Bradstreet Gate: A Novel

by Robin Kirman

  What might have seemed like fickleness Georgia saw, rather, as proof of Alice’s intense attachment, so strong it sometimes pained her. Alice wasn’t easy—Georgia understood that—but her affection was sincere and could be maintained, Georgia believed, if she cared for it the right way: as long as their bond was now and then relaxed, as long as they spent the odd weekend and holidays apart, as long as summers came to burn away bad feelings, giving scrapes time to heal.

  Charlie didn’t get Alice’s appeal. The girl was unreliable and selfish, in his view, and Georgia hadn’t wished to insult him by explaining why she chose to overlook such faults: whereas Charlie made her feel accepted and at ease, Alice kept her divinely off-balance, a sensation that, somewhere in her travels with her father, had become pleasurable to Georgia. She counted on Alice to keep her alert and honest, and it was Alice who pointed out, toward the start of junior year, that Georgia’s social life had become a snooze. Charlie was to blame, obviously. Alice was tired of witnessing the same pathetic scenes weekend after weekend, tired of being dragged along to all the same parties with her and Charlie—there to help Georgia through any awkward moments: Charlie drinking too much and touching too much; his hands on Georgia’s knees or in her hair.

  It was time Georgia let the guy down firmly; otherwise, she and Charlie were both going to miss out on the string of sexual misadventures college life was all about.

  “Unless, that is, you’re looking to miss out. Unless Charlie’s not the reason you skip sex, he’s the excuse.”

  Georgia might have drawn attention to Alice’s own shortage of sexual experience, but she didn’t wish to provoke an argument and, anyway, she had to admit Alice might have a point. “Why would I be avoiding sex?”

  “Because there’s just two ways it can go with you: disappointment or disaster.”

  “Why not satisfaction? Why not ecstatic delight?”

  “Sweet Georgia.” Alice leaned in to kiss her cheek. Her lips lingered a moment—too long, perhaps—and then she shrank back, shaking her head. “What do you think disaster is?”

  7

  Outside the train window, yellow cranes loomed over heaps of metal and stretches of dust. The Big Dig was under way: roads shut down in all directions. Only a month before, Georgia had enjoyed the sense of flying above the endless mess, leaving bogged-down Boston for her weekly Manhattan jaunts.

  But not today. Today, she’d have preferred to stay on campus, to devote the weekend to her several final papers. A draft of her thesis was due Monday and she ought to be spending her weekend absorbed in the work of Cindy Sherman, not in the latest inane argument with Storrow. Ever since she’d packed her bag that morning, she’d had a sense of dread about this visit, and her mood wasn’t being helped by the images she’d brought along, from The Untitled Film Stills, the subjects of her paper: women alone in strange bedrooms and hotel rooms, each caught in her own drama, trapped.

  “I promise,” Storrow had told her, “I’ll be nothing but nice.”

  So he said, but there was no predicting his behavior lately. In one moment he’d be kind, then impatient with her, rough and then remorseful. He’d insisted nothing was wrong, but he looked tired and had begun dozing off in bed after sex; his sleep was troubled, and sometimes he made noises, muffled cries and moans. She’d woken him, finally, one afternoon, to ask if he’d had a nightmare.

  “Chest congestion maybe, might be fighting a cold.”

  “You sound like you’re in pain.”

  He’d smiled, red hair ruffled, and kissed her forehead. “How could I be in pain when I’m with you?”

  That was the sweet Storrow, but at their next meeting he’d been foul-tempered again. She’d arrived late, held up by a problem with Alice, who’d failed to keep a hospital appointment. The psychiatric resident had notified Georgia and she and Alice had argued about it; as a result, Georgia had missed her train, and Storrow had greeted her coldly: “If I can make the time to be here, with all that I have on my shoulders, I’d expect as much from you.”

  “I have a friend going through something.”

  “Was it really so important?”

