Bryce felt like a child, full of the inexpressible he couldn't communicate, and happy to be chided and welcomed into safety. As his father led him inside, he recounted the story of how he had waked up and found the light on in the car. And the child in him was comforted, while the adult looked back to the abyss of his dream from the rim of consciousness and was grateful that he was awake. He would never know what had opened the car door and then slammed it closed. That one light in all the darkness had looked strangely, sinisterly beautiful.
His father's reaction to Bryce's story was a mix of mystification and skepticism. "I wonder what it was. Maybe someone was trying to get out of the rain. You locked the doors now, didn't you? Storms like this make me feel old. I hope it's all over now. I expect the power will be restored by morning. I decided to make an offer on the house," he continued. "I'll start with two hundred. I'm willing to go as high as two ten. I'll see what the owner says. Then, to tell you the truth, I'm ready to head home."
"I, too."
"To Mississippi?"
They were standing just inside the doorway, with the door closed and locked behind them. Russell was still holding the flashlight which, pointing down, cast a circle of light on the floor. In the obscurity between them, Bryce felt rather than saw his father's eyes on him. "To Mississippi first," he said, "and then I'll be going back to New York."
"I thought you would." Russell's words came out slowly, as if he were actually pondering them at the moment he spoke. He didn't really sound sorry.
"I'm not sure I always thought I would," Bryce avowed, and then hesitated. He didn't speak, and the moment passed. "Well," he said to his father, "I hope you get your house."
"After I make the offer, it's up to the owner."
"I think your offer's realistic."
"It's what I'm willing to do."
Both men, sensing discomfort, sought to skirt it. But there was less discomfort now than there had been in the past, which made them careful. For a moment Bryce felt as if he might have confided in his father about Paul, but he held back. Yet the desire was in him to open his heart of what, throughout the autumn, he'd kept sealed in it.
"I'm going back to bed," said Russell. "Please don't get up for any more ghosts."
"I'm tired, too."
"We'll fly to Meridian tomorrow afternoon or Friday."
"It's okay with me."
"Good night, then, what's left of it."
"Same to you."
Bryce shut the door to his bedroom and lay in bed in the dark. He thought of how he had been alone in the night, and then alone with it. He remembered how, in this void, his father had ventured to find him. He considered what he and his father hadn't discussed and perhaps never would. Still, he didn't feel the need to have to justify himself to his father's quiet but ponderous "I thought you would," so like a long, drawn-out sigh. There was more love in it, he reflected, than there was approval.
* * *
In the morning he waked at eight-thirty and got up slowly, feeling enervated. The electricity had been restored, as his father had predicted, and the phone was working, too. Russell made coffee, and he and Bryce drank it together on the terrace.
"I called your mother already this morning," said Russell. "She gave me her blessing and told me to go ahead with the offer. She also said to tell you that the girls are better and that she received some mail for you."
Under a whitish sky, the trees were taking the wind up in their branches with dismal sighs. A hawk flew over, then a heron, then a gull.
"I know this is what I want. Still, I feel kind of low," Russell continued. "I'm trying to muster up excitement."
"I'm tired, too. It's all the negative ions in the atmosphere, not to mention lack of sleep."
"If you say so," concluded Russell. "I'm going to take a shower."
Bryce could hear his father's voice muffled behind the bathroom door, singing, "You are my sunshine." He picked up the telephone receiver, and keeping at bay doubt and dread, he dialed his New York number.
There was ringing, an answer: "Hello." Paul's voice, flat in timbre, sounded familiar after only two syllables. Bryce felt eager and shy. "Hello, Paul, it's Bryce."
"Bryce! Where are you? Are you in New York?"
"I'm calling from the other side of the world," Bryce began, while, with an intake of breath, Paul waited for him to continue. It was a shock for Paul just to hear Bryce's voice, its regionalisms deepened after three months in the South. It was still more bizarre to find his tease to Althea two days earlier returning to him via Bryce. He marvelled at it, his ear pressed to the telephone receiver, as if in intimacy. The receiver of the pay phone from which he had called Althea on Tuesday was greasy from the grips of all the strangers who had used it before him, and in distaste he had held it slightly away from his mouth and ear, further impeding a conversation already competing with interference. In contrast, this Thursday morning Bryce's voice came across clear as a bell.
