A Stranger on the Planet

by Adam Schwartz

  “You have a PhD from the University of Chicago. I think you can do something more meaningful with your life.”

  She had the moral authority to say this, since she could have used her extensive knowledge of the tax code to earn big bucks in the service of a private law firm rather than in the service of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

  “So what do you have in mind for me?” I asked. “Become a house husband?”

  “No, this.” She showed me a brochure for a private school called Back Bay Academy. She told me that her friend Amy taught at the school and that one of the English teachers there had fallen ill (with AIDS, she added sadly) and the school needed an immediate replacement.

  “You want me to teach high school?”

  “Look in the back,” she said. “Virtually all the teachers have PhD’s. Amy tells me it’s not much different from teaching at a small liberal arts college.”

  I looked at the faculty profiles: Not only did they all have PhD’s, but most of them were from Harvard and Yale. I told Molly that I might be underqualified to teach at this high school.

  “You might actually like it,” Molly said. “You have a wonderful capacity for nurturing, Seth. It’s what I love most about you.”

  “You mean like John Wayne after he discovers Natalie Wood in The Searchers?”

  “Exactly!”

  We had recently purchased a VCR, and one of the first movies I rented was The Searchers. I plagiarized all of Raymond’s best lines. John Wayne discovers his capacity for nurturing and love. He becomes a whole person. If Raymond supplied the content, I supplied the context. I told Molly that was the story of our relationship: I was like John Wayne—surly, lonely, unloved, and unlovable—and then I found her and discovered my capacity for nurturing and love. She completed me, helped me become a whole person. Molly had told me that was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to her.

  “Sure, why not?” I said.

  “Here’s the application.”

  The school required a recent writing sample. Since the only things I had written recently were one-liners for my act, I looked through the box where I kept all my old graduate-school and undergraduate papers. I tried rereading my PhD thesis, but it was about as enjoyable to me as eating from a box of cornstarch. I read through some of my graduate-school papers, but got bored after a page or two of each one. Near the bottom of the box, I found a copy of “A Stranger on the Planet.” I was immediately drawn in by the story, feeling as if I were reading the transcript of a dream about my mother and me. After I read the last sentence, I felt a curdling in my heart: This story was the most meaningful thing I had accomplished in my life, and I had kept it closed up in a box for nearly ten years. I had turned my life into a joke. Literally.

  Two days after I sent in my application, I received a phone call from the headmaster of Back Bay Academy, Dr. Archibald Merritt. He told me that I was ideal for the position and that it was indeed splendid serendipity that I could begin right away. In my application letter, I had whited out my last two years as a stand-up comic and said that I had been subsisting on a small inheritance in order to write full-time, but that I would need to look for employment in the next month.

  “We all thoroughly loved your story,” Dr. Merritt said. “Do you plan on sending it out?”

  In the application, I had said that “A Stranger on the Planet” was my most recent story, which, of course, was technically true. “Yes.”

  “Where to? The New Yorker? The Atlantic?” “Yes,” I replied. “The New Yorker and the Atlantic.” The next day I showed up for my interview. The school occupied two brownstones of prime real estate in the Back Bay. As I would later learn, everything was made possible by Dr. Merritt’s family fortune, which he had used to found the school in the 1950s. The school didn’t require a uniform, but the students all looked the same anyway: They favored an androgynous look, as if they were trying to efface both their sexuality and their privilege, perhaps attempting to trample on the Brahmin spirits that had once trod up and down the same marble staircases in this beautiful building. During my tour of the school, Dr. Merritt took me to visit a class. The students were all brilliant, all business, eight of them sitting around an oval seminar table discussing the “Box Hill” chapter of Emma. Outside the windows, I could see sailboats moored in their slips along the Charles River. I knew that Dr. Merritt would offer me a job, and as I gazed at the view, my heart exhaled with relief: I would never step on a stage again.

