They kissed in the airport, in the car. They drove to North Beach and kissed on the street in late sunlight, strolling entwined to the Italian ceramics place, the Grant Street handkerchief boutique, City Lights Books. They were in Vesuvio, Ray with a draft beer, Abby with a White Russian, when Johnny texted him.
“Awk awk, tookie tookie. Called your house and office, no you. Where are you and what are you doing?”
Ray clicked back, “In San Francisco with Abby, making out on street corners.”
“Good Lord,” Johnny wrote. “Stunning news. Good luck to both of you.”
Fourteen
They ate at the little North Beach bistro where they’d gone for decades, through several changes of management. They held hands and talked of everything except Tory, keeping to a rule they had established long ago, when Ray made her burn the photos, letters, and journals from her former life. Unlike some couples, they did not discuss relationships they’d had with others.
Instead Abby drove him back to her condo in Berkeley, where they made love, tenderly, sadly. Afterward it felt wonderful to her, lying naked with him, his long arms around her, her head in the tender curve of his shoulder, ear to his big heart. His skin had always felt like rose petals, addictive to the touch, though there was less of it now—he was a skeleton with skin. She could rest her fingers between his ribs. He nuzzled his nose into her hair, as he had always done.
She lifted her head to look at him. “You should stay here for the summer. Why go back? The heat down there has made you worse. We could have some fun. We could look for a car for you, or a scooter, so you can get around more easily.”
He smoothed his hand up and down her arm. “I wish I could, but I have crap to do in Miami. The place is in such a snarl, it’s a miracle I could take this week. But I’ll get another one in July. Turns out, if something needs to be done, I have to just do it myself.”
“I’m afraid you’re taking on too much. You need to rest. Stay for a couple of weeks at least.”
He sighed. “I just can’t. And I have to help Tory find a place and move out.”
Naked, Abby sat up. “She’s still living in your house?”
“I can’t throw her out. I took her away from her life. She moved there for me.”
“But it’s time she had her own place. I mean, if you and I are back together?”
“She’ll get an apartment soon.”
“So you’re still living with her.”
“I’m trying to take care of her and make this whole thing as easy as possible. She’s been a huge help to me. When the pain gets bad, she drives me to school, since I can’t park close, and to doctors and the ER when I need it.”
He seemed to want to change the subject, and with a sigh, she let him. She settled back down on his shoulder, as he told her about a surgery the Miami cardio wanted him to have, though Ray had refused. She tried to talk him into it, then let it go. As for Tory in his house, she put the thought away. It was an awkward situation but it wouldn’t last.
Next day, they took a hike at Point Reyes and ate at the Lighthouse Café. Ray was tired, so Abby drove them home late in the Porsche, his hand on her thigh.
When she parked in their garage and set the brake, Ray said jovially, “What is it with women and hand brakes?”
Abby closed her eyes. “It would be nice if you didn’t remind me that you’ve been with someone else.”
He looked surprised. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to do that.”
“Can’t we just erase this year and go back to the way it used to be?”
“That’s what I want, too. But, Beanie, it’s going to take time.”
When he flew back to Florida, Abby phoned her lawyer, called off the divorce. It should have been final already, but for some reason Ray had never returned the paperwork her lawyer sent to him.
“Are you sure?” the lawyer asked. “Are you sure he’s changed?”
“I think so. I’ve known him a long time.”
He said he would just put the case on hold, easy to restart if she wanted.
All her friends seemed startled when she said she had taken Ray back.
“How can you do that?” asked Ginger. “You should kill the guy.”
Abby shrugged. “I’m not going to kill him, because he’s dying already.”
How could she explain? He had been her husband for too long to simply stop. They were a symbiotic whole, with its own weird requirements. It wouldn’t work for everyone, but it felt right for her.
And with him gone now, she was okay. She was used to having space and time alone, and at least they talked the way they used to, every night on the phone. It was good to share all that had happened, little moments of the day.
