He thought he had won Felix and had wooed and won his daughter. Won her fairly, he thought. And now she was in love with Tom. He was sure of it. She unbundled magazines stashed in the cellar for twenty-seven years. Ripped off their bindings and tossed them away. Her face was an apple bursting with juice. She was in love, all right, and he envied her.
They lay upon Muriel’s bed like herrings. Slim, motionless, glistening. Her skin, he thought, clung too tightly to the bone. She was stark despite the coffee-colored mottlings on her shoulders.
There was so much more he knew about her now. And still, he concluded, still he found her glorious. Some evenings he sat reading and pausing from his reading to watch her at practice. He knew better now the genesis of the rapture that infused her performances.
He had observed her patience and attentiveness, the thoroughly labor-intensive activity that filled her days. He had witnessed her dissolving into it. He had heard her play a minute passage over and over, listening to herself, making fine discriminations between this rendition and that. She was sufficient as her own critic; she never asked his advice. She set her ear for the subtlest expressive distinctions, those meanings that were contained in a fraction of a second. Her medium, he had come to understand, was not merely sound, but time itself. The organization of time was her manner of speaking. The nonchalance or determination in one finger, the tension in a wrist or an elbow constituted her pronunciation. And when it was perfectly right it would be reiterated until it merged flawlessly into a melodic line and then into an entire sonata.
Her long hours at such exercise were the process by which she slipped first her hands and then her arms, her shoulders, and finally the whole of herself into the music her audiences heard. He had witnessed the tedium consuming and then transforming her and he knew that this was the source of what listeners took for the symptoms of ecstasy. He saw now that those sonatas and mazurkas and fantasias were, like peaches in the rusted truck of a small orchardier, the harvest of dedicated dawn-to-dusk labor.
I have seen her offstage, he thought, and yet I adore her. I know what lies behind her spellbinding music, and yet I am spellbound. But he knew that these were still aspects of an ideal. He had not witnessed the craters, the fluctuations and darknesses Robin Colby had referred to in the lounge of the Hudson Tennis Club. She was still as he had first conceived her. An idée fixe. He had kept her at the proper distance.
He studied the freckled back she presented. He loved the backs of women lying on their sides, the dramatic rise of their hipbones, the graceful plummet and second climb to the shoulders. That line that defined a cello.
He rose and walked round to the other side of her bed. Not a pretty face. But a space between her teeth. He had known she would be passionate. He studied the fingers poured over the side of the bed. Lean, strong fingers that had been to Moscow. That had flicked and trilled and paused for precisely measured moments on ivory-covered keys in Tel Aviv and Salzburg and Sydney.
He selected a cassette from her drawer and settled himself in the chair beside her bed. Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. Fingers that prepared the sweetbreads and frogs’ legs he so relished. An extraordinary woman. And at the proper distance. Colby had been right, he decided. She proffered respite and the promise of salvation.
“I love you,” he eventually said.
He felt magnified by his words and he said them again. “I love you, Muriel.”
He exulted in the sound. He was convinced it might be true.
“I love you,” he said once more.
She remained asleep.
Eighteen
They went to Aspen in October. A time for the trees that give the town its name. Coltish white pickets dashed by tarry scars, splayed against the mountainside without roots or tops. Sometimes a startled branch darting off, breaking the vertical wash of them. And the leaves! Chartreuse and lemon yellow, confusing the sun that lighted upon them.
“Aspen will be ours,” he told her. “A shared memory.” He was aware that he had begun collecting memories. Like snapshots for one of those albums one rarely opens. He wasn’t certain when this had started.
The American Ophthalmology Association’s annual conference. He delivered a paper and was applauded at the dinner that followed. She did not attend, but dined with friends, Dieter and Phillipa Schrenk, at their home in Carbondale. It was where they were staying. Away from the others.
He never carried a camera and never much cared for candid photos but before they left, Philippa presented him with a packetful. Sun-dappled faces. Twosomes, foursomes. Grouped about a table, aspens in the background eclipsing them all. Eternal smiles and eyes squinting in the dry, light-drenched air. Muriel laughing and pointing at the little white car, now spattered with red clay, that had carried them through Independence Pass. On the plane back from Denver, he told Muriel to keep the snapshots. And then he was home.
