Jacob's Folly

by Rebecca Miller

  I perceived all this in a futuristic gush as I hovered over the big man: images of his past and inner workings batted at my vision in a vomitous stream of moving pictures, a cacophony of sounds and thoughts. It was an empathic overload, a strain to organize coherently, overwhelming in scope. I imagined what it must be for the Creator himself, who saw and heard the entire world, every thought and action, every tear and fart. I wondered if God was a madman by now, having hallucinated like this twenty-four hours a day for millions of years.

  This new, angelic awareness had left me with a distinct sense of unease. I saw into this man so easily, like a hot knife piercing a tub of chicken fat; he seemed good through and through. What did he need an angel for? Very good men irritated and embarrassed me; I had always tried to avoid them. My heart (I felt I had a heart) pumping in my chest, I lowered myself gradually, both craving an encounter and dreading it. As I came closer to Leslie, I felt a warm tide of air swirl around my body. I felt naked. Lowering myself still more, I found the air around him was nearly hot, and thick as honey. This man stank of woodsmoke. He was still pissing, his face and pallid member both turned toward the dawn sky. I felt he was looking right at me. I waited for him to see me, for the terrible encounter to occur. I assumed that when it did I would know what to say, and I would understand why I had been sent back to earth. Yet Leslie was not reacting. His big jaw set, light blue eyes focused at a point just beyond my head, he zipped up his trousers, turned, and walked away from me, toward one of the box houses. Was I invisible? Suddenly frightened to be left alone outside, I flew behind him, arms outstretched, determined to follow him to shelter. I beat my wings as hard as I could, but the air resisted me. My flight felt turgid. I was floating as much as flying. Before I could reach him, Leslie had opened the door to his house and closed it gently, shutting me out. I set down on the hard, shiny leaf of a bush by the door, folding my wings petulantly as I realized that, on top of everything else, I was tiny—one of those angels that fits on the head of a pin!

  With my man gone, the air went cool. Cold, scared, baffled, I focused my mind on Leslie, and was astonished to find myself as good as in his bedroom, staring down at his big-boned, comely wife—even as I shivered outside.

  3

  Hearing her husband come in, Deirdre Senzatimore shifted under the dense duvet, opened one eye, and looked at the crack between the curtains. Electric blue. Almost morning. So many fires in the night, she thought, drifting. Why? … In her sinking mind, her deaf five-year-old son, Stevie, was starting a small fire in her bedroom, and as it grew, the heat became unbearable. “Where did you find those matches?” she asked him, unable to pry her head from the pillow. But the little blond boy was laughing, lighting one match after another, tossing them around the floor as if throwing crumbs to pigeons. Just then, Leslie walked in wearing his full fireman’s gear. He had a swollen canvas hose in one hand and doused Stevie with a fat jet of water. Deirdre cried out for him to stop, but he kept the stream of water on the little boy, as if it were the child that was on fire. The water turned off as if controlled by a tap somewhere; Deirdre ran to her dripping son to find that Stevie was covered in shimmering, translucent stones. Deirdre picked one off and held it between thumb and forefinger. It was a diamond.

  Feeling her husband in the room now, and waking, Deirdre turned inside her thin cotton nightgown, twisting the fabric as she peered at him, then let her head fall back on the pillow. Hair wet from bathing, and naked, Leslie climbed under the bedding, pulling his wife into his chest, encircling her in his big arms, feeling her soft belly, her full breasts, all that strong flesh somewhat collapsed beneath the thin fabric. He brushed her heavy hair from the back of her neck and pressed his face to it. Her skin was very warm, nearly hot.

  “How was it?” she murmured.

  “Basement fire,” he said. “Wiring.” Within seconds, they both fell into a pit of sleep.

