* * *
Sean watched as Malcolm began to stuff himself with artichokes. He had them all captive now and so began to speak and eat at the same time. And what a time to pick! Nothing could be so detrimental to the mood of romance (which was the mood Sean was hoping to induce) than the mention of death. Already he could see Annie cringing ever so slightly, hunching her shoulders, pressing (no doubt) her lovely legs together. Death, jumping off cliffs, why did Malcolm have to talk of it now? As if it meant anything to them! Some dramatic moment Malcolm had indulged in to convince himself he could feel love. And how much love had he felt? Hadn’t he recovered rather quickly? Five weeks! “I never thought I would again enjoy a simple meal among friends,” he was saying, and Sean watched as, unbelievably, a tear slid crookedly down Malcolm’s cheek. He was crying, plucking the leaves off a huge artichoke (even in the swell of emotion he had managed to take the biggest one), plucking off the leaves and dipping them in the butter before putting them in his mouth.
* * *
“We’re too quick to reckon the value of our lives!” Malcolm proclaimed to them, and it seemed that he had never been so close to any group of people in his life. They were all silent, hanging on his every word, and his emotion was stirring him to eloquence he had never known. How often in life one says unimportant things, he thought, trivial things, just to pass the time. Only rarely does one get a chance to unburden one’s heart, to speak of the beauty and meaning of life, its preciousness, and to have people listen! Just moments before he had felt the agony of the dead barred from life, but now he could feel the joy of language, of sharing intimate thoughts, and his body vibrated pleasurably with the sound of his own voice.
* * *
At his first opportunity Sean broke Malcolm’s gloomy soliloquy by taking an artichoke from the platter and saying: “Here’s one for you, Annie. It’s not too hot now.”
“They’re marvelous,” said Malcolm, dabbing his eyes.
“You know how to eat them, Annie, don’t you?” Sean asked. “You just pick off the leaves, dip them in the butter, and then scrape the meat off with your teeth.” As he explained this, Sean demonstrated, dipping a leaf in the butter and holding it to her mouth. “Go on, try it,” he said. Annie opened her mouth, put her lips around the leaf, and bit down softly.
“We have artichokes in America, you know, Sean,” said Maria, taking one herself. “We’ve eaten them before.”
“I haven’t,” said Annie, chewing and smiling at Sean.
“You have too,” said Maria. “I’ve seen you eat them. Lots of times.”
“Perhaps that was asparagus,” said Sean, and he and Annie laughed together.
The dinner proceeded. Sean noticed that Annie had angled her body in his direction. Malcolm was eating silently, his wet cheeks shining like the buttery artichoke he held in his hand. One by one the artichokes were taken from the platter, one by one stripped of their leaves. Sean kept handing Annie bits of food, caressing her with simple specific considerations: “One more?… some butter?… water?” Between mouthfuls he leveled his face in her direction, filling the air between them with the warm odor of what he had eaten.
He was thinking of their upcoming tryst. The plan he had arranged with her was this: after dinner he would suggest backgammon; she would immediately agree and together they would go downstairs to the game room; they would play until the others went to sleep and then go up to view the relic alone.
But just then Malcolm said: “Ladies, take a look at these two old men who sit before you. We’re dear old friends, Sean and I. At Oxford we were inseparable.”
Sean looked up to see Malcolm smiling warmly at him across the table. His eyes were still watering. He looked vulnerable and idiotic. But Malcolm went on: “I pray that your friendship, young as it is, survives so long.” He was looking at the girls now, from one to the other. “Old friends,” he murmured, “they’re the best.”
* * *
“Would anyone care to retire to the game room for some backgammon?” Sean asked aloud to the table, but especially, Annie knew, to her. She was just about to say yes when out of the corner of her eye she caught Maria looking at her. Annie knew that Maria was waiting for her reply. If she said yes, Maria would also say yes. Suddenly she knew the plan wouldn’t work, Maria would never go up to sleep by herself. And so Annie spread her hands on the table, looked at her nails, and asked, “Maria, what do you feel like?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Maria said.
