It is quarter to twelve. Peter gets into bed and turns out the lights. The air conditioner in the window makes a monotonous roar. In bed, in the dark, Peter thinks back, through the years. Even at their wedding, he remembers, something had happened. Something about the flowers: Emma had not given Amanda a bouquet. Amanda had only been given a single blossom, instead of a bouquet like Tess’s. It had always been there, Emma’s unkindness.
With the lights off, at first the room seems blessedly dark, a refuge, the cave of sleep. Soon his eyes adjust, and Peter sees a soft glow from the street. The night outside is leaking in. Sleep is nowhere near.
But before they were married, he remembers, Emma was kind to Amanda. Wasn’t she? He’s certain of it, he remembers feeling grateful for Emma’s kindness. What had happened? Now he wonders if she had been shamming. The thought infuriates him. He turns on the light and sits up, puts his feet on the floor.
He sits up and looks around the room in the dim light. The curtains, flanking the metal box of the air conditioner, look stifling, their limp drapery heavy and oppressive. The brass bedstead is tarnished brown, and its row of upright bars looks like a prisoner’s window. On the walls are grim black-and-white engravings, nineteenth-century life in London. The wooden desk, with its scuffed blotter and one thin drawer is meager. Peter wonders if he will be here still, a month from now.
During dinner, he had asked Amanda if she would like to go somewhere for Labor Day with him. Canada, she said at once. It surprised him, Canada seems dim to him. But it is huge, vast, its dense forests crowding the northern curve of the globe, beyond them the tundra, the real North. And there is the Gallic part along the eastern coast, all that French fuss over language, culture. He’ll take Amanda there if she wants. Prince Edward Island, or is that now all condos? He’s read that the Japanese go there in droves. They all read Anne of Green Gables: surely an odd choice for a Japanese heroine, the bold red-headed girl. The Canadian coast is all being built up, he’s heard. If there is global warming, everyone should buy land in Canada, along the coast. It will be the Maine of the future. Maine would be like the Eastern Shore of Maryland, Florida like the equator. All those poor old retired geezers down there trapped by the heat, unable to leave their condos. They’d be better off staying in Queens, at least their children would visit. But even without global warming, Florida has always seemed horrible to Peter, all those grim geometric high-rises, flat highways and organ centers. Alligator farms instead of museums.
He swings his legs out of bed, sets his bare feet on the dark green rug. His toes twitch restlessly. The Kirklands will be staying in his apartment, in what is called Amanda’s room, but which is, he now realizes angrily, really the guest room. Emma calls it Amanda’s room, but it is decorated in chintz and roses, and the bed pulls out into an uncomfortable double. Maybe Emma went home with her parents that afternoon, after he left the hospital. Maybe she spent some time doing normal things, from her old life. Putting out towels, making up the bed, thinking of Tess, wondering each moment if there were any change. Maybe she was there just after he was, maybe he had just missed her when he was there packing. What if he had run into her? He misses Emma, wants her.
The bruised face. He remembers the pupils, beginning their mysterious movement toward synchronicity like the shifting of a tide, dark water starting to turn without a sound. He feels a tiny blossom of gladness. What if he were to go up to the hospital right now? He is free to do anything, now, anything. He could put on his clothes and stand out on Fifth Avenue, hailing a slow-moving cab in the fresh night air, the city silent around him. They would let him in, at the hospital, that surly guard knows he is a member of the family. They don’t know that he is only the stepfather, that he and his wife are no longer speaking. Estranged. He could go into the room and bend over the sleeping child. He could stand in the silent nighttime room and murmur to her the things he wants her to hear, the things that he had not been able to tell her today. I love you, Tess. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.
Dear God, he thinks, let her get well.
His toes twist against one another. He can smell his armpits, the rich sweaty smell of himself. The air conditioner is set on high, but it seems to do nothing but pump heat into the room. Would Emma think of calling here? He misses her. He’s still angry at her, but this is separate. Apart from his anger, he misses her. He wants her presence, wants her back. He wants all this not to have happened.
