It is a conscious mental effort to distance himself from the accident. The city is not unfamiliar. He had worked there for years. But withSara’s current mood, he’s forced to opt for the solitude of his house on the end of Long Island in spite of the disturbing memories that greet him whenever he opens the front door.
He prefers to think about the positive side of staying at the beach. The house is in an area that has other advantages: the broad sandy beaches, the ocean that shifts and amazes him with every tidal surge, and the sea terns that glide and swoop for prey among the small fish or mollusks along the surf. But most of all he savors those days when the weather rises up and feeds the air with the raw energy of a storm. Not a hurricane, for sure, but the wild uncontrolled release of passion that only some act of nature can bring; a happening that boils the ocean into a frenzy and diminishes the role of man who must hunker down amidst the torrent and wait to see if there will be another day. He loves all of this, but now is torn between avoiding the house and staying in New York, but this decision is now controlled by Sara. His mind foolishly tells him that by living a hundred miles away in the city, the wall of concrete and brick buildings will somehow insulate him from what rests under the ground at the Montauk Overlook.
Perhaps the city would be easier to take if things between him and Sara were more normal, but this isn’t the reality of their relationship. It also seems that she can only tolerate his New York presence in small doses, as if her forgiveness of his presumed betrayal can only be earned in similar micro measures. He accepts this as the only way to heal their relationship. The consequence of this arrangement is that he’s really left with no choice at all about where to spend most of his time.
He constantly thinks about the late spring rains. He checks the weather daily in the papers and on the Weather Channel. When heavy rain is forecast across the eastern end of Long Island, and especially over the isolated area where Heidi’s body rests, his chest falls away as the prospect grows that the water will slowly erode his secret.
He imagines the topsoil washing away, until someone, a hiker, orhis dog, even a fox or deer pulls away at one end of an exposed end of plastic bag until some appendage is exposed. He has a compelling urge to drive back to the overlook and walk through the brush to see if his secret is still safe, but he has so far resisted such impulse.
“There was a message for you on the tape,” Sara says. This is his second day back on this visit and it is a rare recent incident of direct interaction. She speaks as she sits at a small desk in the living room opening her order from the Vietnamese take-out. Amos sits across the room on a couch that faces the muted sounds from a flickering television. This arrangement is typical of their recent physical separation whenever they are both in the apartment.
Posner has spent the day at the Neue Galerie on Fifth Avenue staring at the erotic drawings of an Austrian artist named Egon Schiele who only lived until he was twenty-eight. There was boldness in the artist’s renderings. Women subjects unflinchingly part their legs to reveal crimson labia, and all of it makes Posner uncomfortable as he imagines some connection between these provocative poses and Heidi.
“A Detective Wisdom from the East Hampton Police asked you to call him back. What’s that all about?”
Her sudden interest is a change from the recent past and catches him off guard. He raises a glass of wine to buy time. He sips the burgundy liquid and leans back. He must tell the smallest part of the story now, and he isn’t sure how to do it. The words finally come out as if he were another person speaking.
“Oh, there was this person on the Hampton Jitney that went missing some time ago. A woman. She was on the same bus I took, so the town police wanted to know if I could
He prefers to think about the positive side of staying at the beach. The house is in an area that has other advantages: the broad sandy beaches, the ocean that shifts and amazes him with every tidal surge, and the sea terns that glide and swoop for prey among the small fish or mollusks along the surf. But most of all he savors those days when the weather rises up and feeds the air with the raw energy of a storm. Not a hurricane, for sure, but the wild uncontrolled release of passion that only some act of nature can bring; a happening that boils the ocean into a frenzy and diminishes the role of man who must hunker down amidst the torrent and wait to see if there will be another day. He loves all of this, but now is torn between avoiding the house and staying in New York, but this decision is now controlled by Sara. His mind foolishly tells him that by living a hundred miles away in the city, the wall of concrete and brick buildings will somehow insulate him from what rests under the ground at the Montauk Overlook.
Perhaps the city would be easier to take if things between him and Sara were more normal, but this isn’t the reality of their relationship. It also seems that she can only tolerate his New York presence in small doses, as if her forgiveness of his presumed betrayal can only be earned in similar micro measures. He accepts this as the only way to heal their relationship. The consequence of this arrangement is that he’s really left with no choice at all about where to spend most of his time.
He constantly thinks about the late spring rains. He checks the weather daily in the papers and on the Weather Channel. When heavy rain is forecast across the eastern end of Long Island, and especially over the isolated area where Heidi’s body rests, his chest falls away as the prospect grows that the water will slowly erode his secret.
He imagines the topsoil washing away, until someone, a hiker, orhis dog, even a fox or deer pulls away at one end of an exposed end of plastic bag until some appendage is exposed. He has a compelling urge to drive back to the overlook and walk through the brush to see if his secret is still safe, but he has so far resisted such impulse.
“There was a message for you on the tape,” Sara says. This is his second day back on this visit and it is a rare recent incident of direct interaction. She speaks as she sits at a small desk in the living room opening her order from the Vietnamese take-out. Amos sits across the room on a couch that faces the muted sounds from a flickering television. This arrangement is typical of their recent physical separation whenever they are both in the apartment.
Posner has spent the day at the Neue Galerie on Fifth Avenue staring at the erotic drawings of an Austrian artist named Egon Schiele who only lived until he was twenty-eight. There was boldness in the artist’s renderings. Women subjects unflinchingly part their legs to reveal crimson labia, and all of it makes Posner uncomfortable as he imagines some connection between these provocative poses and Heidi.
“A Detective Wisdom from the East Hampton Police asked you to call him back. What’s that all about?”
Her sudden interest is a change from the recent past and catches him off guard. He raises a glass of wine to buy time. He sips the burgundy liquid and leans back. He must tell the smallest part of the story now, and he isn’t sure how to do it. The words finally come out as if he were another person speaking.
“Oh, there was this person on the Hampton Jitney that went missing some time ago. A woman. She was on the same bus I took, so the town police wanted to know if I could
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