"You mean, you're still in Mississippi?"
"No, I'm with my father in Florida."
"Are you all right?"
"To be honest, I feel a bit strange. Perhaps I'm just tired. We had quite a storm last night."
"Is there a hurricane down there?"
"No, but it was exciting enough." Bryce paused. "When did you get back to New York?"
"About a week ago." Paul's answer came without hesitation, as if Bryce and he had been privy to each other's plans, and his reply were simply a confirmation. "Did you get the ticket?"
"What ticket?"
"The Kurt Matthews Dancers are scheduled for a week at the Joyce Theater. I mailed you a ticket last week. You should have received it by now."
"I've been in Florida all week." Bryce spoke abruptly. From the window he watched a Snowy Egret land noiselessly in the yard, folding in its wings. Paul's matter-of-fact tone infuriated him. "Did you try to call me in Meridian?" he demanded.
"Not yet." Paul's answer was barely audible.
Anger flashed in Bryce. "Why not?" His voice was steely.
"Bryce, please, let's not go into it now. I'm not prepared to give you excuses."
Inwardly seething, Bryce remained silent. I should never have called Paul, he thought to himself. This was a mistake. He's so insensitive.
"Bryce, are you still there?"
"Yes," he said grudgingly.
"Look, you have a right to be angry," Paul said. "I'm not telling you not to be. But I want you to know I've missed you, and I'd be extremely grateful if you came back in time to see the show."
"Do you mean it?"
"Yes, I do."
"How long is the engagement?"
"The last performance is Saturday night."
"Two days from now?"
"Yes. I don't know why it got booked that way, but it did. I'm performing in my own dance. I'd love for you to see it. Do you think you can?"
"I think so." Bryce sounded tentative.
"I hope you make it."
"Is that what you want, Paul? For me to be a member of your audience? Is that why you want me to come back?"
Paul laughed nervously. "Suit yourself, Bryce. Come whenever you like."
"I'm serious. I've been away three months. I sent you a letter way back in August, asking you to get in touch with me. Whenever I tried to call you, you were never there, and I gave up after a while. I needed you, but you never tried to contact me. Now you tell me you sent me a ticket to your performance. Right now I don't care about your performance."
"Look, Bryce, I'm sorry. I didn't even find that letter for weeks. We obviously have a lot to talk about. I don't think we should necessarily have this conversation over the phone. If we start blaming each other now, it will only make our estrangement worse. I guess I've been emphasizing my dance because I'm nervous. Besides, I assumed that was why you were calling."
"I was calling to tell you I'm coming home."
"Is this really true?"
"Yes," Bryce admitted.
"When
?"
"Well, now I'll try to make it on Saturday. That's the soonest. We'll probably go back to Meridian tomorrow or later today."
"How have you been?"
"I'm all right, I guess."
"Are you getting along with your family? Why are you in Florida? And where in Florida are you?"
"On Sanibel Island. My father wants to buy a house. I came down to help him look."
"No kidding. Has he found one?"
"I think so. To be honest," Bryce suddenly interjected, "it's been a rough few months. My uncle died."
No sooner had Bryce said this than he wished he hadn't. He sounded, he thought, as if he were fishing for sympathy, and besides, what could the news possibly mean to Paul, who'd never met his uncle?
"You mean Bill?"
"Yes. I've told you about him?"
"As you undoubtedly know, you've never talked too much about your family. He was the only one I ever heard you mention without disgust."
Paul was right, Bryce thought. He felt a little ashamed, as if his father might somehow overhear this. He heard the door to the bathroom open.
"I'm sorry," Paul was saying. "Please accept my condolences."
"Thanks. Look, I better go. My father's out of the shower, and he'll need to use the phone. As soon as I get back to Meridian, I'll make reservations for New York and call you then."