Best of all, he no longer ranted about anything. He sounded calm. When he asked to see what she was writing, she sent him a few poems, and he was kind about them, gave her good readings. Most of the ones she had sent out came back with form rejections, but a few magazines had sent acceptance letters, one of which began “Dear Mr. McCormick,” though the other editors were more cautious (“Dear A. Corbyn McCormick”). Every time she placed a poem, it cheered her up. Now that it was summer, she walked down to Ray’s café on mornings when she didn’t have a lesson at the barn.
A month after his visit, she was disturbed to hear that Tory was still living in his house. “Why is she still there? I thought she got a job. When is she moving out?”
“I can’t throw her out, Bean. Please be patient. Give it time.”
So she couldn’t visit him, and they didn’t see each other again till late July, when he flew west. He stayed a whole lovely week, with hikes and cooking dinners and seeing friends, exactly as they used to do, like a trip to their real life. One night, after the guests left, he put on music, and they slow-danced in the dark living room.
“Stay for August at least,” she begged. “Why go back early? School doesn’t start for you till when, almost September?”
“I just can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
Finally, late August, he told her he was helping Tory to move out.
“Good. She’s going back to Montreal, right?”
He hesitated. “No. She’s staying here.”
Abby felt a chill. “Why doesn’t she go back? She could get her old job.”
“She has jobs here, more than one, better than the one in Montreal. She likes it here, and we’re still friends. I’m taking care of her, paying her rent.”
Abby’s voice was tight enough to sprain a vocal chord. “Paying her rent?”
“Yes,” he said tensely. “She moved here to live with me, and it didn’t work out, but I still have to take care of her till she gets on her feet. It’s expensive here, and she doesn’t earn enough yet. I owe her that. Besides, she helps me, drives me around.”
Abby persisted. “But you have your own car.”
He sounded impatient, as if she had forced something out of him. “I’ve told you, I can’t park close to my office, and I can barely walk now, all right?”
Next morning, he texted her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But a lot in my life scares me now. Mainly doubting my own abilities, energy, strength, and future of any sort. I love you, Bean. I know how much I’ve hurt you and I never will stop being sorry. I hope there’s enough left of me to make your life better because of me at least for a little while.”
She tried to think of Tory as a member of his staff, a little French brunette in a chauffeur’s cap. She did not tell her friends that he had lived all summer with the girl, and now she was moving only a few miles away. As far as they knew, that was over, and Abby and Ray were back together, all mended. She didn’t want to hear what they would say if they found out, all the things she was careful not to think herself.
School started at Cal, and one afternoon after class, her mailbox held an envelope from a small press that had published books by Ray and Johnny both. Mail often came from the place, ads for its new books—she almost tossed it into
the recycling bin.
Then she noticed the address—it was not on a mass-produced mailing label to Ray Stark. It was typed, to A. Corbyn McCormick. The spring before, when she was very low, she had seen an ad for a contest at the press, publication for a poet’s second book. So she thought what the hell, took her pile of poems, gave it a title page, and sent it in.
Time slowed down as she tore into the envelope.
Dear A. Corbyn McCormick,
We are very pleased to inform you that. . . .
She was so excited, she almost couldn’t read the rest.
But then she did. Her manuscript—My Life as a Goat—had won and would be published in the spring. The second sheet was a contract she had to sign and return, at which time she would receive a check for a thousand bucks, the second half to come when the book appeared. They also asked for a bio and that she make any final changes to the book by the end of the month, so it could go to press.
Suddenly happier than she had been in years, she had an instinct to keep it to herself—Ray’s reaction might be mixed. Everyone’s might be, a fact she knew too well, from all the times she’d been happy for Ray and Johnny and Pete and Walt and Clarice, but also felt excluded by their success. Besides, it was such a specialized contest, how much of an honor could it be? How many other entries were there, ten?
She felt her own balloon begin to deflate and refused the thought. No, that was what women did, how they undermined themselves. This was an honor, dammit. She took a deep breath and texted Ray the news. Her phone quacked at once.
