The Saving Graces (26 page)

And then I was so tired, I couldn't make it to the bedroom. I collapsed on the sofa and covered myself with the afghan. Old, smelly-fragrant, holey afghan I knitted myself, years and years ago when I was unashamedly a housewife. Home maker, as Terry said. There had been many, many happy times in those days that, for no good reason, I had fallen into the habit of dismissing. Nostalgia drifted over me like a pleasant fog, numbing a little the exquisite pain of Terry's leaving. Gary used to take a nap on Sunday afternoons under this blanket. I'd sit with him, reading or knitting with the radio on low, looking up to see his paunchy stomach rise and fall under the then-bright squares of wool. I used to wrap it around my nightgown and run outside for the newspaper. Terry liked to drape it over two dining room chairs and pretend he was a soldier in a fort.
Was Gary home now? 1 could call him. Just to talk. "Hi, how are you? What do you think of our son? After all, we didn't do so badly, did we?" But the phone was too far away, I was too tired to get up. I closed my eyes and drifted into a dream. A sweet, bright dream about a family. I gave it the happiest ending.

   Emma.

   My birthday is three days after Christmas, which makes me a Capricorn. The goat. How unamusingly apt, but never more so-than this year.
I often go away for Christmas, drive down to Danville to see my mother, and sometimes I keep going, drive on to Durham and Chapel Hill to visit old friends from grad school, spend New Year's with them. This year, even the thought of packing made me nauseated, never mind leaving, arriving, greeting, smiling, and talking. Especially smiling and talking; those were by far the most retch-inducing. So I stayed home.
It wasn't a pity party, though. No, no. I got fully dressed, called all my loved ones, I even roused myself to go out and take Isabel her present. No, I was saving myself, bathos-wise, for the- twenty-eighth, when I could turn forty all by myself. Now we're talking heroic, orgiastic self-pity on the grand scale.
My solitude was by choice-my friends didn't desert me. In good conscience I couldn't inflict myself on them, and so I asked -them to stay away. (Rudy was out of town anyway.) The day started out normally, i.e., full of frustration and self-loathing. That novel I started last spring? I threw it out in August. A mercy killing, believe me. It was what they call a coming-of-age novel. Preternaturally articulate adolescent learns about love, life, sex, and redemption among colorful characters in the New South/urban ghetto Jewish upper-class/soul-stifling Midwest. I set mine in a nasty little town in southem Virginia named Tomstown. As I say, a mercy killing.
So much for writing what you know.
Now I'm working on something entirely different (although "working on" may be a tiny euphemism). It's a mystery, a thriller, - lots of intrigue and suspense, a woman-in-jeopardy deal, bodies piling up. I think it's got excellent best-seller and movie potential. Too bad it bites. One thing writing this story has taught me, though, is that I really enjoy killing people. I mean I really get off on it, So I keep doing it. The danger here is that all my characters could be dead before the book ends. It might turn out that God was the narrator.
The other thing this book is teaching me, it and its precious, hackneyed predecessor, is that I might be a fraud. All my life I wanted to write fiction, or at least so I've been saying for most of it. Nonfiction didn't satisfy; I wanted the story to go another way, the truth never got to what was really true, et cetera, blab blah. Well, guess what. Turns out I was a much better journalist than I am a novelist. So now I have to wonder if I was only drawn to the image of what it means to write fiction. I wanted to look like a novelist. I wanted to answer the "What do you do?" question at cocktail- parties with "I write books." If that's true, I don't know what I'll do it feels like smashing into a glass door. I thought there was a vista, a future, but maybe there's just shock and embarrassment and bloody-lacerations. -Happy birthday, Emma. - What I needed was a cake. An ice cream cake, one of those Viennetta- or Violetta things they advertise on TV around the holidays. They always make my mouth water. I almost bought one once, then I read the fat/calorie blurb on the back, Well, fuck it, I'm forty-years old, I can have any damn thing I want. Like wine. Wine and ice cream cake, A really good wine, too, not that eight-dollar Mondavi in the refrigerator.
Going outside and getting in my car felt like setting foot on a new planet. How long since I'd been out of the house? Almost four days. God. There's something to be said for a real job. Not much, but something. The low, late-afternoon December sky was that old-diaper shade of gray, heavy with either rain or snow, it couldn't decide. Until I parked on Columbia Road and started to walk the block and a half to the liquor store-then it decided. Sleet. - On Christmas Eve morning I put on some old black sweatpants, a black blouse, and my most comfortable sweater, a snarly, dung-colored cardigan with big pockets and- one remaining leather button. I liked this outfit so well, I put it on the next day, too. And the next. And today. I hadn't washed my hair in a week-why bother?-and it goes without saying I hadn't put on any makeup. I'd left the house in a trenchcoat and my beaded bedroom moccasins, no socks. Got the picture?
