The New Yorker Stories Part 31

He moves his face toward mine, and I think he's going to kiss me, but he only closes his eyes, puts his forehead against mine. "You know all my secrets," he whispers, "and when we're apart I feel like they've died inside you."

At dinner, we've all had too much to drink. I study Martin's face across the table and wonder what secrets he had in mind. That he's afraid of driving over bridges? Afraid of gas stoves? That he can't tell a Bordeaux from a Burgundy?

Barnes has explained, by drawing a picture on a napkin, how a triple-bypa.s.s operation is done. Audrey accidentally knocks over Barnes's gla.s.s, and the drawing of the heart blurs under the spilled water. Martin says, "That's a p.e.n.i.s, Doctor." Then he scribbles on my napkin, drips water on it, and says, "That is also a p.e.n.i.s." He is pretending to be taking a Rorschach test.

Barnes takes another napkin from the pile in the middle of the table and draws a p.e.n.i.s. "What's that?" he says to Martin.

"That's a mushroom," Martin says.

"You're quite astute," Barnes says. "I think you should go into medicine when you get over your crisis."

Martin wads up a napkin and drops it in the puddle running across the table from Barnes's napkin. "Did you ever have a crisis in your your life?" he says to him, mopping up. life?" he says to him, mopping up.

"Not that you observed. There were a few weeks when I thought I was going to be second in my cla.s.s in med school."

"Aren't you embarra.s.sed to be such an overachiever?" Martin says, shaking his head in amazement.

"I don't think about it one way or another. It was expected of me. When I was in high school, I got stropped by my old man for every grade that wasn't an A."

"Is that true?" Audrey says. "Your father beat you?"

"It's true," Barnes says. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me." He pours himself some more wine. "I can't stand pain," he says. "That's part of why I went into medicine. Because I think about it all the time anyway, and doing what I do I can be grateful every day that it's somebody else's suffering. When I was a resident, I'd go to see the patient after surgery and leave the room and puke. Nurses puke sometimes. You hardly ever see a doctor puke."

"Did you let anybody comfort you then?" Audrey says. "You don't let anybody comfort you now."

"I don't know if that's true," Barnes says. He takes a drink of wine, raising the gla.s.s with such composure that I wouldn't know he was drunk if he wasn't looking into the goblet at the same time he was drinking. He puts the gla.s.s back on the table. "It's easier for me to talk to men," he says. "Men will only go so far, and women are so single-minded about soothing you. I've always thought that once I started letting down I might lose my energy permanently. Stay here and float in a swimming pool all day. Read. Drink. Not keep going."

"Barnes," Audrey says, "this is awful." She pushes her bangs back with one hand.

"Christ," Barnes says, leaning over and taking her hand from her face. "I sound like some character out of D. H. Lawrence. I don't know what I'm talking about." He gets up. "I'm going to get the other pizza out of the oven."

On the way into the kitchen, he hits his leg on the coffee table. Geodes rattle on the gla.s.s tabletop. On the table, in a wicker tray, there are blue stones, polished amethysts, inky-black pebbles from a stream, marbles with clouds of color like smoke trapped inside. The house is full of things to touch-silk flowers you have to put a finger on to see if they're real, snow domes to shake, Audrey's tarot cards. Audrey is looking at Martin now with the same bewildered look that she gets when she lays out the tarot cards and studies them. Martin takes her hand. He is still holding her hand when Barnes comes back, and only lets go when Barnes begins to lower the pizza to the center of the table.

"I'm sorry," Barnes says. "It's not a good time to be talking about my problems, is it?"

"Why not?" Martin says. "Everybody's been their usual witty and clever self all weekend. It's all right to talk about real things."

"Well, I don't want to make a fool of myself anymore," Barnes says, cutting the pizza into squares. "Why don't you talk about what it's like to have lived with Lynn for so many years and then suddenly she's famous." Barnes puts a piece of pizza on my plate. He serves a piece to Martin. Audrey holds her fingers above her plate. For a drunken minute, I don't realize she's saying she doesn't want more food-her fingers are hovering lightly, the way they do when she picks up a tarot card.

