“Oh gosh! Look at the time! I need to get out to the barn and make sure everyone’s all set for the night. Now, remember what I said. Don’t you worry about a thing. Bye!!”
And there was a click.
Fiona hung up the phone, walked into the living room, and poured herself half a tumbler of neat scotch. She was beginning to understand the clichés about politicians and drinking. It was a wonder more of them weren’t dying of cirrhosis.
She would have to call Nika in the morning, and she’d have to get up very early if she wanted to talk to Nika before Emily did. She took a drink and sighed. She would go to bed early. She felt that she deserved it.
As she settled into her bed, the tumbler of scotch and the little green book on the table beside her, she felt herself relax. She picked up the book and opened it to the last place she had marked. Determinedly, she picked out the German words she didn’t know and cobbled together a translation. “War,” she read, “is the greatest plague that can afflict humanity; it destroys religion, it destroys states, it destroys families. Any scourge is preferable to it.”
Clearly, thought Fiona, Martin Luther had not met Emily Martin.
Roger had not said anything to Elisabeth about the yoga. It wasn’t that he was hiding anything from her; it was that sharing things was not in his nature. Roger had never read a marriage manual, and so far the only advice he had received had come from the two very brief conversations with Terry and Mike and The Angel Joshua at Ground Zero. It did not occur to him that married people shared details about their lives. He was not averse to it, he simply didn’t know that he should.
“I stopped by the shop this afternoon,” said Elisabeth one evening as they sat by the fire. They had decorated their Christmas tree—their first one together—and were celebrating with a glass of champagne. Rocco was lying at their feet noisily chewing a big squeaky ball that Roger had brought from his trip to Sturgeon Bay that afternoon, and conversation was a bit difficult.
Roger looked at her attentively but said nothing. The ball squeaked ear-piercingly, and Rocco shook it vigorously back and forth.
Elisabeth began again. “It was the second time recently that it was closed. I didn’t know you closed the shop in the afternoons,” she said.
“Just Tuesdays and Thursdays between 1:45 and 3:15. During yoga.”
The ball squeaking shrilly in the background, Elisabeth looked at him blankly, wondering whether she had heard correctly.
“Did you say ‘yoga?’”
“Yes. I’m taking a yoga class. With Joshua.”
“Oh.” There was a particularly loud and prolonged squeak, as of a dying animal, then silence.
“We’d better take that away from him,” said Roger. “He’s got it in pieces.”
Elisabeth bent to pick up the latex smithereens. Rocco seemed puzzled that he was being prevented from this pleasure.
Rocco had become a reason for Roger to speak more than was his usual habit. Normally, Elisabeth would have viewed this as an opportunity to reach out to Roger and coax him into speaking more with her. But lately, she was feeling brittle and out of sorts, not her usual self, and in her preoccupation, she did not see the opportunity when it occurred.
“Come on, Rocco,” said Roger. “Let’s go into the kitchen and get a treat.”
Happily, Rocco followed, leaving Elisabeth in the living room to think. A few moments later, she followed them into the kitchen to throw away the remnants of the murdered toy.
“I think it’s great that you’re doing yoga,” she said, washing her hands at the kitchen sink and drying them on a paper towel.
Roger simply looked at her. “You do?”
“Well, yes.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Roger had no answer for this. “It’s only twice a week,” he said. “But it doesn’t really seem like enough to make progress.” He paused, contemplating a new detail. “I’m thinking about going down to Sturgeon Bay on Saturdays for an extra class.”
Elisabeth was silent, trying to evaluate this newfound yoga passion. Roger’s interest in it was, to her, inexplicable, on the one hand. On the other, it did explain the increasingly frequent and abrupt interruptions of their evenings with toe touches and peculiar stretches.
“Well, that’s a big commitment of time. You must really like it.”
“Shay says I have a deep well of spirituality. It’s a gift.”
