Excerpt: The Windmill: A Novel

The following is an excerpt from the book The Windmill: A Novel
by Stephanie Gertler
Published by Dutton; November 2004; $24.95US/$36.00CAN; 0-525-94800-7
Copyright © 2004 Stephanie Gertler


Chapter One

Olivia

I am still not exactly certain what compelled me to go to Carl's office that
Friday morning last November. Looking back, I believe it was instinct or
intuition. He was troubled at breakfast that morning, more deeply immersed
in thought than usual -- even for Carl. We sat with our mugs of coffee, read
the newspaper, planned the weekend when we would rake the leaves and sweep
away the last of autumn's debris from the gutters.

He pushed back his chair, carried his mug to the sink, and, when typically
he would grab his overcoat from the rack by the door and call "See you
later" as he walked out, he came over and kissed my cheek. "See you," he
said, lingering for a moment.

"See you," I said in a puzzled echo.

It wasn't until later, once I knew he was gone, that the inherent finality
in his voice resonated within me. Carl was saying good-bye.

I arrived early to teach my eleven o'clock class as I often do. Since Daniel
and Sophie are away at school, morning chores are far less demanding.
Usually, I go to the deli across the street from campus and have a second
cup of coffee. I call my sister Nina or my parents from the cell phone but,
instead, I went to Carl's office in the science building on the other side
of campus. It is an older building, darkened stone and ivy-covered. The door
is frosted glass in a dark wood frame; DEPARTMENT OF PHYSICS stenciled in
muddy brown. As I tried the knob, Ginny, Carl's secretary, pulled open the
door.

"He's not here. Where is he?" she asked, almost as though I'd stolen him.

She startled me. "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't mean to alarm you, Ms. Hughes. But he's not here. Dr. Larkin. He's
not here," she said breathlessly.

"I don't understand," I said, truly not getting the impact of what she said
even though she kept repeating herself.

"Dr. Larkin didn't show up for work this morning," she said, enunciating
each syllable as though we didn't speak the same language. "I thought maybe
you'd know why."

I have mastered the art of transporting myself to another place in time when
I feel cornered. Nina says it is the essence of protective animal instinct.
And so I thought of garbage soup. I stood with my lips parted slightly and
stared at Ginny, my mind back in the kitchen with my mother when Nina and I
were girls. She was making a stew and Nina and I were dumping all the
scrapings -- potato peel, brown celery tips, the fat she'd trimmed off meat,
chips of bone and gristle -- into a giant pot of water. It was something
you'd never want to look at, let alone taste. I suppose that Carl's absence
was just like that crazy concoction.

Thoughts raced through my mind the way they do in a dream. Rapid, all
jumbled together, and barely discernible. Part of me wondered if I had
willed this to happen. Certainly there had been times when I wished Carl
would just go away. No harm, no drama, no major scenes. I can't imagine
there isn't a wife on Earth who hasn't felt that way at one time or another.
Or a husband, for that matter. But Carl was far too practical to simply
disappear, let alone deviate from his routine. That he was not where he was
supposed to be was unsettling. It was the antithesis of Carl. My grandmother
always said, "Be careful what you wish for."

Poor Ginny. She'd been there for nearly a year and had the patience of a
saint, unlike the string of temps who preceded her. There she was, her
stringy brown hair tied back with a limp chiffon kerchief, her navy skirt
dotted with lint, her eyes wide and clearly panic-stricken beneath
thick-lensed glasses. She was probably in her mid-forties although she could
have just as easily been sixty.

"Ms. Hughes? I'm looking to see if I missed something," Ginny said, scanning
Carl's appointment book, running her index finger up and down the columns,
flipping pages back and forth, as though she might find the Perfectly
Reasonable Explanation as to why he wasn't there. She kept muttering, "I
can't understand where he is," over and over again, the way we do when we
misplace something.

"Now, let's just think for a moment," I said. "You've checked his book." As
the words left my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they were. I was trying
to calm her down -- and myself -- in the hope that this was all some sort of
misunderstanding or miscommunication.

