Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. I had expected young Conor to sweep you away with him and the two of you never to be heard from again. That’s how fairy tales usually end, isn’t it? Everything seemed to be pointing to that.”

  “Everything was. I mean, that was the next logical step. I suppose that’s one reason why I didn’t go with him. I tend to be suspicious of things that are too tidy.”

  “Even so, Glyn, I’m surprised. Do you know what you’ve got with him? He’s a rare man, my friend.”

  “So he is, and I do love him as much as I can. But that’s not the point. It’s just that I’m not certain that at this stage of my life I could handle what he’s offering.” Glynnis paused to drink her wine. “I know I’ve told you this before, but I can’t get it out of my mind. I keep thinking of my mother and what she gave up to marry my father. God, Lynda, she became a cipher, just a function of my dad. She lived totally in my father’s shadow and she made herself content with that. The first time I realized she had a personality beyond my family’s image of her was after my father died, and then only because she had to assume one. I love my mother, Lynda, but she scares hell out of me. I just don’t know if I’m capable of anything close to what she did. And even if I were capable, I wouldn’t want to do it. I wouldn’t want to end up the same way no matter what type of man I had.”

  “Does Conor expect you to abandon everything, though? It seems to me that he’d be solicitous of what you want to do with your life. The excitement might be in doing it all together.”

  “But why should he have to be solicitous, like I was some type of orphan under his care? I don’t want to be patronized, and even the kindest master is still a master,” and here she paused again to drink before she continued. “But, ah, Lynda, how to explain Conor Finnegan? My God, he is so innocent. He works with such a simple set of values and he can’t fathom how anyone might question them or not want to assume them for their own. He’s so sure of himself, and what he wants to do, and what he believes. It’s unnerving sometimes to be around that much confidence. His whole life has just been a series of confirmations. He believes in his own inherent talents. Everything for Conor has been so orderly, all he’s done is progress from one point to the next, and he expects that to continue all the way to the end. Why should he expect anything else?”

  “And then you come along,” said Lynda with a smile.

  “Yes,” said Glynnis, sighing, “but I’ve been just another affirmation, don’t you see? I’ve fit perfectly into this glamorous little pattern he’s constructed for himself. The man, the education, the job, the woman. The poor boy couldn’t begin to understand anything falling outside those boundaries. But already I feel drawn into the same role my mother played for so long. She fit into a pattern, too. Willingly, although I’m not certain she knew the price of it. But there are things I want to do for myself, Lynda. I don’t even know what they are yet, but I’m sure they’ll make themselves known to me in due time. Or maybe I’m just rationalizing my fears. Don’t you see, though, that if I followed Conor to Washington the mold might already be set? I’d be filling a role. For Conor it would be just another logical step in an infinitely logical progression, but for me it would be something else, something unsettling. I don’t want to be locked into anyone’s pattern.”

  “Don’t you want that eventually, though? Sooner or later you’ll have to decide what you want to do, and who to do it with.”

  “Sooner or later, yes, and I may well decide to go with Conor forever. I pray that I do. But not now. If I had gone to Washington, especially in light of his expectations of me, I’d never be certain that I hadn’t rushed into it for all the wrong reasons. That would be tragic. I wouldn’t even be sure that it was my decision.”

  “You could go down and then leave if it didn’t work out. He’s a big boy. He’ll survive without you.”

  “No. That would be playing right into his expectations again. You know, Conor Finnegan can be incredibly seductive. And I mean emotionally and intellectually, not just physically. He’s secure, and comforting, and safe, and he’s created such an impressive life for himself already. What lies ahead is bound to be glorious for him, if he survives. It’s only natural to want to be part of that. And so the deeper I become entrenched, the more readily I’d abandon myself altogether, and the more difficult it would be to disengage from it if I ever wanted to back out. No, before I make any gesture like that, before I commit to Conor, I have to be positively certain that there’s no going back. There’s no other way with him.”

  As Glynnis talked Lynda got up to bring the wine bottle from the kitchen. She refilled both glasses and sat back down on the floor, the wine bottle between them.

  “You do love him, Glynnis. There’s no doubt of that. I can see it very clearly.”

