Trompe l'Oeil (20 page)

And how was it that the body of another woman could within minutes make one's own body seem alien? On an ordinary Sunday, she picked up the girls at James's condo, and Josie was there, just leaving: the passing of ships, a handshake. Josie wore jeans and a sweater, but had the look of a Lord & Taylor ad. The girls called Nora, ran to Nora, she hugged them; Josie left, and the moment ended. James walked Nora and the girls to her car, careful, polite. As she was leaving, he handed her an envelope, a check for house money. As if he were buying peace, or reasserting severance. “Next week,” she said.

She did not want to imagine James's desire: she imagined James's desire. And her own, the idea of being in Josie's presence, the way one might feel if one were not Nora. What her children might feel? And although Nora knew better, knew that no one escapes loss, Josie in the hallway with her equanimity and her red-gold waves and still-taut curves appeared free, and therefore more haunting. If James had not been in love with Josie, would Nora have seen Josie this way? Maybe not. Or in that moment, seen herself as almost without gender, at least not one she recognized? Strangely exiled, if on a familiar coast.

ROME

Pauline Bonaparte

Antonio Canova (early 19th century)

GALLERIA BORGHESE

In this moment, nothing is a problem for Pauline. A woman in her twenties, naked to the hip—high breasts, trim belly, now stretched sideways on a chaise longue, so that to the shoulder her body imitates the shape of the chaise, enunciating the angled curve of her waist. White fabric drapes her hips and thighs, her right leg extending forward, left slightly back, exposing slim calves, shapely ankles and feet, the second toe extending beyond the first. Still her back appears straight as she leans into the pillows, her elbow propped, fingers touching the side of her face. Neck curving upward, she gazes forward as if surveying the room, curls and longer tendrils of hair piled onto her head. A bracelet on her forearm, an apple in her left hand, which rests on her covered left thigh. Her skin is white, luminous, remarkable; she is Pauline and also a Greek goddess, an assessing Venus. Self-possessed, and in that self-possession, that luminous body, undeniably seductive.

Pauline Borghese, born Pauline Bonaparte, sister to Napoleon. Perhaps she's contemplating her desires; perhaps her lovers. Her chaise is set in the center of the room: now stationary, it once rotated, the marble Pauline surveying her visitors.

Reach past the museum rope and one might run a hand along her waist, belly, breasts. Or feel an impulse to lie beside her on the chaise. A wish to fall into her, or to embody her, as Venus, a woman who takes her pleasure; a woman who does not hide her body or desire, who in this vision does not bend to the desires of others, or fear the consequences of exposure. Maybe there's a dreamy moment when desire rises into the air of the gallery and mixes with the sense of possibility. Maybe a moment others witness.

A body in stone, a legacy in stone; somehow, also, Canova. It was Pauline's moment, a body and moment sustainable only in sculpture. And then the moment passed; the later Pauline inhabited another body, tubercular, dead at forty-four. Maybe the late Pauline, the shadow Pauline, is the haunting one. The one who is and is not herself.

And at what point might desire return to stone, or become stone? A question ribboning one's wakeful nights. If you asked Nora, she might not answer. She might tell you there are rooms inside your mind. Might point out the light beyond the trees, a line of orange, a milk-blue cloud.

DRESSES

An alternate constellation of Murphys, or near-Murphys: James in his khakis and polo shirt, Sara and Delia grade-school girls in sundresses, Katy in shorts and a summer blouse—and Josie, also in a sundress, mint-green fabric, finely ridged. Early June, a Saturday. They strolled the expanse of the Boston Neiman Marcus, past the cosmetics counters, past a glass case of Swiss watches, as if they might have frequented this place together. Say it was there—with all those mirrors, all those glinting vials and chic designs—that they most convincingly appeared as a well-heeled family. Though James did not consider it performance: he'd stepped, he believed, into the life he wanted. His wife—or soon to be. His children. His upcoming wedding (and soon, a move to his new house). He breathed differently now, didn't he? Still fresh, his gratitude, his happiness, though the balance could later tip—and would, as it sometimes had—from amazement at good fortune to an assumption of just rewards. The day, like the summer ahead, seemed to expand. His family strolled through the Neiman Marcus. They—this other, newly possible
they
—seemed to belong here (even Katy, her footsteps almost light). Had he taken the girls and Josie to the
Public Garden, perhaps the Garden would have been the site of such belonging. Not impossible. But they had come to Neiman Marcus to buy dresses, the collective moment and its associated dreaming inextricable from the fine objects with which one might furnish a life (what James called “living well”).

