Sex and Death in the American Novel (39 page)

I floated for some time, letting the lapping of the water against the outside of the canoe pull a peaceful blanket over me. Was it that simple? As soon as I'd decided it was okay to let go of my anger, I was able to let go of
Tristan as well. I remembered the good things my father had done, the lessons he had tried to teach me. So what if he said women didn't write anything serious? He dedicated all of his books to the women in his life. Was it maybe okay for him to be a short-sighted old man and me an impetuous and willful daughter? No lightning bolt of understanding had so far come down to make anything more clear, all I had was a glimmer of understanding and empty time to fill.

Beyond the revelation that I didn't know much, but that I had been wrong, I felt the same. Just me, only lighter.

But there wasn't just me. Jasper was here too. His memory, his longing. His desires. What had he said, “When can we come back?” I wanted him there more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. The need was actually a weight on my shoulders, a throbbing sensation that got stronger every time I thought about calling. Imagining his voice made my stomach cramp. He had never left, I'd pushed him away. Hurled my hurt, not his to bear, and forced him from my life. On the phone he had been angry, but he hadn't given up. Now was the time to ask for forgiveness.

I eyed the opposite side of the lake, imagined I was as close to the middle as I could get. Galaxies twinkled behind the indigo canvas above my head. Moonlight reflected on the water, reminding me that it was late here; in New York it would be the middle of the night.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Jasper's number.

After a few moments of faint ringing, Jasper's voice came on. “Vivi? Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

The need in his voice gave me a charge until the next sounds. I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or someone else in the room and my stomach dropped when he said, “Just a second.”

Movement and there it was, a faint female voice, a door closing and his voice came clearer.

Anger burned heavy in my chest, radiating to my arms, making my hands feel cold. “I was not expecting that. I'm not sure what I was thinking.”

“Vivi. You told me we were done. I—”

“Shit Jasper,” I said, hating the need in my voice. “Don't worry about it. Actually this affirms my faith in you somehow,” I said, trying to sound brave, but wanting to cry.

“Vivi, please. Tell me what's wrong.”

I gulped in the cold night air, moving my eyes around the serenity that was my family's lake. My lake. “I miss you.”

“You sound drunk…you really miss me?”

“Yes.” Silence on his end and I wiped my nose with the underside of my wrist. “I read his letters, his books, again. I read
Staccato
, you know…he
dedicated it to me.
To me!”
My words echoed off the silence of the lake like some maniacal spirit screaming back at me.

“Vivi—”

“I can't believe how wrong I was. And you knew!” Again the crazy voice like mine, but it didn't seem possible that I could sound this scary.

“Are you calling to tell me I was right…because if you—”

“No. I'm calling to thank you. If you hadn't been honest with me…if you hadn't told me the truth, I would never have gotten to know him this way. I was so wrong and I was such a bitch. And none of it was your fault. And I wanted to tell you that. Nothing was your fault.”

“Can I come home?”

Home.

I laughed. “Yes…please.”

A pause. “Give me until tomorrow night, okay?”

“I'm not at my apartment.”

He was quiet for a minute and said, “You're at the cabin?”

I made a noise in my throat as assent, wondering how this was going to look at his place. Just before he hung up, we let the silence hang too long. Normally it would have annoyed me, but this time I felt like I could have listened to him breathe forever. I finally pushed the button to hang up, and looked out over the water again. Again, all was silent. I was sad and grateful at the same time that phone calls were possible out here. My father said this was his place to get away from all the stupid people, and their stupid technology, commercialism and noise. Not anymore. I thought about all the stupid Facebook posts I could have put up just then.

Status update:
Wondering what my boyfriend just stuck his dick in.
I imagined a young girl, big brown eyes and rosy cheeks, polite, someone's assistant perhaps. Who knew what he was capable of after so much time with me. Maybe he got a taste for the rush of conquest. I had corrupted him.

Comment:
Enjoying the outdoor air.
Like.