“We can’t all play,” said Sean. “Only two of us, I’m afraid.”
“Backgammon sounds lovely,” said Malcolm. Annie shifted in her seat. She had hesitated too long. She had ruined everything.
“We have to be up early, anyway,” said Maria.
“Well, we’ll excuse you two travelers then,” said Malcolm. “With profound regret.”
“Perhaps it is getting a little late,” said Sean.
“Nonsense!” said Malcolm. “The night’s just beginning!” And with that he slid his chair from the table and stood resolutely up.
* * *
There was nothing Sean could do. He had no idea why Annie had deviated from their plan. He suspected he had been too forward during dinner, had given away his true motives, and scared her off. Whatever the reason, now there was nothing for him to do but stand up, disown the signals from his heart (registering despair) by smiling, and head for the basement door. As he descended the stairs with Malcolm behind him he tried unsuccessfully to hear what the girls were saying in the kitchen.
The game room was a long, narrow wainscotted room, with a billiard table in the middle and, at one end, a leather sofa facing a television set. Sean went immediately to the television and turned it on.
“What about backgammon?” Malcolm asked.
“I’ve lost the mood,” said Sean.
Malcolm looked at him uncertainly. “I hope you didn’t mind my little oration,” he said. “I’m afraid I monopolized the conversation.”
Sean kept his eyes on the television. “I hardly noticed,” he said.
* * *
“Sean likes you,” Maria told Annie once they were alone.
“He does not.”
“He does. I can tell.”
“He’s just being nice.”
They were drying the last few dishes, standing elbow to elbow at the sink. “What did he say to you in the garden?”
“When?”
“In the garden. When he took you into the back.”
“He told me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen and then he proposed marriage.”
Maria was rinsing a plate. She held it under the water and said nothing.
“I’m kidding,” said Annie. “He just talked about the soil, how hard it is to grow things here.”
Maria started to scrub the plate, even though it was perfectly clean.
“I’m just kidding,” Annie said again.
* * *
Annie wanted to take as long as possible washing the dishes. If Sean came back she could give him a sign to meet her later. But the plates were not very dirty, and there were only four of them, along with some glasses. Soon everything was done. “I’m exhausted,” Maria said. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
“No.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I’m not.”
“What should we do now?”
Annie could think of no reason for staying in the kitchen. She could go downstairs but Malcolm would be there. He would be everywhere, all night. He would never go to sleep again, he was so happy to be alive. So at last she said, “There’s nothing to do. I guess I’ll go to bed.”
“I’ll go up with you,” Maria said.
* * *
“Let’s not watch television, Sean,” said Malcolm. “We haven’t had a chance to talk all night. We haven’t talked for twenty years!”
“I haven’t watched television for two weeks,” said Sean.
Malcolm laughed, agreeably. “Sean,” he said
, “it’s no use. You can’t hide from me. Especially tonight.” He waited for a response but received none. He felt monumentally calm. He could say whatever he had to say, without embarrassment, and he peered at his friend, wondering why Sean, on the contrary, was so withdrawn. But in the next moment it came to him. Sean’s imperviousness was much too perfect. It was a sham. Inside his shell Sean was lonely too, and grieved for his failed marriage as Malcolm himself did. That was the reason he surrounded himself with jokes and the young women.
Malcolm was surprised he hadn’t realized this before. His sight now in every way was sharper. He looked at his friend and felt great sympathy for him. And then he said: “Tell me about Meg, Sean. There’s no reason to be ashamed. I’m in the same boat, you know.”
This time Sean did turn and meet his gaze. His manner was still stiff, it was difficult for him, but at last he began: “Not the same boat, Malcolm. Not at all. I left Meg. Meg didn’t leave me.”
Malcolm looked away, down at the floor.
