A Ship Made of Paper (36 page)
“I think when people love each other, they’ll do anything to be together,” Daniel says. “Everything that is in the way has to get either shoved to one side or beaten into dust.You do whatever is necessary.”
“Great. Let’s go on a killing spree.”
Daniel gestures toward the oak file cabinets. “Most of my cases, there’s not much passion behind them, but now and then I have to represent someone who’s driven by some desire—for another person, for money, whatever—and I never understood how someone could risk wrecking their life, or ruining the lives of people around them, or actually hurting someone, just to get what they want. But I think that’s be-
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cause I never really wanted anything myself, I mean really wanted it, the way I wanted you.”
“You mean you don’t anymore?”
“Now more than ever. It’s the only real thing.”
“There’s no place in the world for us, Daniel. Nothing will ever come of this. Just memories, fantastically painful memories.”
“That doesn’t have to be true.”
“Too much is against us,” Iris says. “Do you see how people look at us when we’re in public?”
“Fuck them.”
“Well, one day we’re going to be tired of being in a freak show.”
“That’s because we’re here in Tiny Town. We could go to a city.”
“Where could we go?”
“Anywhere. New York.”
“New York? That belongs to Hampton. I could never.Where could we go? We couldn’t stay here. Or Washington, Atlanta, San Francisco, Chicago. He’s got family in so many places. Where could we live?”
“Anywhere. London. Hong Kong. Amsterdam. Oslo.What difference does it make? I would go anywhere. And I’d do anything. I’d crawl through broken glass if I could just be sure that at the end of the day I’d be getting into bed next to you.”
“You’re too focused on what you want, Daniel.”
“I can’t help it. I think I was hardwired to be with you. I’m telling you, Iris, nothing else matters.To me.” He has grabbed her elbows and is pulling her closer to him, but she turns her face away.
“I love being with you,” she says. “I love what you see in me, and I like who I am around you.” She looks at him, with such sudden seriousness it almost makes him laugh. “It’s the greatest freedom I’ve ever known,” she says. He is about to say something but she stops him. “But what are we going to do?” she says. “If I ever tried to leave Hampton, it would be like a war.”
“Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce,” Daniel says.
“Not fifty percent of Hampton’s marriages, or anyone else in his fam-a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
ily.With them, every wedding is a royal wedding, part of some grand alliance. They’re all demonstrating some idea they have of perfect family life, and I can guarantee you one thing, he would make my life hell. He’d be merciless. In terms of finances . . .”
“Who cares about that?”
“I do, Daniel. Come on, be realistic here.This is my life we’re talking about. And Nelson’s, too. He’d go for custody, Hampton would, he would try to hurt me in any way he could.”
“He could try for custody. That doesn’t mean he’s going to get it. He won’t. The courts are used to these guys who suddenly are Father of the Year. Hampton’s not set up to raise a kid. And he’s not that great with Nelson. He bullies him.”
“You know, these family court judges,” Iris says.
“Idiots,” says Daniel.
“Yes, well, a lot of them are African-American. African-American women. I think they’d give Hampton whatever he asked for.They would, wouldn’t they? Tell me I’m wrong. Please. I wish you would. But you can’t! I’m not going to lose my son!”
“Iris . . .”
“And I’ll tell you another thing,” Iris says. “If Hampton thought I was leaving him for a white guy, that would make it all the worse.”
“I’m not all that white.”
“I’m being serious, Daniel.”
“Sorry. But he’s not all that black, that’s for sure.”
“What are you talking about? He’s not all that black? You don’t really know what you’re talking about. Hampton is a black man, he feels it, his world is based on it, his social life, his business, his identity, he may be light-skinned and think like a banker, but I can promise you if he ever found out I was fucking some white guy, he’d be Louis Farrakhan before the day was out. It would be the ultimate betrayal.”
“Is this what you came here to talk about?” Daniel says. He lets go of her, and, just as he feared, his touch was all that was keeping her close.
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She drifts away from him, stands at the window. Drops of moisture—
rain? snow?—are forming on the black glass.
“No. I wanted to come someplace where you might be, or at least somewhere that belongs to you. I’m just so crazy about you, it’s ridiculous.”