Mick got it when he opened the door to the liquor store and we almost smacked into each other. He said, "Excuse me," and stood back-for two seconds he actually didn't recognize me. Later I couldn't decide if that was an insult or deeply flattering. Then he did a double take, probably humorous to an impartial observer, and stopped dead.
Me, too. "Mick, hi," I think I said, very casual. Inside, it felt like cardiac arrest. I think I went white, but his cheeks turned red, two streaks of bright color like slap marks. "How are you," I said, "how've you been." I was pressed back against the door frame, clutching a bagful of clanking wine bottles, and he was squeezed back on the other side, holding the glass door wide open with his outstretched arm.
"Emma." He couldn't even smile, he just looked at me with his burning eyes. His shock helped me get over mine. I was ready to say something bright, maybe even true-"l've missed you," something like that-when he jerked his head toward the street. "I've got my family." Ah, yes, -so he did. In the car; I recognized the small white Celica at the curb half a block away. Couldn't see the occupants, though, just their hazy outlines through the sleet and the streaky windshield.
Well Tell them I said hi Really good to see you Neither of us moved.
"How are you, Emma?" "Fine, I've been all right. You?" I'm not that great a liar, but at least I try. Mick doesn't even try. "I'm terrible," he said.
I felt my face get hot. "Not fair," I whispered. "Damn you, that is no fair." One customer and then another one, both wanting to use the door, put an end to the torture. We had to separate; I walked out and Mick walked in. We never said good-bye, but we waved to each other through the door. How inane. I thanked God my car was in the opposite direction from his, and I didn't wave to Sally. I slogged through the freezing rain with my wine bottles and went home.
That night when the phone rang, I knew it was Mick. You know how sometimes you can just tell who it is by the sound of the ring? I'd been sitting in front of the fire for so long, it had burned out. To my credit, I wasn't drunk; I'd had a glass or two of a very expensive Cabernet, and given up. Lack of interest.
I picked up the phone in the kitchen on the third ring and said, "Hello?" in a firm, deceptively healthy, clearheaded tone.
"Happy birthday." "Thanks." It was Lee. I collapsed on a stool and waited for my heart rate to subside. "How are you?" "Okay." Not that long ago she - used to answer that question with, "I'm not pregnant," but she's stopped. Nobody's amused anymore, especially Lee. So far, in vitro isn't working. "How's your birthday going?" she asked.
"Lousy." "Oh, no. Would you like to come over?"
"No, thanks."
"We're not doing anything. We're not even fighting. Come on, we'll cheer you up." "No, but thank you, that's nice. Really. How're you doing?" "Okay," she repeated. "Rudy's back from - the Bahamas." "Oh, yeah? Since when?" "Today." - "Did she call you?" "Yes." Well, shit. Rudy won't say boo to me on my birthday, but she can call Lee to say she's back from her "second honeymoon"-honest to God, that's what she called it. "How did she sound?" I asked.
"The same as before." "Which is to say. ." "Not very good. I think the only reason she called was to say she's not coming to dinner tomorrow. So it'll just be you, Isabel, and me." Christ, we were falling apart, all four of us. "Did she say why?" "Something about something she has to go to with Curtis." I said some really vulgar swear words that made Lee hiss in her breath like a mongoose. I had to ask, "Does she talk to you? Lately? Is she telling you anything about what's going on with her?" "No. So. . . she's not telling you, either?" "No, and I know she's not talking to Isabel because I asked her."

    We heaved simultaneous sighs.
"Well," Lee said dispiritedly. "See you tomorrow night, I guess. Don't forget to bring salad." "When did I ever forget?" "And you'll pick Isabel up?" "Of course." "Happy birthday, Em." "Night, Lee." We hung up.
Before I could get off my stool, the phone rang again.
"Hello?" "Emma? It's Mick." Everything receded, nothing left but my hand on the receiver and his voice in my ear. And I felt sick with wanting, with knowing it was him and this was real. I had come so close to convincing myself that this wasn't true - that he's the only one and I'll never be over him.
"May I see you?" "Are you all right?" "I'm fine." He laughed, a huff of breath. "Except that. .
I imagined I could hear, in his silences and his deep, frustrated breathing, everything he couldn't say. I pictured him in his house, probably in the kitchen, with Sally upstairs putting Jay to bed. "Are you at home?" "No, I'm in my car. Sally's cell phone." "Oh." So much for my intuition. "It's very clear." Another exhalation of humorless laughter. "That's probably because I'm around the corner from your house." "Oh, God." He was quiet for a few awful seconds, then he said thickly, "It's okay, don't worry, 1 was driving and I just ended up here. I won't-" "Give me five minutes." "What's that?" "I need five minutes. I have to-I'm not quite dressed. But then come." "Are you sure?" "Yes. Okay, I'm hanging up now," He laughed, and it was a real laugh, not sad or forced. I waited until it was completely over, just reveled in it, and then I hung up.