“And she took it badly, I’m afraid,” Sean continued. “She stepped in front of a train.”
“She tried to kill herself?” Malcolm asked. “Oh, my God!”
“Didn’t just try. Succeeded.”
“Meg’s dead?”
“Yes, she is. That’s why the garden is in such a state.”
“Sean, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I haven’t been able to talk about it,” Sean said.
* * *
This revenge pleased Sean. Malcolm had spoiled his evening but now Sean had control over him, could make him believe whatever he liked. Malcolm laid his head back against the sofa and Sean said, “Quite a coincidence, your showing up here tonight. And telling that story. Almost as if something sent you here.”
“I had no idea,” Malcolm said softly. Sean continued to stare at his friend, filled with the power of being able to create a world for Malcolm to live in, where nothing happened by chance and where even suicides harmonized.
He left Malcolm sitting on the couch and made his way toward the stairs.
* * *
When Maria went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, Annie tiptoed to the bedroom doorway. She heard nothing. The house was quiet. All she could hear was Maria swirling water in her mouth and spitting it into the sink. She stepped into the hall. Again she heard nothing. Then Maria came out of the bathroom. She had her glasses off and was squinting at the bed.
* * *
Sean reached the kitchen to find it empty. He cursed himself for ever suggesting backgammon, cursed Malcolm for getting in the way, cursed Annie for betraying their plan. It was not to be, no matter what he did. The house, the artichokes, the relic, none of these had been enough. He thought of his wife, dancing in some tropic zone, and then he saw himself as he was, alone, in a cold house, his desires thwarted.
He walked back to the basement door and listened. The television was still on. Malcolm was still sitting before it, thunderstruck. Sean turned away, determined to leave Malcolm there all night, but as soon as he did so he stopped where he was. For in front of him, wearing nothing but a man’s long T-shirt, was Annie.
* * *
Upstairs, ears pricked, Maria was waiting for Annie to come back to bed. Annie had just gotten into bed when suddenly she crawled out again, saying she was going downstairs for a glass of water. “Drink from the tap in the bathroom,” Maria suggested, but Annie said, “I want a glass.”
After all this time, even after the kiss on the train, Annie was still shy. She was so nervous, she had gotten into bed and jumped right out again. Maria knew exactly what was going through her friend’s mind. She crossed her arms behind her head. She stared up at the decorative plasterwork of the ceiling and felt the weight of her body sinking into the mattress, the pillows. A great calm came over her, a solidity, a sense that now, at last, her wishes were going to come true and all she had to do was wait.
* * *
Malcolm stood up and turned off the television. He moved across the room to the billiard table. He took out a ball, rolled it across the felt, and watched it careen off the sides of the table. He caught it again and repeated the action. The ball made soft thumps against the cushions.
He was thinking about what Sean had told him. He was wondering what it all meant.
* * *
To get away before Malcolm came up, Sean led Annie to his study. On the way, he picked up his suitcase, which he had left in the front hall. Once he had closed the door of the study behind them, he told Annie in a whisper to be absolutely silent. Then, with an air of solemnity, he bent down to open his suitcase. As he released the metal latch, he was aware that Annie’s naked thighs were only inches from his face. He wanted to reach out and take hold of her legs, to pull her toward him and fit his face into the bowl of her hips. But he didn’t do that. He only took out a gray woolen sock from which he extracted a thin yellow bone less than three inches long.
“Here it is,” he said, showing it to her. “Direct from Rome. Saint Augustine’s index finger.”
“How long ago did he live, again?”
“Fifteen hundred years.”
Annie put out her hand and touched the sliver of bone, as Sean gazed at her lips, cheeks, eyes, hair.
* * *
Annie knew he was about to kiss her. She always knew when men were about to kiss her. Sometimes she made it difficult for them, moved away or asked them questions. Other times she merely pretended not to notice, as she did now, examining the saint’s finger.
