He shakes the box and hears the rattle ofthe tape within.Thank God.On his way back to the house, another limb snaps offthe maple tree in her front yard and it comes hurtling down, plunging into the ground not ten feet from him.Thanks again, God.
Inside, he plays her“You Got Dimples inYour Jaw,”sung by a man namedWillie Jones.Daniel stands near the tape player and does his best not to dance along with the music, knowing it will make him appear foolish, but the music is so sexy and good, it’s hard to stay still, with his arms folded professorially over his chest.The song is a paean to the beauty ofthe singer’s girlfriend, especially her dimples.“I love the way you walk, I’m crazy about the way you walk, I got my eyes on you.You got dimples in your jaw.You my babe.Got my eyes on you.”
When the song ends, Daniel pushes the stop button and releases a deep, satisfied sigh.“It gives you such insight, I think.It’s a love song to a woman whose physical being has been devalued by racism, slavery, poverty, and this guy’s saying to her:I see you, I notice every little thing about you, and it makes me so happy.It’s sexuality subverting the whole system ofslavery.”
“You think so?”
“John Lee Hooker made it a semi-pop hit, for this little outfit in Chicago calledVee-Jay records, in1950-something.”He knows that it was in1956,but he decides at the last instant to be imprecise, not want-ing to seem like one ofthose geeks who memorize music trivia.
“I’ve heard ofhim.My uncle Randall used to have his records.He used to wear a turban or something?A cape?”
She must be thinking of Screaming Jay Hawkins,Daniel thinks.“Maybe,”
he says, not wishing to embarrass her.“I’m not sure.”His fingers graze the controls ofthe boom box.“Do you want to hear another?There’s this fantastic version of‘The PrayerWheel,’by the Bring Light Quartet.”
“Well, the truth is, I’m not doing the music thing.I had to let that one go, too.”
He decides not to ask her why;surely she’s had enough questions about that.“Have you decided on a new topic?”he asks her.
“I’m not sure.American Studies, you know.Lot ofchoices.The thing is…”She stops, lowers her eyes.Daniel looks at her.He feels it would be permissible to reach across the table and touch her.
“The thing is,”says Iris, lifting her gaze.Her eyes are clear, with little flecks ofamber in them.“All my topics have beenAfrican-American, and I think that’s why I haven’t been able to stick with them.”She takes a deep breath.“I’m really gettingtiredofbeing African-American.Ial-ways thought ofmyselfas just me.I know that sounds sort ofweak, and when asistersays it, people think she’s trying to get out ofsomething, or she’s like a traitor or something.But that’s not it, not for me.I’m just ex-hausted by it, it’s so muchworkbeing black.And no days off, either.And the pay stinks.But what am I going to do? It’s my life.But I don’t think I want to make it my academic life, too.Maybe I’ll write about Eisen-hower orI Love Lucy,or something.Something white, or better yet some-thing that doesn’t even have a color, ifthere is anything like that.I wouldn’t mind being in school forever.I love learning.I realize it’s not the most highly regarded occupation in our society, I realize you’re noth-ing inAmerica unless you’re making money, but learning stuffmakes me really happy.It’s like being beautifully and luxuriously filled with all the knowledge there ever was.”
“They’ve got a lot ofold Lucy tapes at the video store, ifyou’re really interested.”
Outside, the trees continue to explode beneath the weight ofthe snow.It sounds like a long, nasty war is being fought.
“It breaks my heart to listen to all those dying trees,”Iris says.
”It’s a nightmare,”he says softly.
”Ifonly the snow had waited.I love the snow.But the leaves…”
“Ifit wasn’t for the leaves, the snow would just fall right through the branches and not touch a thing.”
“Everything’s timing,”she says.“The most wonderful thing at the wrong time? Disaster.”
“But you never know,”he says.
”Until it’s too late,”Iris says.“I’m afraid ofthings that can’t be taken back.That’s another reason I keep changing my thesis.I just don’t want to create a document that says, This is what I know, this is who I am.I re-ally admire your…whatdoyouliketocall her?Your…”She smiles.