He remembers his last weekend at Marten’s, the ferry coming into the harbor. He remembers standing with the other husbands on the deck, watching, looking for his wife. Seeing her among the other wives, looking so cool and pretty. She stood with her feet set neatly together, her curving bowlegs in white pants, her hands tucked into her pockets. She had been talking to someone, smiling. He had felt so proud of her, the way she looked, so calm, with her crisp white pants and shirt, her soft dark hair. Her narrow crinkling eyes, so warm. She saw him too, he saw her searching the faces until she found his, their eyes met. He remembers the last, final twist of relief he had felt at that moment: now I’m home, he had thought, meeting her eyes.
He had always felt that she was his partner. He had felt then it was he and Emma together who were taking on Amanda, life. At night, they slept close, connected, during the perilous journey through the darkness, one touching the other always. Sometimes Emma lay with her back tight against his stomach, setting herself deep into his enfolding curve. And when he put his arm around her and over her shoulder, tucking his hand beneath her pillow, she turned her head and kissed his arm, his hand, whatever she could reach. When he rolled over, away from her, she rolled over, toward him. She slid her foot against his ankle, his leg, whatever she could reach. Through the night he could feel her loving him. He felt her presence as love. He misses it now. He wonders where she is right now. Alone in their bed? At the hospital, curled up in the uncomfortable chair?
If she were at the hospital, if he called her there now, could they have a secret, private conversation, outside their fight? They could fight later, in the daytime. Now, he misses her. He lowers his head and sets his fists onto the sheets on either side of him. He had hoped someday they would get a dog, that had been part of his plan for the house on Marten’s. He had grown up with Labs. Now he can’t see how this might happen.
He looks at his small traveling clock. It’s only one. How long would Emma wait? She would never call him. He did, and she didn’t, he thinks, remembering her family story, disgusted. His toes torment one another, struggling. One o’clock. He can feel the sleeplessness in his eyes. He can’t imagine sleep. He wonders if Tess’s eyes are drifting into rightness at night, as she sleeps, or if it’s only during the day, when she’s closer to waking. Is there any difference for her, between day and night? Is one part of her sleep different from another? He hates the word coma.
He feels suddenly that she will get well.
“She will get well,” he says, out loud. His voice, in the small room, is startling. He looks around. The words stay with him. He lifts his chin, stretching his neck. He closes his eyes. But where is she? Where is Emma?
He gets up and goes into the bathroom. He has brought some of Emma’s sleeping pills. In the white-tiled room, with its old porcelain fixtures, he stands by the big square sink. He takes two of the oblong pills. He drinks a full glass of New York water. This is said to be the best city water in America, but it reeks of chlorine, and he holds his breath while he drinks it.
He goes back into the bedroom. He looks at the engravings of London: carriages drawn by snake-necked horses, elegant men in top hats and tailcoats, women in long skirts and crinolines. The scene is airless and sterile. He feels he has lived here in this room for years. He is trapped in here, like the poor old geezers in their condos in Florida.
Where is she? Why does she not call him? She must know he is awake. How could she have been unkind, year after year, to his daughter? He sees Amanda’s hopeful face as she entered the restaurant, her anxious gaze as s
he searched the tables for her father. Her eyes, so touchingly made up, the black lashes clumped together, the lids smudged. Her skin is dense and smooth, beautiful, he has never noticed that before. His daughter is lovely. And the way she walked in her high heels, there was something Minnie Mouseish about her step. Endearing. But all children are endearing, if they’re yours. If they aren’t, they’re a nuisance. Emma finds his daughter a nuisance, though she expects him to find hers endearing.
The thought infuriates him, and he throws himself onto the bed, ramming his feet down under the sheets. He lies on his back, his hands clasped together behind his head.
Emma has always done that, he thinks severely. She’s always taken for granted the fact that I loved Tess. He thinks back, he remembers the night at Marten’s, when Tess came into their bed. Emma knew he opposed it, she paid no attention to him. His rules for her daughter meant nothing, but her rules for his daughter were sacred. He had heard Tess come in: Emma spoiled her. He had heard Emma lift the sheet for Tess to climb in with them. Tess was too old to come into their bed at night. Emma spoiled her and ignored him. He lies thinking of this, fuming, reciting his reasons for anger.
