The Altruists

  The Alters slept on the plane and landed in the morning, heading first to the hotel for breakfast and check-in, then immediately to the National Gallery in an attempt to push past the jet lag and adjust to the local time. Each member of the family went in search of their own pleasures: Francine to the impressionists, Ethan to the Titians, Arthur to the Turners. Maggie spent her time in a hall of devotional paintings, transfixed by the gory depictions of Christ. The Alters’ exhaustion made them all delirious, defenseless, leaving the art to have its way with them. It was the best day they had in London, each Alter in a different room, humbled before their respective conceptions of genius, with the knowledge that an hour or two later they would reconvene at the museum café and share what they’d seen. Separation and reunion—they needed both. Not simply because their lives were better for the balance, the ability to be individuals and a unit also, but because knowledge of the eventual coming-together freed up their time apart, and because the coming-together was only bearable if they knew they would be able to separate again.

  “You can see Theseus’s ship way off in the distance,” Ethan said later, at the café. He shook his head in awe. “And the sky is so blue. I just—yeah.” He blew air through his lips.

  Francine smiled. “When you were little, you know, you used to love Greek myths.”

  “I did?”

  “Oh, absolutely. You practically begged me to read them to you! Night after night. Always the same book—I think it’s still at home. D’Aulaires’.”

  “And you ran around the house in a bedsheet for a week,” said Arthur, frowning at the menu. “What’s an ‘Americano’?”

  “Hm,” said Ethan. “I used to like myths.” He considered this. At sixteen years old, nothing interested Ethan more than himself, the iterations of personality that preceded this one. “Hm. I like that. I like that I used to like that.”

  “I want a regular coffee,” Arthur grumbled.

  “Maggie?” Francine said. “Are you okay? You seem quiet.”

  Maggie frowned. “Did the Jews kill Jesus?”

  Arthur snorted.

  “Maggie!” Francine said. “Where did you hear that?”

  She had heard it at school, months earlier, but the thought hadn’t struck her until she’d seen an altarpiece depicting the crucifixion that morning. Jesus, gaunt and pale, almost skeletal, wounds weeping blood, surrounded by betrayers and admirers. She knew that Jesus had been crucified, but the word meant little to her until she saw the nails depicted, driven through his hands and feet, and felt a phantom pain where her stigmata would’ve been.

  “Did they?” she asked again. “Did we?”

  “No,” said Francine. “We didn’t. The Romans did. Pontius Pilate.”

  Arthur laughed. “Yeah, it was the Romans. But we ratted him out. So, you know. We’re not killers, but we’re cowards.”

  “Don’t say that,” Francine scolded. She turned to Maggie. “The story that the Jews are responsible has been used to justify a lot of anti-Semitism.”

  Maggie’s stomach knotted. “I feel . . . not good,” she said.

  “Jewish guilt,” said Arthur.

  “What’s that?” asked Maggie.

  “It’s what makes us Jewish,” said Arthur.

  “Arthur.” Francine punched his arm. “That is not what makes us Jewish.”

  “What’s Catholic guilt?” asked Maggie.

  “Where did you hear that?” said Francine.

  Arthur rolled his eyes. “Catholic guilt is a knockoff. They stole it from us. Everybody’s gotta have guilt now. It’s not enough for the Jews to keep it for themselves! No, no, everybody’s gotta have their version. Everybody’s gotta feel bad in their special way.”

  “Catholic guilt comes from disappointing God,” said Ethan. “Jewish guilt is when you disappoint your parents.”

  The rest of the trip was a letdown. Arthur tortured the family the whole time, trying to squeeze every productive minute out of the day. Museums, Tower Bridge, Hyde Park. Fights outside the V&A. “It wouldn’t kill us,” said Francine, “to take a nap.” But the notion of sleeping away the expensive vacation was untenable. It rained.

  On their last drizzly night in London, while her family tried to hail a cab from the farce, Maggie let go of her mother’s hand and wandered toward the streaked, neon windows of a strange storefront. She approached and put her hand on the wet glass. She stood face-to-face with a mannequin head, bathing in red light. The head was covered in a black rubber mask. The nose extended forward into a snout. Two ears poked out from the top. The mouth was zippered shut.

  “Maggie!” Francine called after her. “Come back!” She scurried toward her daughter and took her hand, pulling her back to where Arthur and Ethan stood. “You scared me,” Francine said. “Don’t run off like that. And that place isn’t for kids.”

  “They sell married masks,” said Maggie.

  “What?”

  “Married masks. Like the ones those people wore when Daddy set the house on fire.”

  “I didn’t set it on fire,” Arthur said.

  “Which people?”

  Maggie stuck out her tongue and panted.

  Francine blushed. “Oh! Oh, Maggie . . . yes, well . . . not all married people wear those.”

  “They don’t?”

  Ethan laughed.

