by Sarah Hall
This keeps failing to occur. Midsummer, Cora learns that she is pregnant. Rodney is the father. They resolve to leave New York, something Cora always swore she would not do. Rodney gets a teaching job at a third-rate college in Virginia. The town is a bland Tartarus of off-brand chain stores and tract-built homes on one-acre lots. In fact, this nonreactive agar tray of a town may be the ideal place to raise their daughter, whose ultrasounds reveal a troublingly thick neck-fold. Yet the baby emerges free of Down’s Syndrome and the other malfunctions associated with what the doctor terms Cora’s ‘geriatric pregnancy’.
The daughter is, however, a tantrum-thrower to be tranquillised only by TV or mobile phone screens. Books, in particular, seem to enrage the child.
Cora stops doing magazine work. She makes intriguing photographs of Southeastern ruralia. A university press publishes her books in limited runs. Her professional esteem is mostly local.
Rodney has an affair with a colleague. The idea of dissolving the marriage is once again raised. During this time, while cleaning the gutters, Rodney falls off a ladder and permanently loses the use of his left arm. His lover retreats. Rodney retires.
In high school, their daughter exchanges her addiction to video games for tennis, which she is frighteningly good at. She is accepted to Dartmouth on a full athletic scholarship. She goes off to school and telephones her parents no more than minimal propriety requires.
Cora and Rodney move farther out into the country, far from provocations to lead a more resounding sort of existence. In the evening, the sounds are owls and distant trains. The odours from a nearby pig farm reach their house but rarely. On infrequent occasions, they are invited to dinner parties at the attractive homes of the warm, sophisticated people in their circle. These gatherings are enjoyable. But Cora and Rodney are always happiest at the end of the evening, driving home through the deep black trees, when they observe to one another, in a kind of tender ritual, that they do not envy the life of anyone they know.
EVIE
Sarah Hall
She arrived home after work, sat at the kitchen table and took a large chocolate bar out of her bag. She said nothing, not even hello. She split the foil, broke it apart, and proceeded to eat the entire thing, square after square; a look of almost sexual concentration on her face.
Had a bad day? he asked.
She smiled faintly.
Not like you to go for the junk. Did you miss lunch?
She shook her head. Her jaw moved, slow and bovine, working the substance against her palate. She was looking but not seeing him. There was something endogenous about the gaze, something private, as if his presence in the room was irrelevant. She ate the entire bar, methodically, piece after piece, while he put the kettle on and began dinner. He heated a pre-made lasagne in the oven, opened a bag of salad and dumped it into a bowl. She ate only a little of the meal.
I guess the snack ruined your appetite.
Her eyes flickered up from the plate.
Yes. I don’t know why I had the whole thing. Only, I’d been thinking about eating some for days. Then I had to.
She didn’t apologise for the wasted food. Usually she would; she was the type who apologised over any minor or innocuous discourtesy. He wondered if she was angry with him, whether a passive campaign was playing out, though he could think of nothing he’d done wrong.
Over the next week she began to eat chocolate regularly. She would snap off portions while watching television or between chores. In her car there were smeary wrappers strewn on the floor. She’d never had a sweet tooth before, had never ordered dessert in restaurants. She’d always kept her figure because of it. Now, she seemed addicted. And not just to chocolate, but anything sugary: pastries, puddings, fizzy drinks. She would leave her steak or pasta half finished, leave the table, and come back with something glazed that she’d evidently bought in a bakery between her office and the house.
God, I just can’t seem to stop with this stuff, she said one night.
It was true. She went with a predatory look to the cupboards. She wasn’t thinking, just acting on impulse. She was drinking more too. Wine with dinner every night, a few extra glasses at the weekend; becoming gently hedonistic. They’d been for a meal at Richard’s and she’d finished a bottle of Cabernet by herself, as well as the lemon torte he’d served.
Hey, hey, Richard had said, taking her hand and helping her up from the couch, after she’d slumped on the first attempt to rise. Nice to see you letting your hair down, Evie.
