38. Jeremiah
JEREMIAH
Igo to the party alone.
The host greets me in a dress covered in small golden keys. She says she bought the fabric years before she had a use for it and has spent the evening inventing answers for people who ask which locks they fit.
Mine apparently opens a seaside villa with unreliable plumbing.
I laugh. I have always liked her. For a while, talking about the apartment she found for Suri and Dax, I stop wondering what Zelda is doing.
Candace arrives with an older woman I recognize. The host welcomes both of them. Her invitations are her own; Suri’s withdrawal has not removed Candace from every room we know.
I put down my glass and move toward another group near the window. Candace catches me in the foyer a little later, when I go to get my coat.
“She isn’t here,” she says.
“No.”
“I heard you answered for both of you, and then she fussed about it.” Her smile is small. “She always did make a great deal out of being asked.”
I take my coat off the hook.
“Jeremiah. You should hear something before you go.”
She has her phone out. Zelda’s name is above the voice message, and the date is November twentieth.
I know what it is. My stomach tightens anyway.
“Don’t play it.”
“She wished she’d never married you. Before any of this.”
Behind Candace, two guests are trying to find a scarf. I wish they would come nearer.
I wish she had not said those words here, while I am holding my coat like a man waiting for permission to leave.
“Zelda already told me about that.”
Candace’s thumb stops above the screen.
“Then she’s made you apologize for that too.”
There is an old, ugly ease within reach: I could tell her how much it hurt. Let her say I deserve better. For one minute I could be the person somebody is defending.
I push my arm into my coat. The lining catches at my wrist, and I have to pull it straight before I can answer.
“She told you that because you were her friend.”
“I’m trying to show you what she’s like.”
I remember the bowls drying beside Zelda’s sink in July, her phone facedown on the table between us. She had expected the evening to end when she told me. I had nearly made it end by explaining my work again.
“Put the phone away.”
“You don’t even want to hear her voice?”
“Not from you.”
She lowers it a few inches. “Other people might. They’ve heard quite enough about what you did.”
“You’re not playing that message here.”
“Then perhaps at Suri’s lunch.”
“You’re not invited.”
Her face changes. I see the fury she has been holding underneath the smile.
“I arranged parties for half these people. Now I’m supposed to wait at home while she tells them how brave she was to leave you?”
“Suri told you not to come.”
“They can hear something true for once.”
The guests with the scarf have stopped talking. Candace sees me notice them and lowers her voice again.
“I was there for you.”
I have wanted that sentence to be true. It made so much of what I did easier.
“You watched me make her apologize for something you knew she hadn’t done.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.”
Neither of us moves. Then I take my phone out of my pocket.
“I’m telling Suri what you’ve threatened.”
Candace laughs, a short breath with no amusement in it. “Go on, then.”
I find Suri near the kitchen and ask for a word. She listens without interrupting, then takes out her own phone.
“I withdrew those invitations in July. She knows.”
“Tell the restaurant as well.”
“I will. Tonight.” She looks toward the foyer. “Have you told Zelda?”
“I’m calling her now.”
Outside, I stand beside my car with her name on the screen. She wanted an evening at home. Otto may be asleep. She may be reading, with her feet tucked beneath her on the sofa. I can almost hear myself explaining tomorrow why I let her have a nice night first.
I press call instead.
She answers on the third ring. Water is running in the background.
“Hello. How’s the party?”
“I’m leaving. Candace approached me.”
The water stops.
“What did she say?”
“She has the voice message from November. She tried to play it for me.”
“Did you listen?”
“No. I told her you’d already told me.”
I hear a bottle touch the counter, then another. She is setting them down very carefully.
“She’s threatening to play it at Suri’s lunch,” I say. “I’ve warned Suri. She’s contacting the restaurant.”
“Candace isn’t invited.”
“I know.”
For a long time Zelda says nothing. I stay beside the car while the light above the restaurant door goes on.
“I sent it from our kitchen,” she says at last. “I kept stopping because I didn’t want her to hear me crying.”
I put my hand on the cold roof of the car.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not saying I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“I just thought she would be kind. I thought she was my friend. I needed kindness then.”
There is nothing I can say that will give her back the friend she thought she was calling. I want to go to her. I ask if she would like that, and she says no, not tonight.
“Will you call me tomorrow?” She gives me that, and I cling to it.
“Yes. Of course.”
“All right.” Her breath catches once. “Thank you for telling me.”
After we hang up, I stay where I am for another minute. Through the window, I can see the host laughing with a guest. Candace is still inside. I send Suri the exact threat Candace made, so she’d have it in writing, then get into the car and go home.