Still, it was like a house party in that everyone understood the rules. They were all from similar backgrounds; they all knew the dances that allowed them to move easily, without a stumble, through an evening with a stranger. For a woman, it was simple: You followed your partner’s lead. You yielded to his pressure; you slid smoothly away from the risk of collision.
That night Anna was seated for the first time next to Edward Drover. He was a favorite in the group, Tim had told her. The oldest gun, in his late seventies, he was staunch in the field. He labored gallantly up the long hillsides, trudging through the heavy plowed furrows without complaint. Everyone liked him.
Edward drew Anna’s chair out for her, his manner courtly.
“What a pleasure, Anna, to sit next to you,” he said, half-bowing over her chair as he pushed it in.
“Thank you,” Anna said, sitting down, smiling at Edward. His gesture made her feel comforted, cherished.
Edward smiled back. He was a handsome man, with smooth pink cheeks and a long, fine profile. His hair was bright white and was parted cleanly on the side. His lips were blunt, like a sheep’s.
Anna began the first steps of the dance. “Now, tell me, Edward, is this your first time here?”
“This is my first time here,” Edward answered. “But it’s not my first time shooting. I’ve been on many shoots, on many, many shoots.” He said this smiling, forgiving Anna her ignorance of his vast experience. He took the next step, offering Anna the silver basket of rolls.
“I won’t have one myself,” Edward said. “I’m on a diet.” He looked sideways at Anna, for her response. He was not plump; in fact he was quite trim. He was rather dandyish, in a pale yellow cashmere sweater, a polka-dotted silk ascot. His tweed jacket had an eccentric stitched-down self-belt in the back. He thought himself a bit rakish, Anna saw.
“Goodness,” Anna said politely, “why on earth are you on a diet? You don’t need it.”
Pleased, Edward held up his index finger. “That’s just why, you see. I don’t need it because I’m always on it. My doctor told me, years ago: ‘Never finish the food on your plate. Leave a third, and you’ll never worry about your weight.’” Edward smiled again. A profound satisfaction surrounded him like a halo. He was pleased by everything he said. “And he’s right. I never have.”
“What a good idea,” said Anna, as she was meant to do. She waited, but he said nothing more.
“Have you been shooting all your life?” she asked, setting out again.
“Practically speaking, yes,” said Edward, his manner now pompous. “My father taught me when I was very young. It’s a great education, I promise you. You learn safety and respect. For the birds, for the guns, for the environment. All hunters are environmentalists, you know. We care very much about wildlife. That’s something many people don’t realize.”
The kitchen girl set down soup plates before them.
“Of course that’s true, isn’t it,” said Anna.
“Hunters are very strong lobbyists for the preservation of open land,” Edward said. He raised a spoonful of clear broth and blew on it carefully. “Hunters are often unfairly maligned, you know.” His manner was wise and kindly.
“Yes, I suppose they must be,” Anna said peaceably. Edward’s instruction was somehow soothing and comforting. She raised her own spoon to her mouth. “And tell me what it was like, learning to hunt from your father?”
Edward smiled confidingly at her. “It was a great experience. It was the way I got to know my father. He was a rather distant man, and I think I might never have known him at all if it hadn’t been for shooting. On the days that we went out together, he would come to wake me up, very early. It would still be dark, and I knew everyone else in the house was asleep. I would see my father standing over my bed, and it would come to me that my father was waking me up because he wanted me to go with him, he wanted me beside him in the woods. He had chosen me. It meant a lot to me. I think I would never have known my father loved me if it weren’t for hunting.”
Touched, Anna smiled at him. “It must have been wonderful.” She had not expected this candor, vulnerability.
Edward, taking another spoonful, blinked and smiled back. “It was the only thing he taught me. He was a distant man. You learn what someone is like by having them as a teacher. And that was the way I learned my father.”
“How lucky you are,” Anna said, “to have had that. And did you teach your son to shoot?”
Edward raised his forefinger. “Now I believe you’re being what’s called sexist,” he said, ponderously jocular. “I have no son, but I’ve taught my daughter to shoot.”