  I LOVED TEACHING AT BACK BAY ACADEMY. Molly had been right: The work was far more rewarding than stand-up comedy, and our lives felt blissfully normal and rich. I loved waking up at the same time as Molly every morning, loved sharing the shower with her, loved hearing her purr as I massaged shampoo into her scalp and slowly soaped her body, loved having breakfast together, loved putting on a tie and coat and leaving the house with a briefcase in my hand. I especially loved my commute. I drove my car to the Alewife T stop, where I parked it, and rode the Red Line to Charles Street. Riding the train, I always envisioned myself through my father’s eyes, imagining him, twenty years before, watching a movie about my adult life. He would see me wake up next to Molly, my beautiful wife, would see us leaving the house together in a neighborhood recognizable as West Cambridge. He would see me get on the subway in my coat and tie, a briefcase at my side, blending in with all the other commuters—the professors, administrators, secretaries, and students who would be getting off at Harvard. Would I be getting off at Harvard too? No. I keep riding the train, which, past MIT, becomes crowded with doctors, residents, interns, nurses, and patients getting off at Charles Street. I get off at this stop too and move with the crowd in the direction of Massachusetts General Hospital. Could it be possible? Could I be a doctor? But I head off in a different direction, down Charles Street, then hike up one of the side streets and stroll past the beautiful nineteenth-century homes in Louisburg Square. I enter a brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue, a place that’s clearly recognizable as an exclusive school, and he sees me go into a small classroom with wood-paneled walls and a baroque chandelier. I sit at a seminar table and lead a masterful discussion of The Scarlet Letter with ten very bright and animated students. In the classroom, I am always my best self—smart, amusing, skillful, patient, vibrant, and kind. I’m not a Harvard professor and I’m not a doctor, but he sees, with surprise and pride, that I have an honorable and dependable job, that, despite everything, I have arrived safely at a normal adulthood.

  WE SET OUR WEDDING DATE FOR MAY 15 and planned to hold it at the Fruitlands Museum in the town of Harvard, a rural suburb west of Boston. The museum was on the ridge of a hill surrounded by apple orchards. Molly forecast that the white blossoms on the trees would be in full bloom in the middle of May. In March we began shopping around for a clergyperson to marry us. I called some rabbis, but the only ones willing to marry an interfaith couple charged a small fortune. Then a friend told us about a Unitarian minister in Cambridge who would marry just about anybody, and we scheduled an appointment with her.

  A day before our appointment I was in my usual position at the bedroom window, waiting for Molly to come home. When I caught sight of her walking down the street, she appeared more bewildered than usual. At one point, about one hundred steps from the house, she stopped completely and let her heavy purse and briefcase fall to the sidewalk. She looked around, disoriented. Then a car pulled to a stop next to her. The driver rolled down his window and said something. Molly smiled and pointed to our building. The car drove away and I raced outside and down the block.

  “Molly, sweetie, are you all right?”

  Her face was drawn. “I’m all right. Just a little light-headed.”

  “Let me help you,” I said, lifting her purse and putting my arm around her waist. “Thank God I just happened to be looking out the window.”

  Molly was not feeling well enough to eat dinner and lay down in the bedroom. I pulled some books on pregnancy off the shelf— I think Molly had bought
out the entire women’s health section. At the kitchen table, eating the Cajun meatloaf I had prepared, I looked up miscarriage in the index. One-third of all pregnancies end in miscarriages. Eighty-five percent of all miscarriages occur during the first trimester, usually due to a random error in the genetic code. I brought Molly a cup of herbal tea and sat next to her on the side of the bed.

  “Do you have any lower back pain?” I asked.

  “A little.”

  “Any bleeding?”

  “Some.”

  “Molly, we need to call the doctor.”

  “Her office is closed. I don’t want to go to the emergency room.”

  “Maybe we ought to cancel our appointment with the minister tomorrow. I think it might be better for you to see your doctor.”

  “I don’t want to cancel, Seth.”

  “We can always reschedule.”

  “I told you I don’t want to cancel. Do you?”

  “No,” I relented. “I can’t wait to go.”

  THE UNITARIAN MINISTER’S NAME was Lydia Cartwright-Preston. Somewhat zaftig, deeply tanned, with a set of dazzling white teeth, she was attired in stiff blue jeans, an old pair of Earth shoes, a plain red turtleneck, and a gaudy vest of Central American design. The rug on the floor was emblazoned with Navajo motifs, and the bookshelves were crowded with various small totems—an African mask with exaggerated mouth and lips, a carving of a woman with Incan features and a great round belly, and a herd of five or six miniature elephants. Except for a framed print advertising a display of quilts by Mennonite women, I didn’t see any evidence of Christianity, which relaxed me somewhat, but not much.

