The State We're In: Maine Stories (6 page)

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.

Down the ravine behind the empty house,

The cowbells follow one another

Into the distances of the afternoon.

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,

The droppings of last year’s horses

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

“Is that really a poem?” he finally said.

“What else would it be?”

“I’ve never heard anything like that. The last line comes out of nowhere.”

“I don’t think so. He could have said that from the beginning, but he gave us the scene so that we’d be seduced, the way he’d been, and then he changed the game on us—on himself—at the last moment.”

“That’s the kind of guy who’d stick a pin in a balloon!” he said. “I mean, thank you very much for reciting that. I’ll get a book of his poetry and write to let you know my reaction.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Any day’s good when you get someone to buy a book of poetry who wouldn’t ordinarily do it.”

“You thought I’d identify with the guy in the hammock,” he said. “And I guess I do, to be honest.”

“Most people who are being honest feel that way at least some of the time, in my experience.”

“I appreciate your asking me to move in,” he said.

I smiled. When he left, when the car had safely backed out of the driveway, I’d clip the leash on Yancey and walk her back to the field, then unclip it and let her loose to sniff out the day’s still dazzling possibilities. She looked a little kinky in her black booties. And her lovely coat could use a brushing, I saw. No day failed to contain the unexpected. Which I suspect Yancey thought, too, especially because she didn’t quite understand why she couldn’t make a wild dash like a thunderbolt from door to field, why she panted, why she failed to catch anything, why she’d been skunked, in fact.

Startled starlings flew up out of the high grass, their black whorl a little tornado that did not touch down and therefore did no damage. They disappeared like a momentary perception above Yancey’s head, fanning out and flying west. Or like the clotted words crammed into a cartoon bubble. Like one of Ginger’s finger-paintings from so, so long ago, brought home for inspection and praise.

SILENT PRAYER

“S
ometimes,” he said, “I think people would sympathize with me if the roles were reversed and I was a woman whose job required her to travel. Have you thought about it that way? In this time when women have still not gotten the opportunities and respect they should, whereas men—I stand here as a case in point—are criticized for doing what women aspire to do. You’d like me to stay home and help you plan a birthday party for Joshua, which I can do by phone, by sending you e-mail, by doing anything that might represent my share of the work, but you won’t give me a break. It’s as though I want to go on every business trip. As though the last flight wasn’t a nightmare. I had a headache for two days afterwards. Do you have any idea at all where my black Nikes are? Not the Pumas that are mostly black, but the Nikes?”

“I’m sure if we still had your assistant, she could find them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? She miscarried and she’s suffering a major depression. She’s called off her marriage. She should be here, to locate my shoes? Are you suggesting I’m a monster? What if my wife might know where my favorite shoes are? Even if it’s a trivial thing to know.”

“LuAnne called and said she’d kept down both dinner last night and lunch. She can’t wait to get back here. If you ask me, which nobody ever does, that soccer player wasn’t worthy of her and this is all for the best.”

“I wonder how other couples talk to each other,” he said. “I really do wonder that. But there’s no way to find out. You can’t believe what you see in the movies or on TV or in books, least of all the so-called reality shows. Maybe Roz Chast has some idea. That’s about the only person I can think of.”

“I saw a shoe on the back stairs. I have no idea where the other one is. Women don’t misplace their shoes.”

“Back stairs. Just a minute.”

She sat on the bed—king-size, at his insistence; separate reading lights, two night tables with identical spherical digital clocks whose alarms chirped a birdcall. She had to set hers at the highest volume; years ago, when she first came to Maine, she’d trained herself to sleep through the sounds of birds and crickets. Now the sputtering, muffler-missing motorcycles that constantly passed by posed a different sort of challenge: how to resist stringing razor wire across the road.

“Thank you. They were on the back stairs. One shoe was on top of the other.”

