Tolstoy Lied : A Love Story (9780547527307)

by Kadish, Rachel

  The thought of George is an updraft in my chest. Shutting my own eyes, I sample all that was delicate between us. All that was warm.

  I force myself to sip my tea, barely registering its pungent smell of orange rinds. “Elizabeth.” I set the cup in its saucer. “Has this happened to you before?”

  “A bunch of years ago. When I was in college. Then they stopped talking to me. And this fall they came again. But now they’re gone.” Her voice is the voice, slow and sad, of a woman speaking alone from a fathomless pool of grief. I feel a sickening drag to follow her into the depths. “They would come at night. It made it hard to sleep sometimes. But I didn’t mind. I never, ever, ever minded.” Her face gathers, and then she’s crying, her constricted throat producing a high, whining noise that she’s unable to stop despite visible effort.

  “All right,” I say. “All right.” This is the only thing I can say that is compatible with nodding, and it seems imperative that I keep nodding until my thoughts regroup, though it’s obvious that what I need to do right now is stand up and stride out of this suffocating café, dragging Elizabeth with me into clear, sensible daylight. “Let’s go over this, Elizabeth.” As we have gone over every chapter and theme of her dissertation. Adviser and advisee. “The writers you talk to.”

  “They’re not from here,” Elizabeth says with effort.

  I don’t want to hear what she’s about to tell me.

  “It’s true!” she protests, suddenly defensive. She’s stopped crying.

  “Here, New York?” I pin hollow hope to this shred of logic: Emily Dickinson was from Massachusetts.

  Elizabeth shakes her head.

  “Here, Earth?”

  She nods vigorously.

  Slowly, with the fingertips of both hands, I rub my temples. “Isn’t it a good thing, Elizabeth, if these voices . . . these aliens, just . . . you know.” I flutter one hand. “Go away? Leave you to your normal life?”

  She addresses me with reproach. “Herman Melville said you’d appreciate my writing that letter. Since we knew you agreed with everything in it.”

  “Then Herman Melville is an asshole.”

  Elizabeth recoils. With the indignant flush of a woman in love, she corrects me. “Their coming is the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s what I’ve been put on earth for. You don’t understand what it’s like to hear a voice and just know.”

  I shake my head violently, banishing the recollection this prompts. “Elizabeth, have you ever been on some kind of medication for this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you stop taking it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I demand.

  A martyr before the Inquisition, she replies with head high. “I chose not to dodge the intensity of literature.”

  “The intensity? I think this is more than—”

  “It’s beautiful. Books. People have no idea how beautiful books are. How they taste on your fingers. How bright everything is when you light it with words.”

  The waitress comes to the table. I send her on her way with a rude flick of my hand. Across from me Elizabeth waits stubbornly for acknowledgment of the truths she’s bestowed on me. The wreckage ahead of her terrifies me. I’m frightened not only for her, but—in a way I don’t fully understand—for myself.

  Surely there is a script I ought to be following, some clarifying, therapeutic question I ought to pose; but nothing has prepared me for this. At length I ask, “Have your visitors done anything to hurt you?”

  “They read my Moby Dick paper. And tore up a page of it.”

  “Why?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I think of something very intelligent to say. “Why that particular page?”

  “I can’t figure it out. It was about the figure of Ishmael.” The hollows above and below Elizabeth’s eyes are dark, her chest concave. Slowly her mouth dimples. She blinks rapidly. “I just want to understand why they’re not talking to me anymore.” The high whining cry begins again, and this time shatters into wracking sobs.

  For a moment I take refuge in inane consideration of why Ishmael might draw the ire of Elizabeth’s visitors. I’m about to ask Elizabeth exactly what point she’d been making on the page her visitors desecrated, when the ache of my own clenched fists—bearing down on the waxed tabletop like twin mallets—becomes plain to me. And I do something I’ve never done with a student. I take Elizabeth in my arms and hold her slim, birdlike figure, and feel, in the shifting of her bones beneath my uncertain hands, the world reshaping around this moment.

  “She says this has happened before.” I keep my voice low, though it doesn’t seem anything could wake Elizabeth, curled in a blanket on my sofa and to all appearances getting her first solid sleep in weeks.