For Katy, shopping as if a family was not deliberate pretense, or not
all
deliberate pretense: more the tug of a vortex. She'd been drawn in the moment Josie stepped into the car and settled in the passenger seat beside James, having first confirmed the three girls' comfort in back. On the drive to Copley Square, her father narrated as he always had, pointing out landmarks and rehashing local history as he drove, affirming himself as Dad, the girls as his kids. Initially a matter of Josie fitting into the puzzle, wasn't it? The substitute mother. Maybe this happened more often than Katy recognized, roles switching up? What if the absent Nora and Theo were to stroll Filene's—or a museum?—flanked by a substitute James, three substitute daughters? Substitutes were imitations. Obviously. But you tumbled into the role anyway.

In August, Sara and Delia would be bridesmaids. Josie had asked them: they had said yes. She had also asked Katy, and Katy declined (in what was for her a triumph of tact, she had offered no reason). For the girls, Josie had picked out graceful and unfussy dresses: a melting pastel blue, delicately patterned flounces at the bottom of the skirts. Sara tried hers on a bit timidly, Delia with more glee. James kissed them; he twirled them around, called them “gorgeous.” They laughed, even Sara, even Katy. Though she did not laugh when the saleswoman—in a navy suit, silk lemony blouse, curled hair in a
style Katy thought of as “wig”—referred to Sara and Delia as Josie's daughters, to Katy as “the young lady.”

Other sales staff shared the same language; she was more loosely attached, her place less defined. A niece? Stepdaughter? (Yes and no.) Maybe an au pair? Yet Sara and Delia would be Josie's. Josie corrected no one. And if the woman had called Katy Josie's daughter? Would Josie—or Katy herself—have set her straight? Or would she have played the part? Though she was
already
playing the part, or trying to. They'd all been playing family. But the saleswoman called Katy out. The others could be a family without her.

Still the phrase:
young lady
. Still the Neiman Marcus attention. At least, Katy thought, the saleswoman noticed her. The tone—Katy had to admit—had not been snide. “What would you like?” the wig woman asked, as if offering free cake. Against her will, Katy began to relax, and to discover, yes, there was something she wanted. Some magnificent thing. How quickly, she thought, she could betray her mother.

Her father put a hand on her shoulder. As if comprehending, he said, “Sweetheart, let's find something gorgeous for you,” and told the suited wig, “My daughter Katy wants a dress.” So he claimed her, and in that moment attended to her first. (All day, of course, he'd claimed them, herding them and hovering and commenting.) His smallest gestures seemed grand and inclusive, shoring up the deceit of belonging together as well as belonging here. Irresistible assertions, Katy thought, had sped his rise in business.

“We'll pick one that matches the bridesmaids' dresses,” Josie said. “You can always change your mind.”

And so in the dress department, Josie consulted with the women attending to them. Dresses and more dresses arrived for Katy to try (privately—she was grateful for the dressing room door). Out she walked, and Josie and the saleswomen exclaimed over Katy in each dress, as if she suddenly merited their praise. Her own image surprised her; she did appear as another, more elegant girl. Was that also herself? Pleasure, a subtle glee in trying on the dresses—more betrayal? A thin shadow of doubt hovered, but receded as she marveled at the sheen of a V-necked indigo gown that made her look lovelier than she knew herself to be. Say she could, in this high-end shop, put on a dress and become someone else. She felt a small burst of happiness, pleasure modeling the dress for James, pleasure at his smile, his extravagant praise. Okay then. She would have the dress: she'd be the young lady.

