by Ani Katz
Deep down, I knew my girls would be better off without me, just as my family had been better off without my father. They would be happy together, my wife and daughter—just the two of them, somewhere safe, somewhere apart from me, so that I couldn’t bring us to ruin.
But how would they manage on their own? How would they survive? Couldn’t they see that I labored day and night to be the best husband and father I could be? They had no idea how hard I tried for them, and it broke my heart.
I can still see it so clearly, that white-armed spirit flying around the stage. Sometimes, in my dreams, she flares up into flames. Other times, she holds my cold hands in hers, guiding me through my own show of shades.
But she never, ever speaks.
Leave me! the poor man howled. Take me back. Haunt me no longer!
These are the shadows of things that have been, my daughter cried. That they are what they are—do not blame me!
They grappled, until finally the wretch tackled my girl with a heavy blanket, putting out her light and plunging the rest of us into darkness.
* * *
—
When it was all over—the miser redeemed, the Christmas spirit victorious, the girls linking arms and bowing to waves of screams until the curtains closed around them—I roused myself from the back row and went in search of my wife. The auditorium felt like a train station at rush hour, everyone dawdling in their rows with their coats slung over their arms, clutching paper-wrapped bouquets they’d bought from the PTA concessions table, waiting for their girls to emerge from backstage. I stepped out into the lobby and bought my own bouquet, shelling out ten dollars for a half dozen pink and white carnations that were already browning at their latticed edges.
These kinds of things mattered.
Finally, back inside, I spotted my wife. She was standing close to the stage, chatting with a trio of parents I did not know, two women and a well-dressed man. I watched her for a while, observing the way she behaved when she didn’t know I could see her. She was animated, gesturing with her swan-wing hands; she was telling a story, courting everyone’s gaze with a wantonness that I did not recognize. The man made some comment, and my wife touched his arm, tossing her head with laughter to reveal the porcelain pillar of her throat.
Then she looked up, and I swear I will never forget the way she seemed to flinch with her entire body, the way the light and cheer drained out of her face when she saw me there. I must have looked distraught, worn down by the trials of the day. That must have been why instead of waving me over to join her group, my wife quickly said her good-byes and moved away from her friends, coming up the aisle with her hands tucked into the pockets of her dark olive trench coat.
Hey, she said softly. I was afraid you hadn’t come.
Of course I came, I said. I promised you I wouldn’t miss it.
I know but—
But what?
I know it’s been hard.
I wasn’t ready to tell her about what had happened at work. Not now, and certainly not here. Instead, I slung my arm around her and drew her close to me.
Wasn’t she amazing? I sighed. I couldn’t believe that was our daughter up there.
My wife nodded, allowing her body to relax into mine.
She’ll be so happy you were here to see her.
We stood like that for a while, holding each other quietly. I was lucky, so lucky to have this woman and child, so lucky to have this life, and the sense of inadequacy and disgrace that washed over me was so overwhelming that I almost began to weep again.
So what should we do to celebrate? I asked, trying to make my voice bright. I’d suggest ice cream, but she never wants any.
But my wife was shaking her head.
She’s got plans already, remember?
What do you mean?
All of the girls are going out to the diner, and then she’s spending the night at Chloe’s house.
We didn’t discuss this.
My wife coughed out a laugh, her eyes darting away from me, as if she were searching the room for someone else.
Of course we did, she said. I told you about it last week.
No you didn’t.
You probably just forgot; you’ve been busy—
I wouldn’t forget that, I insisted.
Then I don’t know.
I’ve hardly seen her in weeks, and now I don’t even get to see her tonight?
I’m sorry, I—
How could you do this to me?
Thomas, stop!
Mommy! Daddy!
There was our girl, dressed in her skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors and pink puffer coat but still made up like a doll—the pile of her dark hair still stiff with hair spray, her face a garish mask. She blitzed into our embrace, thrusting herself between our bodies and beaming up at us, welcoming the downpour of our adulation.
You were incredible, darling!
Absolutely astonishing!
You liked it? She grinned with self-assurance, gripping her bouquet. You liked my scene?
It was the best part of the play.
Best part by far.
Olivia forgot one of her lines, but I stayed calm and made sure she didn’t mess up the whole thing.
I guess you’re a real professional.
Aren’t you going to wash your face? Clean up?
You’re not going out to the diner like that, are you?
Of course I am!
With all that makeup still on?
That’s the whole point! It’s tradition.
Her friends were converging on us now, a boisterous brigade of painted girls mobbing our little family. Before they could shear my daughter away from me, I pressed a twenty into her waiting palm.
Is that enough?
Yeah, I’m probably not going to eat that much.
Here, I said. Take another, just in case.
My wife pulled our girl into her, crushing her cheek against the rough wool of her coat and kissing her temple.
Text me when you get to Chloe’s house.
Okay.
And don’t stay up too late, I added. I don’t want you getting sick again.
Okay. Take my flowers for me?
