All That Is Left Is All That Matters

by Mark Slouka

  Her attempts to set things right would seem crude, scripted, pathetic: the half-dropped towel, the brush of her breasts as she reached for the plates. So easily spurned. There was a power in not understanding, he’d find, in not seeing, in not taking her hips to move her aside in the kitchen but saying, instead, “Excuse me,” then politely getting what he needed, ignoring her, winning. Hurting himself, but winning. What? he’d imagine saying, letting her suffer. What? I needed to get to the sauce.

  It wouldn’t take long—a time, maybe two. Pain trumps love. She’d be confused, then quickly defensive, hurt: He’d taken her by surprise that night when he’d asked—he couldn’t give her a moment to think? Fine, maybe she’d been a little embarrassed—he had to run off and sulk like a spoiled child, refusing to touch her, to see her attempts to make it right? She loved him. She hardly knew who he was anymore. So self-involved, so full of himself, unable to finish anything. And anyway, fuck Adlai Stevenson.

  They’d both be outside of it now, disbelieving, watching it unfold. Helpless. The original misunderstanding would fade into irrelevance; the cruelties it bred would fatten and thrive.

  And then, heartbreakingly quickly, sickened by it, perhaps even welcoming its relief, they’d take the quick turn to hate.

  AT THE BOTTOM of the summer, on a full moon, the whine of the mosquitoes sounding in his ears, he folded up the Times, stepped out of his shorts, and lifted the towel from the door. “Going for a swim,” he said. “Mmm,” she said, not looking up.

  The moon, hidden by the oaks, had lit the opposite shore; he could see the stage lighting, the reflection of the tree line—a darker jade. The night was like warm skin, the water as he slipped off the dock and waded out, the same temperature as the air. Dimly, he felt the beauty of this, and then the pain overwhelmed him. There was no way out of this misery, no way back to where they’d been. He knew that now. He swam to the tree line’s shadow, then out into the light, where he stopped. He could feel the water moving between his legs, tight against his body.

  He was swimming at an angle, twenty yards from her dock, when he heard something and stopped, treading water, unsure. Her cabin was dark. In the distance a bullfrog started; tentatively, another answered. Nothing. He’d begun to swim again when he heard it a second time, faint, breathless: “Please.”

  He swam toward the shore, listening. It seemed melodramatic, unbelievable—something out of a bad detective novel.

  “Please. Is someone there?”

  “Elsa?” This time it was clear. “It’s me—I’m right here.”

  “Where?”

  “In the lake.”

  “Please, I think I may have hurt something.”

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  He felt the muddy bottom, scraped his foot on a rock, then scraped it again hurrying out on the shore. Under the trees, without his glasses, all he could see were a few streaks of faint light coming through the leaves and a kind of emptying which he knew would be the space around her cabin. He hurried toward it, ignoring the branches, one hand in front of his face like a bad actor turning away from something unpleasant, the other cupping his balls.

  He could make out the bulk of the cabin now. “Where are you?” he whispered.

  “Here, by the steps,” she said, her voice pleading, close now. “I must have fallen. I was going for a swim and—Wait,” she said, suddenly panicked, “I’m not wearing anything.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not either.” It was out before he knew it—absurd but effective. There was no time for that. And then he was there.

  She was lying on the wooden steps, one arm extending languidly into the air as though she’d decided to lean back against them. Frightened. Humiliated. Crying, he thought. It occurred to him she might have hurt her spine. “Don’t move,” he said when she tried to sit up. “I’m here now. Can you feel your legs?”

  She could. “How about your arms?” he said, as though he knew what the hell he was talking about. “Please, don’t move—do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  Even in the dark he could see the bewilderment in her face. She’d been afraid to stand up, she said. She’d been lying there, for hours it seemed, before she thought she heard someone out in the water. She’d tried to call out. She hadn’t known what to do.