At the office, Doris Needham is superbly starched. Her hair, the lustreless grey of the dead, is tucked into her cap; her face is dusted with unbleached flour. She sets index cards before him and speaks without inflection, her voice just audible above the drone of the air conditioner. She speaks discreetly of his next patient.
“You saw him just last week. He’s sure there’s a stitch that hasn’t been removed. I tried to reassure him. Left eye.”
Her energy remains constant throughout the day. She ushers patients into examining rooms. Artfully moves him to where they are waiting. Her thick crepe soles pad over the old linoleum. Not a step is wasted. He trusts her absolutely. He slips into the washroom and scrubs his hands after each patient. There are wounds on his palm and on the fingers of his left hand. He cannot remember hurting himself. There are occasional sharp pains in his left arm and shoulder. He takes a key from his pocket to unlock the cabinet over the toilet. He swallows some vodka. The days pass.
At the lab, a party to celebrate publication of his research. Hilda has arranged it. He cannot recall when he last made love to her. They have not spoken of it.
“We need to reapply for the grants,” she told him when the others were gone. “I can fill out the forms, but I need an outline of the next project. I’ll write it up once I have the outline. We’ll attach this new publication. That should seal it.” Hilda would always deliver. He was a lucky man.
“What is the next project?” he asked her casually.
“That’s for you to decide,” she said. “January deadline.”
“I see.” His breath was shallow. He was very tired. “Give me the papers. I’ll look them over at home.” His mouth was parched.
Flickering, as patterns of light and dark moved across the television screen. Sound turned low, words incomprehensible. A sense of motion in the bedroom. Like a moving train, it kept him focussed on his reading. He hadn’t thought about the next project. The paper had taken almost a year to complete. Hilda should have alerted him sooner. How could she expect him to think up a new project just like that? A woman on the television screen. A lady tennis player. He rose from the bed and turned up the volume. Some large-boned woman. Soft, wavy hair. A longish face that benefitted from such hair, he decided. Strong arms, probably Australian. Their women are big, powerful types. Nina Phillips. Some fuss about her wanting to play in the amateur matches. Nathan could not account for the vague vertigo he experienced. The women’s matches. That soft, long hair, dipping slightly over the forehead.
“Carla! Get in here! Carla, hurry up!”
“What is it, Nathan? I’m busy.”
“Get in here right now! Phil Neuman,” he sputtered. “It’s Phil Neuman! Nina Phillips is, is Phil Neuman! Look at her! At him! For godsake, Carla. He’s got a lawyer suing to allow him to play women’s tennis. What the hell is he doing?”
Carla stared mutely at the television. Nathan shuffled his papers on the bed. “Look at the muscles on those arms! Is he crazy? He’s a goddamn ophthalmologist. He should have his license revoked. Fucking publicity-seeker! It’s sickening.”
“Be quie
t, Nathan. I want to hear this.”
“Enough the guy gets himself castrated. Now he’s on television suing to play women’s tennis! Goddamn idiot! He’s trying to ruin the profession.”
The news segment concluded. Carla returned to the kitchen. The application forms grew large and soft-edged on the bedcover. Hilda hadn’t given him any notes. He didn’t have another project. He couldn’t possibly think one up so quickly. He couldn’t, in fact, think of anything just now. There was no new project and that was that. They would have to continue the present project. He deserved it. After all, his publication had broken new ground. Everyone in Aspen had said so. The NIH could carry him for another three years. He deserved it. Goddamn Phil Neuman. What an asshole!
“I think she should be allowed to play,” Alex said at dinner.
“Of course she should,” Lisle agreed. “People have the right to change and when they do, they have the same rights as the people they change into. It’s simple.”
“It’s not so simple,” Carla said. “But they should let her play. She certainly can’t play men’s matches.”