“Oh, you’re right, I am,” Anna said, charmed. “I apologize. And does your daughter love to shoot?”
Edward beamed. “She loves it. She’s a wonderful shot, and a wonderful companion. She’s been hunting with me ever since she was twelve. I take the greatest pleasure in hunting with her. I invited her to come here this week, but she couldn’t. She’s a judge, you know, in Massachusetts.”
“A judge?” said Anna, impressed.
Edward nodded, proud. “U. S. district court.”
“How very distinguished,” said Anna.
She had expected something more conventional from Edward’s daughter, not something so bold and powerful. Clearly he had encouraged his daughter to excel, and in difficult territory. She had underestimated Edward. She had assumed that all these portly jocular businessmen were conservative, chauvinist, reactionary. Anna, who was very liberal, had carefully avoided dangerous subjects with them all week. Now she thought her assumptions were unfair: Tim, after all, looked like a member of this tribe, and he was a moderate. And now here was Edward: maybe she was wrong about them all. Chastened by her error, curious about its extent, and comforted by Edward’s calm sensibility, Anna took a risk. She stepped outside the decorous line of dancers.
“It must be very satisfying to learn from your father how to handle a gun, the way you did,” she said. “But how do you feel about these boys in the inner city with guns? How do you feel about gun control?”
But she had made a mistake: Edward’s face darkened at once. “Guns don’t kill people, people do,” he said abruptly. “Gun control is a terrible idea. Any restrictions will set a dangerous precedent.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, prim and final.
“Even in the inner city?” Anna asked. She kept her voice neutral. “Even handguns and assault weapons?”
“Those are just the thin edge of the wedge.” Edward spoke loudly, with authority. “There should be no gun control in the United States.” He turned and stared at her, his blue eyes now hooded. The corners of his mouth twitched.
“But children are killing each other in the streets,” Anna protested, her voice still mild.
Edward set down his soup spoon and looked at her. “Any ‘child’ who kills another should be put in the electric chair,” he said with angry satisfaction. “That should slow them down.”
Angry now herself, Anna said nothing. Her empty soup bowl was replaced by a dinner plate rimmed with blue and gold. “Thank you,” Anna said to the kitchen girl, her voice full of rebuke, for Edward.
Edward did not hear it. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, friendly again, instructive. “The real problem, you see, is not the guns. The real problem is the equatorial types.” He looked at her, proud, his mouth ready to smile. “That’s the problem.”
“‘The equatorial types’?” Anna repeated. The kitchen girl held out a platter of sliced lamb. The slices lay in overlapping waves, like soft pink scales.
“If you look at the problems we’re having today, around the globe, you’ll find it’s all caused by the people who live along the equator, or who come from there.” Edward raised his finger again, teacherly. “They make the problems. All of the problems: inner city violence, civil war, invasions. That’s the root of the problem, you see.”
“Really?” said Anna. She began to cut up her lamb carefully and slowly, to avoid lo
oking up at him. She should not go on with this, she knew. It would only end in an argument, anger. She should shift gracefully and steer them in a new direction.
Edward nodded solemnly. “For responsible behavior, you must look to the northern peoples, the northern Europeans.”
“Two world wars in this century?” asked Anna pleasantly. She was unable to resist. “I’m not sure I’d call that responsible behavior. Those weren’t started by the equatorial types.”
Edward frowned. “The equatorial types don’t have the initiative to start world wars. They’re too lazy!” He looked to see Anna’s response. “I know about them. I used to work in Caracas, for many years. Those people are lazy, and deceitful. They have no sense of responsibility.”
“That’s not my experience of them,” said Anna. She was being inflammatory, but she could not stop. “The Latinos I know, the ones in New York, are hardworking. They’re incredibly brave, to have come there. The ones I know are polite and diligent.” Now she must stop. She must change the subject. She would, right after Edward answered.
“The Latinos you know?” Edward repeated, his tone insulting. “Who are the Latinos you know?”