”Lady?”
“Kate.”
“Well, I really admire Kate for just writing it down, sending it out, and getting on with it.”
“The thing she most cares about—her novel—she can’t write that.”
He feels his stomach turn over.“I better call her, actually.She’ll be won-dering where Ruby is.”
Iris brings him the phone.She can hear Kate’s hello clear across the kitchen, powerful voice, formidable, not someone you’d want to cross.
“Ruby and I are at Nelson’s house,”Daniel says.Oh, Iris thinks,Nel-
son’shouse.She turns slightly in her chair, not wanting to see what he looks like when he’s being so devious and clever.“I think we better let things settle down before we try to make it home.”
“I don’t think the snow everwillstop,”says Kate.She is in her study, facing her desk, where there sits an old Smith Corona manual typewriter and a dozen candles ofdifferent sizes, their flames dancing in the draft, an ecclesiastical whiffofparaffin in the air.“And when it does, it’s going to take a lot more than the little men in their trucks to get things going again.The trees!They’re everywhere and each one ofthem is going to have to be sawed up and dragged away.How about where you are?”
“It’s pretty bad.”
“Do they have electricity?”
“Yes, for the time being.”
“Oh, you’re lucky.That means you have heat, too.And water.”
“For now.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to stay there.Is the husband there?”
But before he can answer, she blows right past it.“You know what I wish? That there was a radio in this place I could listen to.”
“The one in Ruby’s room runs on batteries,”Daniel says.
”Ruby’s room? She has a radio in there?”
“Yes, the red one.My First Sony, or something like that.You’ll see it.”
“I just want a way to tune in some news and keep track ofthe storm.”
“I put fresh batteries in it a couple days ago,”Daniel says.
”Oh, you’re so good,”says Kate.A little lurch in her voice.And then something being poured.He realizes she’s getting loaded.Hard to re-member, but there was a time when he liked her drinking, liked the free-wheeling, southern bad girl aspect ofher, the nocturnal romance ofit.
Those drunken nights were the occasions oftheir most uninhibited sex.
Sweaty, a little mean.It was like screwing an escapee.The concentration was all on Kate.What would she like, what could she take? Her body arching and jerking as ifshe were being electrocuted.Enthralling, those nights, some strange combination ofhoneymoon and porn flick.Nasty and private and never spoken ofafterward.But even then he felt those moments weren’t quite valid, like those sports statistics that go into the record book with little asterisks after them, indicating a shortened sea-son or a muddy track.
“Kate’s out ofher mind with happiness,”he says to Iris, giving the phone back to her.
Another tree explodes, this one, from the sound ofit, just a few feet from the house.
“Every tree that’s falling took so long to grow,”Iris says.There will be no more talk ofKate.“Some ofthem a hundred years.”
“Maybe even more.”
“I can’t stand to hear them dying like this.It’s like witnessing hunters shooting a herd ofelephants.”
“That’s what I was thinking,”says Daniel.“The elephants.It’s what I was going to say.But don’t worry.It’ll be all right.”
“You’re the type who thinkseverything’sgoing to turn out all fine anddandy.”
“How do you know that?”
“Aren’t y
ou?”
“Maybe I’m a bit ofan optimist.”
“I think you are.”
“Could be that it’s sort of…awhite thing?”Daniel asks.
”Well, it sure ain’t no black thing, honey child.”Iris laughs, a little surprised at herself.
“Do you miss being around black people?”he asks her—much to his own surprise.
“What makes you think I’m not around black people?”
“There’s not many around, not here.”
“True.And here is where I am.I like it here, and, frankly, it’s hard to find a really nice place that also has a lot ofAfrican-American families.I like to ski, and sail, and take walks in the woods.I like having a garden and I’m in a really good program at Marlowe.Anyhow, I’ve come a long way from that cave at Ruby Falls.I’m used to being in a white world.”
