by Adam Haslett
house, out of the solipsism of blank days, coming to this foreign place, he can see it all more clearly. The waitress stares.
"Honey? What are you going to have?" Ellen asks, trying after a long day's journey not to sound impatient. Silence stretches on.
"He'll have a chicken sandwich," Ellen says at last. I N T H E B AT H R O O M at the hotel, he stands before the mirror trying to recall his reason for being there. Electric light shines evenly on the sink's white porcelain. Cool air slides from the windowsill across the floor onto his bare feet. Water swells on the lip of the faucet.
From the bedroom he hears Ellen's voice. She seems to be talking about a friend of hers, a woman at the college who like Ellen has no permanent position, and was apparently just let go. There is something about courses not filled. She asks a question he doesn't follow. He tries to piece together what he's heard but it's no good.
"You all right in there?"
He opens his fist and sees the pill he is supposed to take flaking in the sweat of his palm.
Ten times, maybe even twenty, he has sat on a doctor's couch and answered the same battery of questions about his sleep and interest in sex, his appetite and sense of despair; and he's said, yes, there was an uncle and a grandmother who, looking back, seemed unhappy in more than the usual ways; 93
and yes, there were his parents, who divorced, his mother who always had a few drinks after dinner; and no, he doesn't hear voices or believe there is a plot to undo him. At the end of each of the hours, he's listened to the doctor's brief talk about the new combination they'd like to try, how at first it might make him nauseous or tired or anxious. For years he's done as he was told, and for stretches of time he's felt like a living person. Then the undertow returns. Ellen hears of a better doctor. Again he must answer the questions. He's always doubted the purpose of the drugs. Despite all the explanations, he's never been able to rid himself of the conviction that his experience has a meaning. That the crushing pulse of specificity he so often sees teeming in the physical world is no distortion. That it is there to be seen if one has the eyes. He's been told this is a romantic notion, a dangerous thing to cling to, bad advice for the mentally ill. Perhaps it is. Though the opposite has always seemed more frightening to him, lonelier--the idea that so much of him was a pure and blinded waste.
"I'm fine," he says softly, rinsing the damp powder into the drain.
In bed, Ellen leans her head on his chest, laying a hand flat on his stomach. There is nothing sexual about her touch. There has been none of that for a long time. She is thirty-four and would like to have a child. He begins, as he has so often, to think of all the things he does not provide her, but knowing the list is endless, he stops.
"You feel nice and warm," she says.
He runs his hand through her hair. She has never worn 94
perfume or makeup, which for him has always added to her beauty, the lack of facade.
"You all set for the library tomorrow?"
"Yeah," she says, nodding her head against his chest. She's come to read correspondence from the Second World War, part of her research on the lives of women on the home front. Her real interests are in the political history of the time, but her adviser has told her there is a glut of scholarship on the topic and it isn't the best idea if she wants to find a faculty position. She's thought about ignoring his advice, but when Paul stopped working, she decided it was best to be practical.
He remembers their meeting for the first time, at a friend's house, where they sat in a bay window overlooking a garden. No matter what she spoke of, she seemed so optimistic: her work, their friends at the party, the cut of his jacket--it was all good. Those first months he would come to her apartment in the afternoons when he'd finished his teaching at the high school. He'd do his correcting at the kitchen table while she worked at her desk in the bedroom. It was as if he'd been invited into a parallel world, a place where small pleasures--like knowing she was in the other room--could be a daily thing. She had a bemused look on her face when one evening he tried to explain he wasn't feeling well. They were sitting on the porch of her apartment after supper, a pop song, as he remembers it, coming from the window of her downstairs neighbor.
"You're too hard on yourself," she said. "That school 95
wears you out. You need more sleep." Her voice had a kindly tone. If he hadn't known before, he knew then she'd never experienced the kind of dread he was trying to describe. It didn't matter, he told himself then. That she loved him, that was enough. It wasn't realistic to expect acknowledgment would ever be complete.
"I'll just get started at the library tomorrow, just a few hours in the morning," she says, reaching up to kiss him good night. "Then we can take a walk around, see the beach."
He touches his hand to her face.
"All right," he says, switching off the bedside lamp. E A R LY M O R N I N G , A pewter gray light hangs in the middle of the room, leaving the corners obscured, blurring the outlines of the sitting chair and bureau.
He dresses quietly; quietly he closes the door behind him. The air outside is cold, mist blanketing the streets. He makes his way up toward the castle, and from there onto the path leading alongside the wall of the cathedral grounds. Opposite is the cliff, grass running to its edge. He walks to the verge. He can hear the slosh and fizz of the sea below, the deep knock of a boulder being rocked in place by the waves. All of it invisible down there in the fog. It is better this way, he thinks.
" 'Scuse me, dear, could you give me a hand?" a voice behind him says. He turns to see an old woman buttoned in a green wool coat. She stands no more than a yard away, holding a grocery 96
bag. He can't understand how she's come this near without his notice. As he looks more closely, he sees it is the old woman from the restaurant, her brown eyes set in wrinkled skin.