  “It’s OK, I’m here now.” He was still squatting next to her. He could hear her breathing slowing—feel her coming back to herself. She didn’t need an ambulance, she said.

  “You sure?”

  “I feel like such a fool.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, shaken by the strange familiarity of her legs, by her slack, sunken belly, by her narrow, deflated breasts: “Anyone can fall.”

  “I think I’m all right now,” she said, trying to sit up. “I think maybe I can—”

  “Nonsense,” he said, and ignoring her protests he slipped one arm under her back, another under her knees, and lifted her up. He was surprised by how little she weighed—relieved as well—and walking up the stairs, his back to the cabin for balance, her skin cool against his fingers, he pushed the door open with his foot, then kicked it gently shut behind him. Carrying her through the darkened cabin, he lay her on her bed, then pulled the sheet and covered her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “I feel so ashamed.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. And reaching out he brushed her thin hair back from her forehead, then a last strand, and left.

  HE SWAM BACK along the wooded horizon of the moon, recalling her lying there across the steps. My God, what time could do. Would. The way the flesh of her thighs hung off the bone. Her arms. Her pelvis straining under the skin like the backs of the chairs his mother would use to prop up the tented rooms he’d play in for a while.

  She was already asleep when he rolled her gently over in the dark, ignoring her arguments, her annoyance, her anger and surprise, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” then “shhhh, shhhh, it’s OK, it’s OK, it doesn’t matter,” holding her face in his hands, feeling her rising, answering, warily at first, then stronger and faster as the tears came on, whispering it over and over like an incantation, “I love you, I need you, shhhh, shhhh, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.”

  1963

  HE HEARD ONE CHAIR CREAK, THEN THE OTHER. A game was on the radio. “I’ve got to work on that piece today,” he heard his father say. “Good for you,” said Mr. Hauser’s voice. “Really,” his father said.

  “Los Angeles Angels—dumb name for a baseball team,” said Mr. Hauser.

  “Maybe they think it’ll bring them luck,” said his father.

  A burst of laughter came from the float on the lake, which he could see through a crack in the wallboards. A half dozen people—marked, like croquet poles, by the horizontal stripes on their bathing suits—milled about, some settling into folding chairs, others standing around with drinks in their hands.

  “How long you think before one of ’em falls in?”

  “Weissman in ten,” said his father.

  It was very hot. A small spider had built a web between the frame of the bed and the metal leg. The web was spotted with gnats. The spider seemed to be sleeping. He blew on it but it didn’t move. A dusty pencil with a broken tip was lying by the wall and he picked it up and poked a hole in the web like a small dark window, then moved the pencil in a circle to make the hole bigger and the spider ran across the web and then back again.

  “Is she out there?” said Mr. Hauser’s voice.

  “No.”

  “What about him?” Mr. Hauser said.

  “The kid? Not likely.”

  “If I was Leventis, I’d shoot him.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “I’d think about shooting him, then.”

  They were quiet for a moment.

  “Where is everybody?” said Mr. Hauser.

  “Mary’s out at the A&P. I don’t know where Harold is. Fishi
ng, I think.”

  It was hot under the bed. When Harold turned his head to the side a little, he could see watery shapes moving slowly up the walls. It felt funny to hear his father call his mother by her name.

  “Another?” his father said.

  “What the hell.”

  “I think he wants to surprise me.”

  “Who?”

  “Harold,” his father said. Through the open door he could see his father’s white, hairy feet in their sandals walk across the floor. He tried not to laugh.

  “So what do you think he’ll do?”

  “Who? Leventis?” His father was in the kitchen. “He’ll either leave her or he won’t.”

  “What’s to stay for?” said Mr. Hauser. A cicada started its long, uphill climb. “Still, I guess you can see it from the little punk’s point of view. I mean, look at her.”

  His father laughed. “A minute ago you were gonna shoot him.”

  “Him, not me. Anyway, tell me you’d push her little boat away if she rowed up to your rickety dock one night while Mary was out at the A&P.”

