Free Trophy House by Anne Bernays Page B

on his back, snoring softly. I kissed his cheek but he didn’t stir. I had a very hard time falling asleep—I usually have insomnia the first few nights in a different bed. I finally fell asleep around 2 A . M . and by the time I opened my eyes again, it was eight-thirty and the man of the house had already left. I found a note on the kitchen counter next to the butter, which he had neglected, as usual, to put back in the refrigerator. There were toast crumbs to sweep into my hand and deposit in the convenient Insinkerator (what a name!). I have a view over the kitchen sink: the house next door, a brown-stained wooden structure of no particular distinction with a kitchen window approximately opposite ours. Sometimes I see my neighbor, Alicia Baer, standing at her sink, doing her dishes. We wave and nod. The note said he hadn’t wanted to wake me—“You looked so warm and peaceful”—but he’d see me later, after work. “I’ll try to phone you later.”
    I assumed Beth was still asleep. I sat down at the kitchen table and ate breakfast while reading the New York Times (another small convenience).
    Truro seemed, at this distance, on the other side of the planet. It fell, like my past, into a place where memory trumped everything else. I phoned Raymie to let her know I was in Watertown.
    â€œYou’ll never guess where I went yesterday.”
    â€œI haven’t a clue.”
    â€œI went to see Mitch Brenner in the hospital.”
    â€œYou what? ”
    â€œI visited your neighbor. He’s in Cape Cod Hospital. He’s still in traction.”
    I listened to details of legs broken and rebroken, minor kidney problems, a touch of pneumonia. And where was the wife? Ruthie had taken a hike when it became apparent that she would have to be a full-time nurse for several months at least and would be bathing him instead of partying with him. He was understandably bitter about this and called her an assortment of unflattering names. Raymie agreed. “That’s what you get when you marry a trophy wife. Only in health, never in sickness. First sign of an ugly rash and I’m out of here.”
    But what had induced her to visit the enemy? Well, she’d heard about Ruthie’s defection and felt sorry for him. I was so nonplussed by this news that I had a hard time responding, and trying to figure out exactly what I thought.
    Raymie went blithely on. She had found him almost pathetically grateful for her visit; it seemed that she was only one of very few people willing to travel from wherever they lived all the way to Hyannis. Some had sent flowers instead and his private room was crammed with them, several of them wilting on their stems. “He’s not so awful, really,” she said. “He was nice to the nurse.”
    â€œThat’s a terrific sign,” I said, wondering how he behaved when no one was looking.
    He and Raymie had had a wonderful visit. “He really loves the Cape,” she said, even though there was no nightlife to speak of and you had to create your own pleasures. He had offered her Italian chocolates his son had sent him. The son lived in Boulder. He hadn’t come to see his father, since the injuries weren’t life-threatening. And what about his daughter? She lived in Switzerland and she wasn’t about to come either. Although still on painkillers, Mitch was fixated on catching the person who had vandalized his house. He referred to him as a terrorist.
    I thought that was something of an exaggeration, but I suppose that when someone pours blood on your house without even making your acquaintance first, you’re apt to lose a sense of proportion. I asked her how long she had stayed.
    â€œWell,” she said, “I drove more than an hour to get there; I wasn’t about to turn around and come right back. A couple of hours, I guess. I’m going again next week.”
    â€œYou’re not,” I said. It