Summerlong

by Dean Bakopoulos

  “You just get some sleep, Annie,” Claire says. “Let them watch a movie until I can get there. I just stopped for groceries.”

  “Are you at the Hy-Vee?” Annie says.

  “Trader Joe’s,” Claire says.

  “Oh, well, good for you,” Annie says, which means, You idiot. You’re spending too much for someone so broke.

  It is not a big deal. The kids will be happy to see her and Claire will have fulfilled her monthly obligation to take the kids to her mother-in-law’s for a visit.

  Why isn’t she disappointed? Now she could admit it, now that it isn’t possible. She had so badly wanted to see Charlie that night, without the pressure of her children waiting for her at home. She had fantasized about calling him from a Motel 6 near Newton and saying, “Come here now.”

  Would she have done it?

  Yes, she could admit this more easily now that it didn’t have a chance of happening. She’ll be with the kids that night, which is really the only sensible thing she should be doing in such a dark time.

  Why is her lip trembling? Why do her hands shake?

  In this state, Claire is wandering up and down the aisles of Trader Joe’s, randomly placing things into her cart: salsa, granola bars, rice crackers, yeast. She doesn’t want the kids to come home because, as she is staring at the frozen foods and busy moms in yoga pants and tight Lycra pullovers are annoyed by her aisle-blocking, she is thinking of Charlie Gulliver.

  And now, right there in Trader Joe’s, what she really wants to do, right there in front of the sixteen different kinds of vegetarian pizzas, is have a breakdown. She sinks down to her knees in front of the glass coolers. Here it comes: A complete, fucked-up, terrify-the-passersby breakdown. A tear-off–your-clothes and writhe-on-the-floor-weeping breakdown. She wants to crawl out of Trader Joe’s with a torn shirt and no shoes, knocking down the displays of two-bite brownies and mango shampoo as she leaves, and get into the car and drive west, perhaps. Men do that shit all the time. Men go out for some eggs and milk and get the fuck out of their lives. Their sad marriages become happy lives. She could do that too. It would not even be permanent. It’d be temporary. A few weeks of being a fucking freaked-out crazy woman. She’d go to some hotel somewhere near some mountains, Aspen or somewhere, and she’d max out her credit card, the emergency American Express that is in her name only, which Don couldn’t cancel. She’d do nothing but take baths and sleep and eat. She’d get massages from big ski bums with foul minds. And then she would feel clean and rested and limber, also a bit fuller in the ass and tits from all the room service (who the fuck cares!), and she’d call Charlie Gulliver, she’d tell him to come to the hotel in Aspen and fuck her over and over. She’d be called crazy by then, it’d be widely known, so when Charlie arrived she could do things like pour champagne on his belly and smoke weed and watch porn and yell at him: Eat my pussy or fuck me hard or I’m gonna suck your big cock and she’d yell when she came because who the fuck cared. She’d be the Lindsay Lohan of Midwestern moms for one month. Men could do that. Men could go crazy and then come home and say, “I don’t know what happened. I got scared. I lost my mind.” Generals and preachers and football coaches tweeting pictures of their junk and snorting cocaine off a stripper’s ass. They’d apologize. And the story would be over. Women as brilliant and tough as Hillary Clinton accepted this truth for some reason; they didn’t like it, but they accepted it as fairly normal male behavior. But would men ever accept a woman saying the same thing? Would that woman who fucked that famous general get a free pass by pleading temporary insanity?

  “Ma’am,” a voice snaps at her. “Ma’am! Are you okay?”

  Her phone is ringing. A crowd of people has gathered around her. She’s sweating and has twisted the hem of her T-shirt up into a knot that exposes her stomach. She stands with a freezer door open, the pizzas a few inches in front of her face, and she realizes she probably has not moved in at least five minutes.

  Someone brings her a bottle of water. A small crowd of other concerned middle-aged women surround her. She drinks some water.

  “It takes a village!” she says, trying to joke, but no one even smiles.