Elisabeth’s eyes changed just the smallest fraction and for just the smallest instant. She turned around to face her husband.
“Who is Shay?” she asked, calmly.
It was a bitter December morning, still dark, when Pali arrived at the ferry dock to begin his day. He liked to arrive before the crew and go over the boat alone. This was as much a spiritual occasion as a work obligation. He liked being there on the water when the first light brightened the horizon. On most days he would stop what he was doing and watch the slow turn of the earth, his mug of coffee warm in his hands.
The wind was hard and cold, and carried the promise of snow. Pali liked winter. He welcomed the clarifying quality of the cold and the beauty of the snow, and he relished the long nights. Winter was his season. But today, Pali did not feel the joy he usually felt at sunrise.
Normally, when he had made a decision, he felt his mind and body relax, and this was a signal to him that he had done the right thing. This time the hard, tight places in his chest and stomach were harder and tighter. Maybe, he told himself, he would relax after he had done what he planned to do.
The voices of his crew arriving sent him to his tasks, and he greeted them with his usual steady demeanor. The snow clouds were to the north and west, but there would still be plenty of sun for a while. The lake had the heavy, gelatinous quality that came before the ice. It looked thick and dark, and moved with a languor that belied its deadly nature. In these temperatures, hypothermia was a greater danger than drowning.
The first cars began to arrive, and Pali, with long experience and an expert eye, arranged them on the deck in order to properly distribute their weight on the ferry. He knew almost everyone, and engaged in the easy chat of casual interactions. In a short time, the passengers and cargo were boarded. The engines started, and the ferry began its slow pivot away from the dock.
Although it was late in the year, they were still taking the route west of Plum Island, out of the shelter of land, directly across Death’s Door. Pali knew exactly the right place for his plan, and he waited until they were nearly there. At the chosen moment he turned to Greg, and asked him to take over the helm. He didn’t need a reason. He was the captain.
Greg agreed without hesitation, and Pali made his way to middle deck at the stern of the ferry, where he knew he would not be seen.
The wind was blowing and it bit hard, and Pali braced himself as he stood at the rail. He had done many hard things. He had uprooted himself from the Island to go away. He had been in the military, enduring first, its training, and then its cold realities. He had dedicated himself to a life of quiet responsibility and duty. But this, he was quite certain, was the hardest thing, and it was a thing he was asking—no, demanding—of himself.
Slowly, Pali withdrew the battered spiral notebook that had been lying against his chest inside his jacket. All his notes: his nascent poems, lines that were waiting for the right context; they were all in this one place. As much as his wife and his son, this notebook was the repository of his dreams—and of whatever strange spirit haunted him. Resolutely turning from the temptation to change his mind, Pali held the notebook with both hands as he raised his voice.
“Whatever you are, by all that’s Holy, I renounce you.”
If someone else had been standing near, the wind and the waves would have made it impossible to do anymore than see his lips move.
Pali stood for a moment, looking off at the horizon, as if watching a dream float away, and then, in one movement, he flung the battered treasure that was his notebook into the lake. He did
not stop to watch it fall. His shoulders squared, his head up, Pali turned away. He was the captain of his ship. He went on about his duties, his chest leaden.
Chapter Seventeen
Fiona looked out her kitchen window one morning and saw an unfamiliar car parked in Stella’s driveway. Instead of the battered station wagon without a muffler, there was a sleek, red vintage convertible, which seemed to Fiona utterly out of character, even though its gleaming chrome grill had a sneering quality that was reminiscent of Stella’s personality.
“Perhaps,” thought Fiona, “it belongs to someone else.” She marveled momentarily about the possibility of anyone enjoying Stella’s company.
But later that day, Fiona was at the Mercantile when she saw the car go by with Stella in the driver’s seat, and a red and purple magnetic sign on the door that said “Stella DesRosiers for Town Chairman” in big, ugly letters. A convertible—particularly a vintage one—was, perhaps, not the most practical car for the Island’s unsalted winter roads, ferry passages, and rutted dirt byways, but no one could tell Stella anything. Fiona wondered, briefly, where the money for such a car could have come from, but only briefly. Stella and Stella’s affairs were topics Fiona generally preferred not to think about.