“Just, just the ones in New York,” said Anna. At his contemptuous tone, she felt the familiar infuriating stutter begin. She felt anxiety rise. “The men who run the garages, the delivery men. The cleaning women.”
Edward smiled loftily. “Anecdotal, I’m afraid,” he said dismissively. “That’s like saying ‘Some of my best friends are Jews.’”
Anna felt luminous with rage. She concentrated on her food, on the blue-and-gold-rimmed plate. She cut meticulous bites and placed them carefully in her mouth. She chewed soberly, not talking.
Men like Edward, she thought angrily, were like loose cannons, spraying their loathsome opinions all over the field, heedless of whom they hit, whom they disgusted. No one held them to account.
But she was also angry at herself. She had broken all the rules by raising this dangerous subject, challenging Edward’s views. What would she accomplish, fighting like a child at the dinner table? Nothing. And what had she expected, bringing up gun control to a rich old man who loved to shoot? What had she expected him to be? A liberal pacifist, like her father?
She was angry at herself and at Edward, and beneath that was the sense of something else, some other emotion, rising within her. Whatever had been gathering itself, all week, was imminent. She had thought she had escaped when she got back to the lodge, but she found now it was still there, waiting for this final dark evening to fill slowly inside her. Now it was beginning to move, rising and expanding without her permission, taking over.
“No,” said Edward, “let me tell you.” He smiled again, ready to forgive her if she behaved. “I lived in Caracas. I know those people. Latinos are lazy and deceitful. They have no idea of fiscal responsibility, for example.”
Up and down the long table, glittering with silver, glinting with crystal, the others were deep in agreeable conversation. They were interesting each other. Across the table, Edward’s wife, Nina, sat next to Tim. Nina was small and neat, her short blondish hair in stiff whorls. She had a pleasant, doggy face, with a pointed nose and bright dark eyes. She and Tim were smiling, and as Anna watched, Tim leaned back to laugh comfortably. Nina, feeling Edward’s eye on her, looked over and smiled at him.
Edward set his knife and fork down on his plate and went on. “When I was in Caracas,” he said, “I worked in a beautiful brand-new office building. Clean, dazzling white. And you want to know something?” He paused, but Anna refused to commit herself. “By noon of every day,” said Edward. He paused again and lifted his index finger authoritatively. “By noon of every day those bathrooms were filthy. Filthy,” he repeated with satisfaction. He nodded, looking at Anna. “It’s their culture. They don’t care about the same things that we do: morality, cleanliness, order. You have to go to the Nordic peoples for those things.”
It was too much. “Oh, I see,” said Anna, nodding. “You think dirty bathrooms are worse than Hitler? Dirty bathrooms are worse than the Holocaust? I have to say I disagree with you.”
Edward’s face changed again, closing down completely. Anna had broken the rules again, this time unforgivably. She had been hostile and challenging; she had directly attacked him. He faced her, drawing his fine white eyebrows together. His eyes were tightly pouched with anger.
“Why don’t you talk to the person on your other side,” Edward said roughly, his own manners now gone. “You don’t seem to want to have a conversation with me. I think you’ll do better on that side.” He turned away from her, his head high. He drank aggrievedly from his wineglass.
Furious and mortified—Edward had now broken the rules as well—Anna turned away from him. The man on her other side, of course, was deep in conversation with the woman on his left. Anna was spurned, wallflowered, alone and silent among the brisk and animated voices. The kitchen girls glanced curiously at her as they passed. Tim looked up and caught her eye. He raised an eyebrow interrogatively at her and she smiled fiercely. Nina looked up too, sensing something. Edward, like Anna, was sitting stony-faced, staring across the table. Nina, automatically solicitous of her elderly husband, mouthed at him, “Cover up.” She mimed pulling a scarf closely around her own throat; she smiled, and went back to Tim.