  She asks for a cigarette, but nobody around her seems to have one, or to have even heard of one. There are three women with her, all of them in an exercising outfit of some kind.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” one of the women says.

  “Yes! I’d like a beer and a cigarette pleazzzzze.”

  “Call 911,” says another woman.

  “Okay,” says the third, the one wearing a sun visor and tennis skirt. She pulls a phone from her small purse.

  “I have a brain tumor,” Claire says, hoping that would excuse her and get these well-meaning people to let her leave without calling 911. But they all just stare at her.

  Here comes the store manager.

  “I’m probably going to FUCKING die soon!” Claire yells. “I am so sorry!”

  7.

  What Charlie had been discovering that summer, in his father’s incredibly cluttered study, was not a series of brilliant unpublished essays, or the drafts of a secret but genius, genre-bending novel, but several file boxes marked CONFIDENTIAL, in each of which was a neatly kept system of slim manila folders marked with hearts and dated, and in the smallest red-penciled print, a first name: Jennifer. Hannah. Laura. Li. Suzanna. Belinda. Anjali. There were dozens of files like that, most of them slim, and containing a letter or two. A few of the files contained multiple letters, thick stacks of correspondence, some of them Xeroxed, some carbon copies of letters sent, some papers printed off of computers on dot matrix, ink jet, and laser printers. Some handwritten.

  Charlie and ABC had been going through them in the afternoons, while Ruth napped and before Claire would come and see Charlie or Don would go to smoke with ABC. They killed time reading through the letters, taking breaks for swimming or sometimes sex, or beer and pizza. The letters, buried among so many useless stacks of paper—old syllabi, yellowed department memos, forgotten expense receipts—were the only things of interest in the study at this point. The letters spanned more than twenty years, and they’d all been written to women, the names in the label area of each folder: students, former students, colleagues, women he’d met at conferences, women he’d met on planes. All of them were similar: strangely pathetic and romantic at once, admissions of his unhappiness and his desperation.

  “I don’t think I should be looking at this,” ABC had said at one point. “We should burn them.”

  “These are not anomalies, ABC. He’s written hundreds of these.”

  That afternoon, ABC stands back as Charlie opens another box of letters.

  He reads each one as he goes, as if he is afraid he might miss something.

  “It’ll take me all summer to read these,” Charlie says.

  “Don’t torture yourself,” ABC says. She has opened another file box and is absentmindedly flipping through its folders, reading more first names aloud: “‘Cindy, Donna, Emily, Franny, Georgia, Hannah, Ivy, Jen.’ Everyone has a secret life, Charlie.”

  Charlie has even begun to pinpoint the rhetorical strategies Gill Gulliver used in his love letters. He could have written a paper on the topic. He even memorized some passages of prose. Some lines were easy for Charlie to memorize, because his father had used them over and over in so many of his letters. When each written piece is devoted to a private audience of one, some recycling is possible.

  Now, he reads some of the passages out loud to ABC. She looks at him with sad eyes.

  “These were very well hidden,” Charlie says. “If they were real affairs, I wonder if my mother knew of them? Or worse, they weren’t really affairs, but pathetic attempts at them? Listen to this: ‘In some ways, the only situation that is preventable is love. One must not open up one’s self to it. Then one can be free of it. But once the door is opened, as I fear it has been now, there is no turning back. Love must be pursued with an intensity that borders on obsessive,
addictive, insane.’”

  “There’s some truth to that,” ABC says.

  “But who is this, um, Joanie, he wrote this to and why?”

  ABC shrugs.

  Charlie reads another letter: “‘The weather here has been outstanding, and I find myself taking in each vista as if you were with me, and I can almost hear your reactions, a breathy whisper, a soft moan of approval.’”

  “Huh,” ABC says. “Don’t do this to yourself, Charlie. What’s the point?”

  “Or how about this?” Charlie says, ignoring her question. There was obviously no point, not really, but how could he not keep reading? His father had been such a mysterious wreck to him. How could one not look at his leavings, the physical evidence of his inner life?

  “Listen: ‘Your hair with the faint scent of cucumber and lemon when you come to my class fresh from the shower.’”

