Ed
Ed
E d silently curses the Internet for the speed at which worrisome news can reach a person. Soh is reading about some nasty killing in the French countryside where Ebby is staying.
“It’s very close to Ebby,” Soh says. And she would know. She’s been studying maps of the area. Soh has reconfigured her news feeds to prioritize regional updates from Ebby’s location in France. Even before the Connecticut headlines pop up, Soh’s smartphone spits out little bits of French news. Politics, energy prices, emergencies. Which town is having open-air markets, or outdoor concerts, or thunderstorms.
“In case we decide to visit,” Soh said when she began to study the maps. “There’s a lot to know.”
It’s true, the article Soh read to him last week about fortified wines was interesting. There’s one made from Cognac mixed with unfermented grape must. Seems it’s been around since the sixteenth century, but Ed has never tasted this Pineau. Not to be confused with wine made with pinot grapes. It was discovered by accident, as is so often true of the good things in life.
“The French police are talking about an unknown assailant,” Soh tells him. “Does this mean the person who killed that woman could go after someone else?” Soh’s agitation fills their bed with a humid kind of heat. She tries Ebby’s phone but cannot reach her.
“You’re worrying,” Ed says.
“Yes, I’m worrying,” says Soh. “And shouldn’t I?”
No matter that they have seen a photo of the unfortunate victim in the prime of her life. No matter that the woman looks nothing like Ebby. This is not enough for Soh. When they finally speak to Ebby, she sounds so quiet that, for a moment, Ed thinks Ebby might have known the victim.
“No, I didn’t know her. I don’t think she lived in this town,” Ebby says. “Anyway, the police are investigating.” Ebby sighs, then, and in her breath, Ed hears it. The shakiness he sees in his daughter sometimes. The reminder that any act of violence, however unrelated to Ebby, might take her back to what she lived through as a child. And for all their concern for her, he and Soh have to learn to leave her to find her own way through these moments. The therapist warned them, didn’t she?
And what about Ed? What would be the best thing for him? Before he can stop himself, Ed is back to thinking if only. If only he hadn’t brought his family here, none of this would have happened. And afterward? Should he and Soh have left the state altogether? Moved Ebby back to live near their families? Is it too late to do so? Would Ebby move, too, if they were to leave? Or would she prefer to keep her distance? Who would they be without their daughter nearby to remind them that life, in its own way, has been good?
When his head gets this cluttered, there’s only one thing he can do. He peers at the first light of morning filtering through the blinds. He gets out of bed, pulls off the threadbare whale-print pajamas that the kids gave him the last Christmas they were all together. The pajamas always make him smile. He looks over at Soh, still sleeping, as he pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Slowly, quietly, he takes her phone from her hand, turns it off, and puts it on the nightstand. Then he goes downstairs, grabs a bucket and stick, and walks out the back door of the house.
Ed follows a path down to the curve of sand that looks out onto the rocky islands in the Sound, the bucket knocking against his leg as he walks. There’s a woman, pants cuffs rolled up, already scratching at thesand as the tide goes out, the rising sun turning her entire back golden. Ed doesn’t want to leave this place. Who would want to? But he thinks he should seriously consider it.