Their lovemaking had been thrilling, then tedious, then resolute. It was curious, she thought, how solitary the act could be, each body working toward its separate end. For all she knew, it made him lonely, too. It was no one’s fault. It was possible that this loneliness was a condition of the altered love that awaited them, later in life. They would feel for each other a new and quiet warmth, she imagined, consisting in their having acknowledged their failure to disclose themselves to one another, and forgiven it.
“What do you think?” Prue says.
“Jesus, you scared me.” I close the book, losing her place, and hand it back to her. Then I turn off my lamp.
She is still looking at me. Only when I slide down under the quilt do I realize that I have not answered her question.
I say, “I didn’t get far.”
She blinks, and my throat tightens. Can she have seen herself—ourselves—on that maundering page?
“It’s fine,” I add. “A bit ponderous, though.”
“Yeah,” she says, after a moment. And then she puts out her light.
Fourteen
A siren wakes me up just after dawn. Prue is still sleeping. Our legs have entangled, and as I disengage she mutters something. The sound frightens away the memory of my dream.
The light is on in the hall bathroom. Although Frank’s toothbrush—its bristles fried—is jutting off the edge of the sink, I hasten toward his room, fearing the worst. He had wanted to hitchhike home yesterday, after all. What would have stopped him from slipping out in the night?
But when I reach the threshold I find him inside, perched on the sill of the bay window. His T-shirt is tucked into his corduroys, his hair combed back. He is scribbling something on a legal pad.
“You’re up early,” I say, my heart still thrashing.
He lifts his pen, startled.
“Can I make you some breakfast?” I say.
“I helped myself, thanks.”
He smiles. He has stripped the bed. The sheets are on the carpet, gathered in a neat white mound.
“I’ll be in the study if you need anything,” I say, and he nods.
As the sun rises I sail through Natasha’s latest chapter, impressed—as usual—by the clarity and vigor of her prose. Then, partly to assuage my guilt at having lied about them by omission, I use a large measuring cup to water each of the flowerpots Frank ordered. By the time I have reached the nineteenth pot, containing yellow tulips, Prue is awake.
“Ready, Dad?” she says, when I return to the kitchen. Her voice is tight. She cracks the knuckle of her pinky, waiting over the drip cone as her coffee percolates.
Frank nods, already bundled in his coat. He is sitting at the table, staring down at an uneaten bowl of raspberries. His copy of The Nation, flipped to the last page, lies beside it, along with Prue’s leather gloves.
“I have some errands to run afterward, but I should be back before dinner,” she says, as I refill the measuring cup with tap water. Then she swings the sodden filter into the trash, holding her palm underneath it to catch the dregs.
“I’ll cook,” I say as she flinches, blowing on her open hand.
May’s flower juts from the outer pocket of Frank’s bag, its tissue petals torn from the party.
“I want to say something to you both,” Frank says abruptly.
Prue catches my eye, alarmed. I move to her side.
He stands up and takes a faltering step back, almost tripping over his shoelace. Then he says, “I am so very, very sorry.”
He looks at her, and then at me. Prue glances my way again, but I am too embarrassed for him to meet her gaze.
“You’re competing with the maestro of apologies,” she says.
With a bolt of dread, I realize that she has outed me about the flowers. But Frank doesn’t pick up on it.
He says, “I just have one favor to ask you.”
“What is it, Frank?” I jump in, relieved to push the conversation elsewhere.
“Please . . .” He presses his lips together, drops his eyes, and then faces us again. “Would you take me to jail, instead?”
“Jesus Christ.” Prue turns and flings open the refrigerator, removing a carton of cream and pouring a liberal dose into her coffee. Frank watches her in desperation.
“You’re the one who told the cops about your diagnosis,” I say softly.
“I know I did,” Frank says, “but I’ve thought about it, and I’d rather bite the bullet.”
“Bite the bullet,” Prue mutters, shoving the carton back in the refrigerator.
Frank adds, “I want to pay for what I did.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” she says. “I know you’re just trying to avoid your meds.”
He squares his shoulders, but the tremor in his chin gives him away. So that’s what this is about. As he draws a deep breath, I feel a fresh wave of remorse at how dismissive I had been about his pills. The poor man is ill. I should have seen it years ago.
“Why did you come here?” Prue says suddenly.
He opens his mouth, but before he can reply she says, “I told you not to, didn’t I? I told you to stay home.”
Frank blinks. “I wanted to hear you deliver your speech.” When she rolls her eyes, he adds: “It was a beautiful speech.”
“No.” She laughs bitterly. “You wanted to upstage me, is what you wanted to do. Well, congratulations, Dad. It worked.”
“P . . .” I murmur. I have never seen her speak to him like this. Frank is staring ahead dully.
“You devastated May—twice,” she continues. “You humiliated me. You kicked me?”
Frank winces.
“It may come as a surprise to you, Dad, but you’re not a prophet. You’re a provocateur.”
“You’re right,” he says.
She screws the cap onto her travel mug—too hastily, because it jams. She curses, trying again.
