Mark stares at him. During the bubble of silence that follows, he feels himself levitate slightly.
At last, Gretchen smiles serenely. “Not until the house is done.”
Harris leans back, showcasing his jolly belly, and glances at Mark with a look that says, How nice for them.
A flame lashes Mark’s insides. “We’ve talked about joining the Peace Corps,” he pronounces.
The baron does not appear to have heard. Gretchen’s eyes widen. “Oh,” she intones in her deep-sea voice. “That’s so admirable. I have so much respect for people who do that kind of thing. I can’t even imagine.”
They move on to Armagnac. The Von Maurens inhabit the pair of fauteuils like extensions of the damask itself. Mark rarely sits on these himself, for fear of flattening the cushions, taxing the bowed legs. His love for them is jealous. And yet he could sell them, he thinks. He should sell them, sell everything in the room, escort these guests away, divest himself.
The next morning, Mark confronts Harris. “I can’t believe you asked if they want to have children.”
“I don’t think that’s too intrusive, do you? People ask all the time. People ask us.” He looks meaningfully at Mark.
“What if they’re infertile? What if they’ve tried and can’t?”
“Like I said, people ask us all the time. And we obviously can’t conceive children. There are other ways to have a family you know.”
Mark is silent.
“I really think we should talk to Camille.”
“I’ve already said I don’t want to do that.”
“Well, what do you want to do?”
Again, Mark is silent. Harris knows that Mark has never wanted children. Part of the relief of coming out at eighteen was knowing that he would never be expected to anchor himself that way. He’d be released from conventional latches; free to travel, sleep with whomever he wanted, reinvent himself infinitely. That was the upside of losing popular approval. But then, like piercings and tattoos, gay culture had insinuated itself in the mainstream, and all at once, same-sex marriage had become legal. This, despite years of activism, had taken Mark by surprise—and had coincided with the deepening of his relationship with Harris.
“We have so much to offer. A stable home environment, a great town, financial security. It would be a shame to keep it all to ourselves.”
He is trotting out the practical argument, but his eyes tell a different story. Mark has seen the way Harris melts over infants. It was amusing, at first, the way he behaved like a woman overtaken by maternal hormones. Now, it makes Mark’s groin turn cold.
“What you want is a baby,” Mark says. “But you’re forgetting that they’re only babies for five minutes, then they’re snotty teenagers and have to go to college. Do you know how much college is going to cost in eighteen years?”
“What else would we do with that money?”
“Are you serious?” Mark goes quiet. He does not have the strength to continue this argument. If Harris can’t think of a better way to spend—what? two hundred thousand dollars?—then they are truly ill matched.
The larger truth is that Mark is not interested in the kind of sentimental living, the relentless diminution, that parenting imposes. A child would drain all of their energy, all of their resources—both of which could be better spent on bigger issues. How could a man he loves bear witness to this ruptured, calamitous world without taking action? Their circumstances are perfect. They are two men in good health, somewhat young. The house can be rented, the store leased and reopened at a later date. There is no excuse not to go, not to make their best years count.
He thinks of Seth, sandaled and dusty in some medina. The thought makes him hate himself. To any observer, he has dwelled too long in pampered comfort to peel off the caul of materialism. He has terminally softened.
After a long moment, Harris says, “I know what you’re thinking. That we should devote ourselves to saving the world.” There is no sarcasm in his voice. “But the way I see it, having a child, or adopting one, would be a way to do that. It would be a meaningful contribution. It’s no small effort, committing ourselves to a human being who needs us.”
Mark is suddenly tired. It is too early in the morning to discuss this. He ends the conversation with a kiss to Harris’s stubbled cheek, a stroke to the sleeve of his robe. Harris returns the kiss, his brown eyes softening, turning liquid with hope.
