True Enough

by Stephen McCauley

  Love was a strange, exhausting bit of human business. Based on the evidence of literature, torch songs, and the tattered fragments of his own experience, Desmond had come to the conclusion that all the beauty and wonder of the thing was wrapped up in the longing for it and the heartbreak after its demise. You couldn’t say the same about much else in life. The pleasures of chocolate, coffee, and gambling, for example, were in the tasting and the doing.

  The song was building to its climax, the orchestra swelling in the background. But instead of ending with the display of lung power you might expect, Anderton surprised the listener—here was her genius—by singing the final lines with a wistful, dissipated whisper. “I’m waiting for the man I love.” It was enough to make you weep, assuming you’d had a few drinks and were melancholy with loneliness and longing instead of happily partnered off.

  Desmond got up and shut off the record player. Russell was lying on the red velvet sofa in the living room, his head on one arm, his bare feet sunk into one of the cushions. His eyeglasses were resting on his forehead, and he had a book, a massive history of the Middle Ages he’d been reading for several days, spread open on his stomach. Russell Abrams came from a family of fire-breathing academics: an economist father who spent half his life delivering lectures in countries Desmond had never heard of and a child psychologist mother who’d written an infamous book arguing that play was the construct of frivolous adults and a complete waste of time. They lived in the Berkeley hills where Russell and his sister had grown up. Russell had rebelled against their intellectual snobbery by moving to New York and teaching art to special needs children in the public school system. Four years ago, he’d retired from teaching so that he and a friend could open the secondhand shop on the Lower East Side, an even more hostile gesture to his parents. Desmond, who’d initially taken Russell’s anti-intellectual palaver at face value, had never escaped feeling betrayed by him for reading so eclectically and ravenously. All those tomes Russell foraged through on a weekly basis—dense volumes of history, art, and science, and last year all of Trollope—lay around the apartment like reminders of his own literary inadequacies. This was one of the challenges of being in a long-term relationship; sustaining necessary delusions about yourself when someone was always there to witness your limitations and exaggerations and malign you with the truth about yourself.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Russell said. “For your next book, you should write something that has a little more in it than a biography.”

  Desmond gave Russell’s body a gentle push and lay beside him, their noses practically touching. The air conditioner in the window opposite them was blowing a chilly breeze in the general vicinity of their legs. “What more is there than the story of a whole life, sweetheart?”

  “Less, for one thing. Less childhood and youth and old age, the whole dirge of time and the river. Lives are so unfocused and open to interpretation. I think you might do better with something clean and simple.”

  “For example?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A murder, that’s always good. You’ve got a background in law, so you’d be a natural.”

  Desmond was about to point out that this was basically criticism bordering on dismissal of the work he’d already done and a perhaps unconscious criticism of Desmond’s intellectual abilities. But since he was about to leave town, it didn’t seem worth the bother. He took Russell’s yellow glasses off his forehead and put them on the end table, then reached his hands around and cupped his ass. Imminent departure had increased Desmond’s libido, the way hunger is stoked by plans for a diet. Not that Desmond was necessarily planning a diet.

  With the record player turned off, they once again could hear the neighbor in an apartment behind them practicing the piano. In the past three years, Desmond and Russell had listened to this mystery person advance from scales and five-finger folk tunes to Chopin etudes and jazz standards. Today he was playing in such a stop-and-start fashion, Desmond couldn’t decipher a melodic line. Maybe more Gershwin. They called the enigmatic piano student Boris and had imagined an entire life for him, one which usually mirrored their own moods and emotions. “Boris sounds a little depressed,” Russell would say when he was feeling down. Desmond already missed Boris. The tangled muddle of Russell’s dark hair was crushed against the arm of the sofa. In the sunlight pouring in the window, he looked overheated and handsome. Someone should write a torch song about this, Desmond thought, letting go of Russell’s behind and running a hand through his hair, this fleeting moment of exquisite tenderness that flares up once in a while to interrupt the long periods of jealousy, restlessness, submerged resentment, and boredom.

  “If you hear of any worthwhile murders, keep me in mind. Are you devastated by the thought of me leaving?”

  “Yes.” He pressed his cheek against Desmond’s. “But I won’t give you the satisfaction of saying so.”

  “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either.” The truth was, Desmond probably would have made more of a fuss if Russell had been the one leaving; of the two of them, Russell was the more trusting and, despite being three years younger, was, in his own way, more mature. Lately, Desmond had begun to worry that more trust was basically the same thing as less interest.

  He slid his hands under Russell’s T-shirt and up along the taut damp skin of his back. Russell was thirty-six, and although the skin around his eyes had started to wrinkle, his body still had the compact tightness of a man who hadn’t yet bumped into the crisis of midlife. Aside from wearing his dark hair almost to his shoulders, Russell never displayed any vanity, which was, as far as Desmond was concerned, an indication of self-confidence about his looks that was the same thing as vanity. He had large brown eyes that were beautiful but nearsighted and made him look a good deal more vulnerable than he really was, and a narrow, dimpled chin. Desmond had his assets and he knew it, but he’d always felt awkwardly tall and skinny. Earlier in the summer when he and Russell were in a Wal-Mart in New Jersey looking for an air conditioner, someone had stopped him and said: “Excuse me, do you work here?” a comment that continued to echo in his brain like a reproach for a lack of physical grace and intellectual authority.

