“She did will her body to science,” David said. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Earlier.”
“Of course.”
“We did the paperwork years ago, but I thought I would be dead and she would be eighty-nine and I’d never have to hear the phrase donated her body to science.”
They both jumped at the sound of a food tray crashing on a tile floor and then Dr. Ratha gave a deep sigh. David recognized the familiar inflection of resignation and sorrow, and he sighed too as he took a pen out of his jacket.
CHAPTER SEVEN
David’s specialty was U.S. history, but he had also fashioned a niche—history and society—and found it a useful way to lure students to his classes and sneak some actual history into their minds. Along the way to tenure, he’d published two books, one on the history of divorce and one on the impact of air conditioning. Both sold far more copies than he had relatives—a big success in academia.
Bizarrely, the book on air-conditioning was adapted into a play by an avante garde Chicago playwright, and the play did nicely. No one made money, but his status within the university was elevated. A few of his colleagues resented his ten minutes of fame, though when Kate got sick, he was mostly forgiven.
He had turned down the first offer of department chair but accepted the second when he found he could no longer face so many hours in the classroom, with the concentration of youth, health, and egotism. The history department was one of the few where being chair wasn’t a dreaded rotation but a respected promotion. Sometimes there was even competition.
Now the department secretary, Greta, was looking at him curiously. “Are you okay?”
He realized he’d been standing in front of her but hadn’t said anything.
“I’m fine. Just daydreaming.”
“Did you hear me say the internet’s down? System wide.”
He stared at her. “Has that ever happened?”
“People are acting like they’re on a disabled plane that lost compression. Four to twelve hours is the estimate. Let me know if you need CPR.”
“If it’s still down at noon, I’ll take you to lunch.” He always meant to be friendlier to Greta. If she left, he would suffer. It would take three tries to get the right replacement.
He went to his office and realized that, for the first time in longer than he could recall, he felt like writing. You don’t need the internet to write, he thought, feeling a bit triumphant as he returned to his third book, of which there were eleven pages, all written years before.
When David pulled up Friday evening, Jane was sitting on her porch. She motioned him over. “You were so complimentary about the house and the porch, I thought you might like to sit and have a drink.” She held up a small bottle of beer. “I have red wine or these seven-ounce lady-beers. You can have two and still drive. And they’re really cold.”
“I didn’t know they made those,” he said and thought of Kate, who had never once finished a beer. He took one.
They sat with their drinks and watched a trio of skateboarders working their boards down the street. “Watching them makes me so nervous,” Jane said. Did your kids do that?”
“No. They were heavily into rollerblading for a few years, but that was it.” He took a large sip. It wasn’t bad beer. “You know, Jane, I’ve never asked if you have kids.”
“I don’t. It wasn’t because I don’t like them. No big story there—we just didn’t.”
He studied her doubtfully, but she didn’t elaborate. When they finished their drinks, she took the bottles inside and then locked the house. They paused by his car to watch one of the kids jump and pivot and somehow land securely.
Jane eased into the passenger seat, laughed at the several feet of legroom, and then moved the seat forward. David said, “A large son must have been the last person to ride with me.” They drove to the restaurant, listening to a CD mix one of the boys had made. His sons were determined to push his musical knowledge past 1980. He liked most of their picks, and he liked being able to occasionally name an artist when at a bar with grad students.
Kick Push was playing and he explained to Jane that it was about two teen lovers trying to find a place to skateboard without cops hassling them, and she said, “Nice synchronicity,” and he said, “Well, I did choose the disc.”
A bottle of wine arrived and, as they talked about the restaurant and the neighborhood, he noticed they were both taking barely perceptible sips, perhaps equally determined to keep their wits. Finally, David took a large swallow and said, “You know, Jane, you’re here tonight, and I know that means something. I know you’re not—”
“Were you ever unfaithful?”
He cleared his throat. “No.”
“Even when you were just dating?”
“No.”
“Even when you had bad fights?”
“No.”
“You work at a university around beautiful young women.”
“Still no.” She was watching his face closely. “I learned to admire without wanting.”
“Not even when she got sick?”
“No.”
“When she got sicker? When she moved to the L?”
“No. Not then either.” The waiter passed close by the table but didn’t stop.
“You don’t believe me,” he said, careful to sound kind.
“I believe you. I just don’t believe I’ve ever met a man like you.”
He sipped wine, then water, then rearranged his place-setting and said, “I know I’m supposed to be the one providing the information, but it feels like I should ask you about your ex.”
She gave the slightest shudder. “Not yet. But let me ask you: How were you able to do that? I mean, to feel that one person was enough.”
He couldn’t think what to say, other than the truth. “I don’t know exactly. Part of it had to be that Kate enjoyed sex, even after we got married and after the kids. She was fun and uncomplicated. She’d apologize for coming too many times. She’d say, ‘It must be a nuisance for you to watch me or help when you’re done and relaxed,’ and I’d say, ‘Kate, you just have to believe me. This is not boring.’ ”
He checked out Jane’s expression to see if she seemed threatened or competitive, but she looked charmed—that was the unlikely word that came to mind.