After practice, Terry was seated at Ground Zero’s counter, drinking his macchiato. Mike was in Santa Fe at an art show that was featuring his work.
The shop was quiet, well past the morning rush. Roger was silently polishing the Italian coffee machine’s brass and copper fittings. They gleamed in the warm light of the shop. As far as Terry could see, they did not need polishing. He was used to Roger’s silence, and didn’t actually mind it. Most people chattered on, even with nothing to say. Not Roger, and Terry respected that. He also found it restful.
Terry had just completed his big job. It was a very large shingle-style house, perched on the bluffs overlooking Green Bay. All of the wood work and cabinetry had been custom-built by Terry. He was enjoying the feeling of having this project behind him, and of the unusually healthy state of his finances. This house represented nearly half of what Terry would normally expect to earn in a year.
“Guess I’ll have another,” he said, pushing his cup across the counter.
“You know,” said Roger, looking up from his work, “If you want to lose a few pounds, you probably should cut out the macchiatos. There must be 500 calories in those things.”
“Got it,” said Terry. “Good idea. Just a regular coffee, then. I’m celebrating.”
Roger filled the cup and set it on the counter with a thunk, and went back to his polishing.
Terry drank his regular coffee, relishing the silence.
He was startled when Roger spoke suddenly.
“How do people stay married?” he asked.
Terry shifted uncomfortably on the counter stool. He was pretty sure where this conversation was going.
“Not everybody does, I guess.”
Roger did not respond to this, and there was a long silence, not so comfortable as the one before. Terry drank his coffee. Roger refilled it automatically, and without speaking.
Then just as suddenly as before, Roger spoke again. “I need to understand this.”
At first, Terry thought Roger was talking about some mechanical thing gone wrong with the coffee equipment, but Roger was standing at the counter looking off into the distance. Eye contact during conversation was not something that Roger recognized as important. His face reflected no particular emotion. He was simply staring. Since his normal expression resembled cold fury, Terry guessed that its absence indicated some shift in mood.
He looked at Roger with a mixture of admiration and pity. The admiration was for his determination. The pity was for everything else. He had never thought of Roger as helpless, but that was how he now seemed.
“Listen, Roger,” he said. “Marriage is hard. No one is good at it right away.” He stopped, considering. “Maybe ever. But that’s not the point. The point is that marriage doesn’t just happen. You need to work at it.”
Roger now looked at him with the curiosity of a scientist regarding a lab experiment. He understood work, at least. He could do work. “How?”
Terry was struggling with how to simplify this complex question. Roger was an MIT physicist. He was brilliant. But, thought Terry, in some things he was flat ignorant, and this was clearly one of those things.
“Well,” said Terry at last, settling on some universal truths. “You need to talk to her. Tell her things. Women like that.”
“What things?” Roger was frowning with concentration.
Terry sighed inwardly, wondering how he was going to get out of this, but he continued patiently. “You need to tell her what you did that day. Tell her about what you will do tomorrow. Talk to her about your plans for the future. Things like that.”
Roger nodded seriously, as if making a mental checklist.
Terry suddenly saw this as an opportunity. It was for Elisabeth, he thought, that he needed to say these things. He felt deep sympathy for her, sweet woman that she was. He needed to help her. “Who else would?” he asked himself.
“But most of all,” and here Terry cleared his throat, “you need to say nice things to her.”
Roger’s frown deepened. “Like what?”
This time Terry’s sigh was audible. “Tell her you love her. Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her that you like her dress. Tell her the dinner was good.”
He paused, running out of ideas. No need to overwhelm at the beginning. “Oh, and if she asks, she never looks fat. In anything. Ever.”