Scarecrow totters into the kitchen and goes straight to Daniel’s side, leans against him and groans softly, with deep canine contentment.
“What do you want, Scarecrow?”Daniel says.“Why are you looking at me? Because I said you look like Jesus?”
“Let me ask you something,”Iris says.“Why did you say that?”
“About the dog being Jesus? I don’t know.She seems very deep.Did it offend you?”
“I had the same thought.Just yesterday.It seemed sort ofnutty and now you’re saying the same thing today.”
“That is strange.Is Jesus a big thing in your life?”
“Not too big.I think we’re alone.There’s no one to forgive us or punish us or help us in our hour ofneed, and I think nearly everybody deep down knows that.When I was an undergraduate, I took a course called ‘Death and Dying.’”
“You did?”
“Oh yes, I’ve always been very interested in death.Anyhow, as part of my course work I volunteered in a hospice and I got to know quite a few people who were dying, mostly ofcancer.My supervisor told me we weren’t supposed to push any sort ofreligious ideas on the people we talked to, but it was all right to subtly, in some general way, offer them the comfort offaith, maybe mentioning heaven and meeting up with loved ones, that kind ofthing.But you know what I noticed?The closer dying people got to the end, the more they knew that there was nothing next.
The knowledge was in their bodies, they knew that was all, there was no heaven, no God, just blood and bones and pain and then silence.You could see this knowledge in their eyes.Even the ones who had been religious all their lives, and the ones who just were so scared they were willing to be-lieve in heaven at the last minute, desperate for something to hold on to, to ward offthe fear, you could even see it in their eyes—God was an idea, it was something out there, far far away, it was a story people told, a beau-tiful story, or a dumb story, but it was in the province ofthe living, and these dying bodies didn’t have time for it anymore, they were too busy dying, the work ofit.Even ifthey were praying out loud, holding on to the rosaries, calling on Jesus, be with me, Jesus, be with me, their bodies knew, there was a final knowledge right in their cells that it was all over.”
“I saw you going to church in July.I was driving past St.Christopher’s and I saw your car turning in.”
“I go to church three times a year, on Christmas and Easter, and in July, around the Fourth.My baby brother, Leonard, drowned on the Fourth ofJuly when he was six years old.I light a candle for him and I pray and I cry, but I don’t even know why I do it.”
“There’s not too many places where you can go and have those feelings.”
“Do you have a place?”
“The movies.Sometimes I cut out ofwork and go across the river to one ofthe mall movies.I sit there in the middle ofthe afternoon with a box ofpopcorn and some M&Ms, and kind ofcry a little.It’s totally pa-thetic and what’s really pathetic is you’re not even the first person I’ve told this to.I tell it to everyone.”
“Maybe you want people to know you’re lonely.”
“You think that’s what it is?”
“It must be strange for people to think ofyou that way, lonely.”
“I know, I know.Because I’m such a cheerful presence.”
“Well, you are.And—”
“I know,”Daniel says.“Everybody likes me.”
“It’s good that people like you.I like you.”
“Good.I like you, too.”
“I know.”
“Well, that’s settled, anyhow.”
“Can we be honest here?”
“We can try.It’s not that easy.”
“I just think we can be honest, that’s all, I mean:why not? Maybe this is Armageddon.”
“The snowstorm?”
“It’s something,”says Iris.“It’s an occasion.We hardly ever get to say what we mean to say.That’s why people who have crises in their lives, real ones, huge ones, they turn out to be more honest.”
“Okay, some people have the Battle ofAlgiers, we’ve got the snowstorm.Anyhow, I think I know what you’re going to say.”
“What am I going to say?”
“You’re going to say,‘I know you like me and I also have become increasingly aware that you stare at me and you seem unduly excited whenever we happen to meet.’”
“That’s right,”says Iris.“Except for‘unduly.’I wasn’t going to use that word.”
“So you don’t think it’s unduly.”
“Maybe it is.I wasn’t going to put it like that.”