"Didn't mean to scare you, dear. Just that I've dropped a bit of the shopping. Shouldn't have brought Polly down before stopping at the house." She glances back along the cliff, where a white terrier emerges from the mist. A brown paper bag lies on the ground before her.
Mutely, he kneels to retrieve it.
"The chemist--always a new something or other," she mutters. When she has the bag safely in hand, she says,
"You're American."
Paul stares at her, as if at an apparition.
"Come for the course, have you? . . . Have you come over for the golf?"
He shakes his head.
"Air force? Over at Leuchars, are you?"
"No. My wife. She's . . ."
"She's what, dear? . . . At the university?"
He nods.
"Right. Lots of the foreigners over for that. Nothing like the golf, though. Last summer was dreadful. We had the British Open. You'd think Christ had risen on the eighteenth green. More telly people than putters as far as I could tell. Awful. You live in Texas?"
He shakes his head. "Pennsylvania."
"Is that near Texas?"
"No."
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She leans down to pat the head of her terrier, who has scurried up to meet them. "Your wife's in the books and you've got the day to yourself."
Paul says nothing. She comes a step closer, barely two feet from him. "Not an easy place to entertain yourself," she says, leaning her head forward. "Without the golf, I mean."
She searches his face, as though straining to read the fine print of a map. "Would you like to come for a cup of tea?"
H E D O E S N O T know why he goes with her. She is here and has asked and so he goes.
They walk down past the clock tower. She moves slowly, stopping to look back for the dog, checking her bags and packages. She speaks of the university students, complains of the noise they make during term, says the tourists are generally polite but she doesn't like all the coach buses. They take a right turn, then a left down a narrow street of two-story houses. At the door of one, the old woman pauses and finding the key in the pocket of her coat, inserts it in the lock. The dog runs ahead i
nto the darkened hall and the old woman follows, leaving Paul standing at the entrance. As he steps into the house, a heavy, warm odor envelops him. His first reaction is to close his nostrils, breathe only through his mouth. Then, tentatively, he sniffs. It is flesh he smells, not sweat or the dankness of a locker room, but something close. A rotting. Breathing through his mouth, he advances down the hall toward a light that has come on in the next room. He won't 98
want to stay long, he thinks, wondering how anyone could live with such a smell. She'll comment on it, make an apology of some sort, he feels sure. But when he reaches the kitchen, she is calmly stowing her groceries.
"Have a seat, dear. Tea won't be a moment."
Though it is day, the curtains are drawn and a naked bulb provides the only light. He perches on the edge of a chair by the kitchen table, sampling the air again. The stench tickles his nostrils.
The kitchen looks a bit disheveled, the counters cluttered with jars and mugs, but otherwise it is like any other kitchen. There is nothing here to explain such an odor. He imagines naked, sweating bodies packed into the other rooms of the house.
"I've got some biscuits round here somewhere, what did I do with them? Do you take milk and sugar?"
Watching the old woman shuffle past the sink, he feels disoriented and tries to confirm to himself where he is, the day of the week, the country they are in.
"Milk, dear?"
"I saw you in the restaurant last night, didn't I?" he says.
"Yes, dear, you did. Sometimes I come and sit in the evenings, if I can find someone for Albert. He's my grandson. You'll meet him."
She arranges cookies on a plate. "Have you been visiting elsewhere, then?"
"We passed through Edinburgh," he says.
"Terrible place. Full of strangers. What do you do in the States?"
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Paul has to repeat her words to himself before replying.
"I used to teach," he says.
For a moment, he sees the classroom on the third floor of the high school, its scratched plastic windows, chairs of chrome metal, beige desks affixed, a map of America, the portrait of Lincoln tacked to the back wall. The students staring, waiting for him to speak.
"How wonderful. Noble profession, teaching is," she says, placing a mug on the table beside him. "There's sugar there if you like."
She puts her own mug down and takes a seat opposite.
"And what is it you taught?"
"History," he says.
"Dates. Yes. Albert's very good with dates . . . Are you a father?"
"No," he says, wondering why he is here.
"A mixed blessing children are, of course. Up to all sorts of things. When they're young, though--nothing like it. You taught young ones, did you?"
"Teenagers."
"Difficult they are."
There is a pause. The old woman leans forward in her chair. "You're tired," she says.
"Sorry?"
"You're tired, dear, under the eyes. You've been sleeping poorly."
Paul feels a surge of anger. He wants to yell at the old woman. How dare she presume? But there is something so 100
frank in her expression, so lacking in judgment, he can't bring himself to do it.
"Jet lag, I suppose," he says.
He sips at his mug. The odor leaks in. He feels he might heave the liquid up.
"Have you ever had fresh mutton?" she asks.
He shakes his head.
"An excellent meat. My friend Sibyl gets it straight from the abattoir. Rosemary, wee spot of mint jelly. Quite delicious. Perhaps you might come for dinner. I doubt they'll be giving you any Scottish meat in the hotels."
The smell has got to him now and he is beginning to feel dizzy. "What time is it?"
"It's early, dear. Just gone half eight."
"I should go back."