"I'll be expecting you," said Paul.
After Paul hung up, Bryce set down the receiver slowly. In the wake of his initial relief that he hadn't lost Paul, he was still disturbed and unsatisfied. He hadn't said all he'd wanted to say, but he'd been so nervous that he'd cut the conversation short. It was true Paul had apologized, but the apology hadn't sounded heartfelt. It seemed like a white flag thrown up to propitiate him.
Paul is calling for a truce, but what are the conditions? Bryce wondered. Will Paul set them, or will I?
Bryce heard his father summoning him, and as he rose to answer, thoughts of his return to New York filled him with mingled resentment, hope, and fear.
Chapter 18
There was an old man gingerly negotiating the steps in the lobby of Jeanne's building, his shoulders bent, his back hunched as he clung to the banister. He glared at Jeanne when she briskly walked past. She held the front door open, politely and patiently waiting for him. He thanked her, but added resentfully, "Stay young, or it will happen to you."
She felt her face flush with anger. How dare he, she thought, when I was trying to be kind. I refuse to believe him.
Outside, on the street, she overtook him without a word, her chin held high, her back straight and proud. She would not deign to notice him again. Yet the early afternoon air was so mild and sunny for the twenty-second of November that she soon felt her resentment evaporating.
She was on her way to her lunch date with Althea, and she was very early. Why did we schedule it for two o'clock? she wondered. At the time I must have had a reason for suggesting the late hour, but I can’t remember it now.
She was nervous, she admitted it. She was planning to take a long, leisurely walk to the restaurant and sort out her feelings on the way. She always seemed to think things through better when she was walking.
She headed east, intending to turn north on Sixth Avenue. As she went, she rehearsed what she would say to Althea. She improvised a conversation between them. The problem was, it was full of hesitations and awkward pauses. It wasn't the conversation she wanted to have. She hadn't thought that she would feel so anxious, especially since it appeared that she was holding most of the aces in her hand. She enumerated them: she was the one whom Paul had sought out and gone away with in October, before he went on tour. She knew that Paul hadn't seen Althea then, and she didn't think Althea knew that she had seen Paul. In her mind's eye she saw Althea again, pacing the lobby of the Joyce Theater. She reminded herself that Althea was in love with Paul, and she was not. Now, with the possibility of this new man René Duval in her life, she had moved on, while Althea was still trapped by her feelings for Paul.
Jeanne wondered, Is this how I perceive Althea now—as the rival over whom I have triumphed? When she remembered the expression on Althea's face after Paul's performance last Sunday, and what it had to mean, her heart went out to her again, just as it had then. She wanted to sympathize with her friend and to comfort her, but how could she best approach her, and how could Althea accept her sympathy? How would she react, if she were in Althea's place? Without a doubt she would be hurt and angry.
But I wouldn't be in that place, she assured herself, once again feeling superior to Althea and impatient with her for indulging a love for a man who was so obviously a wrong choice. This was why she had asked Althea out to lunch: she wanted—if she dared—to urge Althea to break out of this trap.
That wasn't all. There remained whatever was just between the two of them—their changed, charged relationship. As the weeks passed, Jeanne was less and less sure she understood it. Part of her wanted to forget all about it, but another part of her wanted to discuss it with Althea, to bring everything out in the open and somehow deal with it.
* * *
Johanna's was a trendy new restaurant, a pioneer amidst the warehouses, vestigial factories, and dilapidated offices off of Union Square. It was in the ground floor of an early skyscraper, perhaps almost a century old. Although Jeanne hadn't yet eaten at Johanna's, she had noticed it from the street and been attracted by the spacious, serene interior. Cylindrical wooden columns with Doric capitals clad the original steel supports. There was a curved mahogany bar near the front and a few small tables for drinks or coffee. Behind a screen painted in Art Nouveau style began the restaurant proper, a roomy sea of tables spread with white cloths. When, on the phone with Althea, Jeanne had been thinking of a restaurant to suggest, the name "Johanna" had popped into her head.