Status update:
Fucking annoyed with myself for being such a bitch.
Also true. It was possible, after all, for him to move on. Poor Jasper had to extricate himself from something he thought he could engage in, not expecting me to call mid thrust. God.

It took me an hour to make it back to the cabin. At intervals of maybe ten minutes I rowed as hard as I could, each time wearing out more and more. My limbs grew heavier and my mind began to harden with awful thoughts, of falling over, my body washing up on the shore of some neighbor's cabin, just like my brother, another tragedy in the Post family. My father's illustrious memory overshadowed by the deaths of both of his children.

Each time I looked toward the light I felt I was closer, though the distance seemed the same. After a time, I quit thinking about what I saw or
believed I saw ahead of me. I forged on and closed my eyes. Soon came the caress of the first slimy tentacles of plants beneath the canoe; minutes later I heard the scratch of tiny pebbles against the bottom. I staggered into the icy water, and being unable to pull the canoe up on shore, I fell in. I struggled in the freezing water as the boat began to slide back into the lake. I flung myself at the canoe, barely grasping the rope that had been tied to the end, crashing my wrist against the metal edge. The pebbles and sharp edges of rocks tore the bottoms of my feet, banged against my ankles and my knees.

“Please,” I said, as if the canoe would listen and decide to come back of its own accord. Icy water splashed into my eyes, mixing with tears of frustration, and my inability to get a grip on the canoe or even the rope was one more piece of evidence that I couldn't do anything right.

A sound on the shore behind me made me turn. The first thing I saw were the heavy work boots, next the soft denim fabric of his jeans, and in the moonlight, his hair, long like the braves wore when women still ruled the world. He took me in his thick thermal-clad arms and dragged me the rest of the way out.

He laughed softly and the light from inside the cabin revealed clean silky skin and generous dark eyes. “What the fuck are you doing, Slug?”

I woke the next morning wrapped in the beach towel several yards from the cabin. I could make out the jutting beams of the porch and the lighter wood of the rocker out front. I was afraid to move. I had never been so stiff; my limbs were like stone and tingled when I shifted even an inch. I pulled the towel around me tighter, shivering with the damp wetness against my neck. I could see the canoe floating a few yards from shore, the red paint contrasting with the deep green of the water, so dark out there it was basically black. I forced my hand to move and confirmed that I held the rope against my body.

The next memory was of Tristan, holding me, talking to me, listening in that way I missed so much. I wondered if it had been a hallucination. I didn't care. It was real enough for me. His presence had changed from one of guilt and longing and hollowness to one of amicable comfort. As I cast my eyes around I still felt his presence, and I knew that I would always feel this way where he was concerned.

The sun warmed me by degrees until I could stand and eventually walk with bare feet over sharp stones and sticky pine needles to the cool wooden steps of my cabin. My ankle was red and raw from where I'd banged it against a rock. I pulled the canoe in and dropped the rope and it landed with a soft sound among the dry needles. It was grey and bloated and slimy like a dead snake in the grass.

Once inside I closed and locked the door and turned toward the inside of the cabin, warming with the day's sun. The interior smelled dustier when the sun was out than when it was raining, almost as if the wood and structure itself changed inside to reflect the atmosphere outside. I dropped my wet jacket, clothes, soggy cigarettes and towel in a heap by the door and moved up the stairs to curl inside the warmth of my bed.

I woke sometime in the evening to a knock on the door. I sat up and looked out the window to find a coral-colored, two-door sedan parked under the cabin's floodlights. When I moved, my arms shot through with heavy soreness and my head felt wobbly on my neck.

I worked my way out of the bed, my feet hitting the cold dusty floor until I located my slippers. After a moment the knocking started up again, only this time more insistent. I called out in the strongest voice I could, realizing there was no way anyone could hear me from this far away. I slipped into my robe and moved down the stairs as quickly as I could. I moved out a ways from the door, looked out the living room window, and there was Jasper—standing expectantly at the door, his features pinched up, glancing at his watch and lifting his hand to pound further on the already abused wood.

“Wait,” I spoke through the window and his face dissolved in relief.

