by Robert Clark
“Okay, ‘Mahler foretold all,’” William repeated, and paused. “And did he? Foretell all?”
Edward thought and then said, “Mostly. But I don’t know. We’re not quite done yet, are we?”
For Jane, not a great deal changed in all those years. She was not entirely surprised that she never heard from Edward, even after his wife was gone. She pretty much gave up politics, commiserated with her friend Frances, and went on living at 475 Laurel Avenue, where she still lives today. And if you pass by her apartment (as people are wont to do so as to have a peek at F. Scott Fitzgerald’s birthplace, which is right next door) on a summer day when the windows are open and the air is thick and resonant, you may well hear a snatch of Mahler or Candide.
William had been told, and knew full well, that he remained a prisoner of certain beliefs which would remain the primary obstacles to his recovery. He believes a little too strongly in romantic love or at least holds an unsophisticated view of its powers and importance in human affairs. But the fact remains for him that he only saw how very much God loved Emily, and could not but love her too.
His mother lives as if it were always 1966 or thereabouts; and for William (for whom at the best of times Emily lives, in California, with her children, near the tennis courts) it is always just now. In this way, they keep the intervening years—the history, the ruins among which their loves transpired—at bay.
Acknowledgments
My infinite gratitude to Peter, Jeff, and Trish;
to Alane Mason and Colleen Mohyde;
and, as ever, to Carrie most of all.