  “No, honey,” Francine said. “Not all.” She turned to Arthur, but he had wandered into the street, rain insinuating itself into his corduroy blazer as he chased down a hackney like a maniac.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ulrike Blau languished in a paddleboat. Hers was the craft that had swerved to avoid the Labrador who’d plunged into the basin.

  “Whoa! Look out!” her co-passenger said as displaced water sprinkled their faces.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I am fine.”

  She sat beside Greg Mod, a graduate student in the history department. He wasn’t one of her advisees, but Mod had sought her out with a question about his thesis anyway. He said he was free only on Saturdays, and when she explained that her office was locked on weekends, he’d suggested meeting at the park. But his question, it turned out, was administrative in nature and easily answered. “Great,” he said. “Well, now that we’ve taken care of that. Seems weird to turn around and go home, right? On such a nice day. Do you want to rent one of those boats?” Ulrike, wary of upsetting him—she’d heard many stories about disgruntled American students, the power they wielded over faculty; the petitions; the protests—accepted.

  “This is fun,” said Mod as the Lab swam past. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, how’d you end up at Danforth, anyway?” Mod was a dedicated student of European history with a Habsburg jaw. His eyebrows were always raised, or he’d been born with them too high on his face. His limited range of expression typically modulated between Surprise and Interest. Ulrike wasn’t sure, but she thought they were presently hovering somewhere around Interest.

  “Well, Greg”—she pronounced it grayg, with a long a, eliciting Surprise—“I have been looking for a long time for a place to settle in. For a place to work.”

  “And that’s here?”

  “It could be.”

  “Oh, that’s great. Great news.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Well, I thought—I mean—it would be great to spend more time with you. To learn from you, I mean. You’re brilliant, you know.” Mod turned, staring off at Art Hill. At that angle he was not entirely unhandsome. “Anyhow, I’m glad you’ll be sticking around.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, like I said, you’re brilliant, and a good lecturer. ‘The Politics of Leisure in Fourteenth-Century Court Life’ was a showstopper, and I know showstoppers. Did I tell you I’m from Branson? Branson, Missouri. Whole family is
. I know a good show when I see one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sure the grad students all have crushes on you.”

  “I am sure they do not.”

  “Don’t be modest! I know at least one who does.”

  “Who?”

  Mod blushed and pedaled faster, turning the little plastic boat.

  Ulrike was surprised at Mod’s forwardness. Compliments were scarce in her relationship with Arthur, and she enjoyed the attention. She wasn’t particularly attracted to Greg, but for two years now she’d felt seen by Arthur exclusively. She’d seen herself through his eyes. It was refreshing—flattering, even—to be admired by someone else.

  “I appreciate it, Greg. But I’m sorry. My type is more . . . older.”

  “Huh.” Mod scratched his large chin. “Why’s that?”

  “You will not want to know.”

  Mod stopped pedaling and looked her in the eyes. He put his hand on the plastic divider between their bucket seats. “I want to know.”

  Ulrike hesitated. “It involves a long and finally destructive affair with the father of my childhood friend.”

  “Go on.”

  She thought of Arthur, his possessiveness, his pettiness. “Men do not like when I tell this story. They are . . .” She searched for the word. “Intimidated by it. You do not want me to go on.”

  “I do.”

  “You do not.”

  “Please.”

  “Are you certain?”

  His brows bent back toward Interest. “Yes. Very much.”

  * * *

  • • •

  That evening, Arthur served baked salmon in the dining room. Maggie spent the meal staring at the photographs, her eyes panning back and forth between the young, cheery pictures of her father mounted on the wall and the sagging, red-faced man chewing loudly to her left. Time had had its way with him. Time, laced with whatever insidious chemicals leached from his glands, had changed him. She sat transfixed by the thirty-three-year gulf between the photos and her father’s chair. Was anyone else seeing this? If the gulf bothered Ethan at all, he was doing a good job concealing it.

  “Where were you guys this afternoon?” Maggie asked.

  “We went to a show,” said Arthur.

  “A show?”

  “Swan Lake.”

  Maggie turned to Ethan and mouthed, Ballet? He smiled and shrugged.

  “What are you teaching these days, Dad?” he asked.

  “‘Engineering’ Social Change,” he said. “And a special topics course for seniors.”

  “Only two?”

  “Only two.”

  “Is that normal? I feel like you used to have a much bigger load.”

  “The department is going through a transition.” Arthur cracked his knuckles. “It’s allowed me to pursue other areas of interest.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s not so much what I’m doing with the time, but that I have it in the first place.”

  Maggie tried to make eye contact with her brother, and draw his gaze to the wall behind him. But Ethan was chewing, looking up from his plate only to nod at Arthur, leaving Maggie in the gawky position of making faces at no one.

  “Last year they had me teach this one,” Arthur continued. He chewed as he spoke, little flecks of salmon strobing as he opened and closed his mouth. “Technical Writing for Non-Native English Speakers.” He snorted. “Who has the patience?”