Roger nodded seriously. He understood. He could do these things. He was sure of it.
“Thanks,” said Roger.
Terry had never heard Roger say thank you. “Don’t mention it,” said Terry. And he meant it.
“Fiona, I’m worried.”
“What about?” asked Fiona as she talked with Elisabeth on the phone and fiddled idly with the pen on her kitchen counter. It was late afternoon, and although sun no longer flooded the room at this time of day, the smell of coffee and cinnamon made it comfortable and inviting. It seemed to Fiona that Elisabeth should be filled with newlywed bliss, not worrying about anything. Particularly not on a beautiful winter day like this one.
“It’s Roger,” continued Elisabeth. “He’s acting strangely.”
Fiona thought this was hardly surprising. Roger always acted strangely. It was what he did. She tried to come up with some diplomatic way of expressing these thoughts and failed.
“In what way?” she asked.
“He’s taken up yoga.”
Fiona did not answer for a moment. This was, indeed, surprising.
“Hmmm,” she said, biding for time. “That is… unlikely, I have to admit. But it seems harmless enough.”
“It’s just that it’s so out of character.” Elisabeth paused. “And there’s something else about it that I don’t like.”
Fiona stopped fidgeting with the pen. It was the tone of Elisabeth’s voice that caught her attention.
“Oh?” she asked, casually.
“It’s the teacher. The yoga instructor. Her name is Shay. And she looks exactly the way her name sounds.” Elisabeth stopped talking and took a breath. “And she says Roger is gifted.”
With effort Fiona controlled herself.
“Really.” Fiona picked up the pen again as a distraction. “Well… maybe he is.”
“Come on, Fiona. I’m being serious here.”
Fiona was instantly contrite.
“I’m sorry. I know you are. But surely you don’t think Roger is interested in Shay.”
“Why else would he be taking yoga classes?”
“Now listen, Elisabeth. You can’t make a big deal out of one yoga class.”
“He’s taking three. One is in Sturgeon Bay.”
“Oh. Well,” said Fiona lamely. “That is a lot of yoga.”
“It would be a lot of yoga for anyone. But this is Roger. And you know how go
od-looking he is. Everywhere we went in Italy I saw women staring at him.”
It occurred to Fiona that there were many reasons to stare at Roger that had nothing to do with his looks. But this was probably not the thing to say to his wife, no matter how close their friendship. Was Roger good-looking? Fiona thought about this. She supposed he was. He was so off-putting and strange that she had never noticed. Yes. Upon reflection, Roger really was extraordinarily handsome. “Huh,” she thought to herself. This was an interesting revelation.
“How do you know what this teacher—Shay—looks like?”
“Facebook.” Elisabeth stopped for a moment, recollecting her first glimpse of Shay. “She is a bit older, though.”
“How much older?”
“Maybe… forty?”
“Forty?” Fiona was surprised.
“But a young forty. A beautiful forty. A young, blonde, lithe, and limber forty with a perfect figure.”
Fiona felt she needed to gain control of this conversation. “Listen,” she said. “You need to get a grip. You are a newly married woman. Roger is a newly married man. He’s crazy about you. And Roger is not the kind of guy who goes around picking up women in yoga classes.” And not by a long shot, she thought to herself. “I refuse to believe that there’s a romantic reason for Roger taking a yoga class,” she continued. “I can’t for the life of me think of any reason for him to be taking a yoga class, but that is not the point. You are a beautiful woman. He loves you. Now just stop it.”
Elisabeth sighed into the phone. “So you think I’m being silly?”
“You are not being silly. You’re being an idiot.” She paused, suddenly struck by a thought. “What,” she wondered aloud, “does Roger wear to yoga class?”
“Sweats, I guess,” said Elisabeth. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Fiona. “Just wondered.”
That, at least, was a mental image she could live with. She couldn’t quite countenance the thought of Roger in yoga pants.
The Audacity of Goats Page 18