"Last Monday I put in an all-nighter," Barnes says to me. "Matty Klein was with me. We were riding down Park Avenue afterwards, and your song came on the radio. We were both so amazed. Not at what we'd just pulled off in five hours of surgery but that there we were in the back of a cab with the sun coming up and you were singing on the radio. I'm still used to the way you were singing with Audrey in the kitchen a while ago-the way you just sing, and she sings along. Then I realized in the cab that that wasn't private anymore." He takes another drink of wine. "Am I making any sense?" he says.

"It makes perfect sense," Martin says. "Try to explain that to her."

"It's not private," I say. "Other things are private, but that's just me singing a song."

Barnes pushes his chair back from the table. "I'll tell you what I never get over," he says. "That I can take my hands out of somebody's body, wash them, get in a cab, go home, and hardly wait to get into bed with Audrey to touch her, because that's so mysterious. In spite of what I do, I haven't found out anything."

"Is this leading up to your saying again that you don't know why I've had two miscarriages?" Audrey says.

"No, I wasn't thinking about that at all," Barnes says.

"I'll tell you what I I thought it was about," Martin says. " thought it was about," Martin says. "I thought that Barnes wanted me to tell everybody why I've freaked out now that Lynn's famous. It doesn't seem very... timely of me to be pulling out now." thought that Barnes wanted me to tell everybody why I've freaked out now that Lynn's famous. It doesn't seem very... timely of me to be pulling out now."

"When did I say that what I wanted was to be famous?" I say.

"I can't do it," Audrey says. "It's too hard to pretend to be involved in what other people are talking about when all I can think about are the miscarriages."

She is the first to cry, though any of us might have been.

Bruno, the dog, has shifting loyalties. Because Martin threw the football for him after dinner, he has settled by our bed in the living room. His sleep is deep, and fitful: paws flapping, hard breaths, a tiny, high-pitched yelp once as he exhales. Martin says that he is having running dreams. I close my eyes and try to imagine Bruno's dream, but I end up thinking about all the things he probably doesn't dream about: the blue sky, or the hardness of the field when the ground gets cold. Or, if he noticed those things, they wouldn't seem sad.

"If I loved somebody else, would that make it easier?" Martin says.

"Do you?" I say.

"No. I've thought that that would be a way out, though. That way you could think I was just somebody you'd misjudged."

"Everybody's changing so suddenly," I say. "Do you realize that? All of a sudden Barnes wants to open up to us, and you want to be left alone, and Audrey wants to forget about the life she had in the city and live in this quiet place and have children."

"What about you?" he says.

"Would it make sense to you that I've stopped crying and feeling panicky because I'm in love with somebody else?"

"I'll bet that's true," he says. I feel him stroking the dog. This is what he does to try to quiet him without waking him up-gently rubbing his side with his foot. "Is it true?" he says.

"No. I'd like to hurt you by having it be true, though."

He reaches for the quilt folded at the foot of the bed and pulls it over the blanket.

"That isn't like you," he says.

He stops stroking the dog and turns toward me. "I feel so locked in," he says. "I feel like we've got to come out here every weekend. I feel it's inevitable that there's a 'we.' I feel guilty for feeling bad, because Barnes's father beat him up, and my sister lost two babies, and you've been putting it all on the line, and I don't feel like I'm keeping up with you. You've all got more energy than I do."

"Martin-Barnes was dead-drunk, and Audrey was in tears, and before it was midnight I had to admit I was exhausted and go to bed."

"That's not what I mean," he says. "You don't understand what I mean."

We are silent, and I can hear the house moving in the wind. Barnes hasn't put up the storm windows yet. Air leaks in around the windows. I let Martin put his arm around me for the warmth, and I slide lower in the bed so that my shoulders are under the blanket and quilt.

"What I meant is that I'm not ent.i.tled to this," Martin says. "With what he goes through at the hospital, he's ent.i.tled to get blasted on Sat.u.r.day night. She's got every right to cry. Your head's full of music all the time, and that wears you down, even if you aren't writing or playing." He whispers, even more quietly, "What did you think when he said that about his father beating him?"

"I wasn't listening to him any more than you two were. You know me. You know I'm always looking for a reason why it was all right that my father died when I was five. I was thinking maybe it would have turned out awful if he had lived. Maybe I would have hated him for something."