He had been angry the next day, too, he had let her know how he felt. Emma, though, had not responded, had not defied him. In fact she had been meek, placatory. She accepted his anger, bowing her head as though she were in disgrace. She had been in disgrace. He had left for the day without speaking to her.
He thinks now of Emma’s hushed and stealthy movements, raising the sheet for Tess. He thinks of her, lying anxiously between the two loved bodies, fearful that one will erupt at the presence of the other. In fact, she did not expect anything of him then, not sympathy, not affection. She was taking nothing for granted.
He remembers the next morning, how angry he had been, how intolerant. And why had he been so angry? Why did it matter, he wonders now. Why had he been so sure that was important, keeping their bed empty of children? Why did he care, if Tess were frightened, if she came into their bed for comfort? It had been Amanda’s book, he knew, that had frightened her. The thought, now, of denying Tess anything was intolerable. The thought of Tess, standing in the dark, frightened, asking to climb into bed.
The fact is he cannot remember times when Emma has taken his love of Tess for granted. She didn’t expect him to love her. She has acted as though she must protect Tess from him.
Above the air conditioner in the window he can see the dim infernal glow of the New York night. In the country, looking toward the city at night, you could see a great purple radiance, as though it were a gigantic amusement park. It was never dark in New York, at night it was only darker.
Peter remembers spending a summer night out camping with his dog. He was twelve or thirteen. He had gone down in the orchard with Achilles and his sleeping bag. The night had been absolutely black, he had felt it close down on his eyelids and press against him. But his father had bet him fifty cents that he wouldn’t stay out the whole night, and Peter was determined. He had ended up trying to pull Achilles entirely into the sleeping bag with him. In the morning he found his nose next to Achilles’ fat black tail, with the dog stretched out toward his feet. It was early, and when he opened his eyes he saw the long grass of the orchard, the air blue with mist. Silence. The birds had not yet begun. Silence, and the freshness of orchard air in the summer dawn, and that blue light.
Peter punches his pillow. He loves Emma’s daughter, but she does not love his. This is unfair. He has lived with her daughter for years, but Emma finds it hard to live with his daughter for one month at a time. Though it’s true that Tess loves him, and Amanda does not love Emma, and this makes a difference.
“She’ll get well,” he says out loud again. This time it frightens him: what if this is bad luck, hubris? “Thank you, God,” he adds.
He remembers the camping out again, the long warm spine of the dog pressed against him. As he was going to sleep that night he heard the branches overhead moving slightly, barely, in the night air. The black dog was invisible, only a warm presence, richly scented, in his arms. He wonders if the dog has ever been to Marten’s Island, then realizes his mind is drifting into sleep. It’s the pills, he understands, grateful for a moment, before they draw him into that other place, soft, luxurious, full of rolling darkness.
In the morning the air conditioner sounds different. It’s humming a new, more plangent, note. It must be harder work, during the daytime, Peter thinks, groping into wakefulness. Now it’s hotter outside. He opens his eyes onto the white ceiling. Where is Emma? When will she call? She must have thought of him being here, she must have figured it out. He thinks of calling Tess’s room. There’s no machine, and if Emma isn’t there, no one would answer. But he doesn’t want the sudden sound to disturb Tess, in this early dawn. He believes Tess is still occupied, now, absorbed. Behind the closed lids her eyes are shifting slowly. Peter looks at the clock: it’s ten past six. The seventh day.
Peter lies still but his eyes are open, dry. He blinks. He has a slight headache, from the pills, but he’s awake for the day. The sheets are twisted, they’ve tangled around his limbs like ropes. He kicks at them, freeing his feet. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Sleep is gone. He sits up decisively: he’ll go running. He’s brought his gear. He feels aflame with energy, restlessness.
Where is Emma? When will she call him?
He imagines the evening with her parents: Emma cold, frozen, silent, sitting through their talk, her father’s self-absorbed monologue, her mother’s bright comments. He knows she will feel that he has let her down, by walking out and leaving her with them. And so he has.