  “I’m not going to tell you that,” his father said from the kitchen. He could hear ice cubes dropping into a glass. “So is that a metaphor—rickety dock?”

  “It’s a misstrike.”

  “Ah.”

  “Something to think about, you have to admit,” said Mr. Hauser.

  “Her little boat? Oh, I think we’ve all thought about it.”

  He heard his father spin the metal cap back on, then the clink of the bottles touching under the sink. He thought about coming out—he was tired of being under the bed—but didn’t.

  He heard his father walk to the screen door and then the spring made a stretching sound and the door banged twice against the frame and his father said, “We don’t have to worry about malaria anymore,” and Mr. Hauser said, “Thank God for that,” and the chair creaked.

  “Christ, it’s Leventis,” he heard his father say.

  “Jesus. What’s he doing?”

  “Bailing his boat it looks like. By his rickety dock.”

  He heard Mr. Hauser lean forward in the wicker chair. “I don’t see her.”

  “He’s going out alone. Just ignore it, they have a nest somewhere under the eave.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to ignore a wasp when it’s crawling on my glass?”

  “Funny, I never liked him much,” his father said.

  “You think he couldn’t talk her into coming out?”

  “My guess is he’s just putting one foot in front of the other.”

  “I’ll never understand that.”

  “Nothing to understand. He’s in love with his wife.”

  Mr. Hauser laughed. Far away, the people on the float burst into laughter, as if they had heard the joke too. It was hot. Something about the sound made him feel sleepy.

  “Love,” said Mr. Hauser, as though he didn’t like the word.

  “Close, anyway.”

  “She’s screwing some kid.”

  “Doesn’t always go away when you want it to.”

  “Love? Goddammit, now what do I do? I thought you said if I ignored it, it wouldn’t happen.”

  “Just flip it out with the fork.”

  “I should let it drown.”

  “So let it drown. Look, I’m just saying that . . .”

  He tried to listen but he was very sleepy. The spider was sitting, perfectly still, over the pencil hole in the web, as if thinking about it. For a moment he felt bad about having made the hole; then he picked up the pencil and put it back in the hole and moved it around until the hole was the size of a quarter. He was very sleepy.

  “—NOT A COMPLETE idiot,” Mr. Hauser was saying. “I know it’s not all The Book of Man or whatever.”

  “What book of man?” his father said.

  “You know, that Steichen book everybody was going on about a couple of years ago. All those happy couples with manure shovels, or holding each other in the grass . . . Molly Bloom and all that shit.”

  “I liked that book.”

  “I’m saying I know it’s never that simple, but . . .”

  From far away came a yelp and a rising chorus of yells, as if someone were being thrown up in a blanket, followed by a big splash.

  “Take a look,” said his father.

  Mr. Hauser laughed. “Weissman.” He could tell by the way his voice changed that Mr. Hauser was looking through the binoculars.

  “Not even noon and he’s potted like a plant.”

  “So what’s he doing?”

  “Who? Leventis? Just sitting there. Smiling like he’s been shot.”

  The chair creaked. Again his father’s feet walked to the kitchen. “Whoa, slow down, Captain,” said Mr. Hauser. Again he heard the cap, the clink of the bottles. They sounded far away. He wondered when his mother would be back. His father’s feet returned to the porch.

  “Where were we?” said Mr. Hauser.

  “You were explaining how life isn’t always like Edward Steichen.”

  “Sometimes, I said.”

  “Sometimes not like Edward Steichen.” His father burped. “Let me tell you something: Life is never like Edward Steichen.”

  “Fine.”

  “Because it doesn’t stop, it doesn’t strike a pose and grow a frame, it just . . . crawls on.”

  “Christ, have another drink.”

  “Let me tell you a little story—”

  “Jesus, here we go . . .”

  “It’s about how life isn’t always like Edward Steichen. I have this friend, about my age, happily married . . . One kid—a girl.”

