Your Heart Belongs to Me

upon seeing them at the table, halting one step below the deck. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt.”
    “Kevin,” she said, “please join us. I’ll get another glass.”
    “No, no. Really. I only have a moment anyway. I’ve got to be off to the hospital, evening visiting hours.”
    As Ryan rose from his chair, Samantha said, “Have you guys met?”
    When Ryan regretted that they had not, Samantha introduced him to Kevin Spurlock, the son of Miriam Spurlock, who owned the house that came with the garage above which Sam lived.
    “How is your mom?” Samantha asked.
    “She’s doing well. Really well.”
    For Ryan’s benefit, Samantha said, “Miriam had a very bad attack of angina a week ago—in fact a week ago this evening.”
    “She was in a restaurant,” Kevin said. “Paramedics rushed her to a hospital. The worst for her was making a scene in a public place. She was mortified.”
    “Heart attack?” Ryan asked.
    “No, thank God. But tests revealed blocked arteries.”
    “Critically blocked,” Samantha said. “The next morning, she had a quadruple bypass.”
    “She loved your flowers,” Kevin told Samantha. “Calla lilies—they’re her favorite.”
    “I’ll fill her bedroom with them when she gets home.”
    After Kevin had gone, Samantha told a few stories about Miriam, one of which Ryan had heard before. The landlady was something of an eccentric, although unfailingly sweet and kind.
    A week earlier, when Ryan thought he’d caught Samantha in a furtive conversation with Spencer Barghest, she evidently had been receiving the news about Miriam Spurlock’s hospitalization.
    Seeing a light in the apartment, Kevin must have come to the door. The knock failed to stir Ryan from a postcoital nap. To avoid waking him, Sam had gone outside to talk with her landlady’s son.
    Inspired by a paranoid interpretation of this innocent meeting, Ryan had flown to Las Vegas the following morning, seeking proof of a nonexistent conspiracy.
    Now Rebecca Reach’s get-rich-quick books seemed to be evidence of nothing worse than her gullibility and wishful thinking.
    The collection of magazines containing articles by Sam proved only that, estranged from her daughter, Rebecca nonetheless remained proud of her.
    Spencer Barghest might be perverse, even depraved, and Rebecca might be a terrible judge of men, less than intellectually keen, and morally adrift—but neither she nor her corpse-infatuated lover was scheming against Ryan.
    Samantha had never mentioned either that she had met Barghest or that he had been present when her sister, Teresa, had been forced on from this world.
    In retrospect, however, her silence on the subject most likely indicated only embarrassment. No one would be quick to reveal that her mother slept with a creepy nihilist who lived with cadavers that he claimed were art.
    Following the episode on the surfboard and then the terrifying seizure that same night, which had sent him to Forry Stafford, Ryan had obsessed on one word uttered by the internist— poisoning —to avoid confronting the truth that his body was failing him. He needed instead to identify an external enemy that would be easier to defeat than a disease or a genetic abnormality.
    In his desperation, he had retreated from the logic with which he had previously coped with every problem of business and of life. He abandoned reason for unreason.
    Forced by Kevin Spurlock’s visit to acknowledge his weakness and his error, Ryan was mortified. Hopeful that the wine would smooth the edges off his humiliation, he poured a second glass.
    He was grateful for the pepper-tree patterns of fading sunlight and swelling shadow because they partially masked him. He hoped that at least this once, Sam might find his face more difficult to read than Dr. Seuss.
    After a third little story about Miriam, Samantha fetched four votive candles from the kitchen. She arranged them on the table.
    As her face brightened in the glow of the butane match and her gaze traveled wick to wick, Ryan said, “I love you,” and felt like a weasel, although like a weasel in rehab.
     

 
    TWENTY-FIVE

    W ith the moon still tethered to the eastern horizon but straining higher, with the giant pepper tree occluding most of the eternally receding stars, the time to talk of death had come.
    After dinner, with the table clear except for wine and candles, Ryan held Samantha’s left hand and said, “I’ve been happy every moment we’ve been