  Or this:

  “‘If what I was feeling was not so true, so undeniably a wholly new and original feeling for me, I would be ashamed of it. But when something completely new enters the world, what can one do? One can only embrace it with the innocence of a small child reaching for a piece of dandelion fluff.’”

  These letters had been saved by Charlie’s father for some reason—in that sense it is not as if he had destroyed any evidence of his somewhat lecherous yearnings. It was as if he had meant to chronicle his career as a womanizer, or at least a womanizer on the page, as the legacy of his particular and passionate genius. Why else save copies of such damning notes? Why not just let them remain sent, rotting in a landfill somewhere, or at best, lingering at the bottom of someone’s forgotten box of college mementos?

  Some of the files contained responses from these women too. Charlie began to look through these as well, and the letters ranged from the mundane Thanks for your note! I hope you have a great summer too! to the cautiously interested Professor Gulliver, I do understand what you are saying, but I am young and such an adventure as you propose—a trip to Rome—would be scandalous if anyone found out. Still, I am flattered. I will think about it.

  Other letters to Gill Gulliver spoke circuitously of past events: I will always remember Chicago, and I understand why I can’t visit you in Iowa, but if you ever make it to Boston, would you please, please call. I will meet you in a second. Some letters spoke with regret: If anyone finds out, Gill, oh, God, can you imagine? Burn this letter after reading, please! One letter recounted, in erotic detail, what had apparently been the woman’s first sexual experience: I remember, she wrote over and over, how you did that from behind me, and I couldn’t see your face, and I wanted to see it when you finally came. Other letters were more forceful: Professor Gulliver, you seem to be crossing a line here that I am uncomfortable with and I ask that you do not write me again or I will have to forward your notes to the dean’s office with a formal complaint.

  It is almost midnight when ABC hands Charlie a letter she has found.

  And then there is this brief note to a woman named Claire, dated September 1995.

  Dear Claire,

  If you would please stop by my office tomorrow evening, I’d very much like to personally apologize for my behavior at the student-faculty mixer yesterday. I had intended to walk you home, that is all, since your dorm was on the way, but the stars pulled me along and I felt youthful again, as if being near you had helped me rediscover a feeling I long thought dead. Please forgive me,

  Professor Gill Gulliver

  “Do you think that’s Claire, I mean, Claire Lowry?”

  ABC grins.

  “I bet it is.”

  “I mean,” Charlie says, “I don’t really know where to start. Look at all this shit. I should just burn everything.”

  “I suppose you could, but is that really what you want to do?” ABC asks. “I mean, if your father spent his whole life writing an epic novel, shouldn’t we try to find it and help him publish it?”

  “I thought we were just supposed to tidy up,” Charlie says.

  “Why wouldn’t you want to help your father finish his book?”

  “I don’t care about art anymore,” Charlie says. “I told you—that’s the way of madness and sadness. Playing Hamlet almost made me insane. Who wants to dwell in that kind of sadness? If my father actually wrote a novel, I guarantee you it is fucking sad.”

  “So you’re avoiding sadness? That can’t be done!”

  “Look, the only reason I’d finish my old man’s book is so that he would turn to me and thank me and tell me what a great job I had done, how much he needed my help. And he’s too senile to do that. He could get a contract with some huge publisher, his book could be a best seller, and he’d never know.”

  “But you’d know!”

  “If I write a book, it’ll be my own book.”

  “You want to write a book?”

  “Nope,” Charlie says.

  “I think we’re making the wrong kind of list,” ABC says. “I think you need a list of things you want to do with your LIFE.” She wrote L-I-F-E on the legal pad in huge letters.

  “You’re the one who wants to die,” Charlie says.

  “Not exactly. I’m waiting for Philly to find me.”

  “You really believe this will happen?”

  “Let’s talk about you: Don Lowry said this house can get maybe four hundred grand, it’s just, you know,” ABC says, “you have to wait for a person with four hundred grand to spend to move to Grinnell, Iowa. But think about it. You could live off that forever! And, in the meantime, we could use the pool! Skinny-dippin’ parties!”

