Love Is a Canoe: A Novel

by Schrank, Ben

  “That would be amazing.”

  “Responsibility is sexy?”

  “Sure. With you it is.”

  She had her hands in his shirt and then she was tugging at his jeans.

  “I bet Jenny is listening right outside the door,” Eli said.

  Emily unbuckled his belt. “Then maybe she’s got her eye at the keyhole, too. And she should see this. Would you like that? Would you like it if someone watched me do this to you?”

  “Emily…”

  “Would you?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I like that. Not the other part. It’s just you and me. Nobody has to see.”

  * * *

  Hours later, after they’d had sex and showered and gone down and had dinner, they lay in bed. Dinner had been good. They had been seated at the round table in front of the fireplace. There were candles between them and the menu was fixed; they were only asked if there was anything they wouldn’t eat. Everyone who worked at the inn knew who they were, so they treated them in a manner that was more than friendly. It was as if people were especially solicitous with them. Far beyond professionally caring, Emily felt, and all the way to tender.

  There was course after course, with beef tenderloin somewhere in the middle and scallops in a dark sauce. They drank a bottle of burgundy that they were told was specially selected by Henry Talkington, the inn’s current owner and a personal friend of Peter Herman’s. After complicated fruit tarts were served with sorbet, there were small glasses of cognac and curly shavings of intensely dark chocolate.

  It was warm at their table. Eli kept talking about how her skin was glowing. Emily became flushed and even a little dizzy. Knowing she only had to walk up a flight of stairs to go to bed helped her think of nothing but how in love she felt.

  They made love again. Afterward, she watched Eli begin to fall asleep.

  “I could get pregnant,” she said. “I think the timing is right.”

  “Nothing could be more perfect,” Eli whispered. “That would be amazing.”

  He was being so careful and kind with her, as sweet as she’d ever seen him. She had begun to feel that they were now reclaiming the great thing they had lost. She wanted their marriage to turn real again and to feel truly scribed, etched into stability and goodness.

  She lay on her side next to her husband and felt his body begin to rise and fall. She stroked the slack muscles in his back. He slept fitfully, with one hand flung behind him that reached to her stomach, his fingers curled in a loose fist, his knuckles pushing into her flesh.

  Peter, Winners’ Weekend, November 2011

  Maddie came over on Saturday morning and Peter came out to greet her.

  “Looks like you’ve got a boatload of cookies there,” Peter said.

  She walked past him, so he could only look up at the sky. The weather was going to be perfect, cool and dry, all day long. Crisp, Peter thought. There was no better word than crisp.

  “I’m so grateful to you,” Peter said, as he trailed after her into the kitchen. “I was just looking for something to set out for them. I was going to call the inn but they’re already handling dinner. I felt guilty.”

  “It is nothing,” she said.

  “Four different kinds of cookies?”

  She smiled up at him. She had made hazelnut, cardamom, sesame seed, and chocolate chip cookies. She arranged them to look like fallen dominoes, on a plate with crab apples in the middle.

  He said, “Maddie, you are a wonder.” He stood watching her, his hands bunched up in the pockets of his khakis. She laid out napkins and silverware and other things for tea on a tray.

  “I can do that,” he said.

  “I had a meeting with Jim Stevenson yesterday, to talk over how he might go about selling my house.”

  “How did that go?”

  “I think it is fair to say that in regard to my real estate, I will do well, regardless of the current market.”

  “Of course you will.” Peter took a sesame seed cookie and ate it. It was impossibly light, as if her recipe involved meringue.

  “Unfortunately Jim Stevenson cannot help me with the more challenging logistical problem that is you.” She smiled at him.

  “Don’t push, my love. I am with you.” Peter gently sat down at the kitchen table. Maddie sat across from him, her back erect, her elbows on the table and her forearms and palms spread out and up.

  “Do you know what you will say to them?” she asked.

  “I don’t have a speech. I reread her letter. There was some adultery. We may touch on it. We may not. Up to them.”

  “Adultery.” Maddie shrugged. “Of course. But what will you do if, on top of that problem, the husband grows scared during their time with you and acts mean?”

  “You’re putting me through a rehearsal?”

  “Not at all,” she said, smiling. “I only meant that I am old enough to forgive adultery, but not meanness. So I am curious about your stance.”

  “If he is being mean I will suggest how sweet life can be if he resolves not to be mean.”

  Maddie raised her eyebrows. She said, “That is not much.”

  “It can be enough. You may think that’s stupid. But sometimes keeping things simple can really help,” he said. “If things are simple then even very intelligent people like you cannot help but understand them.”

  She widened her eyes in response and looked away. He hadn’t meant to be abrupt or dismissive with her and he felt ashamed of himself. She was only trying to be kind. But at the same time, he felt as if he had walked into some kind of trap. Talking to Stella Petrovic about the contest on the phone was fun. But actually confronting an unhappy couple—that could be real work. And he knew just what Maddie meant. Unhappy people could be very mean.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I have a style. And I know the woman already likes my style so I will stick to it.”

  “A style?”

  “Sure. Throw another scenario at me.”