“Women don’t stack their shoes,” she said. “You have a way of turning discussions to the differences between men and women. I don’t really think about that all the time, but I find I always have to talk about it. Going back to your earlier point, Hughes would do anything possible to keep you, and if you said you were sick of so much flying . . .”

“Hughes and the Genius aren’t on the case the way I am, I agree. Why don’t you call Hughes and say just that? I wouldn’t stop you. I would, however, be angry if it backfired, and he sent me to California more often.”

“You can have dinner at Perbacco,” she said. “That almost makes it worth it.”

He looked at his phone. “Text from LuAnne,” he said. “She’s going to bed.”

“It’s not even four o’clock.”

“What would you have me do? Text her and tell her to walk around the block and slap her cheeks a few times?”

“Yeah. And communicate all of that with the smiley symbol and lots of exclamation points,” she said. “I never wanted a king-size bed. The maid hates putting on the sheets. She spends half of her four hours here being exasperated with the bed. Even when she gets the contour sheet on, she keeps staring at it like it’s a field of smoldering embers.

“Remember the time you forgot your driver’s license and you missed the flight?” she said. “For about a year I was convinced you’d done it on purpose, to come home when I least expected it, to see what I was doing.”

“Excuse me? Wouldn’t that have required excessive effort, and might that not indicate some paranoia on your part?”

“Remember what I was doing?”

“I was really upset. I thought I’d lost both my AmEx and my driver’s license, and I knew I could grab my passport, but I guess, well, I guess I was feeling paranoid, like someone might have slipped the two most important cards out of—”

“Are you stalling for time because you don’t remember what I was doing?”

“Jesus! I remember what you were doing. You’d put some grease all over your hair and were sitting stark naked on the front porch wearing nothing but a shower cap, except that you’d dragged out some huge scarf to cover yourself with if anybody walked by, though I don’t know how you could be so sure you’d see them, and you were having a cigarette, the last year you smoked cigarettes.”

“I was looking at
Vogue
and drinking a virgin margarita.”

“Why do you bring this up?”

“Because what I do is so innocuous. I spend my time thinking about a party at Water Country. I can’t even plan our son’s birthday by myself. I don’t know how to be in the world. How can you stand me?”

“I chose you out of all the world.”

“And you keep me by shining that sincere smile on me and constantly implying that men and women are just different, and by managing to convince everybody you’re such a good guy because you made your ex-girlfriend from years ago your assistant, even after she had an affair behind your back with Hughes the second she met him, and furthermore I agree with you. She’s a very capable, nice person.”

“A one-night stand is not an ‘ex-girlfriend.’ And if we might possibly discuss something else, even though LuAnne is your favorite subject. There’s a book, a novel, by that writer who wrote that story you love about Bruns. I heard about it on NPR. In the novel, the character’s wife is crazed with the desire to have a child and hops a plane when she knows she’ll be fertile and goes to where he and a bunch of friends are gathering because an old friend unexpectedly died—”

“I still can’t believe that we had that crazy time together and went off to that house you’d rented in Marin because you probably thought you’d take some other girl there—and we found that croquet set in the garage and set it up and played a game naked when it got dark.”

“I’m quite aware of our history. We’ve now been married for nine, going on ten years. We have a wonderful son. I’m not going to apologize for the next ten years, because apologizing for the first ten has been enough, don’t you think? I was having a panic attack. All I said to you in Marin, which I still don’t think was so crazy, was that we should back off and think about the relationship for a while.”

“What would you have done if Hughes hadn’t suddenly appeared on the scene and tempted you to work for his company?”

“I wasn’t looking for a job when Hughes got in touch. Were you under the impression that I was? I was actually trying to cut down my hours and build more time into my schedule for tennis.”

“What a prig you sound like! Your tennis time! Anybody would think you were vile.”

“Vile?”