“So he doesn’t play. Big deal,” Nathan said. “He’s an ophthalmologist, not a tennis pro.”
“She,” Lisle said. “And Mom is right. She has a right to play.”
Nathan left the table. “What a bunch of screwed up women,” he said, scooping some papers into a briefcase. “You’ve screwed up my daughters, Carla. How can you even look at that sicko, much less defend him? The three of you are as sick as he is.” He slammed the door behind him.
Lily’s office was still beige. Smart and chic and beige. Lily looked especially well. He planted an arid kiss.
“I’m stuck for a project,” he told her. “I’ve put in fifteen years on this. I can’t come up with a new project every three years. Who do they think I am?”
“So give it a rest,” Lily said. She sat cross-legged in the oversized armchair as she did for hours each day. Nathan darted about, pausing at windows and Ansel Adams prints.
“That’s crazy,” he said. “Once you get funding, you have to keep it coming. Otherwise they forget you.”
“If you don’t have another project, what do you want funding for?” she asked.
“I have to keep the lab going, Lily. I built that place. It’s prestigious for the hospital. And for me. It’s what I live for, my life, Lily. It’s my whole goddamn life. You know that.”
“Time for a new life, Nathan. Get more involved with your patients. Give someone else a chance at research.”
“Have you ever thought of redoing this office, Lily? Getting rid of all this beige? Give another color a chance?”
“I had the place redone ten months ago. Beige is what makes me comfortable,” she said gently.
“What about my comfort?” He was flushed, menacing. “I can’t cook up another project just like that! That’s what Hilda’s for. She’s been slacking off,” he said. He stood at the window, looking down onto Park Avenue. “Come to think of it, I know why, too.” He turned back to face Lily. “Well, she’s not paid to fuck me. She’s paid to develop my projects.”
“I know it’s hard to let go of the lab,” Lily said, “but you have a reputation now. The most challenging cases are referred to you.”
“Practice is not enough, Lily. I told you that years ago.”
“Have you thought of why that is?”
“Don’t be a goddamn shrink!” he cried. “You’re my first cousin and my first love, Lily. Be a pal.”
“I’m doing my best,” she said. “But sometimes it’s just time to move on.” She walked over to where he stood and looped her arms about his neck.
“I’ve got to get going, Lily,” he said. “I have to pay a little visit to Hilda Marks.” He turned away from his cousin to muffle his words. “That cunt!”
The room he returned to was suddenly unfamiliar. Its walls and furniture were bloated. An unnatural light from the television screen. Phil. Phillips. The frayed blue coverlet pulled back, his papers littering the floor. Ulcerated, edematous, this room. He could scarcely breathe in it. And in his shoulder, a demanding ache.
His wife emerged from the bathroom distracted, remote. She seemed surprised to find him there.
“Will you ever stop locking that door?” he said.
“Please, Nathan. Not now.”
“So you are upset. You’re upset about Phil. I knew it would get to you eventually. You really loved him, I know. But you loved him as a man. This finally got to you, didn’t it?”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“Look, I’ve never understood you,” he said. “And you have never understood me. I think we should get a divorce.”
“We can talk about that if you want, but not tonight.” Her easy acceptance of that word startled him.
“Are you ever going to replace this bedcover? It’s coming apart. I hate this bedcover. And you’ve always known I hated it,” he said.
“I didn’t know,” she said wearily. “I’ll replace it.”
“We should get a divorce,” he said again. “You’re still in love with Phil. You’ve just realized he’s gone. That’s why you’re crying, isn’t it? You’ve just understood you’ve lost Phil.”
“Tom just called.” It was a hoarse whisper. “Marian Perrin died this morning. We can talk about this other thing tomorrow. After the funeral.”
She turned her back to him and pulled the cover over herself in one round gesture.
“I’m sorry,” Nathan said. “That’s really terrible.” He took a few Percocets for his shoulder. Also a Seconal.
Nineteen
Years. Years that are a sea of grain. Fine-grained, uneventful years. His daughter’s high school graduation. Another research grant. A twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Inevitable events. Celebrations for which there are protocols; one does not think much about them. Years that run through a sieve.