He adds, “That’s why I belong in a cage.”
With a groan of frustration, she braces the heels of her hands on the counter, letting her head hang between her shoulders. I set down the measuring cup, pick up her mug, and screw the cap on for her in silence.
Finally she says, “You don’t belong in a cage.”
“I do,” he says.
I hold the mug out to her and she grabs it, moving past Frank to yank her coat off its peg. He follows her with his eyes.
“I’m not sick,” he says. “I’m just a lousy person.”
“Dad . . .” Her voice is trembling now.
“Why don’t I drive him?” I say. But she shakes her head.
“I’ll be in the car,” she says, and turns away from us, forgetting her gloves on the table.
The door slams. Besides Frank’s breathing, the only sound is the crunch of her footsteps on the gravel.
“Can I give you a snack for the road?” I say, to fill the silence.
Frank shakes his head, and then fishes in his pocket. He produces a sheet of yellow paper, folded twice in half.
“For May.” It flutters in his hand. “Promised her a story. Would you give it to her, if you have a chance?”
“Of course,” I say. Outside, the engine chugs to life.
“I was going to call her last night, to see how she is. “She gets bad dreams, you know.” He scratches his neck. “But now, who am I kidding? I’m the nightmare.”
The car horn blares. Frank glances at the floor, and then crosses one leg over the other, gritting his teeth as he reaches toward his shoe. Realizing that he is trying to tie his lace, I crouch down and do it for him.
“She’ll understand,” I say, when I stand up. “At least when she gets older.”
He manages a smile, and then limps toward the door.
“You should really take something for the road,” I say on impulse. “Crackers? Cheese?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, and opens the back door. Wind rushes into the kitchen, turning a page of The Nation, which he has not bothered to pack.
“You have a ways to go,” I say.
He hoists the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Agreed.”
“I meant—”
“Thanks for putting up with me this week, kid,” he interrupts. “I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say. But he is already closing the door softly, his footsteps lost in the voice of the engine.
Once upon a time there was a town. Now this was a strange town, May, because it didn’t actually exist. But that wasn’t the strangest thing about it, actually. The strangest thing about this town was that you would never know, looking at it, that it was out of the ordinary! It looked perfectly normal. There were houses in it, and clouds, and lots of mailboxes.
Anyway, the point is that everything about the town felt nice and firm and solid, and that only deep, deep down did the townspeople suspect that it might not be as solid as it looked. That was a dangerous thought, they knew, but they weren’t sure why. Once in a while, someone would gather the courage to speak the thought aloud. “If this town exists, where is it?” she might say. When somebody said a thing like that, it was taken as a joke. People found it funny at first—some people—but not if the person kept on saying it. If she did, she was given pills to take. The pills buried the thought.
The reason for the pills was simple. Only without the thought could the townspeople carry on with the day. Carrying on with the day was what most of the townspeople meant by “happy.” The only way to be happy, therefore, was to bury the thought.
The problem, though, was that burying the thought planted a terrible sadness in the townspeople. The sadness was so distracting that most of them forgot its connection to the thought. They forgot about the danger of asking what was strange about the town. They even forgot that the town was strange. Instead, their minds were taken up by a new thought: “Why am I sad?”
THE END
That’s a shoddy story, bug, but it was the best I could manage today. I bet you can think of a better one. Would you tell it to me, someday?
I’m thinking of you every minute, May. I am so sorry.
Love,
Grandpa
A vibration drones behind me. I turn, Frank’s page in hand, and have to dive forward to stop Prue’s cell phone from shuddering off the counter. She must have forgotten it, I realize, glancing out at the empty driveway. On the screen, still lit, is Dalton’s name.
The phone is still buzzing in my hand. Paralyzed, I silence it, and then wait to see if he will try again. When he does not, I wake the phone, enter Prue’s passcode, and check her missed calls. At the top of the list, above my own name, Adaora’s, and Walt’s, are the words “Dalton Field” in scarlet. He has called her twice.
I have no desire to confirm my fears, nor to hear his voice, so it is with some surprise that I find myself calling him back.
I hold the phone a safe distance from my ear, then wait. Two rings go by. On the third, he picks up.
“Sweetie,” he says. “I’m running to a book event, it’s stupidly early. . . . Shit—” a horn sounds behind him, the scratch of tires—“but I wanted to see if you were free later tonight? Darling? Are you there?”
Part III
Fifteen
For a long time I remain still. There are things to do, such as wash and dress and eat. There are many things to look at besides the phone, which, after hanging up, I have placed on the counter. There is, for example, the radio, and the drying colander, and the knives. They have not moved. They have not changed, even though they appear brand-new.
The clues were everywhere. They rush toward me, incontestable, like iron shavings under the organizing force of truth: That dog-eared page. The joyless sex. The scuffling in the background, when I called Prue yesterday. His absence at our party. Their banter during her Q and A. Her willingness to sabotage her tenure case—and run off with him, presumably. The unfamiliar necklace. The figure in the trees, when Frank and I pulled into the driveway Thursday night. Her itch for Germany. The rift. The way he looked at her. The way he looked at her.
