Read Bobcat and Other Stories Online
Authors: Rebecca Lee
Tags: #General, #Short Stories (Single Author), #Fiction
Bobcat and Other Stories (15 page)
“Let’s continue,” Indira said.
And so we did.
“Since you believe the world is perfectible you find it always unsatisfying.” This was Sands, as Louis. And then she kissed Groovy, as Joe. They kissed, as men kiss. I staggered inwardly. And the play wound through its tragedies easily until Stadbakken’s final, deathbed lines. “You are all fabulous creatures, each and every one. And I bless you: More life.” Behind his head thousands of birds took flight. He raised his arms, though dying. He loved the play, you could tell. The wind howled. And then he stood up to go hug Indira.
SINCE SANDS HADN’T COOKED,
it was her duty to clean up. I helped her clear away the dishes. We made an enormous pile of dirty dishes and plates and heaps of food on the silver table at the center of Utopia. There were also the three empty carriages of bones. “I can’t believe that about Indira,” Sands said.
“I know. It’s hard to believe.”
“And now she’ll have to get married. That’s a real primal fear, you know, for women. I can remember as a girl having dreams about having to get married.”
“You’re so unromantic, I can’t even stand it.”
“Me?” she said.
“You.”
She was leaning against the silver table, looking down at the turkey drumstick that she was tearing apart in her hands, to eat, when I stepped up, finally, and against all better reason, kissed her. Tomorrow, Indira would be gone, and who could predict what would happen then, when one of us was gone? Time was ticking away, the snow was falling. Sands’s mouth tasted like ten thousand things—berries and wine and pumpkin and something too human to define. I placed my hand on her spine as it arched back over the table, and then the door swung open. I turned to see Stadbakken, my arm lifting Sands so that we stood before him, my arm around her. He was smoking a cigar, and some of its smoke was spiraling up around his head. He stood still for a moment and then said, “Oh, is that right? Well, then. Okay. That’s fine.”
He walked toward us then. “First, let’s clear away the bones,” he said. “Let’s make some room, then, for you two. Let us clear away the bones!” And with that, he swept his entire arm over the silver lake of the table, so that everything flew—all the bodies breaking up in the air, a flurry of bone and gristle, of life sailing apart.
LATER THAT NIGHT I
went looking for Sands. She had kissed me, told me to wait in Utopia, and ran after Stadbakken. “I’ll try to solve it,” she said to me. But then she did not come back for over an hour. I went to the women’s wing and found Groovy there, helping Indira to pack. And then Reuben came out of Indira’s room as well, carrying an empty cardboard box. He wasn’t saying anything, so I blurted, “Indira, why are you going? Please don’t go. Please stay.”
Indira looked at me sweetly, indulgently, as if I were a small child. She hugged me.
And then I went to Stadbakken’s. The light was falling down out of the building, onto the snow, that’s how bright it was. It was too high for me to see anything, but I stood out in the snow for a long time. I must have stood there for close to an hour. It was ridiculous, I knew, and pathetic, but that light was more warm and significant than any I’d ever known in my life, and I knew that when I turned to go there would be nothing, only the cold and the never-ending drifts of snow.
BY THE NEXT MORNING,
our dinner was dissolving in the slop bucket—the little pancakes, the heads of fish, the turkey breast, the potato shavings. I poured a cup of coffee, picked up the pail, and walked down through the snow and darkness. The beasts were still asleep, and one startled when I opened the door and the cold sun fell over her. Eventually the snow began to fall—enormous lotus flakes that I watched from inside the barn. I milked the one cow for a while and as the sun rose higher I was finally getting warm. The barn was waking up around me, the building itself shifting and ticking away as the light forced itself through the million tiny chinks. As I milked I tried to think of a way to stay in love with Sands and stay at Fialta. In the moment Stadbakken flung his hand across the table, I had known he would never be reconciled to this. I don’t believe there was anything illicit particularly in his feelings; in fact, it was probably their very purity that made them so searing, so intolerant. He was her teacher, and she his student, and they met up there in a perfect illumination high above the regular world. Another cow shuddered awake beside me and looked up at me, half in sympathy, half in resignation to all my shortcomings, which is the very look cows always give, which is their whole take on the world.
And then the door opened. The cold, dim day rushed in, and, along with it, Sands. She was wearing a nightgown with a parka over the top, her hair in one long, sleepy braid. She looked like she was fulfilling and making fun of my dreams all at once. “You look like a farmer’s wife,” I said.
“And you the farmer.”