  “God, yes, or else I’d never be putting us both through this. I love him and I do want to be with him, perhaps for the rest of my life. But I’ll do it on my terms. I have to. He’s so uncomplicated, Lynda. He can’t see that my reluctance is as much for his benefit as for my own. I couldn’t bear to hurt him—he’s so vulnerable, like a little wide-eyed fawn. But I’d do it to protect myself if I had to.”

  “Glynnis, does Conor ever mention me?”

  Glynnis paused to consider, then answered slowly. “No, not really. I rarely mention you to him. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought he might, that’s all. He seems the compassionate sort, and my past is the kind of thing that might spark some interest. You know, he is a handsome lad, and so strong with those big shoulders. I’ll bet he’s terrific in bed. He’s probably so grateful for the chance that he works hard to make it worthwhile.”

  “Lynda,” giggled Glynnis, “you’re treading on sacred ground.”

  “Glyn,” Lynda replied, sitting up at once, “you should let me try him. After all, you have nothing to compare him to, do you? I could give him a workout and let you know if he’s any good. You’d be getting the benefit of my experience with none of the risk. Really. You probably think he’s amazing, but he might be just average, or even worse. I could tell, I’ve had all kinds. You know,” she said in a low voice of mock confidence, “if he’s really as good as he seems to be, you’d be a fool not to move in with him right away. If you don’t, I might be tempted to take your place. A proficient lover is worth any price. They’re as rare as nuns in a brothel.”

  “I never realized you were so generous, Lynda.”

  “I’m only thinking of you, Glyn. Well, maybe myself a little bit, too. I am in the market for a new adventure. If nothing else, this would at least be a unique situation.”

  “I’ll pass for now. But thank you. I’m quite touched.”

  “Your loss, Glyn, but it’s up to you. Would you mind a little independent research? I’ll be going to Washington in about a month.”

  “Yes. Put it out of your mind. By the way, how’s your love life doing, now that we’ve analyzed mine?”

  “Fair. Actually it’s about the same as it was here. I have my companions, and we do for each other.”

  “Nothing serious?”

  “God, no. I’ve yet to encounter anyone who would ever tempt me into what might be called ’a serious relationship,’ and thank God. Like you, I am reluctant to make any major sacrifices. I enjoy my lovers.”

  “Have you seen Peter since you left here?”

  “Yes. Several times. Some weekends I visit my parents and end up giving him a call. We’ll meet in the same restaurant and finish off our meal in the back of his car. Just like two God damn teenagers, and it’s humiliating. You’d think I would have outgrown that. Once or twice we were honest enough with each other and just met at a motor inn. I much prefer that to any pretense that we care about one another. We’ve been through all that. Now we realize that we’re just meat, and it’s much better that way. We’ve done away with all complications.”

  “Forgive me for not congratulating you.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. He
still holds a fascination for me. I suppose he’s a bridge between innocence and whatever it is I’ve become. That makes him special. He fills a role no one else ever can, that delicate transformation of purity to wickedness. Consequently I find sex with him to be better than with anyone else. It’s like making love to two people.”

  “You say you’ve done away with complications. It sounds to me as if you’re making matters very complex.”

  “We’ve eliminated all social complications. The internal complexities will always be there. Not unlike the internal complexities of your own regarding young Conor. That’s usually the case with first loves and first lusts.”

  They finished the wine that evening and Lynda fell asleep on the floor. She did not go back to the hotel. Glynnis rose with wobbly legs and brought a blanket from the closet to cover her. She went to bed herself, the walls of her single bedroom blending into and out of each other.

  Glynnis did not rise until late the next morning. Her gentle head felt thick, corseted by effects of too much wine. She sat up unsteadily with a groan. A metallic film coated the inside of her mouth, and her limbs ached.

  Lynda had already showered, dressed and left. As Glynnis weaved into the living room, she saw the blanket folded on a corner of the couch with a note resting on top.

  Glynnis –

  You’re sleeping too soundly to disturb. We drank much more last night than either of us bargained. At least I did. My head is under assault from thousands of tiny hammers. I can imagine how you’ll feel, so the best I can do is clear out silently and let you sleep.