How gallant, she’d said, a mock-belle voice. Then, whispering, I know you want this.
She’d leaned up and kissed him. A kiss not on the cheek, but on the mouth: a deliberately erotic move that implied nothing less than seduction, as if her husband, sitting next to her on the couch, did not exist. Richard of course had been too dazed to respond. This was a glimmer from a long-desired, alternate world, where his best friend’s wife was available to him instead for nightly plunder. After a moment Richard roused himself, took hold of her wrists, and looked over to the couch, as if to say, here, hadn’t you better intervene. Evie was staring at Richard’s mouth. Her lips were parted, her lashes lowered. Together they’d helped her into her coat and into the car. Once the seatbelt was buckled and the door shut, Richard had turned to him.
That was a bit unusual. Is she all right?
Evie’s head was drooping to one side; she was asleep, or passing out.
I don’t bloody know. She’s all over the place lately. She’s fine, I think.
What do you mean all over the place?
Just acting up. For attention, maybe. I don’t know. She’s fine. Sorry, Rich.
You’re sure?
Yeah. Yeah, just had a few too many.
On the drive home the incident preoccupied him. The look of desire, the unboundaried gesture. It wasn’t that she hadn’t looked at him that way, of course, in the past – nights when they were at their best, their least inhibited, when the act was intentional rather than habitual. But to see her looking at another man. It’d shocked him, and Richard too, clearly. It had been exciting. Something had flared inside him. Possessiveness, naturally – she was his wife – but there was another sensation too. Pride. Or worth. He didn’t quite know. She suited the attitude; perhaps most women did.
He glanced down at her legs as he drove; the skirt riding untidily on her thighs, the flesh pale in the glow of the streetlights. Her arms were cast out either side of the seat – he’d already moved one away from the gear stick – in a pose that looked supplicatory, almost religious. She roused minimally when they arrived home, walking into the house and upstairs like a somnambulist, lying on the bed fully clothed. He’d run a hand up her thigh, but by then she was unconscious.
She had a hangover the next day and he caught her in the kitchen having a shot of whisky. Her makeup was smudged round her eyes. The silk robe was loosely belted, with one breast partially exposed.
For God’s sake, Evie. Didn’t you have enough last night.
Hair of the dog, she said.
You’re acting like a student. That’s going to make you feel far worse.
Let’s see.
She tossed the spirit back.
Boom!
She set about cooking pancakes for breakfast, which she coated with syrup, rolled up and ate with her fingers. He sat opposite at the table, refusing the plate of glistening batter, choosing instead a frugal bowl of muesli. He was annoyed with her; he didn’t know why. She was acting a little irresponsibly, a little outlandishly – but so what? He’d always wanted her to be more cattish, hadn’t he, like the girls at university he remembered who had tattoos before it was popular, who wore tiny shorts, took pills every weekend and danced on podiums in the union. And the thing with Richard; he knew there was nothing to it. Richard was too restrained, too safe, almost neuter; he was always ill with something and in need of sympathy; he’d never been a genuine threat. It occurred to him she might be pregnant, and hormonal. Though surely she wou
ld know, by now, and the drinking was very inappropriate. Evie wasn’t like that.
She was washing up at the sink, her rings set aside in the small ceramic dish, her bottom shaking as she scrubbed, hips a fraction fuller under the gown, though not unattractively so. He asked her.
No, she blurted, half turning. I don’t think there’s much risk of that, do you?
Offended by the overt reference to their irregularity – usually they both avoided the topic with practised denier’s skill – he stood and made to leave the room.
Wait, she said. Maybe, well, what do you think?
About what?
About getting pregnant.
Are you serious?
She dropped the scrubbing brush into the basin of soapy water and wiped her hands on the silk robe. The material darkened and stuck to her skin.
Actually, no. But I would like a fuck.
He was stunned. It was not the look of the previous night, but it wasn’t the usual furtive pass that one or other of them made, when it had been building a while, and before an argument occurred.
Would you? she asked.
