“Goddamn it, Holly. Doesn’t any of this mean anything to you?”
“Any of what?”
“We just spent our first night together and here you are doing the goddamned puzzle.”
“I do the puzzle every Sunday,” said Holly. “And I was assuming that this was the first of many nights. Besides, I find all this too nerve-racking and so I like to put things into the most normal context. I don’t want one of those strung-out love affairs that makes you lose weight and feel awful all the time.”
There was nothing Guido could say to this. The first of many nights, she said. That phrase, in her cool, measured voice, undid him. And she was right to want everything normal. That sentiment moved him profoundly, as did everything else about her. For Guido was having one of those strung-out love affairs that made him lose weight and feel awful all the time.
But she did put the crossword puzzle down, and locked her arms around Guido’s neck. It was clear she knew how tender and fragile men are in these matters.
It was late in the afternoon when they again climbed out of bed. Guido felt that time had frozen into one solid block and he was losing his bearings. He felt swarmed by detail: her look, her hair, her body, those sheets, that French toast, the memory of that formal tea tray and naked Holly pouring tea into his flowered cup. He badly needed a change of context. He needed to get Holly on his turf, if only for a little while. He wanted to see Holly feel strange in his apartment in order to right the balance. The sight of Holly sitting in his chair would put the cap on the reality of her, once and for all.
She took his arm as they walked and when it began to drizzle she nestled closer to him under the umbrella. She was talking about men’s apartments.
“I’ve seen a few,” she said. “All you boys wear pressed shirts and have your shoes polished and behave like perfect gentlemen at the dinner table, but there’s hair all over the soap and none of the dishes are properly washed. Or, on the other hand, you look like wrecks and your apartments look like monks’ cells or a picture out of Boy’s Life with the bed made with camp blankets and the fishing rods stacked neatly in the corner. Then, of course, there’s the hunting print set. Big pictures of dead elks and club chairs and those footstools that have feet made out of tusks. Disgusting. I have never been in one of those apartments that didn’t have wedding invitations with ducal crests on the mantel.”
Guido’s rooms were neat and orderly. There were no hunting prints and no tusks, and no wedding invitations with ducal crests. She admired his two framed drawings and the bronze panther that had been his grandfather’s paperweight. She ran her fingers over his walnut cigar box. Then she took off her coat and did something that made Guido’s heart turn over. She went through the kitchen cabinets, the icebox, picked glasses off the shelves and held them up to the light. In the bathroom she flipped back the shower curtain to inspect the hem and looked over the soap, to see if it had hair on it.
“Do you mind me doing this?” she asked. Guido was speechless. It was the most open-ended gesture he had ever seen. He had no idea what was meant by it. Was she checking him out? Curious about his arrangements? Malicious? Solicitous? Making sure they were made for each other? Was this a joke, or was she establishing a rapport with his apartment?
Suddenly, she turned on him.
“Either you have a girlfriend, a cleaning woman, or you are entirely compulsive,” she said.
“I’m very orderly,” Guido said. “Once in a while I get a kid in from the student agency to do some heavy cleaning. You’d be amazed how efficient budding sociologists and historians can be.”
Holly sat down, as if at home. But, Guido wondered, would she be happy where there were no trays?
They went out for dinner and she spent the night. Her clothes hung neatly over the back of his chair. Guido would have gladly slept with her clothes too. He wanted every bit of her that he could get. He had never wanted anything so ardently in his life. In the middle of the night, he woke to ponder his feeling of deprivation, even though his heart’s desire was closer than arm’s reach. Now it was his—or was it? Holly slept effortlessly. She had made up her mind about him, one way or the other, but she kept her decisions to herself. Any fool would think that her complacency at the breakfast table, her inspection of his apartment, the deliberateness with which she opened her arms to him indicated that she had chosen him, but Guido was not any fool. He had had time to survey his cool, unflappable beloved. She withdrew as if withdrawal was as natural as drinking coffee, and she did not make emotional statements. Was this withdrawal or concealment, or had everything been settled to her satisfaction? This stance of hers drove Guido into a lather of confusion, although he knew that everyone feels odd at the beginning of a love affair.
Guido was not a fan of rashness. He had only shown what he felt, not told. He had always known that once his affections were firmly placed, excess would rapidly follow. Now what he felt was the emotional equivalent of extreme thirst. He wanted to stay up all night and watch Holly, who had gone off to sleep and left him.
