old Books(115)

“You’re right,” I say, turning away. “None of it matters now.”

I expect him to call after me, to stop me from walking away. It’s only when he doesn’t that I realize just how badly I want him to.





TWENTY-ONE


MARIAN

Environment must always be considered. Books, like people, absorb what they’re around.

—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books

November 3, 1984

Boston, Massachusetts

It’s nearly eight and my things are packed. My train case, a small suitcase, and a nylon garment bag are on the bed, waiting for the bellman to carry them down. I’ve called Ilese to let her know that something’s come up and I need to get back early. The girls will be disappointed, but I’ll see them in a few weeks for Thanksgiving.

I’ve had little sleep and dread the drive ahead of me. Not home to Marblehead but to New York and Corinne. Strange now that after forty years, this day feels somehow inevitable, as if my sister and I have always been on a collision course. Despite lying awake most of the night, caught between grief and rage, I still haven’t decided what to say to her, but I’ll have time in the car to choose my words.

I’ve just swallowed the last of my orange juice when there’s a knock at the door. I set the empty glass on the breakfast tray and go to let the bellman in. Instead, I find Hemi standing in the hall, cradling my award in the crook of his arm. “What are you doing here?”

He hands me the glass globe. “Good morning to you too. You left this at the bar last night.”

I stand stiffly in the doorway. I’m not prepared to do battle again. At least not with him. “I was just on my way out,” I say brusquely. “In fact, I thought you were the bellman.”

“The bellman isn’t coming. I told him I’d take your bags down.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m driving you to New York.”

I stiffen, caught off guard by his change of heart. “I have my car here.”

“I’ll bring you back when we’re through. If you’re actually going to have this conversation, I’m damn sure going to be there to hear it.”



In the car, Hemi and I barely speak. Perhaps because I’m preoccupied with what I’m going to say when I finally have Corinne in front of me. I haven’t laid eyes on my sister in thirty-five years, nor have I set foot in my father’s house in all that time. I have missed neither. Aside from the memories of my mother, there is nothing I remember fondly from that part of my life. And certainly nothing I look forward to revisiting today. Thankfully, what I have to say won’t take long.

The silence is numbing, heavy with unsaid things, so that I’m almost relieved when the house finally comes into view, smaller somehow than I remember it, despite its imposing granite facade. My stomach knots as Hemi pulls into the service alley behind the house and cuts the engine. I get out of the car and go around to the front, holding my breath as I ring the bell.

It isn’t Corinne who finally answers but a doughy middle-aged woman in nursing whites. She runs an eye over us, already preparing to close the door in our faces. “I’m sorry, there’s no soliciting here.”

“We’re not soliciting,” Hemi explains, turning on the special smile he reserves for members of the opposite sex. “This is Mrs. Hillard’s sister. We’ve come all the way from Boston—as a surprise.”

He says it with such conviction that I feel a bubble of laughter catch in my throat. I imagine Corinne will be very surprised to see me again.

Her posture is still rigid, but some of the wariness has left her eyes. “Mrs. Hillard isn’t well. She’s waiting for the doctor and can’t be disturbed.”

I register this news with some surprise. I’ve never known Corinne to succumb to so much as a cold. Always indomitable. Always in control. “We won’t stay long,” I assure the nurse. “But there’s a rather pressing family matter I feel she’d want resolved immediately. In light of her health, you understand.” I feel Hemi’s eyes skim my way and sense what feels like admiration. “If you’ll just tell her Marian is here, I’m sure she’ll want to see me.”

The nurse nods grudgingly and ushers us into the foyer. “I’ll just go up and check. Please wait here.”

I watch as she hurries away in her thick-soled white shoes. When she’s out of sight, I wander toward the parlor. Hemi trails slightly behind, maintaining his prickly silence.

The house is a sad echo of itself. Dreary and faded, filled with dated relics from a time when the Mannings boasted one of the finest homes on Park Avenue. Little is familiar, save a few antiques and some of the art on the walls. Even the new furniture—if it can be called new—has seen better days. Tired-looking armchairs and settees with slumping cushions. The carpets are worn to the jute in places, and the once-gleaming floors are dull from lack of care.

It gives me a perverse sense of pleasure to see how far down the Mannings have come in the world, all their careful machinations come to naught, my father’s ill-gotten empire smashed. I steal a look at Hemi and see it in his face too.

The rhythmic hiss of thick white stockings alerts us to the return of the nurse. We meet her at the base of the staircase. “She says to go up. She’s in her room. It’s the last door on the right.”