He calls back. I press Decline. Then, without hesitating, I drop her phone into the full measuring cup. It bounces against the glass base, releasing a few tiny air bubbles, and brings the water level flush with the spout. Then, somehow, it vibrates again, sending tiny waves splashing onto the counter.
I run to the sink and wretch. Nothing comes up, so I spit. My saliva engulfs a stray poppy seed and ferries it down the drain.
I should be screaming or swearing. Weeping, at the very least, though I haven’t cried in years. But I feel no sadness. Only a wrenching in my chest, mingled with nausea, as though my lungs were climbing into my throat.
Her gloves are still on the table. So are her books. Her mail. Her scent. The whole house reeks of her. I reek of her.
I grab my briefcase from the study, pull on my down coat, and burst into the cold. The sky is overcast, but the sun is burning through the clouds. I am still in my pajamas—sweatpants and a T-shirt—but it doesn’t matter. There will be no one in the office, and I cannot bring myself to face our bedroom.
As I crest the hill leading to campus I remember that the logic exam is due tomorrow morning, the same time as the Philosophy Department’s biweekly meeting. The thought soothes me, in its normalcy.
My usual route to the Philosophy building is still fenced off, thanks to the oil leak, so I circle around the dining hall. A group of athletes are trickling in, visibly hungover. Mirthless laughter sounds from inside.
“Apollo!” a familiar voice calls out. “Apollo, stop!”
From behind me comes a bright, jangling sound, followed by huffing breath. I turn to find Quinn’s golden retriever nosing my ankle.
“I thought that was you.” Quinn joys toward me, reining in the leash as Apollo’s snout travels up my shin. She catches her breath. “How are you?”
She is wearing spandex, sneakers, and a neon pink thermal shirt, shadowed with sweat at the neckline.
“Fine, thanks,” I say. My wife is having an affair.
“He’s still learning his manners.” She glances at Apollo, who is sniffing at my crotch. As I reach down to derail him she adds gently, “I spoke to Prue last night. She took me through everything that’s happened.”
I stare at her, horrified. Can she know? She must. Everyone must.
But she says, “My sister’s bipolar, too.”
So she had been referring to Frank. The party, the aquarium, Frank’s arrest. How distant all that seems.
“How is he now?” Quinn says.
“Better,” I lie, and bend down to scratch Apollo’s chin. He tilts his head, ears cocked, mouth steaming. Isn’t it strange, Prue once said, how in a town containing hundreds of dogs, you almost never hear a bark?
“I know Prue’s a little concerned about her speech,” Quinn says.
As she speaks, I realize that she is beautiful. There is an elegance, and a trace of mischief, to her face, with its high forehead and limpid green eyes. What would it take, I wonder dumbly, to run away with her? What would I have to say?
“I would be, too,” she continues. “It wasn’t exactly conventional. But I told her, as I’m sure you have, that it was marvelous.”
There is a note of challenge in her voice. Prue must have told her about our fight. If only she knew, I think. So I tell her.
“Prue’s cheating on me.”
Her eyes widen, and I feel a stab of vindication, adding: “I found out about fifteen minutes ago.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“I should have seen it coming, frankly.”
“I . . .” She glances at Apollo, who is licking mud from the side of my shoe
. “I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry, Ivan.”
A group of coeds bluster out of the dining hall, chattering. As they stream around us—one of them reaching out to tousle Apollo’s ears—I say, “I’m on my way to my office now, to put some things in order. I’d love to sleep with you sometime, by the way.”
Her eyes almost pop out of her head. I turn and hurry toward the philosophy building, feeling strangely exhilarated. Astonishing how easy it is after all, to say precisely what you feel.
I unlock the main entrance and jog up to my office on the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time. The door of the reading room—where we gather for department meetings—is open, but there is no one in the kitchenette, and no sound except the wheeze of the photocopier.
My shock is thawing, now, into a rancid ache. Coffee, I think fiercely, anything to crowd out the ghastly fragments: sweetie . . . darling . . . free later tonight? They bombard me nonetheless, and I curse under my breath, approaching the counter of the kitchenette to find the electric kettle already on. I freeze, listening. My colleagues’ doors are shut. Down the hall the copier throbs on, drily.
“Professor Link?”
Natasha Díaz leans out of the reading room. She is wearing a blue floral dress, cut low in the front to reveal a spray of freckles across her cleavage. Her lips are redder than usual.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” She smiles. Any chance you’ll be in your office this weekend? she had asked, at our party. Fuck.
“I was just finishing up last week’s problem sets,” she says. “Do you want them?”
“Sure,” I say, and she ducks back into the reading room. I pour myself a cup of instant coffee, my heart in my ears.
“Thanks for your comments on my chapter,” she says when she emerges, handing me the graded stack. Over her shoulder I see that she has spread her books, a bottle of chocolate milk, and a Tupperware—flecked with the remnants of her breakfast—across the round table. Her viola is propped against a chair.
The Study of Animal Languages Page 14