  “Happily married, one girl. Got it.”

  “So three years ago he’s flying home from Atlanta and he ends up sitting next to this young thing with perfumed breasts like Molly fucking Bloom and they end up talking all the way to LaGuardia. She hangs on his every word, laughs at his jokes. They have their little tables down and he can feel her thigh pressed up against his. When they get in it’s dark and she offers him a ride—she’s got a car right there and it turns out they live near each other—and on the way she says she has to make a stop at her office. The place has a great view, she says, it’ll only take a minute, and since he feels like an idiot saying he’ll just wait in the car like he’s afraid of her—he’s spent the last two hours talking about his wife like he’s building a dam—he goes up with her and the place is huge and dark except for the lights from the city and feels like high school used to feel the night of a play. Like something could happen. Like the usual rules don’t apply.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “It’s making him sweat. He’s following her around in the dark like a goddamn cocker spaniel, admiring the view, then her desk, then her coworker’s desk, and all the time what he wants to say is that he really has to go, that it’s getting late—he can actually see his wife waiting up for him, the kid asleep upstairs, even realizes in some far-off way that if this goes where it’s going there’s no coming back—but then she kind of leans against a doorframe so he can look inside an office and he brushes by her and suddenly he’s got her breasts in his hands and anyway they do it twice on the carpet between the desks—matching knee burns, the whole thing.”

  “Good story.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part yet. The twist is that even before our hero’s put his dick back in his pants he realizes that next to his kid the thing he valued most in this world was that he’d never had to lie to his wife, that he could be exactly who he was, that all their shit was out in the open, and that he’s taken this thing and thrown it off some high rise on Fifty-Seventh Street. He feels like he did the day his father died. Like something’s gone. Like it doesn’t even matter if his wife ever finds out, because he’ll know.”

  “I’d have to say he should have thought about that before. So what happens?”

  “Pretty much what you’d expect happens. The girl calls, the wife gets suspicious—doesn’t matter. Anyway, it all comes out.”
>
  “And the wife leaves him?”

  “That’s twist number two—she stays. You see, they both love their kid to distraction—the thought of telling him, you know, you’ll see Daddy every other Saturday is not something they can do, so they just go on.”

  “So she forgives him.”

  “Not about forgiveness. It’s been three years. Everything looks fine from the outside, but they’re like, I don’t know, like a bone that’s healed crooked.”

  “He should give it time.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I mean it. Tell him if he loves her . . .”

  “Maybe he should get her a copy of The Family of Man.”

  “If he loves her . . .”

  “Don’t you get it? Love’s the problem. He’s given her all this pain and now he’s starting to hate her for it.”

  “Listen to me. He’ll be all right. He’s just in the middle of this thing, so he can’t see, but . . .”

  “Maybe he can be like that guy in the paper with the bullet in his head. Learn to live with it. Stay away from magnets.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is . . . What the hell was that?”

  When they found him under the bed, he was sound asleep.

  “Here’s your surprise.”

  “Christ, I thought he was out fishing.”

  “How long you think he’s been here?”

  “Too long.”

  “So let him sleep. Maybe he didn’t hear.”

  WHEN HE WOKE, his father and Mr. Hauser were still talking on the porch. The Angels didn’t have a prayer, Mr. Hauser was saying.

  He looked at the web. A single strand, like a tightrope walker’s line, stretched across the dark window, cutting it almost in half.

  Dog

  THE FIRST TIME IT HAPPENED HE THOUGHT a hornet had crawled into her fur—it was a cold, lowering day in October—or that she’d lodged a shard of glass in her hair while rolling in the dirt. They had been sitting above the dam, her knobby, buried spine pressed against his thigh, and when he yelled and leaped to his feet she lurched up with a startled bark to attack whatever it was that had frightened him. He looked at his hand: a miniature red-walled crevasse had opened into the second joint of his index finger; in the instant before the startled blood rushed in, he could see down into his flesh.