  “I don’t know—is anybody’s life important besides yours?” She’d begun to resent his self-absorbed intolerance; maybe she ought to turn around, maybe, she had said, she should not have come at all.

  “Please; I’m glad you did.” He took hold of her, nuzzled his nose into her neck. “I’m just all eaten up. You can’t imagine the sort of pressure I’ve been under lately.”

  How could she? Storrow shared almost no details of his life with her. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she minded the strict limits of their relation; nevertheless, she hadn’t stopped him when, that afternoon, seated on the sofa—the first Saturday they hadn’t headed straight into the bedroom—Storrow finally opened up to her about his problems.

  All that semester, he’d been facing a conflict with some of the students in his senior seminar. “It was a mistake to try to teach colonialism and the law; the only thing anyone wants to talk about is Western oppression, Eurocentricity—to them there’s no such thing as justice, no perspective beyond a shallow relativism.”

  One student in particular had been causing a disturbance: “I’m hardly able to get a word out before she interrupts; I can’t even approach the subject I came to teach, unless, of course, I want to be dragged before some disciplinary committee, kicked off campus. That’s what she hopes to accomplish, it seems, before graduation. The woman has it in for me.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t true.” It was all a bit melodramatic, even for him, she thought. And yet it wasn’t hard to imagine how Storrow could inspire dislike—through those very qualities that had attracted her and could as easily repel her: his vanity, his self-righteousness.

  Desire and hatred, she felt, were often related, and certainly when it came to feelings for a man like Storrow. As she sat there on the sofa, seeing him more excited by his enemy than he was by her, she couldn’t help but wonder if their roles had been confused. Perhaps it was this other girl who was in love with Storrow, really; and she, the one who wished to make him disappear.

  Nevertheless, she did her best to show compassion: “You obviously didn’t mean to, but maybe you said something to offend her?”

  “It’s not anything I said—it’s that I presume to speak at all about people with darker skin than I have. Of course, she’s the official voice of the subaltern. Never mind that, unlike her, I actually spent years on the Indian continent.”

  An Indian girl, from the sound of it: a fellow senior, outspoken and obstinate, concerned with matters of social justice.

  “Are we talking about Julie Patel?”

  Brusquely Storrow stood and shook his head: “I can’t tell you that; I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you. This is just the problem I’m describing—lack of respect—and it’s my fault too, obviously—for not insisting on it.”

  From there he quickly changed the subject back to her, her inconsideration and irresponsibility, her coming late to meetings, her failing to show up to receive his calls. The last two evenings he’d phoned her room, she’d been out. “You mind telling me where you were?”

  “With Charlie, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Actually I think it is.” Charlie was another problem, Storrow let her know. It really wasn’t prudent for her to be so closely involved with one of his students. Not to mention that Charlie was obviously in love with her. A weakness on her part, this endless need for adoration, for some young man always traipsing after her. Every time he chanced to see her, she was with another guy; just the other day he’d passed by Widener Library and seen her speaking with a young man on the steps.

  “Dirty-blond, tall, nice-looking. Who was he?”

  “No idea. There are just so many, according to you.”

  “None of whom you’ve ever been attracted to, or slept with?”

  “I wasn’t a virgin when you met me. Would you have wanted me to be? To hav
e that on your conscience too?”

  “Were you in love then?”

  This was the first either of them had mentioned love. Storrow’s question—let slip without his thinking, revealing some insecurity or hope—might have softened her toward him again, if not for the bitterness of his next remark.

  “Or do you just go to bed with men you don’t much care for.”

  “I certainly don’t fuck men that I dislike, I can tell you that. And I don’t like you much the way you’re acting. I didn’t come here to be chastised.”

  In the beginning of their courtship such arguments had seemed a mode of foreplay—the way to get Storrow past his inhibitions was to anger him. But lately the sex hadn’t seemed worth the longer and longer lectures that preceded it; what had begun as teasing had become tedious.