His eldest daughter is in college. His youngest, exuberant and fiercely creative. His wife leaves their Gramercy Park apartment each morning to shop or to edit books. In the evening, she goes to the Y to sculpt or to a meeting of some sort. He knows she meets her lover on some of these evenings, it does not matter which ones. They might dine at home and then part. He, too, has meetings to attend. Occasionally, they mention divorce. It is a rough strand on a many-wefted loom, a strand never bound off.
The sun continues beating down, its relentless brightness. The world, however, darkens; the same indiscriminate relentlessness.
In Truro, their daughters set out in early morning on bicycles. The sounds of drawers and doors opening; tiptoeing on the stairs; animated, audible whispers. Sounds that linger in the early blue air like fragrance. The rattle of summer morning: all the house is glad for it.
The Szabo children wanted to go along, and eventually Alex and Lisle were persuaded to take the two eldest. They would lunch along the Bay and pedal to Provincetown. The others would meet them at dusk for the dune ride and dinner. Their bikes would be strapped to the station wagon for the ride home in the evening. A summer ritual, the Klines and the Szabos. Dune rides and dinner in P-Town. It was never clear how many bikes were stored in the beach house garage, just as it was never clear how many beds the house actually held. The answer to both questions seemed to be: as many as needed.
Already the second of their ten vacation days. Sand scraping underfoot and sliding about in the bed linen. Stray socks and sneakers wedged under furniture beside puzzle pieces and Scrabble tiles.
The order of meals was forgotten. Tom Szabo settled himself on the deck for breakfast with a plastic bowl of crabmeat salad. He was eating with a soupspoon. Tilly spread peanut butter on damp croissants for the children. Nathan found a fork on the drainboard and dug into the crabmeat with Tom.
“What would be good with this,” Tom began, “is some of that spaghetti the kids had last night. I love cold spaghetti.” He sucked the runny mayonnaise from his lips. “With tuna fish. I used to eat it that way from my mother’s re
frigerator when the family was asleep. Cold spaghetti and tuna fish. They counted on me to dispose of leftovers. My father wouldn’t look at them. Not that old man.”
Nathan remembered his own father had eaten leftovers, had ordered his mother to serve them until every last shred was consumed. “I can’t imagine cold spaghetti,” he said.
“Oh, Nathan! You missed one of the best things. Tilly, where’s that spaghetti from the kids last night?”
“Tom, it was canned spaghetti. It’s awful,” Tilly protested.
“Better!” Tom said gleefully. “Here Nathan, try this. Only thing is, it should be tuna fish, not crabmeat. Too fancy. Not as good with cold spaghetti as tuna fish.”
Nathan marvelled at Tom’s easy self-acceptance. He remembered Tom in Vail, a novice in a silver lamé skisuit. First, he proclaimed himself “an appalling nouveau riche” and then he unabashedly adored that skisuit. And here he was extolling tuna fish.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Tom was ripping open a large white paper bag. It had the familiar orange insignia of Zabar’s. “Only my wife would buy prepared tuna salad at a fancy delicatessen on the Upper West Side. Tilly, I can’t seem to get it through to you: Tuna fish comes in cans.”
“I bought the tuna salad,” Carla confessed. “I thought it would be easier when we arrived. I know how much you like it.”
Tom shot a glance at Nathan. But Nathan seemed not to have heard his wife. He was buried in an old New York Review of Books.
“Thanks,” Tom said casually. “Sweet of you. Any coffee?”
Nathan noticed Carla pouring more coffee for Tom. He noticed Tom drying the dishes Carla washed. He noticed Carla doing jigsaws with Tom and his kids. He noticed it all. It’s all right, he thought. Whatever they want. It’s a relief. Tom’s a great guy. He wondered if Tilly knew. He supposed not. He fell asleep in the deck chair, head back, mouth agape. The magazine slipped from his lap. Hours later, he roused himself, more drowsy than before, and walked to their bedroom.
The Speed of Light Page 10