  “Could you believe Claire did that?” Charlie says.

  “She’s on an edge, you know?” ABC says. “I feel bad for her. She’s trapped in her life.”

  “Everybody is,” Charlie says. “Even me, Mr. Freedom. There are many aspects of my life that are unchangeable. Does it mean I dwell on them or in them?”

  As they speak, Charlie is halfheartedly combing through papers. Throwing old newspapers into a recycling bin, tossing away more of the meticulously archived work done by former students, and starting a box of books that could go to Goodwill. When he first began the work of going through his father’s stuff, he still had hoped to find, buried in all of this, a book manuscript. This would, he felt, negate the terribly sad sheaf of letters he’d uncovered. A book! A finished masterwork! With notes and an introduction by Charles Gulliver! Maybe he’d win an award, maybe he’d go back for a graduate degree after all, follow in the old man’s footsteps. He would go to his father’s room, and he would visit him and say: I found it. And it will see the light of day. And I plan to be a professor. And aren’t you proud of your son?

  But now, even that wouldn’t matter.

  ABC has gone through his father’s CD collection and has put on some music, some Henryck Górecki.

  “My father liked to listen to this as he worked.”

  “It’s almost unbearably sad,” ABC says. “How could he handle all of that sad music and remain sane? It seems as if it’d be nearly impossible.”

  Charlie takes down a large hardcover edition of Jude the Obscure, which had been one of his father’s favorite novels. This is an old edition. Maybe he will take it to his father in the Mayflower. He is not delusional. His father is not dead, but this part of his father’s life—the life of professional responsibility and pleasure—is over. Patients who suffer Lewy body dementia tend to have moments of clarity, but a sustained engagement with reality, with a return to the day-to-day life of a scholar Gill Gulliver had loved for so long? Impossible. Still, maybe in some small moments, he might return to Hardy and find something of the familiar in its pages.

  “What’s that?” ABC asks.

  “Jude the Obscure,” Charlie says. “Have you read it?”

  “I have! In your dad’s Literary Analysis class. Freshman year. It. Was. So. Depressing.”

  “My father gave it to me when I started high school. As a gift. I never read it. He was so disappointed by that.”

&nbs
p; He opens the book.

  “Read it now,” ABC says.

  Inside the book is a small white envelope. In the corner of the envelope, in purple felt-tip pen, is a hand-drawn line of three question marks, thick and ornate, as if penned by a calligrapher. On the other side of the envelope, three hearts drawn in green. Inside, some letters: the first letter was typed on an old typewriter, on green typing paper.

  Before Charlie has even unfolded the letter, ABC is standing up and coming toward him. “What is that?” she demands. “Let me see that.”

  This is what it is:

  Grinnell, Iowa

  September 16, 2011

  G—

  I found your note in Ruth’s mailbox. At least I’m going to assume that it is from you, that you are the “G” who signed the note. Yes, it is true that I no longer have a cell phone or an e-mail address that works. Sorry. Yes, it is true that I am back in Grinnell and living in the home of Professor Manetti’s widow. Yes, that was me you saw walking last night, and yes, I did hear you call to me from your car, and yes, I did sprint away from you, from your voice, at the painful moment of recognition. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to explain to you why I came back to Grinnell just four months after graduating, why Los Angeles felt claustrophobic to me, teeming with noise and germs, and why everywhere I looked I felt death. I missed the prairie. I missed the quiet. I missed the big and changing sky, and the feeling that I could see things coming from any direction. I missed Philly, and all my memories of her are here. They live here. It’s not something I can explain. I really don’t want to explain this, which is why I am not talking to anybody.

  And so, here I am, a distinguished alumna of Grinnell College, winner of the Nellie Sifkin Prize, living two blocks away from my first college dorm.

  Living the dream, right?

  I’m not missing much in L.A., trust me on that. The only jobs available to me are do-gooder jobs in which I labor for slave wages in order to transform somebody else’s life while my own life hangs in limbo.