  If she weren’t stuck inside this train, she now thought, she’d turn around right then, tell Storrow she simply had too much work to make the trip. In fact, it wasn’t too late; she could get off at the first stop and buy a ticket heading back; the train had only just pulled out from South Station. Behind her, the compartment door slid open and a man in uniform came through checking tickets, marking new ones with his hole-puncher. From the corner of her eye, Georgia saw his wide torso moving down the aisle and then, behind him, a slender body, stopping at her seat.

  “Alice.” She tried to smile, to hide her alarm at her friend appearing this way. Back at the room, Alice had said nothing about taking the train, herself: they might have shared a taxi to the station. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “Gerry phoned last minute.” Alice hoisted her bag into the rack overhead. “He’s housesitting for a friend in Chelsea.”

  Not, her tone implied, that she owed Georgia any explanation. Since Alice’s release from the health clinic, she’d been living, in effect, under Georgia’s “supervision”—an arrangement Georgia didn’t cherish any more than Alice did. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t turn her friend away in the state she’d been in: frighteningly thin, her skin sallow, her eyes ringed with purple. Someone had to keep an eye on Alice, even if the longer she stayed, the more likely it was that Storrow would discover her or that Alice would discover Storrow, and the whole thing would blow up.

  —

  The next three hours dragged on. Alice read a sociology textbook while listening to her headphones; Georgia busied herself with her notes, which was merely a show of work, at this point. She couldn’t possibly think about her paper now; all she could think about was whether she’d given Alice reason to believe she was having an affair or that these weekend trips weren’t what she claimed. Alice had been regarding her suspiciously—or so Georgia sometimes thought, catching a sly or bitter look come over her friend. But it was impossible to keep track of Alice’s ever-shifting moods and Georgia believed that she’d been careful, adhering to most of Storrow’s various precautions.

  She hoped to God that he was, too, that Storrow wouldn’t be waiting for her at the platform when the train pulled in. Their meeting spot was meant to be the Blarney Rock Pub, an old dive bar on Thirty-Third, but lately, at least when they were in New York, he’d started to relax his vigilance. On her last visit, to show he could be spontaneous, he’d snuck up on her right inside the Penn Station main concourse.

  The conductor announced the last stop, and the train moved through a dark tunnel before coming to a halt. Georgia and Alice exited the car together, heading up the steps and as far as the subway escalators. Alice was looking for the downtown 1 train, so Georgia claimed her destination (Gabe’s place) was walking distance. She said good-bye and waited for Alice to vanish underground, then she went off to find a bathroom; despite the filth, she lingered by the sinks until she felt sure Alice was long gone. Out in the concourse, there was no sign of either Alice or Storrow; she stepped through the doors into the sunshine, making her way toward the Blarney Rock down Seventh Avenue.

  The place was largely empty at this hour: a few shabby men were slumped over stools along the bar, gaping up at a baseball game that played on the TVs. Storrow sat alone, at a table in the back; posture straight, elbows off the plastic tablecloths, he was drinking ginger ale through a straw. After two weeks apart, she was reminded of his crisp, good looks—he seemed to shine in the dim room—and yet his fustiness among these men slugging their beers served to confirm her recent feeling: Storrow was much too square. Not at all the sort to chaperone her through her first light steps into unfettered, adult life.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come today,” he said, his voice drowned out by the men at the bar, cheering at some play. Storrow frowned, and she began to wonder if she’d picked this meeting place, from the beginning, precisely to make him uneasy.

  Leaving his glass full, he dropped a few bills onto the table, grabbed his blazer off the chair back, and took hold of her arm. They were heading for the door when, through the window, she caught a glimpse of Alice, stopped on the street out front to light a cigarette.

  “Outside,” Georgia stuttered. “Alice.”

  Storrow seemed instantly to grasp the situation and what it required; he took Georgia’s hand, shaking good-bye. He was smiling, steady, calm. “You leave first. I’ll wait for you at the apartment. Just be easy. Say hi to her on your way out.”