  “I hope you’re not trying to get something amorous going here,” Russell said. He held his arm behind Desmond’s head so he could read his watch. “We have to be at the party—at your party—in an hour.”

  “All the better.” After living together for five years, having limited time to fuck was an aphrodisiac, while long, uninterrupted hours lying naked in bed tended to produce conversations about Madeleine Albright. He moved his body against Russell’s. “We don’t live here,” he fantasized. “We’re guests in someone’s apartment, sleeping on their sofa, and they’ll be home in ten minutes.”

  Russell closed his eyes, a sign he was beginning to respond. A faint smile came to his lips as he adjusted the scenario to suit himself. “You’d better hurry up,” he said. “Your wife’s my best friend, and I don’t want her coming in and catching us.”

  Desmond kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his pants, feeling a mixture of relief, excitement, and jealousy at the thought that he was being written out of the movie now playing in Russell’s head.

  2.

  It had been planned as a going-away party for Desmond, but shortly after arriving at their friends’ apartment in Chelsea, Desmond sensed that something was wrong. They were met at the door by Velan, one of the two hosts. Velan and Peter had been a couple for sixteen years, far longer than almost anyone at this gathering had known either of them. Velan was the younger of the two men, an Indian beauty who had about him an aura of Dietrich-like haughty glamour, despite the thinning hair and little pouch of drooping chin. Like a lot of pretty boys who were still pretty but hadn’t been boys for at least twenty-five years, Velan had a sluggishly leering attitude, intended, Desmond assumed, to trick you into thinking you’d just made a pass at him. Over the years, Desmond had made a number of passes at him, not because he was attracted but because
it seemed like the polite thing to do. You wanted to be polite toward Velan, to court and appease him, because, like hollandaise sauce, he tended to curdle without warning.

  “Ah, the guest of honor,” Velan said languidly and then stood with his chin raised, waiting to be kissed. His black eyes were colder than usual, the first sign that something was amiss, although perhaps nothing more serious than an uncharacteristic bout of sobriety.

  “Sorry we’re a little late,” Desmond said. “I’ve been trying to get things organized for the move.” Aside from a few boxes of Important Books he’d been meaning to finish for a decade or more—The Making of Americans, The Man Without Qualities, Forever Amber, among others—he hadn’t started to pack yet, mostly out of consideration for Russell. Lovers and pets get anxious at the sight of suitcases, and Desmond was afraid that his own preparations either would provoke a spell of heartfelt whimpering (making him feel like a louse) or would not (making him feel unappreciated).

  “I’ll bet you two were hoping to make an ‘entrance.’ The guests of honor, all dressed up—sort of. Don’t apologize to me. It was Peter’s idea to have this.” Velan spit out his lover’s name as if it were a rancid peanut. “Russell’s looking flushed, Desmond. Is that the heat or did you do something to him in the cab?”

  “We took the subway,” Desmond said. “Where is Peter?”

  “Somewhere,” Velan said. “If you find him, don’t bother telling me.”

  As they were walking down the hallway, Russell yanked off his eyeglasses and polished them on his shirt. “What was all that about?”

  “Vintage Velan,” Desmond said, trying to shrug off his blunt disdain for the party. After all, it hadn’t been Desmond’s idea to have this party and he’d even tried to discourage Peter when he first brought it up. Desmond hated going-away parties, almost as much as he hated birthday parties; it was embarrassing to be applauded for leaving town for a few months or for having been born, as if these were great personal accomplishments. “You can’t pay too much attention to anything he says.”

  Velan was in charge of publicity for an intimidatingly trendy chain of Manhattan hotels. He drank too much, a prerequisite for his job, he maintained, and frequently made bitter, scathing comments you were supposed to appreciate as examples of his wit. It was Peter, a dour, portly lawyer, Desmond had originally befriended, but he and Velan had been together so long, it was impossible to think of either of them as entirely separate people.

  “Unfortunately,” Russell said, adjusting his glasses against his face, “you can’t ignore what he says either. Not when he’s wearing all that aftershave.”

  About thirty men and women, most of whom Desmond recognized, were crowded into the long, narrow living room, all holding glasses of wine and politely grabbing sticks of chicken satay from the waiter’s tray. There was background music set at an appropriately low volume—poor Billie Holiday, Desmond thought, whose art had cost her so much pain and so many painkillers, now reduced to aural wallpaper for these kinds of gatherings—and the massive air conditioner in the front window had taken the bite out of August’s most recent heat wave. It was after six, and the temperature outside was still hovering in the low nineties. Calm and cool though the apartment was, there was something slightly tentative in the way people were laughing and talking, as if a piece of bad news had started circulating moments before Desmond and Russell had arrived. There was a disappointingly controlled murmur when Desmond entered—guest of honor, indeed; the only thing worse than being undeservedly applauded was not being applauded at all—and only a few people raised a glass toward him and then stood apprehensively, waiting, it seemed, for the sound of the other shoe hitting the floor. Sybil Gale, a former teaching colleague from Fordham, rushed up to him and grabbed his arm.