Martin moves his head closer to mine. "Let me go," he says, "and I'm going to be as unmovable as that balloon in the tree."

Bruno whimpers in his sleep, and Martin moves his foot up and down Bruno's body, half to soothe himself, half to soothe the dog.

I didn't know my father was dying. I knew that something was wrong, but I didn't know what dying was. I've always known simple things: how to read the letter a stranger hands me and nod, how to do someone a favor when they don't have my strength. I remember that my father was bending over-stooped with pain, I now realize-and that he was winter-pale, though he died before cold weather came. I remember standing with him in a room that seemed immense to me at the time, in sunlight as intense as the explosion from a flashbulb. If someone had taken that photograph, it would have been a picture of a little girl and her father about to go on a walk. I held my hands out to him, and he pushed the fingers of the gloves tightly down each of my fingers, patiently, pretending to have all the time in the world, saying, "This is the way we get ready for winter."

Afloat

Annie brings a hand-delivered letter to her father. They stand together on the deck that extends far over the gra.s.sy lawn that slopes to the lake, and he reads and she looks off at the water. When she was a little girl she would stand on the metal table pushed to the front of the deck and read the letters aloud to her father. If he sat, she sat. Later, she read them over his shoulder. Now she is sixteen, and she gives him the letter and stares at the trees or the water or the boat bobbing at the end of the dock. It has probably never occurred to her that she does not have to be there when he reads them.

Dear Jerome,Last week the bottom fell out of the birdhouse you hung in the tree the summer Annie was three. Or something gnawed at it and the bottom came out. I don't know. I put the wood under one of the big clay pots full of pansies, just to keep it for old times' sake. (I've given up the fountain pen for a felt-tip. I'm really not a romantic.) I send to you for a month our daughter. She still wears bangs, to cover that little nick in her forehead from the time she fell out of the swing. The swing survived until last summer when-or maybe I told you in last year's letter-Marcy Smith came by with her "friend" Hamilton, and they were so taken by it that I gave it to them, leaving the ropes dangling. I mean that I gave them the old green swing seat, with the decals of roses even uglier than the scraggly ones we grew. Tell her to pull her bangs back and show the world her beautiful widow's peak. She now drinks spritzers. For the first two weeks she's gone I'll be in Ogunquit with Zack. He is younger than you, but no one will ever duplicate the effect of your slow smile. Have a good summer together. I will be thinking of you at unexpected times (unexpected to me, of course).Love,Anita

He hands the letter on to me, and then pours club soda and Chablis into a tall gla.s.s for Annie and fills his own gla.s.s with wine alone. He hesitates while I read, and I know he's wondering whether the letter will disturb me-whether I'll want club soda or wine. "Soda," I say. Jerome and Anita have been divorced for ten years.

In these first few days of Annie's visit, things aren't going very well. My friends think that it's just about everybody's summer story. Rachel's summers are spent with her ex-husband, and with his daughter by his second marriage, the daughter's boyfriend, and the boyfriend's best friend. The golden retriever isn't there this summer, because last summer he drowned. No one knows how. Jean is letting her optometrist, with whom she once had an affair, stay in her house in the Hamptons on weekends. She stays in town, because she is in love with a chef. Hazel's the exception. She teaches summer school, and when it ends she and her husband and their son go to Block Island for two weeks, to the house they always rent. Her husband has his job back, after a year in A.A. I study her life and wonder how it works. Of the three best friends I have, she blushes the most easily, is the worst dressed, is the least politically informed, and prefers AM rock stations to FM cla.s.sical music. Our common denominator is that none of us was married in a church and all of us worried about the results of the blood test we had before we could get a marriage license. But there are so many differences. Say their names to me and what comes to mind is that Rachel cried when she heard Dylan's Self Portrait Self Portrait alb.u.m, because, to her, that meant that everything was over; Jean fought off a man in a supermarket parking lot who was intent on raping her, and still has nightmares about the arugula she was going to the store to get; Hazel can recite Yeats's "The Circus Animals' Desertion" and bring tears to your eyes. alb.u.m, because, to her, that meant that everything was over; Jean fought off a man in a supermarket parking lot who was intent on raping her, and still has nightmares about the arugula she was going to the store to get; Hazel can recite Yeats's "The Circus Animals' Desertion" and bring tears to your eyes.