“I can’t believe what I hear sometimes. Like this is a movie of some stupid rich people’s lives. We’re really sorry the lobstermen can’t afford to live in town anymore, and it’s really too bad about all the businesses going under—or maybe the greenhouse stays open because they sell orchids, which have become the new azaleas around here—and sure, the economy is fucked. But we know all about French wines and fly first class and think about fucking tennis.”

“You, yourself, have thoughts on tennis?”

“That it would be better for me than yoga and Pilates and power walks with weights strapped on my ankles. Jesus! We’ve got to watch out.”

“Okay, you pick up those binoculars and watch out while I’m gone, and if any fashionable sports activities come this way, you hold up a hand and you say, ‘None of that here; I’m not having any kicking, or tackling, or kneeing the other guy in the balls.’ You keep the house safe, use the gun in the drawer if you have to, to keep us safe from sports, which have become terminally fashionable in your mind, I now understand.”

“What gun in what drawer?”

“I was kidding. The water pistol Hughes gave Joshua that you confiscated and keep in the kitchen drawer with the steak knives, for some reason. By the way, I was looking for an unmatched sock and opened your night table drawer and saw you had quite a bit of new La Perla. Expensive stuff!”

“You love to pretend I’m always spending money.”

“Really, sometimes you say the most ridiculous things. An aversion to tennis! It’s too crazy.”

“I don’t have an aspersion.” She blinked. Why had she said that? The same way she matter-of-factly corrected Joshua, she now corrected herself. “An aversion,” she said.

“Then call the coach tomorrow and set up a time.”

“You know I’m not going to do that.”

“You could.”

“You’d hate it if I was all over your territory. It’s one of the reasons why you left her, isn’t it? Because there wasn’t anything you didn’t do together and agree on?”

“That question can’t be answered. The way you’ve put it, I mean.”

“I don’t care if I’m childish,” she said. “I’m trapped in this horrible place with my wicked thoughts and a kid who always mixes up words and uses the wrong one, and no money of my own, and a job that’s just something to pass the time, and only you have the key to the wine cellar.”

A motorcycle passed by, the sound shaking the house. Then came another.

“Wine cellar?” he scoffed.

“Metaphorically speaking.”

“Okay,” he said. “This is you-know-what, that g word you never want me to say, and I’m not going to say it, I’m just going to give you a hug and hope you snap out of this mood very soon, even if it means you’re starkers on the porch, sipping your nonalcoholic drink that you pride yourself so much for drinking, as if I ever thought you were an alcoholic. So come here and we’ll embrace and even though I’m not saying you-know-what, you know that I’ll be back in three days, and that I love you.”

She ran into his arms. His travel bag was suspended from a padded strap over his shoulder; it swayed before steadying itself. If he had facial stubble and a tiny lock of dark hair falling over one eyebrow, he could be a Prada ad. Also, if he were twenty years younger. His black Nikes made him look less hip. The rounded toes were all wrong. Their son was still at his playdate. The house would be very empty when her husband left. She squeezed him tightly, mashed her nose against his shirt, which somehow smelled of its color: light, light green. A medium green shirt would have been unthinkable. Might as well wear loafers without socks. Or take out a membership at the Reading Room on the path above the beach—the Reading Room, where the joke was that there wasn’t a book in the entire place.

They disengaged. He raised a hand. She did the same. From under the bed, the cat poked out his head, then nearly flattened himself to crawl into the room. He walked in a half circle with his tail in the air, white tip flicking. They’d tied a bell to his collar, but the week before she’d found a dead bird in the yard.

She heard his footsteps on the stairs (or imagined them; they’d been newly carpeted), then the front door clicking shut. She waited to hear the garage door. Okay. She heard the car radio and the sound of gravel under the tires in the driveway, then only the wind that blew up. She went to the window and picked up the binoculars that sat there. She raised them to her eyes, already knowing how bright the pink of the sky would appear, how silver the bottoms of the tree leaves, pale as the underside of a turtle. A turtle some nasty boys flipped over so it would be incapacitated, as they laughed and pointed at its scaly legs clawing the air.