When I opened the door he rushed in. “Are you alright?”

I backed up several paces and he stayed where he was, letting the door close behind him.

“I think so.” I took stock. Apart from the heaviness in my limbs, the day's sleep had worked wonders and the night's activities had done much to ease the heaviness in my heart. “I didn't think you would get here so fast. I thought I would have more time to get ready for you.”

He smiled and said with a laugh, “Sure you did.”

I stretched my arm out and took his cool hand. He pulled me to him and we stood like that for several minutes. “You got here so fast,” I said into his coat which still smelled like leather and smoke. Familiar. “I thought you might change your mind. You weren't by yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” His voice was full of regret, and a weird sadness. He was not a cruel person.

“That must have been hard for you. I am so sorry. You must think I am pathetic.”

“A little.” He led me to the coffee table and while he settled me on the sofa, he sat across from me on the table and took my hands. After a few minutes of stroking my hair, pinching my earlobe, smiling, and generally mooning he said, “You smell like a fermentation project gone awry.”

“Is it that bad?”

He wrinkled his forehead and took my head in his hand and pulled me to his shoulder, plopping down on the couch beside me.

“Mmm,” he said, breathing into my hair. “Smells like lake water: brackish, bleary. If blue had a scent, it would be like this.”

I wanted to make a comment about his silly words, but was too tired. Instead I ran my fingers over my face. “I fell in the lake.”

He pulled back and eyed me.

“I took the canoe out.”

“Drunken boating? By yourself?”

I moved away. “Probably.”

His eyes raked over my robe; he pushed his lips together and didn't say anything further.

“I'm still sore. I slept all day. I am glad you're here,” I said and put both hands on either side of his face. My hands were still cold; he shivered.

“I wasn't sure what I was going to find here, or if you would even remember you called me.”

His hands went to my hair again, reassuring, tugging gently on the tangles.

We sat like that for a while longer, letting the weirdness wear off, the air charged with anticipatory energy, and me taking stock every few minutes of the rolling in my stomach. I was hungry and the itch on my skin reminded me that I needed a shower. I studied his face and remembered where my head had been when I'd called him.

As I moved back into the kitchen, he stared first at me then at the pile on the floor, still wet. I could almost smell the brackish wetness from across the room. I turned my back and rooted around in the cupboard for a box of Goldfish crackers from the last time we were up here. I munched on them, watching him, loving the way his face beamed and his eyes lit over the place, and me. My stomach gurgled in gratitude as I filled it for the first time since the afternoon before. His eyes landed on the piles of DVDs on the coffee table, the pile again in the corner, the empty wine bottle laying on its side beside the door.

“How about I leave you with those while I take a shower?” I pointed to the DVDs and he furrowed his brow as if he didn't know if I were kidding.

I started the water, and when I felt the spray hit my face and wash away the minerals from the lake water and the rest bits of the groggy day's sleep, I felt the peace that comes with having fought a hard battle and managed to crawl out the other side.

Moments later the door opened. Jasper approached through the foggy room. His eyes were red and his face was drawn, but when he came toward me bringing the scents of road dust and faint pine tar from the air outside, I
was happy. These scents to me were always about happy memories. This place was too, and I was about to make more.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“You called me. You trusted me. Something really bad could have happened to you, Vivi, and I wouldn't have been here to help you. No one would have.”

“I needed to do this. Be here. Be alone.”

He shook his head, disapproval and resignation. I opened the curtain and waited for him to step in.

We drove into Missoula once to return his rental and pick up more supplies, including two copies of the new translation of
War and Peace
that I still hadn't read, so I could discuss it with him. When I'd offered this on the car ride in, he'd gotten the goofiest grin on his face and said, “Really?” in the same way he might have acted when I'd offered to do something in bed.

We repeated another week like before; canoeing, resting, listening to music, listening to nothing at all except the calls of robins and meadow lark, croaking of frogs, the splashing of a fish jumping for its dinner in the evening and the occasional truck barreling down the main road.