  Jeff’s end of the phone is silent. Beside me on the carpet is Elizabeth’s crammed backpack, from which—averting my eyes from torn, script-crammed pages—I’ve seined a black cloth wallet. Thumbing past loose cash and crumpled receipts, I extract a neatly lettered card.

  “There are two telephone numbers here,” I tell Jeff.

  “Don’t do this,” he says. “Things are just starting to quiet down here. I’ve been on counter-rumor duty all day.”

  Twisting the phone cord around my fingers and glancing at Elizabeth’s motionless form, I leave my thanks unspoken. “Under ‘emergency contacts’ it lists her mother as Mary Archer of Chicago. And there’s a number for a Dr. Thomas Haley.”

  “If you feel compelled to contact her mother, then do so, but extract yourself from this situation immediately.”

  There is a sound from the sofa. Elizabeth shifts, her peaked face flickering. Her pallor, even in sleep, is unbearable. I force my gaze away. And turn my attention to the single thing in this entire day I’m sure of.

  “Jeff.” I rest my forehead on the heel of my hand. “Joanne is responsible for this.”

  I hear Jeff’s desk chair creak as he lowers his legs to the floor. “You’re being—”

  “No,” I tell him. “I am not being melodramatic. There is such a thing as moral responsibility.”

  “Your logic is flawed. How was Joanne to know Elizabeth was crazy?”

  “She’s not crazy!” I whisper.

  Jeff’s silence is a laser pointer underscoring the absurdity of this statement. I try again. “What I mean is, Elizabeth’s mania—or whatever this is—had been under control for years. She hadn’t had an episode since college. Why should it flare now? I’m not saying Elizabeth bears no responsibility, only that there’s something else going on. We’ve all seen how Joanne’s been torturing Elizabeth.”

  “Torture?” Jeff mocks.

  “Yes. Sustained intellectual and psychic baiting is torture. In academia this is the surest way to undo someone, and you know it.”

  “You fail to realize how off-base you sound. No one made Elizabeth go off her medication. If she was working so hard that she forgot to take her pills, that’s her own responsibility.”

  “I can’t prove what Joanne did. But I know it’s real. I know it in my gut.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t be that way. You’d believe me if you’d seen Joanne’s face today, when she learned Elizabeth was responsible. She was glowing, Jeff. The look on her face was practically indecent. It’s like Joanne’s been grinding down Elizabeth on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “Fear.”

  “Your conspiracy theories are not—”

  “Why not? Maybe Joanne is terrified of being disabled. Maybe she needed someone to free-fall with her. Chillingworth did it to Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter without lifting a finger. Salieri, if we’re to believe the movie, did it to Mozart. You can destroy sensitive people’s equilibrium—disturb their souls—by gaining their trust. Making them dependent. You never have to lift a finger. And before the eyes of the world you’re innocent.”

  “Number one,” says Jeff, “stop talking about souls, and get Elizabeth out of your apartment t
his minute. You’re going to be seen as an accomplice. I appreciate your act of charity, Tracy. I do. Don’t think I’ve missed that you’re being noble here. Elizabeth is ill and needs help. And yes, the faculty will extend their thinking far enough to acknowledge that this is a disease, and not a reflection on Elizabeth’s basic character. But give them a few more bits of bizarre behavior to chew on, and they’ll snap back into judgment—next time for good. You do not want to be tarred by that brush.” He pauses. “Number two, don’t breathe a word of your Joanne theory to anyone. That includes Victoria. As far as you’re concerned, Elizabeth’s manic break occurring in the middle of her dissertation troubles is pure coincidence. Number three, it wouldn’t hurt for you to be visibly involved in determining the appropriate departmental response to Elizabeth’s actions. Make it known that Elizabeth tried to pit you against Joanne. And drop these three words as often as possible: She used me.”

  “I am not going to turn on a woman having a breakdown.”

  “Do not screw around with this, Tracy. She wrote a threatening letter.”

  “You can’t really think Elizabeth is dangerous.”

  “On the contrary.”