And then she was caught up in the swarm of her friends and carried away. Her voice joined the jungle racket of the other girls’ mingled cries, their rouged mouths and blue-shadowed eyes like the bright feathers of birds. They streamed between us, a juggernaut of adolescence, separating me from my wife.
I looked over at her, trying to catch her eye over the din, trying to share a smile, to connect. But she didn’t see me. She was staring at nothing, at no one—holding herself and rubbing her arms, as if they were sore.
* * *
—
At home, by unspoken agreement, we began to drink. Red wine for the lady, whiskey for yours truly. The house was cold, and for a while my wife wandered the downstairs rooms, putting the bouquet I’d bought into water and looking at things on her phone, still wearing her coat. Beau followed her anxiously. It was as if she had only stopped inside for a moment, as if she didn’t intend to stay for very long.
I built a fire, and when the larger logs caught and began to blaze I lay down on the living room sofa, the dog coiled up on the rug before me, close to the hearth. After a while my wife joined me, setting her phone and the vase of flowers on the coffee table next to our half-empty bottles. I lifted my legs to let her sit, and she let me lay them across her lap.
At first we didn’t speak. We watched the flames, mesmerized by the blackening of the wood under tongues of tallow white.
So, she said finally, uncertainly.
What?
I’m guessing it didn’t go well.
What makes you say that?
You haven’t said a thing about it.
I told
her everything. Almost everything. I told her it had been a brilliant idea, that I had been brilliant in my presentation, but that the executives hadn’t understood—that they’d been shortsighted and scared, helpless under the thrall of their corporate overlords. I told her I had fought for what I believed, but that even my efforts to take a principled stand had been misinterpreted and decried. I told her I was still proud of the work I’d done, that nothing would ever change that, no matter what happened to me now.
I didn’t tell her anything about Carly and Abigail’s initial doubts, and certainly nothing about their ultimate vindication. I didn’t tell her about the cruel laughter in the conference room—laughter at my expense—or the exact words I’d used to defend myself. I didn’t tell her about Greg’s anger, or any of what he’d said when he sent me away. My fears about my job. None of that was part of my story.
When I finished, my wife took my hands in hers.
Oh, Thomas. I’m so sorry.
I shrugged. I didn’t want her to see how full of shame and concern I really was, how low I felt. What good could come of that?
Well, things will either get better or get worse, I said dismissively. There’s nothing I can do about it now.
Right, she said. So don’t worry about it.
She was getting tipsy now, loose from all the wine, her tongue rough and dark with it. She wriggled out from under my legs and sank down on top of me, draping her body over mine, her bent knees wedged between my thighs. Our voices turned silken, our words dreamlike.
What are you doing?
What do you mean?
You’re being very—
What?
Amorous.
So? You don’t like it?
I didn’t say that.
This was exactly what I wanted, exactly what I needed. What we needed. I stroked my wife’s hair, gently ran my hands up and down her back. She nuzzled her face into my chest, and when she spoke again I felt her mouth moving against my ribs.
Do you remember when we met?
Of course, I said. (So she was feeling sentimental too, then.) Of course I remember. I couldn’t believe you were there on my corner.
She laughed softly. It was a lucky choice, that bar, she said.
You were the most radiant woman I’d ever seen.
That’s right, she sighed. You even liked me more than Mathilde. That had never happened before. Men were always more attracted to her.
She was touching me now, tracing the row of buttons on my shirt, but something didn’t feel right. It was something about what she was saying. I sat up, disentangling myself, letting her body slide heavily onto the sofa beside me.
What are you talking about?
She regarded me vaguely. I always knew when she was very drunk because the whites of her eyes would flush pink, like spit-out toothpaste streaked with blood.
You don’t remember?
I remember I found you at the bar on my corner.
Yes. And I was there with my friends, Mathilde and Camille and Anne-Laure. We were all on holiday together. Remember? You flirted with all of us, but in the end you picked me out of the group and whisked me away, even though I was trying to read my book the whole time. You said I was the signal in the noise.
I still try to remember it that way, even now. I see myself in the dark mahogany ark of the inn, see the ruby and saffron chevrons of the stained glass windows, gone cloudy from the cold outside and all the hot breath within. I see a cluster of women gathered around the bend of the broad wooden bar, their bodies a shifting collage of hips and shoulders, legs crossed to reveal a shapely haunch on a high stool. They are laughing, their voices echoing against the high tin ceiling as I wade into their perfumed midst.
And then I see her. That dark cloud of hair, that long and slender neck. That striking, unforgettable face. She’s small and bright, a spark in the darkness, a quavering light that I long to shield and defend.
The women around her dissolve. She alone is insoluble.
But that wasn’t the way it happened. Those are just more borrowed images, more invented memories. Someone else’s story.
No, I said. No. You were there alone.
No I wasn’t. I never traveled by myself.
Then why did you come home with me that night? Why did you spend that whole week with me?
