Magnificence A Novel - By Lydia Millet Page 0,17

for location, could afford, possibly, a clear view of the ocean. She tried to picture a new life and when she did so—putting it neatly into a frame as though the future was visible through a porthole—she saw the blue ocean.

She visited Casey as often as she could, sought her out for meals or trips to the grocery store and did not press her about the phone-sex job. She would not dream of asking. The job was irrelevant now, its triviality complete. One afternoon they sat for hours at the end of the Santa Monica Pier, where Casey also liked to go, barely speaking. They listened to the screeching gulls and watched the pier’s small population of anglers, a few stubborn old curmudgeons who didn’t mind pollution in their fish.

•

After a week T. came to the house to reclaim his pet. He had wanted to do it sooner but he knew she had grown fond of the dog. No doubt he was being considerate.

“So,” he said, kneeling in the kitchen, his hands in the dog’s fur, rubbing. “When you come back we can start the next project. But no hurry. None at all. Take all the time you need.”

“A new project?” she asked.

She’d been doing preliminary research for him on a parcel in Tahoe when he disappeared, something about Whispering Pines.

“We’re going to disincorporate,” he said.

He’d said something about that, on the phone from Belize. Back when she thought he was crazy. She’d blocked it out, she guessed.

She realized she had a headache, thought it might be dehydration, and went to get ice for a glass of water.

“It can be a complicated process,” he continued. “The lawyer will handle most of the details. I’d like you to stay on with me, though. If you’re interested.”

“I don’t really get it,” she said dumbly, and turned from the open freezer to stare.

“I’m going to do something else. You’ll still be needed.”

“Something else?”

“A foundation.”

“Foundation? You mean, for giving away money?”

“A 501(c)3.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Dead serious. But like I say, no rush. We can talk more when you’re feeling up to it.”

They were leaving then, he and the dog, with little acknowledgment, the dog’s nails clicking across the kitchen floor. She noticed its bowls were still beside the trash can—one with a few kibbles remaining, the other with water. She and Hal had never had a dog. She thought vaguely that Hal might not have liked them very much, might have preferred cats such as the one he bought for Casey. Though he had always said he liked dogs, this might have been a white lie of sorts, she thought. Why had they never had a dog, if in fact they both liked dogs?

But it was true what he had told her about T.—her employer was sane, though certainly changed. Apparently it was straightforward: he’d turned liberal Democrat from fiscal Republican. Of course she did not know how he voted. For all she knew he never voted at all. But clearly he had some notion of being a do-gooder. (Why was the term so bitter, so resentful?) Anyway he was newly bent on charity. Such reversals were not uncommon, almost cliché, in fact: it was only the certainty with which he’d proceeded, before, the certainty of his commitment that made it seem absurd. Then again the kid was only in his twenties, barely older than Casey. She’d given him too much credit for being fully formed. He had always had a veneer of maturity.

She heard his car back out of the driveway and walked with her glass of water into the living room, past a bookshelf where there was a picture of Hal and her. It was before they had Casey, when they were young, and Casey had had it framed and set it up there. They were two young hippies, long-haired and smiling. Well, she was long-haired. Hal had never gone that way. But he did sport a mustache and the obligatory beard, which Casey always found amusing. True to its era the picture was sun-bleached and faded; they stood holding hands in front of a silver Airstream. Susan wore what appeared to be a striped muumuu, Hal a flowery tunic. She had picked out his clothes for him back then.

An offer came in for the house and she began to sort Hal’s things into boxes to give away, boxes to move with, boxes for Casey. Into Casey’s boxes she put a model horse, toy soldiers, a sailboat with peeling blue paint. That was