  Leslie had first spotted Deirdre at the Stop & Shop in Patchogue, when they were both nearly thirty. She was pushing a large cart filled with groceries, her young son walking by her side. Bud was a skinny six-year-old with large dark eyes. He sang quietly to himself as he walked, one finger hooked over a wire in the metal cart. As Leslie passed him, Bud looked up and grinned mirthlessly with one side of his mouth. Leslie raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything; you couldn’t talk to children you didn’t know anymore. Then he looked up and saw the mother. Deirdre was close to six feet tall, with a strong-boned face, shiny brown hair, and a heavy, tight-clad bust. Even her hands were large. As she scanned the many choices for canned beans and tomatoes, she had a dreamy, contemplative way of moving that hinted at an inner depth, some secret sadness; it touched him. She wore no ring.

  In the parking lot he noticed her again, her thick hair glinting as she and the boy with the crooked smile deftly, silently loaded the shopping bags into the trunk of a dented hatchback, parked a fateful two cars away from Leslie’s truck. The competent, self-contained way the two of them moved made him wonder if they had anyone to help at the other end. Once the boy was buckled into the backseat, Deirdre stopped and hesitated, one hand on the empty cart, looking around her.

  Leslie called out, “I’ll put that back for you.”

  She squinted over at him, confused. “What?”

  “I’ll put the cart back for you.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” He walked over to her, embarrassed by her gaze. It felt like it was taking forever to reach her. Leslie was reminded of a useless explanation a teacher had given him, of infinity: when crossing a room, first you need to walk halfway across, then half of that half, then half of that half. So you traverse an infinite set of halves, never reaching your destination. But you did, Leslie remembered thinking, always get to the other side of a room. Reaching Deirdre at last, he took the cart from her and rolled it away a little so there was nothing between them.

  “I know, you want to do the right thing and put them back, but it’s a pain,” he said, gesturing vaguely with an enormous arm. She smiled. He flung out his hand as if reaching out to catch a falling glass. “Les Senzatimore,” he said.

  “That’s a mouthful,” she said with a laugh, taking his hand. Hers was dry and strong, but still dwarfed by his mitt. “I’m Deirdre.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. In the car, Bud swiveled around in his seat to spot his mother.

  “I need to get to work,” she said, hesitating for a split second and glancing, Leslie noticed, at his naked ring finger. “Thanks again.” Leslie felt an impulse to skip the introductory scenario, squeeze into the driver’s seat of her pathetic little car, and drive the three of them away. Neither of them moved. Sexual tension eddied into the ensuing pause like seawater filling a cleft in the sand.

  “Mom?” Bud called, curious.

  “Okay hon,” Deirdre called lightly to the boy, taking a step.

  “Where do you work?” asked Leslie. He didn’t want to lose her, but he couldn’t ask her out, not yet.

  “Um … Trumbull Interiors? On Main Street.”

  “I know it. I—I’ve actually been thinking of going in there.” Compulsively, Leslie’s tongue traced a cross along the roof of his mouth in penance for this slender lie.

  “Oh, yeah?” Deirdre said, looking up at him skeptically, a hint of a smile on her face. There were little baby wrinkles around her amber eyes already. The suffering behind that cynical look of hers daunted him slightly. He felt she could see through him and beyond, far, far down. He wasn’t sure he was up to the challenge. Yet he continued.

  “I need to do something about my apartment,” he confided, picturing his randomly furnished rental, not a hint of love in the place. Just a few pressed-plywood chairs, a brown leatherette couch, a stereo, a TV: a place to hate yourself in. Suddenly, a pang of mourning for his dead father, something he hadn’t felt in years, ambushed him: tears sprang to his eyes. He rubbed them as if against the glare, took his sunglasses from where they hung on his T-shirt pocket, and put them on. Deirdre was dip
ped in sepia now, and lovely, filtered in this way; her high cheekbones and generous mouth, the prominent nose, wise eyes, all appeared as if in a film still.

  “Well, Trumbull’s pricey, but they’re good, if you want drapes, or—you know, color consultation and whatnot,” she said, looking down at her large sandals. Her toenails were painted coral. “I wouldn’t go to them for furniture.”