"There's no hurry, surely." She stirs her tea. "Just out for a walk this morning, were you?"
He looks up at her. "My wife," he says. "She'll be waking up. I really have to go." He stands up from his chair.
"Well, if you must rush, then--pity though, you've just arrived. But there we are, you'll come tomorrow. For dinner--two o'clock. It'll rain in the morning."
"No . . . I don't know."
"Not to worry about it now," she says, patting him on the shoulder. They move into the front hall. "It's getting cold this time of year. The haar will cover the town by the end of the week. You'll want to keep inside for that."
She holds open the front door. When he steps onto the 101
street, he breathes in the cold air, finding it less of a relief than he'd hoped.
H E WA L K S T O the end of the cobbled street, looking one way and the other, forgetting the route that brought him here. Steps lead to doors on the second floor of row houses, smoke rising from squat chimneys. A child passes on a bicycle. He watches the little figure vanish around a corner and begins moving in the same direction.
He follows the sound of voices down onto Market Street. In the square, vendors arrange stalls of plants and secondhand books. A man wearing a placard reads from the book of Revelation, while his wife, standing silently by, passes literature to those who will take it. There are etchings of the seashore in the dry basin of the fountain. He walks slowly through, past tables covered with baked goods and china, testing the scent of the air as he goes.
"Where have you been?" Ellen cries as he enters the lobby. "Where in the world have you been?"
He looks at her with what he imagines is a pleading expression.
"Paul," she says, her voice quavering. She puts her arms around him, holds his head against her shoulder.
"Why didn't you wake me? What's going on?"
He's used all the words he has to describe his state to her. He could only repeat them now. A selfish repetition. How many times will he ask for a reassurance he will never believe? This should have ended by now.
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He holds on to her, grabbing her more tightly because he can think of nothing to say.
T H E Y S P E N D T H E rest of that morning in the room. Paul sits in a chair by the window, while Ellen reads the paper. She has called the library to let the curator know she will be starting a day later.
Her way of coping with him has changed over the years. She's read books and articles about depression and its symptoms, spoken to the psychiatrists he sees, tackled the problem like the researcher she is. She knows the clinical details, reminding him always it is a chemical problem, a treatable disease: eventually a doctor will find the right formula. From the window, he sees a man across the street depositing a letter in a mailbox and he wonders what the inside of the man's leather glove would smell of. He runs a hand under his nose, sniffing his palm.
"Do you want to call Dr. Gormley?" Ellen asks.
His glance drops, freezing on the wool ticking of the armchair; strands of dust settle on the blue fibers. He shakes his head.
T H AT N I G H T, W H E N he cannot sleep he goes into the bathroom and pees. He splashes urine on the edge of the bowl, then gets on his hands and knees to sniff the rim. He smells the cracks in the tile, the damp bath mat, his wife's underwear, the hair and skin in the drain of the tub. He runs his fin103 ger along the back of the medicine cabinet's shelf and tastes the gray-white dust. None of it comes close to the stench in that house.
A L L T H E N E X T morning it rains, as the old woman said it would. They eat lunch in the nearly empty dining room of the hotel. Across the way, a German couple argues quietly over a map. Ellen suggests that Paul come back to the library with her, he could read the British papers there. She only needs a day or two, she says, then they can take the train back to Edinburgh, see more of the city.
There is a fragment of tea leaf on the rim of her cup; a sheen to the softening butter; a black fly brushing its feelers on the white cloth of the table. He pictures the library and at once fears some constriction he imagines he will experience there. It is the familiar fear of being anywhere at a
ll, of committing to the decision to stay in one place.
"I think I'll take a walk," he says.
"Did you take the pill this morning?" she asks. There is no impatience in her voice. She has trained herself over the years to control that, which only reminds him of how he's weighed on her, whittled her down to this cautious caring. He nods, though once again he's disposed of the tablet in the bathroom, knowing she will count them.
After she leaves for the library, Paul sets out across the square, past the tables of books and china, heading into the narrow lanes. As he comes to the house and reaches out to 104
knock on the low door, it opens and the old woman steps aside to let him enter.
"Good afternoon," she says. "We never made our introductions yesterday. I'm Mrs. McLaggan."
"Paul Lewis," he says.
"Right. Mr. Lewis. I'm glad you've come." They walk down the hall into the kitchen. "I'll just be a minute," she says, heading into the other room. It's then he sniffs the air, finding it as thick and rank as the day before. A light comes on in the next room, the old woman calls to him, and Paul walks through the doorway.
Running along the far side of the room, completely obscuring the windows, is a wall of clear plastic gallon buckets filled with what appears to be petroleum jelly. They've been arranged in a single row and stacked from floor to ceiling. Along the adjacent wall stands a metal clothes rack on wheels holding twenty or more identical blue track suits. A sideboard across from this is laid with dishes of lamb, potatoes, and string beans. Mrs. McLaggan stands in the middle of the room under another naked lightbulb. At the center is a table set for two.
The low ceiling, the electric light, the pale brown walls, the strange provisions all give the room the feel of a way station on some forgotten trade route, or a bunker yet to hear news of the war's end.