“And yes,” he said, “my job was dangerous in that way. But I saw some ugly female conquests of married profs and vice versa. Aside from the ethics, I was determined not to be ridiculous or to demolish my family. If a student comes into my office leading with cleavage and midriff, I say, in a fatherly voice, that they are not properly dressed for a professional academic environment, and I’ll be happy to loan them my wife’s cardigan for the duration of our meeting.”
Jane laughed and said, “Do they learn?”
“After that they dress like novitiates.” He refilled his glass and hers.
“Then what happened?” she said.
“You mean after she got sick?” She nodded.
“The first couple of years, it was still good. Well, sad too, but mostly okay. She was still able to enjoy sex and have an orgasm, not like before, but there was pleasure. Later, there were times I wasn’t sure she knew it was me, which was perversely exciting, which I know makes me sound like a freak. That was a pretty brief phase.”
“How did it end?”
He took a sip of water and gulped as he swallowed a small ice cube. He took two breaths while he waited for it to melt. “She couldn’t respond any more. I knew she wasn’t enjoying it. That much I could tell. I mean she never resisted, but there was no one there. So I made the decision to stop. That’s an experience I don’t wish on anyone—to know you’ve just had sex for the last time with a wife you love.”
She murmured in the softest voice possible, “I am so sorry.”
He opened his menu. “Now we’re going to order and eat and talk about sports or something. Or you, Jane. Maybe we can talk about you.”
“All right, we’ll eat and make small talk.”
“Lovely phrase, small talk,” she said. “A poem in two words.”
During the drive back to her house, Jane said, “I can’t believe how good this is. What are we listening to?”
“They never label the mix tapes beyond ‘Jack’s Mix’ or ‘Dylan’s Mix.’ This is Jack Johnson. I happen to know that one—you hear him everywhere now, but it’s good. Pleasant and not annoying.”
“See what I’ve been missing all these years.”
He turned to look at her, but she had her eyes closed. When he pulled up in front of her house, he turned to her.
“It’s still warm out,” he said. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
She nodded, but when they reached the sidewalk and he asked which direction, she cocked her head slightly and climbed the steps to her house, slowly, key in hand. He followed, stopping when she did at a table in the living room, where she gestured towards the remainder of the bottle of wine from earlier. “Do you want something?”
He studied her. “I don’t know.”
She motioned for him to follow her and began to walk down a wide hallway to a large bedroom. He took a moment to absorb the peacefulness of the room before he stepped inside and walked over to her. They kissed, then broke away to undress. It was the first time they had touched, aside from accidentally. He lay down too.
“It’s too dark in here. I want to see you,” he said. She got up and went to a window to adjust the shade to let in some streetlight. She turned, visible now, and walked towards him, not quickly, seemingly comfortable with being watched. He understood why. She was beautiful, still lithe and pleased with her body. Her breasts, which he’d guessed at from the tee shirt she’d spilled water on, were almost familiar, solely by imagination. He wasn’t at all disappointed. He felt nineteen again—except for wishing he’d gone to the gym more.
She slid into bed and under him. He raised himself onto his forearms. “It helps that I can see you now,” he said. “Because I sort of thought I might be dreaming.”
“Yes, it’s very strange. But I’m here.” She kissed him, then broke away. “I’m quite sure of that.”
“Looking back,” he said, “I think I wanted you from the minute we met. Or maybe ten minutes after we met. When they said you didn’t come to the L anymore, I—”
She put one finger on his lips and moved out from under him. They lay on their sides and he ran his palm along her body, down as far as he could, then back up along the inside of her leg and thigh, stopping when he felt how wet she was. “Okay, that’s enough foreplay for now,” he said.
She laughed and said, “Yes, we’ve already had plenty of that.”
“How long have I been sleeping?” Jane asked as she sat up and looked at the bedside clock.
“Not long. Does it matter?”
“No, I’m just surprised.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t usually fall asleep that easily. I’m usually more…”
“Wary?” he said. “Does this mean you’re starting to trust me a bit?”
She met his gaze for a moment, then sat up and tucked the sheet in more securely.
“Okay, Jane, you know way too much about me. It is definitely your turn.” He settled into the pillow, raised one arm and, after a brief hesitation, she put her head on his chest and began to talk.
“It began in high school,” she said. “We went to high school together—Charlie and I.”
David jumped slightly. This wasn’t what he’d expected.
“His family moved to town just before tenth grade, so when I started school that fall, there was this gorgeous, confident, smart new guy. More like a man—not your usual tenth grader. I think we were all in love by seventh period. But like I said, he was smart. He got himself established first. Football, advanced classes—made the right guy-friends. By Homecoming, the pretty girls were in a frenzy. Well, probably the not-so-pretty girls were too, but they had more dignity or something.”
“Or no hope,” David said.