Vincent Cardworthy was the most open-minded, tolerant, intelligent, and cheerful person Guido had ever met. Although in matters of his own heart he was deeply muddled, Vincent was right on the money when it came to the affairs of others. Thus Guido took guidance from a man who constantly fell in—never fell in love—with vague blond girls who either were on the verge of engagement or had just left their husbands, or were recovering from some grand passion or were just about to leave on an extended tour of Europe, or were in fact European and just about to return to their native land. Guido thought these girls were far beneath Vincent, but Vincent did not appear to care, at least after the event. He began these affairs with high spirits and then rapidly became bored, but he never broke them off. He was either far too kind or far too removed to do so. Rather, he let life take over. Since none of these encounters was destined for success, they simply evaporated. Vincent was never unkind or cruel. He made appalling choices and then treated them very well. The sort of girl he liked was raw-boned and healthy. He liked a girl who always looked as if she had just left the tennis court or come in from a nice, long hike. He liked girls from Vermont who had outgrown their horses and now owned hand looms and candle molds. He liked sleepy girls from Philadelphia with big teeth who bred water spaniels and were interested in local Republican politics. He liked rugged girls from the Berkshires who played touch football. Guido called this tendency “the coach’s daughter syndrome” although Vincent had never known the daughter of a coach. He never went looking for these girls. Rather, he fell on them in the course of his life. That they all seemed to be the same girl Guido took to be a dire sign, but Vincent claimed he was cutting his emotional teeth, and that if these girls seemed unsuited to him, it was because he was extremely busy and had no time to find anyone suitable, which he took to be the sort of search one associates with the Holy Grail. He said he did not mind a lightweight. Guido said if any of Vincent’s girls had been more lightweight, they would have floated away like dandelions in late July. But Vincent felt, as did Guido, that one is always foolish until one is correct. Around the time that Guido met Holly, Vincent seemed to be somewhat unhappy about his love life, but that didn’t bother him overly much.
Vincent simply wasn’t anxious. His idea of the life of the mind was exterior. It had to do with planning, statistics, computers, and studies. Guido, on the other hand, was a slave of the interior. He found Vincent’s take on things refreshing.
One evening, when Holly went off to a concert with her grandmother, Vincent spent the evening listening to Guido.
“I want to marry Holly,” Guido said.
“Last week you said she was hard to get through to,” said Vincent.
“I don’t care,” said Guido. “No one is problem free.”
“You certainly do look wonderful together. But you say she’s unnecessarily complicated.”
“She is, but I don’t care.”
“You seem to be saying ‘I
don’t care’ an awful lot.”
“I don’t care,” said Guido. “I have never been so sure of anything in my life. It doesn’t matter what she’s like.”
“Freud says that in big issues, like who to marry, it’s only a question of what you feel.”
“Where does Freud say that?”
“I don’t know,” said Vincent. “Daphne Meranty quoted it to me.”
“Which one is Daphne?”
“She’s the one from Bangor. Her father is a minister. He’s very interested in Freud. He makes all his children read Freud and he makes his congregation read him too.”
“Is she the one with the Airedales?”
“That was Ellie Withers, and it was wire-haired terriers.”
“You’re not going to marry Daphne Meranty, are you?” Guido said.
“Oh, no,” said Vincent. “She’s engaged. I was her last fling. That’s how the subject came up, you see. Well, good luck. With Holly, I mean.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Guido said.
“Well, if you say that you’re more certain of this than anything else in your life, what else is there to say?”
Guido sat gazing at his best friend and third cousin. There was the slightest resemblance between them—in the way their thick hair fell and a little around the cheekbones. Vincent was ruddy and freckled. In sunlight, his hair was reddish. His light eyes were flecked with green. His clothes could never stay entirely on his body. He hated cuffs and so his sleeves were always rolled up. His long torso caused his shirttail to untuck. When one button of his shirt unbuttoned, two generally followed. Where Guido was elegant, lithe, and sensual, Vincent was casual, springy, and game.
Guido found it curious that Vincent—who spent his life as a scientist analyzing—simply lived, while Guido, who simply lived, spent his life analyzing. Vincent was sitting in front of his fake fireplace, tying flies under a high-intensity lamp.
“Well, say something,” said Guido.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Vincent. “If you think it would be fun to marry Holly, marry her. I know it’s all very serious but one of us ought to get serious. I guess I’ll be the best man and have to throw you a party or something, huh? Your problem is you think too much. You agonize over everything. I never think about myself at all, which is clearly the better way. And now you have an issue that can’t be thought about. Just marry her. Have you asked her?”
“No,” said Guido.
“Well, get cracking, for God’s sake. How can I be your best man if you haven’t proposed? Your problem, Guido, is that you are a man of thought, not a man of action. Go ask her. I’m sure she’ll say yes. Why haven’t you, for God’s sake?”
“Terror,” said Guido.
A week later, Guido sat in Holly’s living room watching her stand on tiptoe to water her plants. She watered them twice a week—the same days every week. She disappeared into the bedroom with her watering can. Guido held her image with him: her swan-like neck, that wedge of dark hair, the arch of her feet as she balanced on tiptoe.
“Guido,” she called. “Come here.”
He stood at the bedroom door.
“There’s a little blue box in the squirrel-foot fern. Did you put it there?”
“Yes,” said Guido.
“Why did you?”
“As a romantic gesture,” Guido said.
“Is it a ring?”
“Yes,” said Guido.
“I see,” said Holly. “In that case, I think we ought to have a talk.” Guido’s heart lurched. This lurch was followed by a searing pain. There could be only one thing to talk about—she was going to turn him down. The fact that she was clutching the box did not console him.