Because I was a very young and very silly girl, and you were very charming and persuasive once you had set your sights on me, she said. And at the time, I thought winning you was a great victory. I thought it was all very romantic. That’s the sort of thing the girls and I always used to do on those trips.
What?
Go home with men. Let them pay for things.
I was stunned. For a long moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. I watched my wife watch the fire, wondering who she was. I looked at her left hand in her lap and saw that she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring anymore. Maybe she hadn’t worn it for a long time.
You never told me about this, I said finally, but she was shaking her head.
I’ve told you all about this, many times. You used to like hearing about it—all about my adventures—but now you can’t stand the thought of it.
Of what?
Of me ever being with anyone else. Of me being independent.
Why do you always do this?
Do what?
You always turn everything into a fight.
She was silent then, staring into the flames, shrinking into herself.
You stayed with me, I said. You wanted to stay. You chose me.
You convinced me to stay, she said. You made all kinds of promises about how wonderful everything would be, and I let myself be convinced. I didn’t know what it would really be like. How normal. How dull.
You really think that’s what happened?
Yes.
Well, I don’t know then, I said. I don’t know what you’re saying, and I have no idea why you’re saying it now.
I don’t know either, she said, getting up. Never mind.
Unless you’re saying all of this just to hurt me, I said. That’s always a possibility.
Just forget it, she said. Don’t listen to me.
She lay down on the floor, close to the blaze, her body a dark mound curled beside the dog.
What are you doing?
I’m cold.
Oh come on, Miri, I said. Don’t be like this.
Come here, Beau, she murmured, reaching out to fondle the dog’s curly mane. Good boy, good boy mon petit chou. Mon ami. Come here.
But the dog wouldn’t stay with her. He was alert now, pacing and whimpering with inarticulate need.
What is it? I asked. What is it?
I took him outside. The backyard was quiet, our trees and bushes coated with cold white clumps, as if painted thickly with white primer, the black sky overhead pricked with stars.
Things will either get better or worse, I thought. There’s nothing I can do about it now. I didn’t really mean that, did I? Wasn’t there always something else that could be done? I would have to find a way. I would. I always did.
The dog shuffled thoughtfully around the yard, lifting his hind leg to mark the places that needed to be marked.
When I came back inside I found the charred remains of my bouquet cast into the dying fire, stems writhing over the logs like gray worms. My wife was asleep on the floor, breathing hoarsely and haltingly, her head cradled in her arms.
Miri, I said. Sweetheart.
She didn’t respond.
This wasn’t the way the evening was supposed to go. This wasn’t what I’d wanted, or what I’d envisioned. I knew that it was pointless to try mending what couldn’t be mended. But I wondered if I should wake her so that we could make up, hold and forgive each other. It was what we used to do, whenever things were tough—absolv
ing each other through the lucid language of our bodies—but lately we’d let too many nights rot into silence and recrimination.
And tonight it was especially necessary that we reconcile, because I realized that no matter how strong I was, and no matter how much the family depended on me to survive, I needed her. I needed her devotion in order to feel like myself again. I needed her to cry out and cling to me, helpless and senseless in my embrace. I needed confirmation that she would always be by my side.
Because I might lose everything else, but I could never lose her.
I crouched down beside her, kneaded the soft flesh of her upper arm.
Miri. Wake up.
She moaned softly.
Miri. I shook her. Miri.
She moaned again, an incoherent syllable on her lips.
I hesitated for only a moment. Then I unsheathed her from the cable-knit skin of her sweater dress, using both hands to peel the garment over her hips and shoulders, releasing her from its casing. She sighed, moaned again. Then her woolen leggings, rolled down over her knees, abandoned with her cotton underwear in a knot at our feet.
Her body had changed over the years, corrupted by childbirth and age. It was no longer the body of the young woman I’d married. She was still reasonably slim, but her haunches had grown broad and mottled, riddled with tiny lumps. Her breasts had wilted, and her nipples were like raisins, shriveled and distended. There were bandages like railroad tracks down her spine, putty patches against her dusky skin. For what? I didn’t know. I turned her over onto her back, her limbs heavy. Limp.
I can’t remember much else from that night. My palm against her reddened cheek, maybe. My hands on her shoulders, my thumbs splayed against her clavicle.
Perhaps.
Maybe she began to moan—louder, more insistently—turning her head from side to side, her eyes still shut. Maybe she said my name. Maybe she begged me.
Maybe.
That’s how it usually was. She’d always liked it that way, those kinds of games.
And when we woke at dawn—pale blue light glowing in the naked windows, the dog snuffing at our tender places—everything was fine.
The room had chilled again. My wife moved stiffly toward our bedroom, hugging herself, body bowed with cold and fatigue and the incipient aches of an oncoming hangover. Before I joined her, I tidied the living room, clearing away our bottles, straightening the rug where it had buckled and bunched around the legs of the coffee table, putting everything back in its place. Then I picked up my wife’s phone.