“You did?” Ray cried. “Oh, my God, Beanie, that’s huge!”
Johnny called her next, having heard from Ray. “Hey. Remember who predicted it? I told you years ago, you’re too good to be let out on the street.”
Giddy, giggling after those calls, Abby sat down with her platinum pen. On the contract, she crossed out A. Corbyn and wrote in Abigail. Her bio mentioned her first book of poems, the two Joyce books, teaching at Cal and Morgantown, and the magazines where her work had appeared. It did not mention Ray. Maybe she would dedicate the book to him. Maybe to him and Johnny. Or maybe not. For now, she was out of the closet.
Eager to see Ray’s house, meet his new friends, and celebrate her news, she flew to Miami twice in September, working around her teaching schedule. His house was in an old, pleasant neighborhood, where red geraniums spilled out of window boxes, pink bougainvillea heaped over trellises, and tall, ivy-covered trees formed canopies of shade over the streets. But even with the shade, it was so hot and humid she had to run at dawn, and they lived sealed in the AC. Ray was far too pale, and his skin had a translucent look.
“You’re not still dieting, are you?” she asked anxiously, as she watched him eat six raw almonds for breakfast. She pressed a hand over his heart. “Maybe you should let the guy put that thing in your chest. It might make you feel better.”
His face closed. “I’m not having any fucking surgery. I feel all right.”
They saw no one socially while she was there, though they were not exactly hiding in the house—they went out to dinner several times. They just didn’t run into anyone he seemed to know.
But she didn’t need to mark her territory. She was there now, rubbing out Tory’s fingerprints, leaving her own. Now that she had him back—and a book of poems coming out—she felt generous toward the girl. On one of her visits, Ray was taking care of her poodle, and Abby took him with her when she ran, his long legs bounding along beside her. She liked Emile, who had fluffy white hair on his ears and such an intelligent face he almost looked human. She was glad to have made peace with the dog at least.
One October night, she was in Berkeley, when Ray fainted in his kitchen in Miami, and Tory took him to the ER. He didn’t call Abby till he was back home.
“I guess I need to let them do the surgery,” he said. “I don’t want that damn thing in my chest. But if it makes my ticker work better, it might be worth it. The pain’s been horrible this week, and then there I was out cold on the floor.”
Abby was terrified. “And then you just woke up?”
“Luckily I had the phone in my pocket, and Tory got here fast.”
Cold sweat broke out all over Abby, at the thought of him passed out, alone. What if he had barfed and aspirated it? “I think I’d better go on leave and come live with you.”
“No, don’t do that,” he said quickly. “This was just a fluke. I worked out too hard this afternoon, and I got light-headed. They gave me something for the pain. In fact, it’s knocking me out. I need to sleep. All right? I love you, sweetheart. Good night.”
Abby was trembling when they hung up, still scared. Of course, a year and a half ago, she’d been a candidate to inhale vomit, lying in the hall outside Joel’s door, and somehow escaped. But she didn’t like to think of him there, vulnerable and alone.
Next night on the phone he sounded truculent. “So, did you tell Jacob he won’t have to wait too long? I’ll be dead soon.”
“Sweetie, I don’t even talk to him anymore, or not much, just politely in the halls. We have department meetings together, but that’s about it. Did you schedule the surgery?”
“Yeah,” he said gloomily. “Day after Thanksgiving.”
Warmth rushed in her chest. “Oh, I’m so proud of you for doing that. And that’s good timing, since I can be there.”
He sounded startled. “What? No, don’t come. You don’t need to be here.”
“Of course I do. I want to take care of you. My husband’s having surgery, and besides, it’s Thanksgiving. This year I’ll get there. Oh, and if Tory’s going home over the break, tell her I’d be happy to take care of Emile while you’re in the hospital.”
He was not enthusiastic, but he didn’t try again to stop her coming—though when she asked if the poodle would be there, he said no.