On Monday, Mark completes an estimate for the full scope of services. He will supervise the renovation and work with the clients to select furnishings, cabinetry, appliances, lighting. To justify postponing his own travels to the Third World, he is compelled to furtively raise his prices by 10 percent across the board. He pulls in his breath and types in the total—$342,000—plus contingency fees for special purchases.
The packet, printed on heavy stock, easily weighs two pounds. Rather than e-mailing it, he drives to Cannonfield Road and places the parcel into the mailbox. His logo, MARK TILLY DESIGNS, in lowercase Courier, dwells in the bottom corner of the envelope like a centipede.
Gretchen Von Mauren calls the same afternoon. Only indignation could prompt such a call, Mark thinks. She is offended by his audacity.
“Hello, Mrs. Von Mauren,” he says, his voice lowering involuntarily.
“Mark, I’ve looked over the estimate. I’d like you to throw it out.”
He drops onto the Ghost chair. “My apologies, Mrs. Von Mauren. Perhaps I should have spoken with you in more depth about what you and your husband hope to achieve.”
“No, no. That’s not what I mean. What I want you to do is throw out the numbers, don’t worry about the money, don’t worry about completion dates. There is no budget, there is no timeline. We want this house to be a showstopper. Believe me, I wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t trust your instincts.”
Mark’s eyes rest on the Hirst over the mantel, a citrus vortex with an empty center.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Gretchen, for the vote of confidence.”
“So you’ll draft a master plan for us?”
“Yes, yes.” He has a nauseous feeling from looking at the painting. “I’ll have to come over to take another look before I can start.”
“Come tomorrow.”
He begins to hand-draft the interior elevations. It is already August. They’ll have to skip Provincetown this year. Truth be told, they’ve both tired of the high-season flamboyance, the flapping colors, the vibrating sexual energy. They are no different from other middle-aged couples, perhaps, in obeying this instinct to slow down and turn inward.
Harris announces that he will need to hire someone at the store while Mark is working on the project. “I’ll put an ad in the paper. Unless we know someone?”
Mark calls Camille.
“I don’t think I’d be good at customer service,” she says, “but I do know someone you might like.”
The woman comes in for an interview. Madeleine, a transplant from Charles Street, near their old apartment. She doesn’t have knowledge of vintage decor, but is attractive and poised.
“She might take away some of the gayness,” Harris quips. “I didn’t see a wedding ring, did you? She must be single, or maybe divorced?”
“Maybe she’s a lesbian.”
“Camille would have mentioned that.”
This is it, then. Mark smiles sadly. It’s good that Harris will have the help he needs, he tells himself, a kind face in the morning, someone to admire his rubber insects, maybe keep one on her desk like a pet. It will make it easier to leave.
Finally, in late September, Mark sits in the ancient kitchen of the Ezekiel Slater house and shows Gretchen Von Mauren the plan view, the walls of windows in the sunroom. She thumbs through them, nodding.
“And green design.” She taps him lightly on the arm. “I’d like to hear your ideas for green de
sign. Ways to incorporate environmentally sustainable materials, renewable wood and bamboo, et cetera. While retaining the colonial flavor of the house, of course.”
“I’ll put some examples into a portfolio. Then we can go through it together and start putting in orders.”
“We really want a blend of the old and the new,” Gretchen says, gesturing a circle, “and light. Lots of light.”
“Do you want to enlarge the windows even further?”
“Mmm . . .” She trails off, as if staring through the kitchen wall. Her hair is glossy, cut in a carefully serrated fringe. When she looks back at Mark, there is a girlish snap in her eyes. “My cousin just married his boyfriend, you know. I think it’s so wonderful that people are finally coming around. People should be free to love whoever they want.”
Mark smiles uncertainly. “Absolutely.” Gretchen holds his gaze for an uncomfortable moment. He shifts in his chair and pats the pages in front of him. “Okay, so larger windows? I’ll revise the drawings and have them back to you by next week.”
“Oh. Next week?”
“I can try for Friday, but I can’t guarantee it.”