After the deflating reversion to her usual self—her shorts and cotton blouse from last season—there was still the matter of shoes. In their pastel blue dresses, Sara and Delia had twirled for the mirrors, but they did not last long in stores. Did James remember this? Sara would tire and wander off alone. Delia might disobey, whine, or sulk, or huff off in search of the car. When she was exhausted, Delia's lips would tremble: she'd fight off tears but demand to call Nora. Katy told Josie, “She'll lose it if she's here too long,” and the clerk glanced over at Josie, who nodded almost dismissively. As if it were a familiar risk, Delia in fact her daughter, Josie-as-mother now minding the clock to avert the kind of meltdown she'd witnessed too often.
I know
, Katy wanted to insist.
You don't know my sisters
. But there was heat in Katy's face now, and she stepped away, telling Sara, “Let's look for a water fountain.”

And when Katy and Sara returned, Josie steered Katy away, suggesting she help Katy find shoes to match the new dress. When Katy hesitated, Josie squeezed her hand. “James will play with the girls. Let's find you some shoes.” And Katy nodded dumbly, sensing—despite the display of elegant heels—that something had been taken.

Afterward, her father walked in the city with his arm around Katy. Then he walked with Josie: you could see that with Josie he was happy, but as Katy followed behind with the girls the remaining lightness seeped from the day, and in its place the familiar despondency took hold. Finally, what did
they
have to do with
her
? In three months she'd begin college: wouldn't they grow closer, she further away? Delia tugged, “Listen—are you listening?” A Rollerblader wove through Copley Square, a guy in a tank top and shorts, dodging cars and pedestrians, as if none of them made a difference. James said he'd booked a reservation for Italian, and drove them to the North End. When they returned to the condo, Josie took the T to what she called her “old place.” But at James's place she was present in the small details, the fluted coffee cups, framed photographs—an apple tree in bloom, a white farmhouse—potted basil in the kitchen window, the orchid James tended. When had he ever cared for plants?

And when Katy later described the visit to Tim, Tim seemed to her obtuse, if undeniably
hers
. “He's still your dad,” Tim said. But she could not find the right words to convey the dress and the shoes and the awkwardness, and the thick sorrow she'd felt the next morning at the condo, sorrow that in other moments had sparked fights with her father. James kept offering her waffles and eggs, which made it worse. She poured orange juice for Sara
and Delia, but couldn't drink any herself, or eat ordinary toast. She'd brought her math textbook with her and retreated to the sofa while the girls ate. The math final, she told her father, was the hardest one. Very very tough. No, no eggs, no toast. She'd eat something later. No thanks to applesauce. Right now, she wasn't hungry. Sometimes, math could be like that.

HOUSE V

As if the rooms contained more space, the air seemed clearer, easier to breathe, after Katy left for college, though no one spoke of it aloud. But Katy's tom-tom thuds abated. Static abated. Bright chill days on the beach; cold nights, the coldest black spread thickly with stars. Nora would make hot chocolate and read at the table while Sara and Delia finished homework and drew, or layered blankets on the sofa and watched movies. The girls now traveled from room to room without hesitation, the house more fully theirs.

Though a house that appeared more ragged: Nora repaired the roof and managed a loan for a new furnace, but the siding was badly worn, one of the outer banisters split (for a time held together by white polyester rope from the marina). Inside along the carpeted stairs and upper hall, a flattened gray path darkened; accumulated coffee and ice-cream stains wore into the sofa fabric. The dingy walls she could repaint on weekends when the girls visited James. More window quilts, in blue and white; the framed black-and-white baby photos still on the kitchen wall above the side windows. Weekday evenings, while the girls slept, she'd use the big oak table to do Ben Sundlun's accounts.