  Lydia Cartwright-Preston offered us coffee, tea, and scones. Molly declined; I accepted a cup of coffee, suppressing an urge to say, What, no cider and blueberry bagels? I thought that was traditional Unitarian fare.

  “Congratulations, you two!” Lydia said. “Parenthood is a beautiful journey, but an exhausting one too. I hope you’re both feeling centered.”

  “Centered?” I queried her.

  “We’re both very happy. Thank you,” Molly said.

  Lydia then asked us to tell her a little about ourselves. She turned to me with her blinding, high-voltage smile. I told her I taught English at a private school. Molly told Lydia she was a lawyer.

  “A tax lawyer,” I added.

  Both women gave me puzzled looks.

  “I just thought it was important for you to know how little we have in common.”

  Lydia laughed politely; Molly looked straight ahead, as if steeling herself for the dentist’s drill.

  “Well, I know you two do come from different faith traditions. I’m comfortable with that, but I do require that you can attest to some belief in a higher power, that you can offer some expression of spirituality.” She turned to me. “Seth?”

  “Yes, definitely,” I answered.

  “You consider yourself a spiritual person?” she said, trying to get me to refine my answer.

  “Deeply spiritual.” I smiled beatifically. I wanted this interview to be over so Molly could call her doctor.

  Molly told Lydia that I had a PhD from the University of Chicago Divinity School.

  “No way!” Lydia exclaimed.

  “See, I told you,” I said to Molly. “A total turn-on.”

  “Excuse me?” Lydia asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  “Molly, can you tell me about your relationship with God?” Lydia asked.

  Molly blanched. “Well, in all honesty, I don’t believe in God.”

  “Yes, I see,” Lydia said, looking thoughtfully concerned, as if Molly had just informed her that she suffered from a chronic and painful ailment.

  “But I do have a commitment to social justice,” Molly added.

  “That counts, doesn’t it?” I interjected.

  “Where does your commitment to social justice come from?” Lydia asked.

  “From twelve years of Catholic school,” Molly answered.

  I tried to catch Molly’s eye, but she didn’t look my way.

  “So you did have a religious upbringing,” Lydia said.

  “Yes, I believed very ardently when I was a child.”

  Keep going, I messaged Molly telepathically. Tell her about the time you swallowed a relic, a splinter of bone supposedly from a saint, because you thought it would endow you with holiness. Tell her how you went door to door in Cambridge soliciting money for pagan babies in China and Africa. Tell her about the time you climbed Croagh Patrick, a mountain in the west of Ireland climbed by hordes of barefoot pilgrims every July. Tell her you climbed it the summer after your father died, and that your relatives kept their shoes on but that you insisted on climbing it barefoot like a true pilgrim. By the time you came down, your feet were bloodied and blistered.

  “What happened to your faith?” Lydia asked, leaning forward.

  “Well, for one thing my mother died when I was two. Then my father died when I was twelve. It was difficult for me to believe in God after that.”

  “Oh, my, I’m sure that was very difficult for you,” Lydia said.

  “It still is,” I interjected.

  “Yes, for many people the mourning process is a lifelong journey,” Lydia commented.

  “I think,” Molly continued, “the real turning point came for me one day when I was thirteen. I was showing my new fountain pen to the girl next to me in class. Our teacher, Sister Priscilla, asked me if I was bored. I told her, yes, I was. Some of the other children laughed. Sister turned beet red. She demanded I apologize, but I didn’t think I had anything to apologize for. I was only telling the truth. We were taught it was a sin to lie, and I would have been lying if I had said I wasn’t bored. Of course I couldn’t explain any of this, so I just refused to apologize. Sister Priscilla became enraged. She berated me for being insolent and incorrigible. She said that surely my parents had done a poor job of raising me. This went on for about five minutes, until I was crying uncontrollably. Then Sister Pricilla asked me if I was ready to apologize. I told her no. ‘Then why are you crying?’ she asked. ‘Because you’re being unfair to me,’ I said. She asked the class if anyone thought she was treating me unfairly. For a couple of seconds no one said anything. Then Billy Costello stood up. Poor Billy Costello! He had eight brothers and sisters and his father was the school janitor. Sister was always giving him grief for coming to school with holes in his clothing. ‘Molly’s right, Sister,’ Billy said. ‘You were being unfair. Very unfair.’”