She looked at me blankly, down at the book in front of her, then back at me.
"I am checking," she said.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," I said. "What time did you get here this
morning? I mean, maybe he got here before you did and then left. He left the
house at seven-thirty."

"I got here around seven-thirty," she said softly. "The bus was on time this
morning."

"Well, maybe he had a dentist appointment or something."

We both knew I was grasping at straws.

"Actually, he went to the dentist last week," she said meekly.

"Right. I forgot," I mumbled, though truly I hadn't known.

"Well, there has to be some explanation," I said. "Something must have come
up that he forgot to mention."

Ginny's mouth was so parched that there were sticky little white patches in
the corners. "I suppose," she said. "It's just so unlike him."

Ginny inadvertently validated my fears. We both knew that Carl made no
appointments by himself. His scheduling was precise and executed with
constant reminders from whomever was assisting him that week or that month:
Post-Its stuck on his computer and on top of his mail and then, finally,
someone practically ushering him out the door with more last-minute
reminders telling him for the umpteenth time the name of the person he was
meeting, the location -- even the topic. Carl's poor secretaries did
everything but slick down his hair, stick an identification tag on his
lapel, and hang his car key around his neck. They booted up his computer,
returned his phone messages, retrieved his voice mail, his e-mail, and
generally ran interference among his colleagues, who found Carl to be
brilliant but distracted to the point of vacancy. Those who didn't know Carl
well might have thought him to be condescending or aloof. It wasn't that at
all. Carl was just profoundly introspective, private, and abysmally
disorganized -- the reasons why the temps usually threw their hands up in
the air after a month or so and quit.

I played a game in my head sometimes: How would I answer if someone asked me
to describe my husband? "Carl Larkin, fifty-eight years old. Chairman of the
Department of Physics at Belvedere College in Willow, Massachusetts."
Handsome and rugged in a rumpled, absentminded professor sort of way. He
lived and breathed physics, waxing on and on about his fascination with the
"duality of pairs." He was a self-admitted loner, although I believed that,
deep down inside, he cherished his children and even me. He presented
himself as though he had an aversion to intimacy although I often wondered
whether it was avoidance or fear. He seemed to eschew metaphor, symbolism,
or emotion and yet I often felt that was a disguise as well. Whenever I
attempted to scratch beneath Carl's surface, a nearly visible armor covered
him. At that very moment, I chastised myself for not being more relentless
with Carl, for retreating so easily instead of forcibly penetrating him.
But, then again, had I reached into his soul, I would have had to allow him
to reach into mine.

The week before Carl disappeared, I turned fifty. People say "It's just a
number," but fifty is synonymous with words like "milestone" and "turning
point." Epithets that do little to soften the blows from AARP cards coming
in the mail and children who remind us that fifty is half a century.
Certainly, it's an age that begs us to take stock. Once, a long time ago, I
thought I would be an actress. When the kids entered grade school, I began
teaching drama at Belvedere, a poor substitute for the stage but my life had
changed: I was married with children. Another physics professor, a colleague
of Carl's, once joked that I was undoubtedly Carl's id: Carl was matter and
I was spirit. Carl was concrete where I was abstract. Diametric opposition,
he said, but of course, they say that opposites attract. It was that sort of
evaluation, that coming-of-age examination of myself and my marriage, that
occupied me for the months before my birthday.

I took the appointment book from Ginny's desk and flipped through the pages.
"People don't just disappear," I said, closing the book, placing it back on
the desk, reassuring myself as much as I was reassuring her.

"I hope he's OK," she said softly.

"Carl can take care of himself," I said unconvincingly.

Ginny nodded -- just as unconvincingly.

"Are you sure nothing odd happened in the last day or so?" I sounded more
like a detective than a wife. "You're not forgetting something?"

"I don't think so, Ms. Hughes."

"Anything distressing about a grant he didn't get or something like that?
That always eats him up inside."

Ginny paled. "You're not thinking he was in some sort of state?"