“Tory isn’t comfortable leaving him with you, sorry. She’s boarding him.”
Abby was mildly disappointed—she liked the dog. But Pete had said Tory was prickly, so all right. Let her put the poor guy in a kennel instead.
She flew to Miami, and they made a modest version of Thanksgiving dinner for just the two of them, a turkey breast with mashed potatoes and gravy, Brussels sprouts, and Abby’s cranberry sauce. Ray had to be at the hospital at seven, and they went to bed early, Abby stroking his bare chest, wincing to think what would happen there in the morning.
In the dawn light, she drove him there, and Ray directed her to the front door. “Just drop me off. They said no need for you to come till noon. I’ll be out of it till then.”
She drove back to his house and ran. Parts of his neighborhood were slightly wild, with streams in gullies. It was so early still, she surprised an armadillo prowling garbage cans—it was cute, with armored sides and a humble, bumbling walk. She didn’t know they lived in Florida. She’d have to ask Ray if he’d ever noticed them.
After a shower, she opened her email. Kathryn, one of her grad students, was trying to file her PhD dissertation that semester, and the deadline was Monday. Kathryn sent her a revised last chapter, and Abby read it, clenching her jaw. It was still a mess.
But she was too restless to wait till noon. At eleven she sent a critique to Kathryn and drove to the hospital. Ray wasn’t in his room. She asked a nurse.
“He’s in recovery,” the nurse said. “The surgery went fine. Are you his wife?”
She wished she had worn her wedding ring—but they hadn’t talked about putting them back on.
Finally they wheeled him in and lifted him onto the bed, his long pale crucifix-like limbs too thin and light. He was unconscious, and she pulled a chair to the end of the bed and sat stroking his big wedge-shaped feet through a thin flannel blanket, like the ones she’d worn home from the ER in a cab. He had always slept with his lids slightly ajar, and she could see his big, pale blue irises roll slowly side to side.
After a while he opened his eyes. “Sweetheart!” he cried. “I’m so glad you’re here! I can’t
wait till we can make love again!”
Abby laughed, happy and surprised.
He seemed normal right away, vigorous and cheerful, sitting up in bed, the left side of his chest swaddled in bandages under the thin gown.
“Can you tell the difference?” she asked. “How do you feel?”
He seemed to listen to his heart. “Okay, I guess. Ticker seems pretty steady.”
Sitting by the bed, Abby called their friends to say the surgery went well. She knew she was doing it in part to demonstrate that she was there, she was the wife again, she, the only one in the room with him, all of them waiting to hear. She called Johnny, then Pete, since both had often acted like her friends. She called Walt, but not Clarice (“They will have kids, Abby”) or Hank (“Don’t tell your wife”). But she did call Sateesh and Gloria, who seemed suddenly to answer their home phone. In fact, they both got on the line, quietly asking questions, grateful for the call.
“Everyone sends their love,” she told Ray when she was done.
With a look of concentration, he picked up his phone and started to type.
“Who are you texting, sweetie?” Abby asked.
“Tory,” he said, not pausing as he wrote.
“Why are you writing her? She doesn’t need to know.”
“Yes, she does. She was my caretaker all last year.”
After he sent the text, she sat beside him, careful not to disturb the tubes and wires hooked up to him, and held his hand. “That was so sweet, when you woke up and said you couldn’t wait till we could make love again.”
He gave her a blank look. “I did? I don’t remember that.”
She laughed. “Of course, you were on morphine. Well, it was still nice.”
And it was still him, even on morphine, wasn’t it? It nagged at her slightly. Would he have said the same to Tory, if she was sitting there? Maybe that was why he called her sweetheart instead of Bean or Abby.
But no, before the split, on email, he had called Tory darling, while she herself was always sweetie or sweetheart—and sweetheart was what he’d said. Clearly he knew who she was. She held on firmly to his hand.
The Use of Fame Page 17