  “What if you can see that they are not in love?” She was almost whispering. “What if you can see that they married for the wrong reasons and you know they should not have?”

  “I suppose,” he said, “that anyone can look at a couple and think they can see that. But no one can know how a couple behaves in private.”

  “I know that. But what if one of them reveals it through words?”

  He didn’t answer. He touched his newly shaven cheek with his hand.

  “If they are very unhappy, it will be a serious visit. Don’t worry, I always come up with the right thing to say.”

  “I would like to hear what you come up with.” Maddie swept some crumbs off the table and into her palm. She said, “My marriage failed. But we did not look for solutions to our problems in a book. My husband left me and that was all. He did not offer me an opportunity to save our marriage.”

  “And maybe that’s just as well. I won’t defend my book. It’s not magic. Look, as soon as today is over, I will tell you everything that happened.”

  “I would hope so! My friend Carol and her husband, Dan, saw them at dinner last night at the inn. Carol said they were attractive people. They were smiling and laughing.”

  “That’s good news. Maybe they are the sort of people who just like to win things? And the real win here is only to have a visit that gets added to the history of a happy marriage.”

  “Maybe.” She looked down and shook her head. “I wish you would say all the right things to me sometimes. You are welcome to use some of your trademark style with me.”

  Peter watched her. He liked her so much. But he could not pretend that he loved her. That would be cruel. Peter said, “What else did your friend say about them?”

  “She said the woman talked about you, about your book and how it informed her life when she was growing up. But then Carol felt bad about eavesdropping, so she stopped. They ate nearly everything on their plates. They held hands when they left the dining room. Carol felt sure they were going to make love. Eithe
r that or they were just showing off for the room. And so we can deduct that they may show off their love for you.”

  “Sounds like they don’t need me at all!”

  “Perhaps not. You could talk with them about the food at the inn, how good it is.”

  “They might as well spend the afternoon with Henry.”

  She stood up and took her bag from the kitchen table, sniffed the air. “Maybe they would like that.”

  “I could do that—take them around to old men, to Henry and to Arthur at Pantomime’s.”

  “No, Peter. Stay here with them and talk.” She reached out and grabbed his hand. “I believe you will take this seriously. But I want you to promise you will. Promise me. Even though everyone involved seems to feel that this is just a stunt, they are married and they are coming to see you. It is real. Be nice.”

  After she was gone he meant to tidy the house but he quickly found there was little to do. He walked from room to room, opening and then shutting windows against the wind. Be nice, he told himself. Be nice! Take them in your arms and love them. He got out a pen and paper and began to make a list of the simple things he must not forget to tell them.

  If she gets sick, take care of her without question until she says she feels well.

  If he loses his job, be patient with him while he works through his funk.

  If your child is ill, do not take that stress as a license to treat each other badly.

  He stared down at the words on the paper and then crumpled the sheet and threw it into the trash. He found himself opening the front door, doing little but watching the driveway, supporting himself with his arms stretched up so he could grip the lintel and sway. Certainly he could listen and then find something to tell them that would be unique to their situation and that thus would be good and rare and, at the very least, equal to their expectations. He had played this part successfully before. Master of the obvious! He waited for them and prepared to play his part, reminding himself over and over that he must give himself entirely to the role because that would help him hide away the unattractive parts of himself they mustn’t see.

  Emily, Winners’ Weekend, November 2011

  “It’s only because I thought flowers were an odd gift for a man,” Emily said. “Do you think I made a mistake?” It was just past one in the afternoon and they were in their car, driving to Peter Herman’s house.

  “You did the right thing,” Eli said, as he drove.

  “You’re sure? It is kind of a dinner party. Or later it will be.” There were two bottles of pinot noir in a bag tied with a red ribbon on the backseat, which Emily had bought at a boutique wine store near her office a few days earlier.

  “We’re sure he didn’t want us for lunch?” Eli asked.

  “Yes. We spend the afternoon and return for dinner. Don’t be nervous. Be open to what happens. It means so much to me that you’re here.”

  “I will be open,” Eli said. “I promise you.”

  They had been stiff and shy with each other during the morning. Eli had started out on a run but quickly returned to their room, saying it was too windy, that he’d try again before dinner. They had ended up staying in bed and drinking coffee, watching most of Say Anything … on Starz. Emily had cried through the middle of the movie and Eli had held her. Toward the end, when John Cusack held up his boom box and played “In Your Eyes,” Emily completely fell apart because how could one not? And it was then that Eli got up and went to take a shower and spent what she felt was an awfully long time in the bathroom.

  Emily said, “I couldn’t have us show up with nothing.”

  “Even though we’re the winners.”

  “Even though.”

  Emily stared at the directions written on a slip of paper she held tightly in her lap. The other Jenny’s curly script made the directions look like something out of folklore, so Emily felt as if they’d left the inn and turned into characters from one of Grimms’ fairy tales.

  Go up the main road, right at its end; follow the lake road, left at the sign that says “Herman” ☺! Well, Grimms’ for Dummies.

  “There’s not a photographer, right?” Eli asked.

  “I don’t think so. Why? Are you feeling shy?”

  “Come on, Emily. Shy is the least of it. Let’s not pretend that this is anything but totally nerve-racking.”