Five minutes. I should've said ten. I raced upstairs to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I should've said an hour and a half, Too late to shower or change clothes. Clean my house, buy a new wardrobe. I took off my ratty sweater and brushed my wine-stained teeth. I tried to comb my hair, but that was impossible, so I piled it up in a bun. I put on mascara, a little lipstick. God, God. I'd keep the lights low, Downstairs, there wasn't even time to rebuild the fire. I scooped up the newspapers strewn all over, straightened the sofa cushions, blew crumbs off the end tables. I put on music, then turned it off. Would he like my house? It wasn't very artistic. I had some pictures, some prints I liked a lot, but they were probably gauche. Oh God, now he'd find out, he'd see that I was cheap and fraudulent and shallow. What a stupid idea this was.
I liked it better when we were a neat, clean tragedy. No potential, no messy reality. Then we were perfect. The doorbell rang. My heart gave a dangerous leap-if this kept up I'd be dead by morning. Deep, cleansing breath. I put on a normal face and opened the door.
"Hi," we said. He brought in the cold and damp on his wool overcoat. His face was pinched, his ears livid, "Take off your coat," I said. When he gave it to me, I felt his icy hands. "You're freezing. Were you walking?" "For a while." He moved into the living room, drawn to the hearth, but he stopped when he saw the fire was out.
"It burned down," I said idiotically. "Shall we sit here?" He took the chair,- I sat on the edge of the sofa. A mistake. How could we talk like this? Too weird-Mick and me in the living room, facing each other across my - tony sisal carpet. We weren't ourselves, we were actors in a play. - "Would you like a drink? I happen to have a lot of wine." "No, thank you." "Coffee?" "That would be great." I jumped up. "Come with me." Much better in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, watching me while I filled the kettle, measured the coffee, poured hot water over the grounds a little at a time. Very labor-intensive, the Chemex coffee system, very good for keeping the hands busy. "It's Jay's birthday today," he mentioned, to fill the industrious silence.
I looked up. "Is it really?" What a coincidence. "He's six. I took the afternoon off for a little party he had at the zoo this afternoon. Only eight, friends-that didn't seem like so many when we were planning it." He rubbed his forehead as if his head hurt. "Jesus." "Oh, you're just trying to make excuses for being in the liquor store." We laughed. It loosen the tension a little.
He began to pace in front of the black squares- of the windows. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He looked different-again. He had on gray slacks and a good sport coat, a loosened blue tie. He must dress like this, like a businessman, -for his part-time job at his old law firm. If he still had it. The fact that I didn't even know, that there could be a hundred new things about his life I had no idea of, struck me as the saddest thing in the world.
"How is Isabel?" he asked, picking up and setting down the red rooster salt shaker. "And Rudy. Sally tells me about Lee sometimes, but I don't hear about the others anymore." It's no wonder I love him. He wasn't filling silence, he really cared how my friends were doing, and not just because of me. - - - - I poured coffee into mugs, added a lot of milk to his. "Isabel's very sick. I don't know what's going to happen." "I'm sorry, Emma." "Yeah." His sympathy almost did me in. I was really on some kind of an edge. I gave him his mug and reached for the cookie jar. "Want a tea biscuit? Rudy's no good, either. She's dropped out of school. Did you know she was studying landscape design?" He shook his head. "Well, she quit. God knows what she's doing now, I sure don't," I sounded so cold and careless, He just said, "I'm sorry," again.
"Yeah, life sucks." I was on the verge of making an ass of myself by crying or something. "Why did you come here, Mick? Just to chat? Do you want to have an affair with me? But we already know exactly how that will turn out." I hated the tone of my voice, This was crazy-why was I being hateful to him?
"I can go-" "No, don't, I'm sorry, don't go. I'm-you should know, it's only fair to tell you-I can be an awful bitch, Mick, when I'm-miserable." "I don't want you to be miserable," "Too late. Nothing you can do about it." Was there? Why had he come? - He set his cup down carefully. "I kept thinking I'd see you. I couldn't believe it when we never ran into each other. Months." "I know. I did see you. On the street, or in a car passing by, on line at the movies, But it was never you." Just some fraud, a Mick look-alike. Sometimes they didn't even look like him; I'd only conjured him up out of some good-looking schlub's generic eyes, hair, mouth. A mirage.
"Then, today," he said. "Yeah. A vision of loveliness." Oh, shut up, Emma.