Driving back into town, a shark-gray Lexus follows too close to his bumper, and Mark feels his neck muscles tense. He sees the pouf-haired form of a woman driver and has an overwhelming urge to flip her the bird. Instead, he takes a long breath and pumps the brakes. The Lexus recedes behind him. It would be so easy to become a misanthrope, he thinks, to judge others by their Barbour jackets, their piano-key teeth. These are people with their own heartaches, he scolds himself, their own generosities.
Coming into the store, he finds Harris squatting on his haunches, singing with a little girl. The new shop assistant, Madeleine, stands beside them, beaming. Harris is going bananas, making hand gestures to accompany “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” The child is giggling, twirling her skirt. When Harris glances at Mark, his eyes are ablaze.
Mark hesitates. “She’s adorable,” he offers.
“Harris asked me to bring her in,” Madeleine apologizes.
This is the first time she has given them a glimpse of her personal life. Mark shoots a look at Harris, but he is blind to the message, distracted by his prolonged eye-lock with the child.
In their tradition of imagining the hidden lives of others, they have mused for weeks about their inscrutable shop assistant. She is always pleasant, but with the air of someone with a secret, they’ve concluded. According to Camille, her husband had been a coworker of Camille’s own ex-husband in Manhattan, but underwent a radical change after moving to the suburbs. She delivered this information in a breathy voice, but when pressed for more, demurred. Madeleine doesn’t like to talk about it. It’s been a challenge for her.
Through the fall and winter, Mark draws and redraws the elevations for the Ezekiel Slater house. The Von Maurens have offered an hourly rate rather than a lump sum, which has been quickly compounding in his favor. He has been straining for ideas. Perhaps the clients will ultimately lose patience and fire him. Perhaps this is his private hope. If he were released from this job, there would be nothing holding him here. All winter, the desire to leave has been expanding in him, crowding everything else. It has begun to push against his diaphragm, constricting his lungs. The air of this beautiful place, now so cold, so oxygenated and clean—this brisk vapor of the country rich—has begun to sear his individual cilia.
He approaches Harris one last time. It is a wet night in March, in the dead space before spring. The air is so raw that it invades the living room. Mark finds Harris bending at the fireplace in his dragon robe and sheepskin moccasins, clumsily arranging kindling. From behind, he looks corpulent, effete. Mark sits quietly on the Ghost chair. When Harris turns and sees him there, he smiles broadly, but the smile dims as Mark begins to speak.
“Well, tell me then,” Harris says gently, after a moment. He drags the shaggy ottoman closer to Mark and settles onto it. “Where would you like to go?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” Mark hears the petulance in his own voice.
“It sounds to me like you’re down on yourself about the Von Maurens. You’re afraid they won’t like the work, and you’re coming up with a contingency plan. Am I right?”
“You know that’s not it. You know this is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”
“Listen. How about we go volunteer somewhere for a couple of weeks so you can get it out of your system?”
Mark shakes his head. “That’s not enough. That’s not a life change.”
“I understand,” Harris says. “And it makes sense. It does. It makes sense for kids right out of college. It makes sense for retired people. But, honey, it doesn’t make sense for us.”
Mark stares at his fleshy cheeks, at the pink skin at his temple where the hair is thinning.
What if I became just like them?
What if I went away without you?
“But I’ve been thinking”—Harris touches Mark’s knee—“and I do agree that we should find a way to help others. I was thinking we could donate a share of the store’s proceeds to charity. Ten percent? You and I could pick a charity, or more than one.”
Mark listens. There is a click of satisfaction on a buried level inside him—donating to charity is a fine idea—but the rest of his being is unmoved. He stares at the hairline of his partner, his husband, and feels possessed by a single imperative.
“I’m sorry,” Mark mumbles. “It’s not enough.”
Harris takes his hands from Mark’s knee and lays them in his lap. A long moment passes. When Harris speaks again, he looks tired.
