“Healthy woman,” Sammy said with authority. “Looked like she’d just hiked the Appalachian Trail. Bluest eyes I ever saw. Bluer than Paul Newman’s eyes, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t talk much, though. I asked her what she was doing in Woodstock and she just looked at me, like she didn’t understand the question. She got away after that. Somebody told me she has a house around there. It was news to me.”

I did not tell Sammy about Jean Archer’s house. I knew he would press me to take him to see it.

“She stays to herself, I understand,” I said.

“She must,” Sammy agreed. “Hard to believe I didn’t know she lived up here.” He walked a few paces, remembering his meeting with Jean Archer. “Do you know her, Bobo?”

“No. Like you, I’ve known of her for years, but I’ve never met her. Even saw some works from her private collection not long ago. They were interesting, especially one or two.”

“That right?” Sammy said. “I wish I’d had a chance to talk to her, maybe have a cup of coffee or something. You think it’s true that she tried to kill herself?”

I stopped walking. “She did? I didn’t know that.”

“That’s what one of the kids was saying,” Sammy answered. “But, Jesus, Bobo, you know kids. They’ll say anything.”

“Do you remember anything specific?”

“Not really,” Sammy replied. “Something about somebody walking in on her one day and finding her almost dead from an overdose of sleeping pills, or something. I guess they took her to the hospital and got her pumped out.”

“Did they say who found her?” I asked.

Sammy thought for a moment. “Don’t remember anybody giving a name, but I think they said it was one of her models.” He clucked his tongue seriously. “You know, Bobo, I don’t give a tinker’s damn what people do, as long as they don’t bother me with it, but I’ve got to tell you, anytime I hear things like that about an artist, it pisses me off. That kind of business gives the rest of us a bad name.”

CHAPTER

10
 

MARRIAGE BECOMES PREDICTABLE, A KIND OF ROUTINE THAT floats like a stationary buoy on moving waters. Its early, intensely wonderful drama becomes repetitive theater, the same lines rotely spoken, or mumbled, the same gestures instinctively offered from the drill of daily rehearsal. The anticipation of surprise following surprise eventually fades, then vanishes. It is not needed. How can you anticipate what you already know?

Once I called Carolyn, or thought I had.

I was busy writing a student evaluation and was not listening carefully.

“Hello,” a woman said.

“Hi,” I replied. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. What about you?”

“Fine. Any mail?”

“The usual: bills.”

“Any calls?”

“A couple of salesmen. Nothing else.”

“How’re the kids?”

There was a pause.

“What kids?” the woman asked.