  “If I come in, will you help me?” he asked.

  “Sure. Ask for me. Deirdre Jenkins.”

  When he bedded her, three weeks from that day, her strength exhilarated him. They wrestled on the bed like titans, their bodies laced with shadows cast by the new, possibly slightly too feminine curtains Deirdre had chosen for Leslie in her redecoration scheme. Leslie relished Deirdre’s springy thighs, her firm arms, the wide, powerful armature of her pelvis. Most of all, Leslie was afraid of living a puny life. His father had been a pusillanimous stump of a man. Leslie would live an honest, brave life, in the light of day, with this healthy animal of a woman. Her skin was always hot.

  As Leslie slept with Deirdre, I, Leslie’s invisible angel, clung to my swaying leaf outside the Senzatimore house, Leslie’s past flushing through me like a fever, and listened to him breathe. I could hear Deirdre’s breath too, the whir of heat coming on in their bedroom, the hiss of a limb gliding on sheets. I strained to see his dream, as well, but all I could make out was the shape of a very long ship.

  Walking down the stairs, Deirdre saw their two cats—one white and one tiger stripe—making boneless figure eights below her as they milled like sharks impatient for a feed. What creeped her out about cats, Deirdre realized as she spooned shiny chunks of meat in a gelatinous sauce from a can, was the fact that their feet made no sound. From above, they seemed to glide. They were sneaky, parasitic, indifferent. But the Senzatimore cats were legend; every other meow in the neighborhood was somehow related to Leslie’s original rescue. They would always have cats, whether she liked it or not. Their sleek pelts brushing her ankles, Deirdre opened the door and set the bowls outside. The felines sped out. Taking my chance, I zoomed in before Deirdre slammed the door.

  The house was decorated on a large scale, with a hefty pine side table in the front hall, massive blue and yellow tiles on the floor. The kitchen was roomy, sunny, and neat, with an enormous metal box in the corner and a wooden butcher’s table with huge pans hanging on a black iron circle above it, attended by four extra-high wooden stools. The wooden cabinets were painted a gleaming, creamy white. Everything seemed to have been built for giants. This made sense in light of the size of Leslie and Deirdre Senzatimore.

  Floating into the living room, I saw slablike soft couches, shapeless chairs. This furniture was spine-deforming. The thought of how ugly a person would look slumped in it filled me with dismay. In my day, furniture helped a person move in an attractive, precise manner. I was not yet aquainted with the concept of casual that is the modern way. These flabby couches confused and disturbed me. Saddened by the furnishings, I wafted up the stairs. Through an open door down the hall, I glimpsed walls painted with fluffy clouds, and Deirdre, leaning over the huddled little form of her son.

  Stevie was still sleeping, his narrow chest rising and falling, mouth shut, eyes roving under thin lids, the light curls at his neck damp with sweat from too many blankets. Deirdre wanted to take one off, but she hated to wake her little boy up, to disturb his sleep, and dreams wherein, who knew, maybe he could hear stuff. There had been no promise of operations or cures; Stevie was deaf, and that was that. I felt embarrassed, hovering there, and flew downstairs. Deirdre walked back in after a few minutes and measured out some coffee beans. Leslie appeared then, followed by the spaniel. The old dog’s nails scrabbled along the tile floor with sweeping little clicks.

  “You already up?” Deirdre asked.

  “I got a lot to do,” said Leslie. He smelled deliciously of eau de cologne. His mint-green shirt was ironed and tucked into his jeans, his short hair brushed back. Deirdre set some coffee and toast on the table.

  “You want eggs?” she asked, too late, she knew, to be a practicable offer. The toast would be cold.

  He smiled. “No, honey. You working today?”

  “Yeah, I have a client … she’s coming here later, after I get back from dropping Stevie.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “I know, I’m bringing him in for a half day,” she said.