“Listen,” he says. “You can go if you want. If that’s what you really want. I’ll miss you, but I don’t want to be the one holding you back.”
Mark looks down at the Union Jack rug, that emblem of revolution and youth. A memory returns to him from their wedding night, lying naked on the sand of Race Point with a bottle of Tia Maria, beneath the stars at the tip of the land, suspended between sea and sky, spinning with the liquor and the hugeness of their future.
Harris pushes himself up slowly. There is an inward look on his face that means his knees are acting up. For an instant, Mark is ashamed. There is a soft concavity in the ottoman where Harris had been sitting. Mark listens to him go out of the room, hears the bathroom sink running.
Harris comes back into the living room, the sleeves of his dragon robe hanging limp, its silken sash taut around his middle.
“I meant to ask, have you seen the new shop where the chiropractor used to be?”
“No, what’s there now?”
“It’s a New Age thing. It’s called New Altitudes.”
“Well, that’s brave,” Mark says. They are speaking normally, as if the previous conversation hadn’t happened. “Who would open a store like that in this economy?”
“There were people in there when I went. It’s mainly books and CDs, but there are some interesting pieces, too. There’s a charango from Peru. Gorgeous. I heard the guy saying he was down there with the tribe people. I was thinking, if you don’t want Africa, maybe we can go to South America next year.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Some strange bird, all dressed up like a guru. I’ve never seen him before. He’s got plenty of charisma, though. He calls himself Apocatequil, after the Incan god of lightning.”
“Really.” Mark is surprised by a stab of jealousy.
“There were people there talking to him, a whole little cult. Apparently he’s running drum circles and healing sessions.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mark says. “The self-absorption of these people is truly limitless.”
Harris pauses. “I’m thinking of signing up for a healing session.”
“You are? For what?”
“For the Lyme. The antibiotics aren’t working anymore, s
o what the hell?”
Mark is quiet. A picture comes to his mind of another man bent in front of Harris, massaging his knees. This is how it happens, he thinks. It would be foolish to imagine that Harris hasn’t felt his distance, hasn’t suffered over these cold months. This is how the script goes, the arc of every such story.
The spring issue of the local magazine runs a front-page profile on the shop, with a photograph of Harris and Mark flanking the big birdcage chandelier. Harris poses in a cream cashmere V-neck, arms over his chest. Mark is in plaid and jeans, leaning on a Chinese altar table. Both smiling, relaxed: men of style and success. The article is full of superlatives about Harris’s eclectic taste and social conscience. There is a box insert about the store’s contributions to global charities: International Rescue Committee, UNICEF, VillageReach.
In the weeks that follow, customer traffic surges. Harris nearly sells out of the painted insects, which he has tucked in surprising locations throughout the showroom. The birdcage chandelier also goes, and the twelve-piece Louis XVI dining set.
At home, they open the bottle of ’95 Margaux, a wedding gift. They drink, go into the bedroom. For the moment, Mark allows himself to slide back into the old ways. It is a simple pleasure to feel Harris’s hand on the small of his back, the familiar sensations returning to his body.
While Harris spends a preliminary moment in the bathroom, a feminine quirk of his, Mark undresses and waits. Perched on the bed, he opens the top drawer of Harris’s night table and hunts through handkerchiefs for the bottle of sandalwood oil. Instead, he finds a glossy booklet entitled Navigating Your Adoption Journey. A folded piece of paper falls out, a “Pre-Orientation Information Form,” with blanks filled out for each of them: their birth dates, heights, yearly incomes.
When Harris comes out of the bathroom, Mark is naked on the bed, holding the packet.
“Oh, honey, I was just curious,” Harris says preemptively. “I was just doing some preliminary reading. I wouldn’t send anything in without you.”
Mark does not respond. After a moment, Harris gently takes the packet from his hands and slides it back into the drawer. Standing there in his robe, he glances at the bed and sighs. “Do you not want to do this now?”
The Wonder Garden Page 22