  “You actually think she’s a danger to Joanne?”

  “Don’t know about Joanne, and don’t care. Elizabeth is a danger to you.”

  “You’re missing the point. I didn’t write the letter, and thanks to you, people now know that. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they believe it?”

  “Immaterial. Once the public sees a person brought in in handcuffs, they will in some part of their minds always think of that person as a criminal. Doesn’t matter if the person’s name is cleared.”

  I rise from my chair. “I’ve got a track record in this department. I’ll mend the necessary fences. And yes, once Elizabeth is in safe hands I’ll take your advice to the dot. But you didn’t see what I saw today.” Joanne, seduced by her own power, hooked into some strange intimacy by her effect on Elizabeth. I can’t yet articulate this in a way that will persuade Jeff, but I know it’s real. “Joanne is going to crush her,” I say. “This isn’t about me.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Behind me, Elizabeth startles. For a moment she breathes rapidly, locked in her dream, pursued or pursuing.

  “I’ll call you later,” I say.

  I fill my kettle. While the water heats I keep my back to my bedroom door. Indulging for just this moment the fantasy: George is here, George is asleep in my bed, is sighing in his sleep, the pillow smells of him and his clothing is strewn on my floor but I won’t have time to notice because he will wrap me in his arms before he even opens his eyes.

  The water boils. I resist the temptation to go to my drawer and finger the one shirt he left there, the one I don’t dare put on for fear I’ll dissolve. Instead I brew my tea and try to explain my strategy to myself. I will do only this one thing for Elizabeth, and then I will keep my involvement with her minimal. I’ve never flown in the face of Jeff’s advice before. But, I reason, what choice do I have? To abandon Elizabeth?

  After all—I speak the words aloud in the quiet room—I’m her adviser.

  I pour my tea and return to the telephone that I have used, of late, primarily for bereavement calls: The engagement is off. No, I guess it wasn’t right. Where shall I return your gift? I pick up the receiver and wait for the dial tone. Framing the card between thumb and forefinger, I dial the number for Elizabeth’s mother. On the second ring, Mary Archer answers: a pert Midwestern voice that turns serious the moment I introduce myself. She listens wordlessly. When I have finished I hear Mary breathing. She’s terse as I spell out details. The scratch of pencil on paper comes faintly through the line.

  Before setting down the telephone I hear myself make a promise—one Elizabeth’s mother, whose questions are practical, has not solicited. “We’re not going to let her down here,” I tell her over the telephone. “We’re not going to isolate her.”

  Mary’s thank-you is so brief I wonder if she didn’t understand what I was pledging.

  I lay down the receiver and walk through the kitchenette to the bathroom mirror, where I find my uncombed hair and stilled face.

  Elizabeth wakes, eats canned soup that I heat over the stove, and sips hot cocoa drowsily. She asks no questions, and seems neither surprised nor grateful to be cocooned in my apartment. Her silence is a relief. I have no desire to speak; am obscurely frightened of her; am painfully attentive to her every move. I minister to her awkwardly and in near silence.

  An hour before Mary’s flight is due from Chicago, when Elizabeth is asleep once more, I telephone Victoria.

  “She’s at your apartment?” Victoria’s voice is crisp with incredulity. “Don’t you know we’ve been trying to track her down for hours?”

  “She’s in trouble. The thing she wrote to Joanne is just a symptom.”

  “Of?”

  “She’s had some kind of breakdown. It’s severe. I’ve contacted her mother, who’s on the next flight in.”

  “Tracy. When I interviewed Elizabeth for this program, I naturally questioned her in a private meeting about the one-year gap on her résumé. At the time she indicated that she’d had some past psychiatric issues. She was not specific on the subject. And I didn’t pry, beyond ascertaining that she took responsibility for maintaining her own equilibrium. She said her condition was completely under control with medication, and there was no reason to fear a relapse so long as she kept her life balanced. I should think she needs to reach out in some fashion, face up to what she’s done, and communicate to Joanne that she means her no harm.”

  “Victoria, do you have any sense of how unwell Elizabeth is?”