  Molly’s eyes welled up.

  “To this day,” she said, “I think that was one of the kindest and bravest acts I’ve ever witnessed.”

  Molly shut her eyes tightly, holding back a food of tears.

  “Well, I’m sure your own act of resistance was very empowering for you,” Lydia said.

  “Does that mean we pass?” I asked.

  “Yes, I would like to work with the two of you.”

  “Great!”

  “In the time we have left,” Lydia said, “I’d like to hear what you both love and esteem about the other.”

  Neither of us said anything. I was imagining Molly as a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl, an orphan in a plaid skirt and kneesocks, lips trembling, cheeks shiny with tears, holding true to her beliefs, refusing to bend or bow, and my heart seized with an inchoate love for her. I wanted to save her, wanted to be as brave and true as young Billy Costello, but I was paralyzed with doubt. I was the strange boy who laughed out loud when the president was shot. I was the anti-Billy Costello! Oh, Lord, I was unworthy! Molly was crying quietly, crying, I’m sure, for her mother and father, for Billy Costello, for our baby, for us. What could I possibly say to her at such a moment?

  “Seth?” Lydia prompted.

  “Love and esteem?” I asked.

  “Yes, why do you love Molly?”

  ON THE BRIEF RIDE HOME FROM THE CHURCH, I was by turns obnoxious and repentant.

  “Did you get a look at that office? What do you think
? Was she going for a Cambridge meets Santa Fe style? If you ask me, it looked more like a multicultural theme park than an office.”

  Molly gazed out the window. When I pulled up to the building, I turned off the engine and said, “Look, Molly, I apologize. I mean, it was a dating-game question. You know I love you. I love you more than anything. I love you more than words can say.” She kept looking out the window, using a trembling hand to shield the side of her face exposed to me.

  Molly stayed in bed the remainder of the day, the bedroom door shut. I told myself it was best to leave her alone. In the early evening, I tried to numb myself by drinking scotch and watching the Home Shopping Channel. I was wondering whether to spend the night on the couch when I heard Molly call out to me from the bathroom. She was standing by the toilet, her head tilted against the wall. She stared at me, Ophelia like—eyes vacant, hair wild, her ghost white nightgown bloody.

  “Oh, Molly, my love, are you all right?”

  “I can’t clean it up,” she said.

  “I can do that,” I said brightly. “I can do that.”

  I put my arm around her and guided her back to the bedroom. Then I returned to the bathroom and studied the gore in the toilet bowl until I saw it—a heart-shaped clot of plum-colored tissue. It even had a silky white tail. I didn’t know how to dispose of it—I couldn’t just flush it down the toilet—so I dipped my hand in the water, pinched it out, bound it in toilet paper, and placed it on top of the tank. Then, on my hands and knees, I scoured the toilet bowl until it gleamed. I cleaned like a madman, like a penitent. I would have cleaned every latrine in Calcutta if offered the chance.

  Then I cradled the weightless thing in the palm of my hand and went out to our mattress-sized backyard. The moon, white as ice, cast a pale glow. On my knees again, I shoveled away two or three inches of earth with my free hand. Each breath I drew was painful, as if I had a needle in my heart. I laid the pulpy tissue in its shroud of toilet paper in the small trough and stared at it. I felt more ceremony was in order and attempted to say Kaddish—yisgadal veyiskadash—but I stopped, paralyzed with self-consciousness. The words sounded out of place, too remote from anything I was thinking or feeling. Did I believe in anything? Did I have any words that issued straight and true from my heart? I looked up and caught sight of Molly staring down at me from the bedroom window. We watched each other for four or five seconds; her face was unreadable, sphinxlike. I moved the earth back over the mouse-sized corpse and spent a long time patting the mound fat.