  Thank you, Glynnis, for your wonderful hospitality and the great conversation that went with it. You’ve recharged my batteries. I don’t suppose I’ve ever told you, but I miss you terribly. I took you for granted for four years, but all that time you were a kind of rudder for me. I could use you now again. Despite all my hardboiled surety, I’m not doing well at all. We’ll save a complete analysis for later conversation.

  I do envy you, my good friend. I envy your decent character and the deep, great goodness of your soul. Armed with those advantages, you can’t help but set a lovely course for the rest of your life. One word of advice, though, if I may intrude: hold on to your Irishman at all costs. You fret about sacrificing your identity to his ’patterns.’ My guess is that it would be far worse to face the world on your own terms while knowing the horrible price by which those terms were won. A pyrrhic victory of the worst kind. Loneliness is awful, Glynnis, and it will destroy you much more quickly than would a few logistical sacrifices. Conor is a rare blend of admirable traits, but beyond that, he’s a good man. You may never find one like him again anywhere.

  Stay in touch, and thanks again. For everything.

  Love,

  Lynda

  ***

  One aspect of Glynnis’s new existence did not surface during Lynda’s visit. It had not, indeed surfaced anywhere except to Glynnis herself. She hid it, not protectively as one might guard an object likely to inspire jealousy, but purely out of confusion. She did not know what to make of it or how to react. Until she could determine her own response, she deemed it best to keep this curious situation to herself.

  The situation’s name was Michael Halcón. Glynnis had been giving him a great deal of thought. He had appeared in September and from that point forward had assumed a close proximity to her own life. Three times a week, when Glynnis walked into the studio to begin, resume or complete a project. Michael rose forth with his gentle, appealing character, an inescapably unnerving component of an otherwise tameable existence.

  Michael, Glynnis concluded the first day she saw him, was uncomfortably handsome. His quietly intense demeanor, a distinctive hybrid of simmering Latin passion tempered by an Eastern acceptance of the immutable forces that worked upon his world, intrigued Glynnis who saw in him at once a graphic, more placid contrast to Conor Finnegan’s strident, active, sometimes painfully naïve idealism. Michael Halcón sought to change nothing. He placed himself in opposition to nothing and, if an individual or institution struck him as out of place, he merely ignored it, preferring instead to find his own peace rather than join battles in which he would be hopelessly outmanned. When Glynnis asked him once about his quiescence, he responded that, yes, he saw the world’s brutality on both a grand scale and in his immediate surroundings, but that he would never be so arrogant as to propose a solution beyond simple kindness. He had no right to intervene, even if he could, for who was to say that his own subjective values were more just than those he would seek to replace? The only approach, then, was kindness, to the people and places at hand.

  Michael Halcón preferred to search for more personal kinds of fulfillments. Ever since he was a boy he had been drawn to all forms of physical art. And sculpture in particular. He relished the feel of wet clay and the chip of chisel against stone. It was a way of shaping a completed, absolute view that was otherwise unattainable. He would be creator, judge and jury. What he shaped would be final, assailable only by his own standards, his own definitions of beginning and end, image, illusion and reality, concept and execution. Over the years he suffered with his shortcomings, that universal artistic torture of distortion between idea and formulation. Yet through a continuing pursuit of lessened imperfection (he dare not call it excellence) he had become highly regarded during his development. He cared little for any type of general recognition, and he yielded to the wishes of his instructors to display his work at public exhibitions only under the greatest pressure. Michael much preferred to work privately.

  He found the academic environment ideal. Here he might pursue his own work in relative obscurity and according to his own pace while earning enough money to get by. His contact with the students he found largely tedious, although there were always exceptions. The vast majority struck him as mediocre, or worse. They lacked the discipline to edit the distractions from a piece so that they might concentrate on its soul. By and large they pursued art as a diversion. They did not share nor could they understand the passions it could evoke. Consequently Michael provided for most of his students only the rudiments of studio instruction. Their comparative indifference wearied him, and he thought it best to avoid overextension. He might teach them technique, but he could never teach them how to maintain their souls.