“I’m going away for a week,” said Holly. “I have to have a little uncluttered time to think in. I’m very introspective as a rule, but now I feel carried away. I can’t think in context. I mean, I can’t think about us while you and I are together. Do you see what I mean?”
“I don’t,” said Guido.
“What I mean is, this is all very serious. I mean, if I am going to marry you, I feel I ought to turn it around in my mind and if we’re together, I get confused.”
“I haven’t asked you to marry me,” said Guido.
“Then why have you stuck a ring box in my squirrel-foot fern?”
“As a romantic gesture.” Guido sat down next to her on the bed. “Open it.”
Inside the blue box was a mound of dark blue velvet, lying on top of which was a heavy yellow-gold ring with a flat turquoise in the center.
“I know you hate stones,” Guido said. “And I know you hate any gold that isn’t yellow. And I know you like weight.” He knew more things: that she hated sheets that weren’t pressed; that she thought suntans were show-offy unless gotten in the line of work; that she felt letters ought to be written with a fountain pen; that she took a stand against ice in drinks; that she took an equally firm stand against bright colors with the exception of red; and that she would eat oranges but nothing that was orange-flavored. He was deeply in love with these quirks and he felt that he could see the big picture beneath them. Guido believed in the meaning and integrity of gestures. Holly’s habits, her rituals, her opinions stood for the way she felt about the world—they expressed some grand conception of life and the placement of things in it. Her perfection and precision were a noble stand against sloppiness. Nevertheless, these things were just about all he knew. She had never told him anything. Now he understood that she intended to marry him, but she sat on the bed with the ring in her palm and said nothing at all.
“Do you like it?” Guido said.
“It’s perfect,” said Holly. “I love it.” He could not see her face. Her head was bent and all he could see was her glossy, sable hair.
It fit, of course, perfectly.
“I do want to marry you,” said Guido. “I mean, I want you to marry me.”
Holly looked up at him with a look of slight surprise. Wasn’t it a done thing? she seemed to say.
“It’s only a question of when,” Holly said. “But I want to go away first. I want to feel what it’s like to be without you so I can know what it’s like to be with you. Does that make any sense?”
“No,” said Guido.
“Well, what I mean is, I’m used to our connection and I’d like to disconnect just to feel the power of that connection. You can’t feel that unless you reconnect and you can’t reconnect without disconnecting. Stop looking at me like that, Guido.”
“I was only beginning to realize that I am about to marry someone who doesn’t make a shred of sense.”
“I do make sense,” Holly said. “I just can’t see things up close. Then I get intrigued by the idea of distance.”
A tiny shiver went through Guido. That sounded like a phrase he would one day remember.
“Holly?”
“Yes?”
“I have no idea how you feel about me.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you do. I’m going to marry you, aren’t I? It’s just a week apart.”
During that week, Guido made a stab at pretending he had never met her. He went to the library. He wrote the final chapter of his dissertation. He went to a basketball game with Vincent and then went out and drank too much beer. Vincent refused to discuss Holly with him, so they talked about Vincent’s mulch machine, the stock market, and where they would live in New York.
When Guido got home, his apartment seemed dim and airless to him. He turned on the lights, opened the window, and let the cool, wet breeze float in. He felt not unhappy, but lifeless and dismal. He did not feel lonely or wretched, but only pointless. He poured himself a glass of brandy and sat by the window. He was not, he realized, dying of love. He was simply lifeless without its object. What he felt about Holly was not obsession, but enrichment. Without Holly, his life was worth something, but not all that much. Holly was the beginning of his adult life. She was the one to whom he was committed forever. Before he went to bed, he picked
up a copy of Le Lai de l’Ombre and was not consoled to find that Jean Renart had had the same problem in the thirteenth century. He read:
Once the erring bow was bent
Straight to its goal the arrow came
The beauty and the sweet name
Of a lady placed within his heart.
At the end of the week, Holly called and asked him to come see her. When he arrived, he found her arm in a cast. She was using a silk scarf as a sling.
“I broke my wrist,” she said. “Would you untie this knot for me? It took me forty minutes to tie it.”
With her free arm, she flipped the hair up off her neck and Guido untied the knot in her scarf. The scent of her shoulder and the proximity of her neck made him almost dizzy. He expected the cast to be flowered, like her china and sheets, but it was only white.
“When did this happen?” Guido said.
“Three days ago. I fell down the stairs.”
“What stairs?”
“You know what stairs.”
“Holly, you never told me where you were going.”
“Didn’t I? I was sure I did. Well, maybe you didn’t ask. Paula Pierce-Williams and I went to my grandmother’s house in Moss Hill. I fell down the stairs. I mean, I tripped over the runner. Paula took me to the hospital. It’s only a little fracture, but, honest to God, Guido, I heard it snap. There can’t be another sound like it. To hear something break inside your own arm. Every time I think about it, I can hear it and it gives me a sort of electric jolt.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I said a week, and the week wasn’t up.”
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