“How were you going to put it?”
“I was going to say you’ve been looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry.I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Itusedto make me uncomfortable.Now it doesn’t.Now I like it.”
“I think I might be having a heart attack.”
“Look, please, don’t make more out ofthis than what it’s meant to be.I shouldn’t have said anything.I’m indulging myself.Taking a little time offfrom reality.”
“This is reality.”
“It’s just that the past couple months, since Nelson and Ruby have gotten to be such buddies, and you and I cross paths fairly frequently, it’s been this little secret pleasure in my life.It’s like a river under the road.
Let’s talk about something else.”
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“More tea?”
“The tea is not good.The tea was a mistake.Something stronger?”
“Bourbon okay? I’ll have one, too.”
At home, Daniel is the designated driver, with or without an automobile.He has made it his job to not drink and through his example to some-how discourage drinking.This course ofaction, or inaction, has never met with the slightest success, but he cleaves to it nevertheless, limiting his consumption ofalcohol to a glass or two ofwine with dinner once or twice a week.Now, he sits in Iris’s kitchen, watching her reach up to a high cabinet to retrieve a bottle ofJack Daniel’s, watching her muscles move beneath her clothes—and he thinks:What if this were really my life? What if I could spend a part of every day watching her?What if it were easy?What if I come behind her, put my arms around her, kiss her long bare neck, cup my handsover her breasts, push my groin against her awe-inspiring ass? Could I tol-erate living with such happiness?
She pours their drinks, they hold their glasses up and then move them very slowly together until they touch.
Iris is hoping a drink will soothe her nerves—the intense labor ofappearing calm is wearing her out.And a drink might loosen up both of them, could even throw up a little makeshift bridge between them.Ear-lier, with Ruby in tow, knowing that Daniel would be coming to her house, Iris had felt that here, now, was the logical and perfect time to fi-nally make something out ofthose months offlirtatious glances.It seemed, then, that all she had to do was to let him know she had seen them all, felt his eyes on her, heard what he did not say.All she had to tell him was that she is caught up in a marriage that has turned out to be a mistake.It would be simple, a simple thing to do.She does not worry about being attractive to hi
m.He has already made all ofthat clear:she has never felt so desired.
But now she realizes that it will not be that easy, will not be easy atall.
Yet the giddiness ofall this cannot altogether obscure her prescient view ofthe misery she would cause ifshe reached across the table and touched Daniel’s soft, lank hair.It finally takes so little, a kiss, and now she’s thinking about it, imagining it.
There’s music from the second floor.The kids are listening to theVillage People singing“YMCA.”
“Nelson!”Iris turns, looks up at the ceiling.“Turn it down.”
“How did that ever become a children’s song?”Daniel asks.He’s still making small talk, wanting only to keep her attention and to make sure there are no silences.“It’s so completelyWestVillage, cruising Christo-pher Street,1978.It’s strange the way the culture absorbs things and makes whatever use ofthem.”
She refills their glasses, very judiciously, as ifthis were a familiar ritual.
Suddenly, there’s a thud right above them, unnerving in its suddenness and force.Daniel’s response is instant.Out ofhis seat, out ofthe kitchen, up the stairs, taking them two at a time.Iris follows.They both hear Ruby’s plaintive little cry.Iris has a sinking feeling.
They reach the children.Daniel, wisely, has slowed himself down, trying not to add his alarm to the volatile mix.Ruby is just picking her-selfup.Her swollen blue eyes glitter with unshed tears and her face is scarlet.Without a word, she stretches her arms out toward Daniel.He lifts her up;her knees grip his rib cage, she wraps her arms around him, notches her head into the space between his neck and shoulder.Iris real-izes her hands are clenched into fists;she forces herselfto relax them.
“What’s wrong, Ruby?”Daniel asks.
Nelson is simply standing there, his arms folded over his chest, his body rigid beneath his cargo pants and sweatshirt, a look ofstony defi-ance on his face.
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