The phone on his desk rings with a sound as sudden as a rock through a window. Daniel thinks,
This is either a wrong number or trouble.
The answering machine picks up, Sheila Alvarez’s soothing voice. After the tone, Kate’s voice: “I just called you on your cell phone but you’re not answering, so I’ll leave this happy holiday message for you at your office, Asshole. I woke up from the little nap you so considerately convinced me to take, and guess what I found? An unattended child and a sink full of dirty dishes. So, Asshole, are you having fun?”
Daniel finally rouses himself and turns the volume off on the machine, so the only evidence of Kate’s continuing diatribe is the light—as red as a pinprick of blood—blinking off and on.
There was a break in the black sky and the platinum moonlight poured down on
them.The whites of Hampton’s eyes glittered. His shirt was dirty, his khaki trousers
were covered in burrs and black with mud at the knees. Daniel looked down at his
own hands.There was a scrape on the heel of his hand. And then the crack in the
sky healed, and the moonlight disappeared.
Two Sundays later, there is an afternoon party at Eight Chimneys, to inaugurate the Eight Chimneys Foundation, which Marie Thorne has set up as a first step in turning the old house into an official New York State Historical Site. Despite Susan Richmond’s antagonism to the project—she can’t bear the thought of ticket-holding strangers traipsing around her property, and she also knows that the entire scheme has created a little dome of privacy, a secret spot in which Ferguson and Marie can carry on their repulsive flirtation—leaving the planning of the party itself to Ferguson and Marie is beyond her powers of forbearance. Ferguson is as domestic as Buffalo Bill, and Marie’s ideas for the party are pathetic, culled from some grotesque guide to “elegant living”—caterers cooking and serving hot appetizers, expensive booze, chamber musicians from Marlowe College, vases filled with Casablanca lilies. Marie, despite having been born and raised on the property, seems to have no idea that
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such froufrou touches have no place at Eight Chimneys, where one entertains simply and cheaply. Susan feels that ostentation is the province of the middle class, who always seem to be saying “Look what we have!”
whereas at Eight Chimneys one likes to behave in such a way that implies
“We’ve all had enough chamber music and porcini tarts, and the long, tiresome trek through the gardens of plenty has led us to believe it’s a hell of a lot more fun to fill up a few bowls with potato chips, get store-brand sodas at the Price Chopper, jeroboams of cheap wine, and not make such a big deal out of everything.” Susan cannot resist a chance to express her own artistic talents, and on each of the ninety invitations sent out she creates a tiny watercolor, usually just a few wavy blue lines to symbolize the river, but sometimes a finely wrought chimney, or a cow.
The invitation in Kate’s hand has been personalized with the wavy blue lines. Beneath the times of the party, from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m., there is a line that reads donation: twenty-five dollars per person. On Daniel and Kate’s invitation, Susan has drawn a circle around the amount, with a line running off the circle that leads to the message no exceptions! Kate has been going on about the boorishness of this reminder since its arrival on Tuesday, and now, sitting at her dressing table, putting on her lipstick, with the invitation propped up against the mirror, she suddenly sees Daniel in the glass and begins again.
“Does Susan Richmond really think we’re going to try and sneak in without paying?” she asks. She doesn’t turn to face him but watches his reflection in the mirror. His hair is still wet from the shower; his eyes are dark and startled in the middle of his scrubbed face. He has lately become meticulous about his grooming, as he has with every other detail of domestic life, from getting up with Ruby every morning and making breakfast for the family, to the dutiful little good-night kisses he places on Kate’s cheek at night. He is like a British officer in captivity, keeping up his own morale with close shaves and crisp salutes.
“I’m sure it’s a joke,” he says. He checks the time. “You look very nice.” Which is his way of saying, “Hurry up, it’s time to leave.”
“I’ve started a new novel,” she suddenly announces.
a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
“That’s good. It’s great. I’m really glad.”
“You are?”
“Of course I am.”
“Yes, well, we’ll see. But it does seem that connubial bliss was interfering with my creativity. Ever since . . . you know, the big confession, I’ve really felt inspired. And this book—well, I don’t even want to talk about it. I don’t want to jinx it. It could all disappear. I could spend the rest of my life just writing articles.”