Anna looked back at Edward, who had spurned her so publicly. Humiliated, she let herself hate him. He was chewing grimly, staring straight ahead, revealing his chilly handsome profile, his long, distinguished nose. The plump little hammock of flesh beneath his chin, the hoary crumpled ear, a tiny spray of white hair at its core. From this close, Anna could see the intricate webbing on his pink cheeks, the ancient delta of small rosy veins. His old skin was clean, soft, used, like kid gloves. His neat white hair was thin, she could now see; it was only a fragile veil over his spotted scalp. And his skull stood out beneath his skin. The bones were clean and visible: year by year, the flesh had been leached away by age. His dry pink hand, the fingers shrunken, shook as he picked up his wineglass.
Anna sat, burning with shame, filled with anger. And whatever was stirring inside her rose to meet her shame and anger: she felt in full spate, as though something she could not control was taking over. Struggling for control, she stared furiously at Edward’s long, jagged profile. She found another image intruding, overlaying Edward’s, like double vision.
Another twinning, transparent world was set confusingly on the one she saw. The vivid shape of her father’s profile, the rosy skin of her father’s cheek, seemed like an afterimage, an echo of Edward’s, haunting his face. The querulous voice, the frail, translucent skin, the clean, scrubbed old man’s look, pink and tender-skinned as an infant: the more she looked, the less Anna could quit herself of this other presence. Edward’s raised forefinger, rigid, tyrannical, as though he quoted God. The implacable blue stare, like the fanatical sheepdog’s.
In the hospital, panting, her blood pounding in her ears, her face now slick with sweat, Anna had paused at the nurses’ station to ask for her father’s room. At his name, the nurse’s round pasty face changed: a crumple of concern appeared between the brows, the skin around the eyes tightened, and the mouth compressed. Anna did not want to see this. She wanted to shout, Just the room number, don’t tell me anything more. That was all she wanted to know, only the room number. But the nurse’s face had changed, and she had seen it.
“Which room number?” Anna repeated, angry. The nurse, inside the square well of the station, had looked across it for help, but the other nurse was on the phone.
“What number?” Anna asked again, now loud and accusatory, as though she might bully things into being better.
“Five seventy-two,” the nurse said, looking at a chart. She picked up a clipboard and headed for the gate to let herself out and come with Anna, but Anna, desperate to escape the nurse and whatever dreadful knowledge she now held, went on alone.
In her father’s room she found what the nurse’
s face had warned her of: the end of everything. The end of all her anger, all her strong, pulsing indignation, the urgency of her run. This, what she saw there, was the whole and only point of the blood pounding in her ears, the tears now rising endlessly up in her eyes. It was the end of that long, vital cord she had thought would connect her to her father forever. Anna had thought she had the rest of her life to make up their quarrel, but she had only had the rest of his.
On the bed lay her father, an old man gone. Only his body was left. His beautiful white hair, now limp and thin, was ruffled. The skull was now strong; the buried bone had risen like a boulder through earth; it had outlasted the flesh. The fold of immaculate white skin along her father’s eyelid, the pale lashes fretted modestly against the withered cheek: each detail of his body seemed now miraculous and heartbreaking, like those of a newborn.
Anna put up her hand to stroke her father’s head, a gesture unthinkable while he had been alive. His temple was cool, hard against her fingertips. The pale skin had a bluish cast, like modeling clay. The long hollow of his cheek was slack and terrible. He was gone. Anna looked up at the room with its pale green walls, the visitor’s chair where she had never sat. The glazed gray eye of the television hung huge and bulbous in a corner. Angled toward her father’s face, poised, it waited for him to summon up its gaudy blare. This would never happen. Her father was gone.
If she had known, if she had known, she could have called him. If she had called, even yesterday morning, she could have prevented this terrible moment. She could have called him to say things to him, things that were now clear in her mind, so clear she could not imagine that they had not been said. They rang now in her head. She had not said them, had not called him. She could have called her father at any time, to apologize, to end their quarrel, and she had not. She had let him die unforgiven, her heart still set hard against him. What she had thought she’d felt for him was rage, but she was wrong. There was no rage left, she now knew, only something else, much stronger.
Asking for Love Page 19