Then Sean said, “I was afraid our little meeting wasn’t going to happen.”
“It was hard getting away from the heretics,” said Annie.
* * *
Malcolm came into the kitchen, looking for Sean. All he found were the plates the girls had thoughtfully washed, stacked next to the sink. He strolled about the kitchen, warmed his hands by the smoldering fire, and, seeing that the artichokes he had left on the floor were still there, set them on the table. Only after doing all these things did he go to the kitchen window and look out to the backyard.
* * *
When Maria saw them they were bent over something, their heads almost touching. Immediately she understood what had happened. Annie had come down to get a glass of water and Sean had waylaid her. She had arrived just in the nick of time to save her friend from an awkward situation.
“What’s that?” she said, and boldly, triumphantly, walked into the room.
* * *
Maria’s voice was the voice of the fate he could not escape. At the very moment of victory, as his desires were just about to be satisfied (he and Annie were cheek to cheek), Sean heard Maria’s voice and his hopes shrank before it. He said nothing. All he did was stand mute as Maria approached him and took the relic into her cold hand.
“It’s Saint Augustine’s finger,” Annie offered in explanation.
Maria examined the bone a moment, then handed it back to Sean and said, simply, “No way.” The girls turned (together) and moved toward the door. “Good night,” they said, and, motionless, Sean heard their voices blend into an excruciating unison.
* * *
“You didn’t believe him, did you?” Maria asked once they were alone in their room. Annie made no reply, only got into bed and closed her eyes. Maria switched off the light and fumbled through the darkness. “I can’t believe you could fall for that. The finger of Saint Augustine!” She laughed. “Guys will do anything.” She crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her, then lay staring into the dark, thinking about the trickery of men.
“Annie,” she whispered, but her friend didn’t reply. Maria moved closer. “Annie,” she said, a little more loudly. She moved farther across the sheets. She touched her hip to Annie’s hip. And called again: “Annie.”
But her friend didn’t return her greeting, or amplify the pressure of hip on hip. “I’m going to sleep!” Annie said, and turned away.
* * *
Sean was left holdin
g the counterfeit finger of an illustrious saint. In the hallway he thought he heard the girls giggle. Next came the sound of their feet on the stairs, the creak and knock of the bedroom door closing, and then—silence.
The bone was coated with a film of white powder that flaked onto his open palm. He wanted to fling the bone across the room, or drop it and crush it beneath his heel, but something deterred him. Because as he stared at the bone he began to feel as though someone were watching him. He looked around the room but no one was there. When he looked back at the bone, a curious thing happened. The finger appeared to be pointing at him. As though it were still attached to a living person, or was infused with intelligence, and was accusing him, condemning him.
Fortunately, the feeling lasted only an instant. In the next moment the finger stopped pointing. It became just a bone again.
* * *
The moon had risen, and, in its light, Malcolm could make out the garden, a pale blue circle at the end of the grass. He looked back at the remaining artichokes lying on the table. Then he walked to the back door, opened it, and went out.
The garden was in even worse condition than before. The dead flowers, which had been in a row, were now trampled, dug up, and scattered. Footprints were everywhere. Signs of violence had replaced the serenity of neglect.
Malcolm saw the imprints of his own shoes, large and deep. Then he noticed the smaller treads of Annie’s tennis shoes. He stepped into the garden and placed his feet over her treads, enjoying how thoroughly his shoes covered them. By this time, he had stopped wondering what had become of Sean. He was unaware of the location of the others inside the house, of Maria on one side of the bed, of Annie on the other, of Sean in his study staring at the twig of bone. Malcolm forgot his friends a moment, while he stood in the garden that Meg, his twin, had planted and left behind. Meg was gone, had given up, but he was still here. He was thinking that what he needed was a house and a garden of his own. He was imagining himself pruning rosebushes and picking beans. It seemed to him that happiness, with such a simple change, would come at last.
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