He no longer feels the bright pulse of anger when he thinks of Emma and Amanda. Now he feels only that Emma was wrong. As he has been. And he misses her.
He puts on his running shorts, a T-shirt, his running shoes. He jogs down the broad staircase. The great public rooms, with their tall curtained windows, are silent and shadowy as he passes. He pushes through the heavy front door and steps out into the street. He sets out straight up Fifth Avenue, running on the pavement along the park. The air is fresh against his face. The streets are nearly empty. On the sidewalk are a few other runners, on their solitary ways, pounding along the cobblestones in the early city morning. The paving stones are slick and glittery with moisture.
Peter runs straight up alongside Fifth Avenue. Twenty blocks to a mile, it’s a little over a mile up to the Reservoir from here, a mile and a quarter around it, and another mile back. He usually runs four miles. This morning he feels full of suppressed energy, as though he could easily do ten. He has read that you can always run double your normal distance, if you need to. The thought is comforting to him. He can’t imagine what the need would be—a natural disaster? What natural disaster would be slow enough for you to outjog it? But still he likes knowing that he has this secret reserve, the steady eight miles, ready when he needs them. To save someone’s life, if that were what it took. He sees Tess’s face.
The dog owners are out. Some are standing around looking furtive, obviously wearing raincoats over nightgowns or pajamas. Their faces are grim, still set in the lines of sleep, unprepared for human exchanges.
Ahead stands a white brick apartment building, among all the heavy rusticated stone ones. The early sun makes it dazzle, brilliant. Emma had told him once that Edward Hopper said the only thing that interested him was “the way sunlight hits a white wall.” It’s pretty good. He thinks of Hopper’s desolate landscapes, the white bare walls.
He thinks of Emma, imperious, hateful: never again. But it no longer angers him. Now he feels compassion for her. As he runs he feels himself becoming lighter, fuller of energy. His strides lift him above the damp rounded cobblestones. He is more powerful, now, more certain of what he can do.
He turns into the park on a path at Seventy-sixth Street, following the winding pavement north. He doesn’t know the paths on this side of the park. This one twists and dips, ducking beneath a heavy
black stone bridge, wide, sinister, reeking of urine. He comes out on the other side, up a small hill. The lumbering Metropolitan Museum is on his right now; he snakes along behind the Temple of Dendur. Absurd, he thinks, to take up Central Park space to put a building inside the museum. Why not a whole village? Museums are for objects, not buildings. American arrogance, putting their buildings inside our museums.
He crosses the park drive behind the museum, empty, right now, peaceful and silent. To the north he can see the high bluff rising to the Reservoir. He runs along the drive; from behind, a sudden rush of taxis surges fanatically past in a tight cluster, gunning their engines like racers, and then they’re gone. Now the drive is empty again, flat and silent, like a country road. The city hums, waking, outside the park, but here the air is calm, balmy, quiet.
He runs across a short wooden bridge, unpainted and oddly rustic, beneath the trees. Beyond it are concrete steps, and at the top of them is a majestic stone pumping station, standing serenely at the water’s edge, the southern shore of the Reservoir. The Italianate silhouette stands guard over the stream of joggers that moves steadily past; Peter is no longer alone. He steps out onto the soft earth track among the others, legs pumping, hearts pounding, heads down, chins out, hands loosely clenched, doggedly pursuing this silent goal.
Peter moves in among them, finding himself a niche, adjusting his strides in the group. He finds himself just behind an older man, and runs politely in back of him until the track turns north again, lying parallel to Fifth. Peter makes his move, passing the man, who looks at him sideways, with an outraged glance.
At this moment Peter could pass anyone. He feels wonderfully light, filled with power. He feels he could run the Reservoir over and over, all morning. He is in an empty space among the joggers, right alongside the high mesh fence, with the calm sweep of light-filled water beyond it. A breeze moves across the surface, making a faint choppy grid. Along the shoreline is a dense forest of blue-green reeds. Among them is a pair of mallards, male and female, their colors bold, their outlines trim against the reeds. Mallards mate for life, he remembers.
This Is My Daughter Page 48