"No. Not at all. I'm thinking that maybe there's something he failed to
mention or just mentioned casually. Maybe he had to meet with administration
or something." I swallowed. "You know, like something last-minute."

She was pulling up Carl's e-mails now. I looked over her shoulder and could
see it was mostly spam. "It's been a quiet week," she said.

"So, nothing?"

"Well, he met with a student on Monday who wanted to change his lab date."
Ginny inhaled deeply. "But that happens all the time."

"What does?"

"Kids wanting to change labs and tests and whatever."

"And Carl usually handles that?"

"No, actually, he doesn't," she said. "Dr. Larkin just happened to be in the
outside office and, since I was on a phone call to NIH, Dr. Larkin was good
enough to take care of it."

"And?"

"And nothing. The boy changed his lab and that was that."

"Well, I tell you what. I'll keep you posted if I hear anything and you do
the same." I smiled. "I'm sure by the end of the day, we'll have this all
straightened out. Now if he calls you . . ."

"I'll have him get in touch with you right away, Ms. Hughes, not to worry."

I squeezed her hand. "Thanks, Ginny."

I made a loop around the campus just to see if Carl's car was parked outside
one of the other buildings. I even drove by the dorms, though I knew that
Carl had to be smarter than to park his car by a dorm if he was having an
affair with a coed. I went to the Shell station hoping his car was there
with a flat, or that his car was due for inspection or something. I drove
back to campus and was late for my class. I checked in with Ginny before
rehearsal for Antigone later that afternoon.

"Ms. Hughes, you don't think you should call . . ."

"The police?" I asked, my heart pounding. "I'm not sure."

"Is there anything else I can do?"

I looked at my watch. "It's almost five, Ginny. Why don't you just go home?"

***

It was nearly seven when I left the auditorium. I checked my cell phone even
though I'd left it turned on throughout rehearsal. There were no messages.
Last fall was unseasonably warm until mid-November. The leaves never turned
the way they usually did -- just fell lifeless to the ground. As I walked to
my car, the combination of pitch black and balmy warmth was particularly
disorienting. There was a scent of smoke and dust in the air. I'd mentioned
it to Carl just the evening before when we were walking Emmet, our half-Lab,
half-Shepherd.

"What is that smell?" I asked.

"Mold," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Mold? Can you smell mold? Really?"

"When it's bad enough."

I shrugged. "That's it?"

"Mold and mildew," he said. He smiled at me. "What did you think?"

"I was hoping for something more romantic. Shooting stars heating up the
earth."

"Shooting stars are just temporary. They're really just rocks that catch
fire. They don't scorch the earth."

You see? Duality of pairs.

Even though Carl's car wasn't in the driveway, I called his name as I walked
in the door. I was enveloped with emptiness when there was no answer. I
thought of Sophie and Daniel and how I would explain that their father was
missing.

I was hanging up my coat when I caught my image in the oval mirror that
hangs above the boot bench in our vestibule. For a moment someone else was
there. Surely, it wasn't my reflection. Mine would be someone younger, with
a defined jaw and wide eyes. A sense of time and dread came over me like
webbing.

I heard the faint drone of the old boiler and the hollow clicks of my heels
on the ceramic floor. Our ramshackle house on the Connecticut River suddenly
felt unfamiliar. It appeared dilapidated, accusing me of neglect: The
carpets were shiny with age and sprinkled with paint chips. There were piles
of papers in places where papers didn't belong -- on the dining table and
the kitchen counter. Old newspapers, unopened mail. Junk. Too much junk
lying around. Emmet nuzzled my leg. He'd been sleeping in his spot under the
kitchen table.

"Some watchdog you are, " I said, stroking his head. "So, tell me, where is
he?"

I opened and closed the refrigerator. The thought of food was unappealing
although my stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I walked up the
stairs and opened doors to every room, slowly, carefully, afraid of what I
might find -- Carl crumpled on a floor, beyond resuscitation -- something
horrific like that. Finding nothing was a relief.

It seemed rather premature, but I called the police. My hands shook as I
dialed.

