Ghost Lights by Lydia Millet (classic fiction txt) 📕

older than Susan or Hal but apparently somewhat non compos mentis, since she required a live-in attendant. He was not clear whether she suffered from early-onset Alzheimer’s, presenile dementia or some other condition, and Susan did not enlighten him.

They met to visit her at lunchtime, pulling up to the curb at the same time from different directions. Susan had spent the morning at her office, of course, no doubt closeted with Robert, whereas he himself had spent the morning at his office closeted with Rodriguez, who picked his teeth with a plastic cocktail sword. When they stepped out of their cars Hal leaned in to kiss her and breathed in her sweet smell; he also scrutinized her face closely, trying to detect the vestigial presence of the free love.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Still his suspicions hovered as he followed her up the front path.

A busty, squarish woman opened the door, a woman with a large mouth and bulbous nose. She had a thick accent, possibly from eastern Europe. She led them in and seated them on a sofa, where a large china cabinet dominated the view.

“You’re lucky. It’s a very good day for her. Clear, you know?”

As they waited Hal gazed through the glass diamonds of the breakfront at a large, Asian-looking soup tureen in faded pink and green, trying to discern what scenes it depicted. He was deciding whether to rise and inspect it more closely when Susan grasped his hand with a sudden fierce need.

“I’m not sure how to tell her,” she whispered. “Even though I practiced.”

He leaned his shoulder against her, but before he could say anything Mrs. Stern came in smiling, wearing white slacks and a linen blazer. A good-looking woman, if a little weak-chinned—thin and pale-blond and somewhat patrician, as though born into wealth and then faded from it.

“Susan,” she said warmly. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Angela,” said Susan, and rose to embrace her. “This is my husband Hal.”

“A pleasure. And what a wonderful daughter you both have.”

“We think so,” said Hal.

“We used to do jigsaw puzzles, the two of us. I had to give it up though. It’s my vision—I need cataract surgery. Can I get you a drink? Iced tea or coffee? I have a fresh pot brewing.”

“Oh. Sure. Thank you.”

“Yes,” said Hal. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

Roses and leaves and very small Chinamen.

The term was out of favor.

“So what’s the latest,” she said, as she moved into the kitchen. They were separated by an island with barstools. Susan got up nervously, followed her and leaned against it.

“We—we still haven’t been able to establish contact,” she told the mother with some hesitation, and he felt certain that only he could hear her voice waver.

“Milk?” asked Angela. “Or sugar?”

“Just a little milk, please,” said Susan, and nodded distractedly.

“No thanks, not for me.”

“I check in with the embassy on a daily basis,” went on Susan. “But there’s nothing they can do, on the active side. It’s quite a small facility. They don’t have resources. All they can do is relay any reports that come in.”

“Oh, yes,” said Angela, nodding as she poured milk into both of their cups. Hal considered waving a hand to prevent her, but then gave up. “The boat man worked for them, didn’t he.”

“Pardon?”

“I think the man who called about the boat worked for the embassy.”

She put Susan’s cup in front of her on the counter and walked around the island toward Hal. At the same time Susan turned to both of them, wide-eyed and deliberate. He accepted his cup and smiled gratefully.

“What boat?” asked Susan, with a hint of alarm. “What do you mean?”

“The man called about a boat he was in.”

“I had no idea,” said Susan. “Oh my God.”

She wandered back to the couch and sat down heavily. Angela glided back to the kitchen, oblivious, and poured her own coffee.

“Oh yes. The little white motorboat. They found it.”

Susan gazed at her agape as she came back in, holding her cup delicately, and perched in a chair opposite.

“Tell us the details,” said Hal carefully. “Won’t you? Susan has been very, very worried.”

“There was a little white motorboat he was in? With a native guide, you know, a tour guide doing the driving. Then the other day they found the boat, but there was no one in it. It floated back down to the beach, and there were some people fishing just then, or someone there was a fisherman . . . ? Anyway. Do they fish there? Something about fishing.”

“Just the boat?” asked Susan.

She seemed to him to be entranced, breathless and possibly fearful. He reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder.

“A man from the embassy called me, I thought he said. Or wait. Maybe it was the United Nations. Don’t they also have policemen?”

Angela crossed her legs gracefully and cocked her head, as though idly wondering.

“Uh,” said Hal slowly. “Are you sure they called you?” She was beginning to show her lack of acuity; for all they knew the boat story was a full-fledged delusion. “Did you, for instance, get a name from this informant?”

“It was the hotel where Thomas was staying,” said the attendant from the doorway, and Angela sipped her tea. “The resort hotel. They made an inquiry and then they called us.”

“Of course,” said Susan faintly. Her cheeks were flushed, Hal noticed, but he could not tell whether she was upset or excited at the news, whether it chilled or encouraged her.

“They have not seen Thomas yet,” said the attendant.

“No,” agreed Susan, and shook her head. “I do know that much.” She went to pick up her coffee cup—for something to occupy her, Hal guessed—and gulped from it thirstily, looking away from them.

“You take care of his business,” said the attendant, and smiled at Susan. “I know because of the paychecks!”

“Yes, I do,” said Susan. “But we may need to change that. It’s one reason I came. Mrs. Stern? If you have the means, you may find it