  Emily waved her hands in front of her and said, “I don’t know if there will be a photographer. I hope not. There’s going to be publicity, but I can spin it for both of us, I promise. I have to admit that I’m impressed at how many media hits Ladder & Rake has managed to get. It almost feels like media people are sympathetic to books. Which makes sense, doesn’t it? Because media people grow up liking books and sometimes they even write them and now they want to be supportive and they feel bad because it constantly seems like their dorky-little-brother industry is dying…”

  She looked at Eli, there in the driver’s seat. He wasn’t listening to her. He had his tongue out, tasting his lip, taking in the pretty road. And then he nearly came to a stop at the top of Peter Herman’s driveway. He was absorbing the house and the glimpses of the lake beyond it. He was so much more of the moment than she was—look at him, with his bicycling! Did you need a book to survive in this world? No. But given all the tension over energy, you were probably going to need a bicycle. They could all talk about that, she thought, if discussion of their marriage became too much.

  “We’re here.” Eli slowed the car down to a creep and said, “I love you, no matter what happens.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Eli parked a couple of car-lengths back from the Subaru that was already in the driveway.

  “Ready?” He turned and smiled at her, bent in to kiss her. “It means I’m scared.”

  “You shouldn’t be. I’m serious. Thank you for doing this.” She kissed him back and they bumped noses.

  He turned off the engine and they sat in the car for a moment, listening to the chirping birds. She suddenly wished she was dumber and not so desperate to fix things. Then she was ashamed and angry at herself for wishing she was dumber. It was their marriage that was at stake. They should do everything to save it. Maybe she was a fool, and this was a fool’s errand? Trying to fix his cheating. Probably. Reaching out to strangers for help with explanations for incontrovertible problems? Yup, childlike and dumb.

  “Eli, am I dumb for doing this, for making us do this? Do you think I am a dumb person?”

  “You’re definitely not a dumb—”

  But she had already seen Peter Herman. She opened the car door and that brought a blast of air so sweet she felt like she was going to lose her mind.

  “Hi! I brought wine,” she said to no one, and then left it in the car and drifted toward Peter. She had meant to be calm and inquisitive, to approach the way she would approach Gary Hustwit after a lecture. But instead, she forgot all the layers of self she’d grown since she was a girl and just walked toward Peter.

  “Hello, you two!” Peter Herman made his way down his brick steps to them. She could hear each of his footfalls and the country noise around them, the wind coming from the lake and the caw and honk of birds.

  “Hello,” she whispered.

  “Hello!” Peter said. And then with less certainty, “You are Eli Corelli and Emily Babson?”

  “That’s us,” Eli called out.

  “I had a feeling.” Peter smiled and twinkled his eyes at them.

  She felt too shy to meet his eyes and instead gazed at his khakis and blue ragg-wool sweater, his brown cordovan loafers that were nearly as old as she was. He bent toward her to shake hands.

  “I’m a fan,” she whispered.

  She loved him intensely and immediately and felt, for only the second or third time in her life, an overwhelming fated happiness. She thought to herself, Here he is in front of me and I have walked in his words since I was a little girl. Walked in his words! She felt amazed that she was so in touch with her sentimentality. So wha
t if his book was a little hokey? It had helped form her! The man had explained how to love. He had helped to form her idea of what marriage should be. Her forehead felt hot. She took a step back and braced herself with a hand on the car.

  “It’s good to meet you,” Eli said. “My wife is a huge admirer of yours and we’ve both enjoyed reading your work.” Eli bumped Emily’s shoulder to create more space. He shook hands with Peter.

  “Huge admirer?” Emily took a deep breath and smiled at Peter. “It’s more than that. I love your book. Since I was little I’ve loved it.”

  “That’s enough—don’t embarrass me,” Peter said. “Your essay was charming. And it was honest. Now here we are. Well, what do you know?”

  Emily tried to watch Peter without getting caught. But he seemed to know what she was up to. He turned and took her hand. “I mean what I say,” he said. “It was funny and sad.”

  Eli walked ahead of them but then he slowed and turned around. He kept his distance, though. He understood that this first part, the part about getting to know Peter, needed to belong to her.

  “Let’s go around the house,” Peter called out. Eli nodded and found the path that went down to the lake.

  Emily said, “I never write about myself. So it wasn’t easy.”

  “I imagine not. Writing never is.”

  “I mean, I didn’t think anyone would actually read it. It was more of an exercise, you know? And now to be here with you, it’s so strange.”

  “Don’t worry.” Peter let Emily’s hand go but when she stayed close, he put an arm around her. “I can already feel that we have a lot to talk about.”

  “This is a beautiful spot,” Eli called out.

  “Let’s go down to the water,” Peter said. “It doesn’t get a whole lot more picturesque than it is today.” They could see their breath in front of them and it was pretty, a pretty feeling, knowing that they were cold and crisp now but soon they would be inside and warm. They arrived at the water’s edge.

  “There it is,” Emily said, when she saw Peter’s Old Towne canoe, resting on sawhorses, just up from the little dock.

  “The very one,” Peter said. “The same one I used with my grandfather.”