  “I can drop Stevie,” said Leslie. “I’m going in to work later today.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m okay,” she said. He kissed her and left the room, a piece of toast in his hand. The dog followed.

  Deirdre stood, bent over, her strong wrists resting on the edge of the butcher’s table. Her Valkyrie’s behind was encased in tight-fitting stiff blue trousers that descended to a pair of pointed boots of tooled leather. Intrigued by her healthy frame, I settled on the rim of a porcelain bowl and listened for her thoughts.

  The quiet of the house whirred in Deirdre’s ears. She saw the sound as a red circle going around and around—the pulse of silence. She wondered if this was what Stevie heard, or if it was truly nothing. Deirdre and Leslie had begun to learn sign language the day after they were told the baby was deaf. They were doing all they could for him. Yet a sense of lack, of having been robbed, seemed innate in Stevie. He lurched between angelic inwardness and fearsome, demanding rages. Deirdre couldn’t stand up to him. Strong as she was, the guilt she felt about his impairment stopped her from putting her foot down. She looked up at the clock: eight-fifteen. The au pair had already gone to English class in the city. She didn’t want Stevie to wake up till the last minute; if he was in a bad frame of mind, it could be hell. Some days he came downstairs filled with light, smiling, a miracle of happiness. Other mornings, anger scrabbled at him from the inside, pulling at his moods. He became suspicious, resentful, confused. She heard a sound on the stairs. It was Stevie.

  “Hi, honey,” she signed. A fair, fragile boy, Stevie walked up to his mother and clung to her leg, blinking his pale eyes sleepily. She took him up in her arms and rocked him back and forth, burrowing her face into his soft neck. How could she have dreaded seeing him? Her own little boy.

  Outside the window a large orange tabby cat Deirdre had never seen before hopped onto the sill, fixed a furious gaze on her, and meowed emphatically, its yellow eyes boring into her. She could hear its indignant complaints through the window. That cat seemed to be trying to say something. She set Stevie down in a chair, walked to the door, and opened it a crack. The animal hopped off the windowsill, landing with a thud, and approached the open door agressively, trying to press its head through.

  “What are you doing?” said Deirdre, shoving it away with her boot. “Go away. Go.” The last thing they needed was another cat. She edged out the door, closing it behind her, and stamped her foot. The orange tabby hopped away, but then it stopped and sat down, its brow furrowed, and looked at her.

  “What?” said Deirdre. “Go.” She took a pebble from the ground and threw it a few inches from the cat. The cat skittered off, yet at the edge of the lawn it stretched itself luxuriously, almost insolently. Deirdre went back inside. Her heart was pounding. Stevie was looking at her, his eyes wide open as if to trap any information they could.

  “A cat,” Deirdre signed. “He needs to go back to his own house.”

  Satisfied, the boy became distracted by a toy left on the table, touched it with inquisitive grasping fingers. Deirdre watched her son play, relieved that he was busy. Sometimes she felt his little fingers clawing at her like insistent animals, tearing at her concentration, her mind, her spirit. She had hit him once—slapped his little hand. It made her sick to think of it.

  I watched her thoughful face and remembered Solange. She used to disappear into herself like this. Oh, Solange—dear lost friend! I wonder how long you lived. Even if you became an old woman, you’ve been dead two hundred years.

&nb
sp; 4

  The first time I saw Solange I was sixteen, lugging my box of clinquaillerie—knives, saltcellars, snuffboxes, hammers—anything I could sell—through the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, calling out my wares as loud as I could. The box hung from a leather strap that was slung around my neck and cut into the skin painfully.

  A thickset bitch of a servant in a blood-stippled apron, her hands ruddy, fine red veins threaded through her nose, started pawing through my knives, checking the blades and then tossing them back into the drawer as though she wished she could slice me with them. I stood stock-still, calmly watching this ransacking. When she chose a knife at last and asked me roughly for the price, I bowed slightly.