She unbelted and moved the robe away from her midriff. The pubic hair was in a neat brown strip. She had waxed. He looked at her. He was angry now, at the guilelessness, the domestic crisis she seemed intent on creating. Why was she being so bald? It made no sense. The atmosphere around her was unsettling, like irregular weather. He was jealous, and impressed by the approach, by her making a stranger of him almost. All the times he had wondered, imagined getting his cock out, stroking himself in front of her and saying, come here and suck this, how she would have responded. He’d never done it. Neither had she, though he’d fantasised often enough about her masturbating in front of him, kneeling, her legs apart, or on all fours. The answer was yes. But he did not speak or move. She was looking at him, her face unreadable, not ashamed, not desperate. There was only so long such a precarious, risky moment could go on, before it spoiled. He was hard. He knew what he should do. Hostility got the better of him.
What are you trying to prove, Evie? What?
She shrugged, a one-shouldered shrug, the definition of nonchalance. She left the robe open and sat down. She lifted one foot up onto the chair seat. He could see more of her cunt, the folds and dark seam. He felt hot and uncomfortable. He should be kissing her, feeling her breasts, doing what she’d asked him to. But this exchange; there was too much and too little intimacy at once. He disliked her casualness, the request as banal as to go and buy milk. He was locked in. It was absurd.
I mean, what are you doing? What are you doing?
Asking you to go to bed with me.
I mean, you’re being just bizarre. You haven’t even showered. You’re a mess. You’re ruining yourself with junk food. You’re having whisky at ten am and saying mad things to me in the kitchen. And then last night. What was that?
I just want a fuck, Alex. That’s all. If you aren’t up for it, fine. Maybe later.
She leaned across the table and wiped up a viscous smear from its surface, put her finger in her mouth. She was not upset. The transaction hadn’t worked, and that was that. Part of him felt ashamed for attacking her, for the impotence of his mood. But she’d walked carelessly across the tripwires of their relationship, as though through a field of mines, as if immune. And her response to the rejection was ludicrous, like a child’s or an autistic’s. He turned and left the room.
*
He had never really loved his wife, not with acute, debilitating passion, the kind that was idealised and sung about. He had become fonder of her over the years, and more attached. She did nice things for him – making him sandwiches to take to work and buying replacement toothbrushes when the bristles on the current one began to splay. Other men found her attractive; colleagues often commented on his good fortune, and Richard had had a thing about her for years. Richard always remembered her birthday, procuring thoughtful and not inexpensive gifts, taking her side in quarrels, though there weren’t many. Objectively, she was a catch, but he’d never felt dizzyingly emotional about her. He’d never tortured himself with the idea that she might leave, or stop loving him, that she was irreplaceable.
The first thing he’d really liked about her was her name. Evie. Like a forties starlet. He’d had a spell of dating women with interesting names, in and after university: Lola, Oriana, Kiki, Simone. They were never as interesting or free-spirited as their names suggested. He’d expected vivacity and petulance, oblique intelligence, someone who would perhaps be difficult to manage, but fascinating and worth any trouble, inspiring something torrid in him, lust leaning towards deviancy; someone who would cancel out the desire to upgrade, someone with whom he could experiment and live interestingly.
Good crazy, rather than bad crazy, that’s what you want, Richard had said. A fantasy woman. But it’s bullshit. You keep getting them to fall for you, then cutting a swathe. It’s ridiculous.
And he had gone through a number of them, telling himself he was on a romantic quest. They were all trying for unique jobs – dance therapists, writers. Often they wore clothes that suggested originality, unusualness: red chiffon shirts with showing-through bras, men’s brogues, even rebellious vintage fur tippets. They were confident at first, sometimes conceited. He encouraged them to audition for the part, which gave them licence. Once the novelty of the sex wore off, once they failed to be uniquely talented, he struggled to make a connection. Under the faux exoticism, they wanted husbands, money, three-storey town houses. Or they really were fucked up. By six weeks he was usually disappointed or bored. Or things had exploded.