  Glynnis had been fascinated by this gentle, remote man. She found herself drawn to him physically. He was lean, a sparse frame apparently undernourished from neglect rather than circumstance. Black hair curled around his ears and across his forehead to fall above eyes equally black that flared and flamed when, on rare occasions, he spoke of his art—the descriptive power of it, its glorious potential, and its uncommon wedding of mind, hand, soul and being. Glynnis saw in Michael’s eyes an eruption of such unbridled force that it disturbed her. She perceived the bottomless well of his passion, and wondered how it might be if he ever chose to release it.

  Michael’s eyes were two black stallions thundering across the surf. His beard, too, was black, short-clipped in tight bristles that bracketed his mouth. Michael was woven of darkness and shadows. His skin was a rich brown, like coffee heavily creamed, and it blended well with his black features. Later Glynnis discovered that he was of Spanish extraction, that his father in fact had been born in Valladolid and had come to the United States with his family as a young boy to escape the violence and repressions of Franco. According to Michael, his resemblance to his father was eerie; they might have been twins.

  Michael had, in turn, taken note of Glynnis Mear. She had taken his course only by chance. As a graduate student, she did not need to top off her schedule with an undergraduate offering, but she had wanted to explore sculpture beyond her cursory experience there, and Michael’s course fit conveniently. Michael, during the first studio session, noted that Glynnis was a graduate student. He pulled her aside to inquire why she was there and was stimulated by her reply. Here was someone who conceivably might possess a grain of curiosity, a grain of passion. How welcome that would be. W
elcome, too, was Glynnis’s long brown hair and gentle body. She moved lithely around the studio and plied her clay with delicate fingers. Her face pursed in concentration did not hide its soft contours. And when she spoke Michael heard the crystal bells of New England on a winter night.

  He was pleased when, one night early in the term, Glynnis showed up at his studio to put in extra work on one of her projects. He watched her furtively, pretending to be working on his own piece, and said nothing to her. When she cleaned up prior to leaving, he walked to her table and, purely without ceremony, asked if she would like to go with him for coffee. Glynnis, who knew that Michael had been watching her and sensed that he was delaying his own departure on her account, accepted his brusque invitation. They walked across campus to the student center and, over coffee and biscotti, talked for two hours, a perfunctory yet necessary conversation that set the basis for what might come later.

  That was September. In the weeks to follow, Glynnis spent increasing amounts of time in Michael’s studio. Occasionally they would repeat that initial evening and conclude their work over coffee. Glynnis did not tell Michael about Conor. There was no point, really; they remained on a superficial and innocent level. Twice Michael had asked Glynnis to have dinner with him on the weekend, and, bound to Washington, twice she had declined. She did not give Michael a reason, nor did he ask for one. For his part, Michael had little conception of romantic rituals. He preferred to be direct. He would keep asking, simply because he wanted to have dinner with her, and get to know her better. He could not deny to himself that he wanted to sleep with her as well, but that would come later, if it came at all. In the meantime, he would keep asking for her time. When she refused he was not discouraged, for his intentions, the final and ultimate arbiter of his actions, had not been altered. He would continue to pursue her, very gently, without pressure and without expectations, so long as they remained where they were.

  Glynnis, of course, had been pursued by many men and had learned the art of the delicate rebuff. Michael, though, affected her differently than did the other young men. He was a vapor, invisible and odorless, that Glynnis inhaled without knowing. He had worked his way inside her; he played with her blood. Glynnis was attracted to him, intellectually to be sure, but more so physically. Conor, with his wild energy, his appreciation for all parts of her body, his untamed physicality, had always satisfied her most basic desires. Yet the contrast between Conor Finnegan and Michael Halcón was distinctive, and therefore intriguing. Where Conor bubbled and burst with enthusiasm, Michael simmered. He held his reserve, and in so doing created a foggy, mysterious aura. His was a latent power. He stifled it; he would let it build. What walls might be ripped asunder when he finally let it go? Glynnis fantasized about Michael’s restrained power; she fancied it filling her, rending her into tiny sections, flooding her being with the unplumbed depths of Iberian passion. Michael radiated a constant, overt sensuality which disarmed Glynnis thoroughly. Should she offer her bed, she knew he would accept. The possibility of something new, of momentarily throwing off all considerations of obligation and expectation, thrilled her. She wondered about the particulars of how Michael would be, but she assumed that he would be somehow marvelous.