  “Tracy, Joanne has, of her own generosity and against a preponderance of advice, decided not to bring this before the faculty senate until she’s had a conversation with Elizabeth. That may or may not be wise, but it’s her prerogative. If Elizabeth can’t come in to the department right now, then she can at least get on the telephone with Joanne. Either she is capable of being a nondestructive part of this department, or she is not. Don’t forget, Tracy, that there is, at this very moment, a seriously ill member of our tenured faculty who is being placed under unnecessary stress. This department does not have time for hide-and-go-seek with a graduate student.”

  “There is one ill faculty member right now. True. There’s also one ill graduate student. I know the department’s priorities are with the faculty, but we can’t ignore the other side of this.”

  Victoria doesn’t answer. I realize I’m millimeters away from directly accusing Joanne. Even in my anger I know enough to tack. “When you saw Elizabeth going into dangerous waters,” I say, “with her dissertation, weren’t you worried?”

  “I had a word with all three parties involved—Elizabeth, Joanne, and yourself. That should have been enough. We are all responsible for our own equilibrium, Tracy. This department is composed of adults.”

  On the sofa behind me, Elizabeth shifts. The pillow that’s slid, inch by inch, from beneath her head over the past several hours escapes now and drops to the floor without waking her. Her face is an eclipsed moon, empty of desire.

  “I think,” I say, “that getting on the telephone with Joanne right now would be very bad for Elizabeth, and not productive for anyone.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Tracy, but you were not the one on the receiving end of that letter. Do not forget that there is the possibility, however remote, of a physical threat to Joanne. Do not forget that mentally ill people who are deranged enough to write menacing rants to colleagues may be deranged enough to do more. It needs to be established right away whether Elizabeth is a danger to Joanne. Joanne wants to speak with her.”

  It takes a physical effort to slow my speech and punctuate it with silences, translating my bucking temper into Victoria’s native tongue. “I believe that if you heard what I’ve heard today,” I say, “you might see this matter differently. Elizabeth’s world
is so removed from reality at this moment that I think it would be a waste of everyone’s considerable energy—in fact it would be pouring fuel on the fire—to confer with her now. It’s true I’m not in Joanne’s shoes. And I’m not an expert. But I’m convinced that if you saw Elizabeth you would agree she needs, before all else, immediate psychiatric help. I’m asking you to trust me. Any conversation prior to treatment will bear no fruit. And I think Joanne’s outrage, as justified as it is, will fall on deaf ears.” Or shatter whatever of Elizabeth remains intact. “Elizabeth—the Elizabeth we know, Victoria—is lying in pieces on my living room sofa. Her mother will be here in an hour to take charge of her care.”

  There is another roomy silence. Then Victoria, in her own flinty way, relents. “I can’t promise that there won’t be consequences if Elizabeth doesn’t answer for her actions soon.” She pauses. “I expect Joanne will be patient enough to wait a few days more, once I explain the situation. And I will extend myself to keep this matter from getting out of hand. But in the meanwhile, rumors will continue to proliferate. And rumors make people anxious. I can’t do anything to prevent that. This is the sort of issue that ends up on the chairman’s doorstep.”

  We both know what will happen if it does. Grub will swing open his door, sniff an unpleasant problem, and make it—and Elizabeth—go away.

  In my imagination, my chairman’s door shuts. The click echoes along a silent corridor lined with literary cartoons, brochure-laden bulletin boards, and the closed doors of my colleagues’ offices. The brochures float momentarily in the breeze and are still.

  Mary Archer rings the buzzer near midnight. When I open the door, a petite, black-eyed woman in boots and a no-nonsense winter coat nods briskly at me. Beneath her wool cap, her lined face is so chiseled with resolve that, as I step out of her way, I nearly falter with an outsized longing to curl up on the sofa and receive her ministrations myself—this woman who has appeared out of the frosty dark and from halfway across the country to save her child from a nightmare. Without a word to me, she steps over the stacks of books and magazines on the carpet, kneels, and kisses her daughter’s forehead. Like a princess in a fairy tale Elizabeth wakes at the kiss, and with an alacrity that leaves me breathless tosses herself into her mother’s arms.