Jeanne was accustomed to arriving just on time or a few minutes late, but today she was ten minutes early. The lunch hour was winding down, and the restaurant was about half full. The maître d' greeted her graciously. Not wanting to miss Althea, Jeanne chose to wait at one of the tables in the nearly empty bar at the entrance. She asked the bartender for a glass of plain water.
Typically, she did not like to wait, resenting the waste of her time. Usually she could not endure sitting still and doing nothing, without at least a book to read, but today she had come empty-handed.
Yet she found she did not mind. In fact, once relieved of her coat at the coat-check and comfortably installed, her anxiety dissipated as she began to absorb the restaurant's atmosphere. She actually felt serene in repose, watching the sunlight through the window illuminating the dust on the plate glass. She admired a bouquet of mauve lilies in a big glass vase at one end of the bar. Smiling at her reflection in the mirror of her compact, she reapplied her lipstick. She had dressed carefully for this luncheon. She was wearing a long black skirt of finely woven wool, a red silk blouse, and an embroidered vest.
The minutes passed. Unlike Jeanne, Althea was usually early, so Jeanne began to wonder if perhaps she had had second thoughts. Yet Jeanne didn't really think that Althea would stand her up. At last, she spotted her on the sidewalk just outside. Through the plate glass, she appeared wavery, as if underwater. Jeanne checked her watch; Althea was twenty minutes late. Then she entered the restaurant, and Jeanne gestured to her.
Althea was wearing tan corduroy jeans and a moss-green tweed jacket over an oatmeal-colored sweater. With tousled hair and flushed cheeks, she appeared windblown to Jeanne, as if she had been hurrying.
"Did you have trouble finding the restaurant?" Jeanne asked.
"No. Why?"
"It isn't like you to be late. I thought, since this isn't your area of town, that maybe you'd gotten lost."
"What do you mean? I manage to go all over the city teaching, to places you'd never imagine going, in Harlem and the outer boroughs, and I never get lost."
Althea sounded annoyed, aggrieved. She's only just arrived, Jeanne thought, and we're alre
ady off to a bad start. She let Althea's remark pass. "Why are you wearing that flower?" she asked.
A pink sweetheart rose was woven through the top buttonhole of Althea's jacket.
"Someone gave this to me on the street outside the subway exit a few minutes ago. It was for a promotion," Althea explained.
"What was the product?"
"I don't know. I just accepted the flower."
“Immune to advertising—that’s just like you, Althea,” commented Jeanne. "Let's get our table. I'm hungry."
She motioned to the maître d', who had been hovering nearby, and he led them to their seats. A waiter brought menus, but Althea laid hers to the side for the moment. "I was in Brooklyn," she said. "That's why I'm late. I went to see an exhibit in the Botanical Garden."
"At the end of November? What could you possibly see in a garden?"
Althea smiled a secretive, Cheshire-cat kind of smile, as if she were privately relishing the memory of a delicious treat. Her smile flung Jeanne back into the past, when Althea had been a self-appointed mentor whom Jeanne valued for her infallible good taste. Whatever Althea admired, no matter how obscure, Jeanne invariably found interesting.
"What was the exhibit?" Jeanne asked again, indulging Althea, just as she believed Althea wanted her to do.
"It's called 'The Art of Penjing,'" Althea replied. "The Chinese made an art out of particular kinds of rock formations. They looked for specific properties: the stone should lean rather than stand vertically, and have a corrugate texture, marked with cavities, and a hole so deep you could see straight through it. They investigated the most remote places for rocks to meet the ideal; they searched in underwater caves, on the tops of mountains, and the bottoms of rivers. In the exhibit was a stone that took fifty artisans four months to extract from an almost inaccessible precipice."
Jeanne heard the wonder in Althea's voice, and she let herself be led into a discussion of this art she had never heard of, but now, because of Althea's enthusiasm, felt that she, too, would appreciate. They were fitted into their old roles, she reflected, and she might have pursued the thought further had not the waiter's approach caused them to turn their attention to the menus.
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