Sitting on the deck, I try to explain to Annie that there should should be solidarity between women, but that when you look for a common bond you're really looking for a common denominator, and you can't do that with women. Annie puts down be solidarity between women, but that when you look for a common bond you're really looking for a common denominator, and you can't do that with women. Annie puts down My Mother/My Self My Mother/My Self and looks out at the water. and looks out at the water.

Jerome and I, wondering when she will ever want to swim, go about our days as usual. She's gone biking with him, so there's no hostility. She has always sat at the foot of the bed while Jerome was showering at night and talked nonsense with me while she twisted the ends of her hair, and she still does. At her age, it isn't important that she's not in love, and she was once before anyway. When she pours for herself, it's sixty-forty white wine and club soda. Annie-the baby pushed in a swing. The bottom fell out of the birdhouse. Anita really knows how to hit below the belt.

Jerome is sulky at the end of the week, floating in the Whaler.

"Do you ever think that Anita's thinking of you?" I ask.

"Telepathy, you mean?" he says. He has a good tan. A scab by his elbow. Somehow, he's hurt himself. His wet hair is drying in curly strands. He hasn't had a haircut since we came to the summer house.

"No. Do you ever wonder if she just might be thinking about you?"

"I don't think about her," he says.

"You read the letter Annie brings you every year."

"I'm curious."

"Just curious for that one brief minute?"

Yes, he nods. "Notice that I'm always the one that opens the junk mail, too," he says.

According to Jerome, he and Anita gradually drifted apart. Or, at times when he blames himself, he says it's because he was still a child when he married her. He married her the week of his twentieth birthday. He says that his childhood wounds still weren't healed; Anita was Mama, she was the person he always felt he had to prove himself to-the stuff any psychiatrist will run down for you, he says now, trailing his hand in the water. "It's like there was a time in your life when you believed in paste," he says. "Think how embarra.s.sed you'd be to go buy paste today. Now it's rubber cement. Or at least Elmer's glue. When I was young I just didn't know things."

I never had any doubt when things ended with my first husband. We knew things were wrong; we were going to a counselor and either biting our tongues or arguing because we'd loosened them with too much alcohol, trying to pretend that it didn't matter that I couldn't have a baby. One weekend Dan and I went to Saratoga, early in the spring, to visit friends. It was all a little too sun-dappled. Too House Beautiful House Beautiful, the way the sun, in the early morning, shone through the lace curtains and paled the walls to polka dots of light. The redwood picnic table on the stone-covered patio was as bright in the sunlight as if it had been waxed. We were drinking iced tea, all four of us out in the yard early in the morning, amazed at what a perfect day it was, how fast the garden was growing, how huge the heads of the peonies were. Then some people stopped by, with their little girl-people new to Saratoga, who really had no friends there yet. The little girl was named Alison, and she took a liking to Dan-came up to him without hesitation, the way a puppy that's been chastised will instantly choose someone in the room to cower by or a bee will zero in on one member of a group. She came innocently, the way a child would come, fascinated by... by his curly hair? The way the sunlight reflected off the rims of his gla.s.ses? The wedding ring on his hand as he rested his arm on the picnic table? And then, as the rest of us talked there was a squealing game, with the child suddenly climbing from the ground to his lap, some whispering, some laughing, and then the child, held around her middle, raised above his head, parallel to the ground. The game went on and on with cries of "Again!" and "Higher!" until the child was shrill and Dan complained of numb arms, and for a second I looked away from the conversation the rest of us were having and I saw her raised above him, smiling down, and Dan both frowning and amused-that little smile at the edge of his lips-and the child's mouth, wide with delight, her long blond hair flopped forward. He was keeping her raised off the ground, and she was hoping that it would never end, and in that second I knew that for Dan and me it was over.