  “Maggie,” Ethan said. “Weren’t you doing something like that? Not technical writing, obviously, but, you know. Working with ‘non-native speakers’?”

  “I . . . uh . . . ,” she said. Was no one going to address the photographs?

  “Weren’t you?” asked Ethan.

  “Yeah,” she managed to say.

  “Well,” said Arthur, “Good for you.” He addressed Maggie directly. “I mean it. Someone’s gotta help those people.”

  Ethan nodded. “Agreed.”

  “You don’t like salmon?” Arthur asked.

  “Vegetarian,” Maggie muttered.

  “Fish isn’t meat.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “What about you?” said Arthur, turning to his son. “How’s work?”

  Maggie coughed.

  “It’s . . . good,” Ethan said. “You know. The same.”

  “They should promote you. It’s about time. Shouldn’t they?” He looked at Maggie.

  “Um . . . yeah,” she smirked. “I hear he’s doing spectacularly. I think he should definitely ask for a promotion. He’s totally earned it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Ethan. “I’m pretty comfortable where I am right now.”

  “Nonsense!” Arthur said. “It’s decided. Ethan, as soon as you get home, you march right into your supervisor’s office and ask—no, demand—some kind of promotion. A raise. You should always take what you’ve earned.” He forked the fish into his mouth. “That’s a lesson I’ve always taught the both of you.”

  FOURTEEN

  For the self-conscious and put-upon, weddings are doomed affairs. In this sense Francine and Arthur’s nuptials were a matter of fate. Everything that transpired, the bride told herself later, would have probably happened one way or the other.

  Initially she’d envisioned a small reception, surviving parents and a couple of friends, tasteful—where champagne flutes would clink and fizz throughout a low-lit ballroom. Toasts and dancing, a little jazz trio. Double bass, piano, drums.

  It was a matter of scale. She could not afford the kind of large, extravagant wedding that gave Arthur palpitations, but if you kept it small, and spent wisely, you could treat a select group of treasured persons to a special night. To this end she made an appointment at the Copley Plaza Hotel. Yes, she thought, walking through the gilded entryway they called Peacock Alley, beneath Empire chandeliers and coffered ceilings, grazing a cold marble column with her fingers—this feels right. This could be tastefully done.

  She asked about the rates. The hotel gave her a quote.

  Discounting the money that Messner had invested on her behalf, Francine could afford a Copley Plaza wedding for exactly two guests: Arthur, and herself.

  “You’re going to have to adjust your expectations,” he told her when she returned to their apartment that evening.

  “I know,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I know. I was stupid for thinking I could have all that.”

  “Hey,” he cooed. “I didn’t say ‘stupid.’”

  “The ballroom and the music and—I can’t believe I thought it would work.”

  “Obviously we’d never in a million years have a wedding like that. But I understand where you’re coming from.”

  “Do you?”

  “Absolutely. You’re not wrong to want it. But, you know. We also live in the world.”

  She shrugged his hand off her shoulder.

  “Call your mother,” he said. “Maybe she’ll help.”

  “I don’t want her help.”

  “I’d call mine, but—”

  “But she doesn’t have the resources.” Francine sighed. “I know.”

  Arthur’s father had died years earlier, while Arthur was in college. His mother lived alone back in Sharon ever since, toiling behind a desk for the town treasurer. The loss seemed far away now, but he tried to put himself in the mind of his fiancée, whose grief for her father was not even a year old. The empathy didn’t come easily. Their situations weren’t comparable. Unlike Arthur’s mother, Mrs. Klein had a financial cushion—the calculus textbook still sold reliably—that he imagined made her loneliness tolerable.

  “It’s the only thing I admire about my mother,” he conceded. “She supports herself. You don’t see that too often among widows. Excepting the underprivileged, who have no other choice . . .”

&nbs
p; “She’s an inspiration to us all.”

  “Do I detect a little bitterness there?”

  “Well, your implication, the subtext, is that my mother isn’t supporting herself. That she’s not worthy of your respect.”

  “Sometimes I forget I’m marrying a shrink. Look. Not everything has a subtext. Sometimes there’s only . . . text. I’ve seen your class notes, you know, lying around the apartment. ‘Possible framework: hermeneutics of suspicion?’ Sometimes I wonder if we’d get along better if you read me at the surface level. If you weren’t always in such a critical mood.”

  “I’m not a ‘shrink.’ And I know what you’re getting at. You’re saying that your mother, who does not approve of our marriage, by the way—”

  “What? She approves!”

  “She gave me the most half-assed congratulations, Arthur. And only after I called her. I basically had to beg for it.”

  “It’s not that she doesn’t approve of you. It’s that she doesn’t understand why we—why anyone—would get married. She and my father had a hard time. She assumes everyone will be as miserable as she was.”