“I’m really glad,” Daniel says. “Are you almost ready?”
“Ruby?” she asks, still gazing at him in the mirror.
“I think she’s all set. I’ll go check.”
Except for not loving Kate, Daniel has been a model partner since his confession in the hotel room two weeks ago. No socks on the floor, impeccable table manners, he has even purchased over the Internet some spray he squirts on the back of his throat at night, which has virtually eliminated his snoring. The respect he shows for her sleep is boundless.
Not only has the snoring stopped, but he no longer tugs at the blanket, and when he rolls over nothing of him so much as grazes her, she cannot even feel his breathing, he has less presence than the dead, and in the mornings he is quieter than the rising sun when he slips out of bed to mind Ruby and get her off to school.Yet he is not entirely cold, not like someone who is furious, or who wishes to punish you. If she rolls next to him in bed, he is accepting. If she presses herself against him he gathers her in. If she kisses him, he kisses her back. If she wants to fuck, he fucks.
He is entirely at her disposal. Her every wish, it seems, is . . . no, not his command, but his opportunity to commit some further act of penance.
“Got me one of dem penitent boyfriends,” Kate said to Lorraine over the telephone the other day. “Dem’s the best kind,” answered Lorraine.
Daniel finds Ruby in her room, brushing the bright-yellow hair of a chubby-faced doll with a pug nose, a prissy mouth, and blue, unforgiving eyes. Neither Daniel nor Kate would have bought such a toy for Ruby—they would rather supply her with little cars, plastic horses, building blocks, books—but she’d fallen under the doll’s spell at day care
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and the teachers let her take it home. “Are you about ready, Monkey?”
Daniel asks. He feels so guilty around Ruby that he has made his voice overly cheerful.
“I want to play with Ginkie,” Ruby says. She turns the doll around on her lap, gazes into its bright blue eyes.
“You can bring Ginkie with you, if you want.”
“No. She can’t go out.” Ruby has long contended that the doll is afraid to leave the house—it seems part of a strategy to make certain that it never gets returned to the day care center.
“It’s going to be fun,” says Daniel. “And besides, there’s not going to be any grown-ups home, so you have to come along.”
“What about Mercy?”
“She’s busy.”
“Is she going to be at the party?”
“You never know.”
“Can I really take Ginkie?”
Daniel picks Ruby up, notches her onto his hip. The weight of her balances him, somehow damps down the anxiety.
The three of them drive to the party, through a mild November afternoon. The sun is high and hazy in the pale-blue sky, it looks like a little stain on a shirt.The wreckage of last month’s storm is still everywhere in evidence—collapsed old barns, fallen trees, heartbreaking wreaths on the side of the road where people lost their lives.
He drives slowly, not wanting to telegraph how anxious he is to arrive at the party. Kate, who since beginning her novel has taken up smoking again, lights a cigarette and cracks the window to let out the smoke.
“Don’t smoke!” Ruby cries out, the way they all do in unison at her day care center, during Awareness Training, when the kids are introduced to all God’s dangers:
Don’t smoke! Don’t drink! Don’t touch me!
Kate rolls her eyes, inviting Daniel to share her exasperation, but at the same time she reaches behind her and gives Ruby’s knee a humorous little squeeze.
“Are there going to be other kids at the party?” Ruby asks.
a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
After a brief silence, Daniel answers. “I don’t really know for sure. I imagine so.”
“I want Nelson to be there,” Ruby says. “Was he invited?”
“I don’t know who was invited,” Daniel says. He feels Kate’s eyes on him, and his voice wavers.
“Oh, I certainly hope Nelson is there,” Kate says, taking one last drag of her cigarette and then tossing it out the window. “With his lovely parents. That would make everything special.”
“He’s nice,” Ruby says, stretching her arms and legs. The child seat seems suddenly a size too small for her.
“Oh, he’s fantastic,” Kate says. “The whole family.”
She glances at Daniel, notes his discomfort, and wraps her hand around the crook of his right arm, momentarily throwing his steering off.
They are riding through the village now, past the church in which the four of them heard the
Messiah
a few weeks ago. It seems like months, years.