We took a big bunch of pink peonies back to the city with us, stuck in a gla.s.s jar with water in the bottom that I held wedged between my feet. I had on a skirt, and the flowers flopped as we went over the b.u.mpy road and the sensation I felt was amazing: it wasn't a tickle, but a pain. When he stopped for gas I went into the bathroom and cried and washed my face and dried it on one of those brown paper towels that smell more strongly than any perfume. I combed my hair. When I was sure I looked fine I came back to the car and sat down, putting one foot on each side of the jar. He started to drive out of the gas station, and then he just drifted to a stop. It was still sunny. Late afternoon. We sat there with the sun heating us and other cars pulling around our car, and he said, "You are impossible. You are so emotional. After a perfect day, what have you been crying about?" Then there were tears, and since I said nothing, eventually he started to drive: out into the merging lane, then onto the highway, speeding all the way back to New York in silence. It was already over. The only other thing I remember about that day is that down by Thirty-fourth Street we saw the same man who had been there the week before, selling roses guaranteed to smell sweet and to be everlasting. There he was, in the same place, his roses on a stand behind him.

We swim, and gradually work our way back to the gunwale of the Whaler: six hands, white-knuckled, holding the rim. I slide along, hand over hand, then move so that my body touches Jerome's from behind. With my arms around his chest, I kiss his neck. He turns and smiles and kisses me. Then I kick away and go to where Annie is holding on to the boat, her cheek on her hands, staring at her father. I swim up to her, push her wet bangs to one side, and kiss her forehead. She looks aggravated, and turns her head away. Just as quickly, she turns it back. "Am I interrupting you two getting it on out here?" she says.

"I kissed both of you," I say, between them again, feeling the weightlessness of my legs dangling as I hold on.

She continues to stare at me. "Girls kissing girls is so dumb," she says. "It's like the world's full of stupid hostesses who graduated from Sweet Briar."

Jerome looks at her silently for a long time.

"I guess your mother's not very demonstrative," he says.

"Were you ever?" she says. "Did you love Anita when you had me?"

"Of course I did," he says. "Didn't you know that?"

"It doesn't matter what I know," she says, as angry and petulant as a child. "How come you don't feed me birdseed?" she says. "How come you don't feed the carrier pigeon?"

He pauses until he understands what she is talking about. "The letters just go one way," he says.

"Do you have too much dignity dignity to answer them, or is it too risky to reveal anything?" to answer them, or is it too risky to reveal anything?"

"Honey," he says, lowering his voice, "I don't have anything to say."

"That you loved her and now you don't?" she says. "That's what isn't worth saying?"

He's brought his knees up to his chin. The scab by his elbow is pale when he clasps his arm around his knees.

"Well, I think that's bulls.h.i.t," she says. She looks at me. "And I think you're bulls.h.i.t, too. You don't care about the bond between women. You just care about hanging on to him. When you kissed me, it was patronizing."

There are tears now. Tears that are ironic, because there is so much water everywhere. Today she's angry and alone, and I float between them knowing exactly how each one feels and, like the little girl Alison suspended above Dan's head, knowing that desire that can be more overwhelming than love-the desire, for one brief minute, simply to get off the earth.

Girl Talk

Barbara is in her chaise. Something is wrong with the pool-everything is wrong with the pool-so it has not been filled with water. The green-painted bottom is speckled with goldenrod and geranium petals. The neighbor's cat sits licking a paw under the shade of the little mimosa tree planted in one of the raised boxes at one corner of the pool.

"Take a picture of that," Barbara says, putting her hand on top of her husband Sven's wrist. He is her fourth husband. They have been married for two years. She speaks to him exactly the way she spoke to her third husband. "Take a picture of a kitty licking its paw, Sven."

"I don't have my camera," he says.

"You usually always have it with you," she says. She lights an Indonesian cigarette-a kretek kretek-waves out the match and drops it in a little green dish full of cherry pits. She turns to me and says, "If he'd had his camera last Friday, he could have photographed the car that hit the what-do-you-call-it-the concrete thing that goes down the middle of the highway. They were washing up the blood."

Sven gets up. He slips into his white thongs and flaps down the flagstone walk to the kitchen. He goes in and closes the door.

"How is your job, Oliver?" Barbara asks. Oliver is Barbara's son, but she hardly ever sees him.

"Air-conditioned," Oliver says. "They've finally got the air-conditioning up to a decent level in the building this summer."

"How is your your job?" Barbara says to me. job?" Barbara says to me.

I look at her, at Oliver.

"What job are you thinking of, Mother?" he says.