  “I was afraid you weren’t going to show,” she said. “Hi, Russell.”

  In private, Sybil had let Desmond know she wasn’t especially fond of Russell, had even hinted that she found him shallow. Desmond had mounted a full defense of Russell, but Sybil’s admission had secretly thrilled him and had endeared her to him; everyone else, even old friends who should have known better, were so enamored of his charming lover, he often felt like a grumpy tag-along. He wanted his friends to accept his partner, but actually liking him was beyond the call of duty. Sybil’s loyalty to Desmond, more than any interests or attitudes they had in common, made her feel like one of his most intimate friends.

  “Is something going on here we should know about?” Russell asked.

  “Well, yes, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Sybil had spent her childhood in Rhodesia and spoke in a clipped, breathless way that made her, at times, sound indignant.

  “And the answer?” Desmond said.

  She took a drink from a recklessly wide wineglass and shrugged. “No one knows, but we’re all assuming the worst, even though we have no idea what that could be. Oh look, Russell,” she said, “someone over by the window is waving at you.”

  One of Desmond’s ex-boyfriends was beckoning Russell with his index finger. He was an attractive set designer with slicked-back blond hair who was always pawing at Russell—a cheap way of getting my attention, Desmond had convinced himself.

  “He must be upset you’re leaving,” Sybil said, watching Russell make his way through groups of friends tossing promises of dinner invitations in his wake, setting up Russell as a victim of Desmond’s ruthless abandonment. “One imagines him drifting aimlessly without you.”

  “Do you mean cruising?”

  “Interesting you leapt to that association, but no, I mean wandering, unsure how to spend his time, drifting.” And then, as if delivering the key to understanding a completely obscure sonnet, she said: “You’re his anchor.”

  It amazed Desmond that this kind of criticism of Russell, which he knew to be not only incorrect, but precisely incorrect, could still make him feel better about himself. Russell was eager, energetic, and so unfamiliar with aimlessness, he didn’t even recognize it in other people. Thank God. No doubt Sybil, who was dazzlingly astute and insightful about literature but always snatched at the most obvious conclusions when it came to flesh-and-blood people, was making assumptions based on the fact that Russell was a good four inches shorter than Desmond. As for the anchor comment, Desmond would take it as a compliment, even if anchor was just another way to describe a weight around your neck.

  “I’m only leaving for one semester,” Desmond said. “I’ll be buried in students and he’ll be buried in his work and then I’ll be home. He’ll barely know I’ve gone.”

  “Will you get some time to work on your book?”

  “I’m hoping to squeeze in a few minutes once or twice a week, but I probably won’t get even that.”

  Sybil nodded sympathetically and swirled her wine. She was a lean, fervid woman with pale eyebrows and pale thin hair she cut in a close-cropped style that made her look as if she were wearing a bathing cap. She had the sculpted beauty and adroitly undernourished body of an aging fashion model, but looking at the haircut and the pastel blue eye shadow (a signature of some kind), and an out-of season, nubby green pullover, you had to conclude that she objected to her own good looks on moral grounds. She’d been teaching in the English Department at Fordham for ten years, had been given tenure one month after an especially ugly divorce, and her devotion to her students was so unswerving it filled Desmond with a mixture of admiration, awe, and pity. She was an extraordinarily gifted and generous teacher, he thought, but surely she ought to have something better to do with her time. As a teacher, he always felt like a fraud in front of Sybil. He’d done a minimal amount of preparation for the two journalism courses he’d been hired to teach at Deerforth—he’d taught similar classes in and around Manhattan eight times—and had given serious consideration to passing out a trumped-up, dauntingly demanding syllabus the first class in the hopes of getting a handful of students to drop out. Pauline Anderton had spent her final days in a suburb of Boston, and Desmond was planning to arr
ange his schedule so he’d be able to spend the bulk of his time going over his notes and soaking up atmosphere.

  “A lot can happen in one semester,” Sybil said, but it wasn’t clear from her tone if she meant it hopefully or as a warning. “I told you to look up Thomas Miller, didn’t I?”

  “You did. I have it written down somewhere,” Desmond said.

  “I haven’t talked to him in years, but I always admired him in graduate school. I imagine he’d remember me. He was a big bore but terribly sweet, and he didn’t push himself on you the way most bores do. I don’t mind boring people as long as they’re not self-confident along with it. I heard he married a TV producer or something. I suppose that can’t be very significant in a town like Boston.”

  “I suppose not. I’ll look him up if I have the time. Maybe his wife can get me an insignificant job in TV.”

  Sybil lowered her blue eyelids as she sipped. “There’s a grim thought,” she said. “I think I’ll circulate for a few minutes and see if anyone knows what the problem is here.”