  “What if she asks about you?”

  “We ran into each other. You saw me through the window; you know me through Charlie, and from the pool.”

  But Alice would never buy it. Georgia felt certain: there was nothing innocent or accidental in Alice’s appearing here today.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway,” she heard Storrow say. “She’s moved on.”

  Georgia turned to face the window; outside, there were only strangers passing by. The whole encounter—if it was even that—had lasted but a few seconds. Storrow had handled himself well, but Georgia feared she hadn’t, that Alice had seen her looking stricken, and her face had given everything away.

  “What do we do now?”

  The safest thing, Storrow instructed, was to take separate cabs to the apartment.

  “The apartment. After this?” She didn’t wish to go with Storrow or have the argument she knew was coming. This was all her fault; Alice had been her guest this month and she’d concealed the fact from him. “I should just get back on the train.”

  “You and I need to talk about this, Georgia.”

  “We do; we will. But later, please.”

  “I’m getting you a taxi; just go to the apartment.”

  “I told you: I want to go home.”

  “Why should I give a damn what you want?” Storrow inhaled sharply; his fist thumped against his chest. “I’m the one who stands to lose here. This is my job on the line. My life.”

  Angrily, he pushed through the front door and stood at the curb to hail a taxi. She watched him through the bar window, thinking of that first day in the apartment he’d arranged, when she’d peered down from the third floor and seen him stepping out, arm raised, into traffic. His elegant frame, the assertiveness in the gesture; she’d felt her attraction keenly. That moment seemed far off now.

  Storrow was beckoning her toward the waiting cab. She stepped out and he gripped her arm, guiding her, a bit too roughly, to the far edge of the seat. He got in with her. Apparently he’d rethought the idea of taking different cars, maybe he no longer trusted her to go where he instructed. Inside the cab, he slammed the door, gave the address, and then sat with his head in his hands. She could hear his breathing, thick with the emotion he was struggling to control.

  “Don’t be mad,” she said softly. “I swear I never told Alice anything.”

  He didn’t raise his head; his voice was muffled by his palms. “Just give me a minute, okay? Just please sit there and don’t speak.”

  When the cab pulled up to the building, Storrow shoved a twenty at the driver. Georgia followed him into the narrow, empty vestibule and watched as he searched for the keys. His hands slapped at his jacket pockets;
his face was red; he yanked his blazer off.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not. Before I met you I was, now I’m not.” He found the keys in his pants pocket and, cursing, turned the lock.

  “Sorry, but I’m not going upstairs with you like this.”

  He looked flustered, annoyed, like he was losing patience with a child. “Stop this. Get inside.”

  “No. I don’t feel safe with you.”

  “You don’t feel safe with me?” With a crash he threw the keys down onto the tile. “You push me into this affair. You reassure me, promise me, and now, after your carelessness puts me in danger, you act like you can’t be bothered with it all. You risk my career, my peace of mind, and you say you don’t feel safe?” He’d come to stand between Georgia and the exit; when she took a step, he raised his fist against the door and held it there.

  “Let me out of here right now,” she whispered, “or I will scream.”

  “Why?” his voice was rising. “What are you afraid I’ll do to you? What can I do that’s worse than what you’ve done to me?”

  His arm blocked her way. She could see the muscles tense, pressing at the fabric of his neatly pressed shirt. His lips were pursed and bloodless.

  “All right, calm down and we’ll talk, okay? I’ll come with you once you calm down.” She waited for him to withdraw the arm that barred her in and then, when he bent to reach the keys from the floor, she darted past him out onto the street.

  “Georgia. Come back. I’m sorry.”

  She heard him calling, not far behind her. She jogged ahead, reaching the corner. A taxi stopped before her and she hurried inside. The window to her door was open and Storrow stood leaning above it.

  “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m upset but not at you. Don’t go; don’t blow me off, not now.”