"Willow Police."

"My husband didn't show up for work this morning," I said. "He's missing."

"Hang on," the person sang as though I called for a hair appointment.

I was patched through to the detective division where Detective Rossi
listened as I explained that Carl never got to work that morning. The
detective punctuated his attention with "uh-huh" every few seconds.

"So, why do you want to report him missing if he just didn't show up for
work?"

"Because he always shows up for work."

"We don't take reports on competent adults with no medical or mental history
for forty-eight hours," he said. "He doesn't have one, right?"

"Right."

"What's his license plate?"

I told him and he left the line for a moment. "We have no reports on the
car."

"What does that mean?"

"No accidents. Not stolen."

"I see."

"Ma'am, are you having marital problems?"

"No. Well, I mean, every marriage has something," I said defensively.

And then he just went on. Do you think he's having an affair? Does he have a
drinking problem? Did you argue before he left? Did he leave at the same
time that morning? Did he wear the clothes that morning that he usually
wears? How was his demeanor last night? Has he ever disappeared like this
before? Any enemies? Friends I could call and who might know where he'd
gone. What about his cell phone?

When I said that Carl didn't own a cell phone, that surprised the detective
more than Carl's disappearance.

"Call Sunday if he's not back by then," he said as though I'd merely lost my
wallet.

"Sunday? But he's my husband."

"That's protocol, ma'am. Sorry."

I was about to hang up when he said, "Oh, and you might want to check the
twenty-four-hour line at the bank."

"What for?"

"Cash withdrawals," he said bluntly.

"I don't understand."

"Sometimes, if someone is planning to leave for a while, they'll take cash
with them."

Clearly Detective Rossi had been down this road before, and I wondered how
many wives called for the same reason. I called the bank and nothing had
been withdrawn from either checking or savings. Part of me thought I might
have felt better had he emptied an account. At least then I would have known
this was calculated, that he was alive and had simply left me. Emmet nuzzled
me again. I patted his head but he kept pulling at my hand. In all the
commotion, I'd forgotten to feed him.

We keep a thirty-pound bag of food in a covered barrel in the mud room. I
grabbed Emmet's bowl and there, taped to the side of the barrel, was a blue
envelope with the Belvedere insignia.

Dear Livi,

Forgive me. I have started this letter a half dozen times and conclude
that the only thing I can tell you right now is that I am fine. I haven't
lost my mind and intend no harm to come to myself. I will explain. I
promise. I'll call by Monday. I do love you.

Carl

I read the letter over and over, trying to read between the few scrawled
lines, astonished and frightened because Carl said he loved me. When was the
last time we'd told each other? I couldn't remember. I folded the letter
into my pocket and grabbed my coat. I needed to go down to the river. Emmet
abandoned his food and followed me. I used to take Daniel and Sophie to the
river when they were little. We'd pack a picnic basket and bring piles of
picture books and Old Maid cards and sit on the weathered dock until the sun
set over the old foot-bridge that crossed the narrows.

Another wife might have waited by the telephone or sat and wrung her hands
that night. She might have called friends for comfort and conversation,
vacillating between worry and anger, rationalization and fear. Honestly,
except for Nina and my parents, there was no one to call. I was as much a
loner as Carl. Instead, Carl's absence lured me to a place I'd resisted and
needed to think about -- back to the summer of 1978 when it was I who
disappeared, only to return a few years later as Carl Larkin's wife.

Reprinted from The Windmill by Stephanie Gertler by permission of Dutton, a
division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Copyright © Stephanie Gertler, 2004.
All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be
reproduced without permission.

Author
Stephanie Gertler is the author of Jimmy's Girl, The Puzzle Bark Tree, and,
most recently, Drifting, all published by Dutton. She also writes a
lifestyle column for two Connecticut newspapers, The Advocate and Greenwich
Time. She lives with her family and four dogs in New York.

For more information, please visit Stephanie Gertler's Web site,
www.stephaniegertler.com, or www.writtenvoices.com.