The last – Simone, the children’s musician – had proved disastrous. After her various antics and tantrums, he’d tried to phase her out. She’d turned up at his door, incensed, had made an aggressive pass, and they’d gone to bed. The following day, after he explained his position, she accused him of trying to get her pregnant, dragging him to the doctor’s for the morning-after pill and making him watch her ‘miscarry’.
By the time he met Evie he’d given up on the idea of exceptionality. They met at a Christmas party – Richard’s. She was lively; the men in the room were crowded around her. He introduced himself to those in the group he didn’t know, weighed her. She was copper-haired and trim, bright hazel-eyed, but not stunning. She didn’t have a bone structure that suggested lifelong beauty. They danced. She moved well, neat but suggestively. Her eyes were big and pretty. He could tell Richard liked her, even then. Richard kept bringing a bottle over and offering to top them up, trying to join the conversation.
Their dates were pleasant. Evie was pleasant. She smiled a lot and dressed well. He liked that other men were attracted to her. There was no sulking or ego maintenance. In a way it was a welcome compromise after the extreme terrain he had attempted. But she wasn’t stupid. She could tell he was withholding, he was making no declarations; there was no obvious lovers’ trajectory. It came up one night in a restaurant and he told her he wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about her. He didn’t feel anything tremendously, for anyone. There was an argument, unshouted, but definitely an argument.
I don’t move you in any great way then? she asked. What am I, wallpaper? Just there in the room?
No. Listen, it doesn’t affect the relationship, he said. We’re having a good time.
Are you mad? Of course it does. I want more than that. Who wouldn’t?
She’d stood up, unhurriedly, gathered her coat, and left. It was a superior, graceful exit. He’d tried to phone her but she ignored the messages. She started dating someone else soon after; he heard about it from Richard, who’d stayed in touch with her. This bothered him; no, it piqued him. He couldn’t stop thinking about her and the new lover. He wondered if his emotions had been lagging, or had been masked. He’d lasted two weeks and then he was on her doorstep, saying he couldn’t be without her, asking her to marry him. He almost convinced himself. By the end of the evening they’d had sex several times – it was as close to anyt
hing meaningful as he’d ever felt – and they were engaged. It all played out. They married. They bought a house. It was fine.
*
He remained angry for the rest of the day. He washed the car. He fixed the puncture on his bike. He stayed outside as much as he could. Evie lazed about the house eating sweets, listening to the radio and flicking through magazines. When he spied on her through the window she didn’t seem to be unhappy or brooding. She made cups of tea at intervals. She painted her nails. Whatever was going on, she was clearly capable of holding out. He was angry, but he was interested too.
In the afternoon it began to drizzle, the wind got up and a proper shower arrived, darkening the tarmac driveway. He got sick of the oily stone-floor smell of the garage and the glum bare bulb overhead, so he went inside. He made a quick circuit of the lower floor. Evie was not there. He could hear faint noises from the bedroom upstairs. Halfway up he paused and listened. There was a rhythmic sound, alternating between a purr and a wail – female. After a moment it became clear what it was. He moved across the landing and opened the bedroom door. She was lying on the bed, on her side, naked, her hand between her legs. The laptop was at the end of the bed. He couldn’t see the screen but he could hear the slapping of flesh, the groaning.
What’s going on?
She kept her eyes on the film.
I found this site. Her voice was low, distracted. I like this one best.
A burning sensation rose up his neck. His chest was flurrying. He waited a moment, then went over to the bed. On the screen a man was fucking a woman from behind. His fingers were gripping her buttocks, indenting her flesh. There were tremors in her body every time he thrust. The camera angle showed the penis moving in and out, glistening. The image was mesmerising. And embarrassing. Not because he hadn’t seen anything like it before – it was all too familiar – but because his wife was in the room, watching.
I like this bit, she said.
The man on the screen pulled out of the woman. She presented herself, wider. Her genitals were depilated, the flesh dark purple. The man knelt, put his face between her legs and began to tongue the crease. Evie rolled on her back, held her head up so she could still see the screen.