“Yes, that was probably it. Anyway, he asked someone to the homecoming dance—Annie Slater—I still remember her name—and they went out for a few months, and then he broke her heart. He was already seeing Glenda. She’s the last name I remember because, after that, he just kept going down the list. He would fall for someone—I really think that part was genuine—and they’d have six weeks or so, and then the next.”
“Probably didn’t hurt his social standing.”
“It might have for someone else. But he had this power—he was the kind of person who made you feel more alive. When he turned his attention to you, the day was more vivid. You were more vivid.”
He rearranged his arm to shift her weight, then pulled her closer. “So, where did you fit into this?”
“I was determined not to take my turn. I had a good friend who felt the same way, and we formed a sort of Charlie Anonymous group. I mean, we were in love with him too, but just not willing. Of course that intrigued him, and he and I became something like friends. Eventually, he accepted that’s how it was with me, so we’d talk sometimes, or work on a school project together. My girlfriend succumbed senior year for a one-week stand.”
“So were all of these conquests sexual?”
“Maybe not in tenth grade, but after that, probably. But, really, we weren’t sure because Charlie never told his guy friends. And girls were much more circumspect back then.” She stopped and brushed hair away from her eyes. “I don’t know if I’m explaining him right. Have you ever been around someone and you just felt more…everything? He could do that. He could just make people fall in love with him at will.”
“Yet you resisted.”
“Well, he didn’t make me a full-time project. And I had a few boyfriends. But, yes, I basically treated him like heroin.”
He smiled at the analogy. “Keep going.”
“Then we went to the same university, and he tracked me down at the start of our second year. He said he was done with all that—he’d needed to get it out of his system, and he had. He wanted to marry young and not regret it. And have four kids—he wanted four. I was twenty. It seemed plausible. Anyway, we fell in love, or I think he did. I think he always did. That first semester I could hardly breathe, I was so infatuated, intoxicated—what’s another ‘I’ word?”
“Imperiled?”
Jane laughed and said, “I know this is weird, but can we take a break here?” She moved from alongside him and laid the length of her body on top of his. “Tell me if I’m too heavy.”
He moved his hands along her gently. “I think I can handle it.” She slid down his body, then looked up at him. “I was prepared to help you, but clearly I’m not needed. We’re not in Viagraland, are we?”
“Deprivation will do that. I don’t think I’ve been this hard since I was thirty.” He felt a twinge of disloyalty as he said it. She seemed to know that he didn’t mean “stop.”
“Jesus,” he said silently, at the almost forgotten sensation. Nothing else feels like this. Though after a while, good as it was, he wanted her under him or on him and gently lifted her. She sat up and bent her knees to position herself, leaning forward so neither had to take their hands away, his on her breasts, she flitting her fingers through his hair—the sturdy loose curls that had embarrassed him for as long as he could remember.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to do that—these curls, I mean—well, all of it,” she whispered.
He could admire her better now. He had expected her toned, fit body, remembering the references to being forced to watch Fox News at the gym, but to be here with her, to feel desire instead of grief, was beyond what he had imagined—and he had certainly let himself imagine this, though in images so vague and incomplete there seemed to be no overlap with the real thing.
He didn’t compliment Jane’s body or speak at all. In college
, a girlfriend had praised him for not talking. “Why do men do a whole narration thing?” she’d said. “It’s like they think we’re making porn. It makes me feel self-conscious. I don’t know if other women react the same way, but even if I’m really into it, the minute there’s a comment, it’s a turnoff.” Certainly, Kate had never suggested he talk more. When friends complained about their wives losing momentum during sex, David would want to say, Try not talking. Trust me, women want talking without sex and sex without talking, but he worried he would sound smug—so he kept his mouth shut then, too.
Looking at Jane as she moved on top of him, he didn’t last as long as the first time, but he could tell it was almost enough. “I’m sorry for my timing,” he said, as soon as he caught his breath. “Let me help you.”
“Just stay there,” she said, almost sternly.
And he did what she asked.
The next day, Saturday, he woke to car horns, metal tables clanging, and loud conversations. Jane woke up too and groaned, “Oh no. It’s the annual garage sale. I forgot to warn you.” She put a pillow over her head, but he pulled it off.
“We should talk about today and our schedules,” he said. “We should try to skip the awful part where he thinks she wants him to leave and she thinks he wants to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?” She sat up and turned to face him. A voice from the street called out, “Hot coffee! Warm donuts for sale!”
“I want us both to leave and get away from this madness.” He pulled on his boxer briefs (he was glad his sons had instructed him that these were necessary) and walked to the window and watched cars streaming into the neighborhood. “Though I wouldn’t mind looking for a bike for Jack first. At college, bikes have maybe a three-week life-span.”
She stood. “We better get out there soon if you want a bike. They go fast.”
With that, they pulled on clothes and went into the kitchen, where he watched her make coffee. A mix of pale gray and white with a hardwood floor, the kitchen could be in one of the magazines Kate used to show him.
The Half-Life of Everything Page 5