“He wants to see you,” she said. Some doves in the rafters fluttered and made a break for the open door, wheeling then around the corner. Fialta was burning away in the distance. From this distance, it looked already to be stirring—composed, as Auden said all living things were, of dust and Eros. It was clear what would happen. I would leave; Stadbakken would fall—the full, staggering weight of him—in my arms and hug me as he told me I had to leave. But there was still the morning. Her hair and skin were the only moments of darkness in the brightening barn. I kissed her again. One of the cows made a lowing sound I’d not heard before, which sounded like a foghorn in the distance. They’d seen it all before, this whole drama; their large hearts inside them had broken a hundred times before today. The barn smelled exactly like the very passage of time. The cows took their own fertility so practically, as the pigs did joyfully, and the doves beautifully. I already knew then that I’d be forced to leave Fialta; I could practically have predicted my leaving to the hour, but my heart was caught up in the present, whirring away and still insisting that this was the beginning, not the end. And so that’s how I felt hardly any grief at all, lying alongside Sands on the crackling, warm hay at the foot of that makeshift paradise, as the cows watched on, remembering human love.
Settlers
This old house, belonging to my friends Lesley and Andy, had been built in 1904 in a neighborhood that pretended it was on solid ground—old, Victorian homes with pillars and porticoes—but if you stepped through the screen door into the garden out back, you could feel the sand under your feet, and despite Lesley’s beautiful mazes of trees, you could tell the ocean had been here not long ago, and would be again.
Lesley and I were the same age—both thirty-five—but already she had three little girls, whom she was homeschooling. I was standing at the big kitchen window and I could see them out there in a corner of the garden, sitting in a little circle with their babysitter, one by one racing around and around, playing duck duck goose. There was a tropical storm on its way that evening, and it was already quite windy, and the girls’ hair, all curly and brown, was flying around in the shifty air. It was such an ideal little world, and it seemed a wonder that Lesley had somehow generated it all—the house, the girls, the man, the stone pathways out back that made a labyrinth through the garden, the exquisite homemade dollhouses in every room of the house, made out of scraps of fabric and old cereal boxes, the batik banner hanging above this big window that said,
a family like no other
.
Lesley and Andy were both originally from New York, both great conversationalists—full of curiosity and insight. They were both busily cooking tonight—Andy a kind of dark, sticky roast, and Lesley her specialty—a Vietnamese pho soup. If a person could measure these things, I’d say she had the upper hand in the relationship, but not by too much, just a little, just enough to offset what feminists used to call the “slide toward male dominance” in the culture at large and create a perfectly symmetrical, very powerful little system within a system, a neat counterbalance. I used to think of them as a “productive” couple, meaning their marriage seemed to give them energy rather than drain it away.
David Booth was already there, standing in a corner of the kitchen, with a bottle of beer in his hand. He was the perfect man—calm, intelligent, nice—though it didn’t ever seem to dawn on him—ever—no matter how many situations he and I found ourselves in that duplicated a date—at our mutual friends’ home for dinner, for instance, or at a carnival with a group of friends, all couples except for us, or walking across campus at
dusk,
the perfume of huge and strange southern flowers all around us—that the two of us could try to date. Would it kill us?
It was September 11, 1998, which was the day the Starr Report had emerged in the newspapers. All of us had spent the day poring over it. I was working on a TV pilot and was supposed to be writing revisions, but instead I’d spent the day with the
New York Times
laid out on my desk as I read it—rapt, nearly unconscious. It was seventy-four pages long, and the writer had been good enough to write it as a narrative, complete with suspense, structure, style, and substance. It was like reading Edith Wharton, minus all the fussy details. Lesley and I had been calling each other all day, on and off, to discuss it. “I don’t know,” I said now to her, “I just really emerged with the feeling that Clinton hadn’t really wanted to betray Hillary at all. In my reading, I thought he was trying to
resist
temptation the whole time.”
“Oh please,” Lesley said. “It’s as if we read entirely different documents. He originates most of the action.”
“But only after he resists quite a few times. And he mentions Hillary many times. She is on his mind!”
David Booth lifted his beer in a little toast at this, which I thought was charming.
“Oh spare me my husband ever uttering my name while he’s having an affair,” Lesley said. She had already spooned out the soup into the bowls and now was carrying them, two by two, into the dining room.
“Noted,” Andy said.
“I’d want to be on his mind,” I said. “That smells amazing.” Just the fact that it was real food seemed miraculous to me, after a day of drinking only coffee and eating M&M’s. Somehow Lesley had found the rabbit hole into real life, while I had continued on this other precarious path—single and free and mostly what I wanted, but still, there wasn’t any real food, it seemed, no soups or stews or casseroles, except for the two or three nights a month when I came to dinner here.
“How’s that TV pilot coming?” David Booth asked me, as we all sat down to eat. One of us was missing—Berber—but she was always late. She always came flying in, with a great excuse. I was quite anxious to see her since apparently she had just made a decision, reported to Lesley earlier in the week, to abandon her life amongst us and go “join with” a man—a married man—she had met at a yoga retreat in the mountains. Lesley had also warned me she was wearing a turban these days, and I wanted to see that, too.
“It’s coming terribly, honestly,” I said to David Booth. “My writing partner and I can’t agree on anything, and there are fifty other people with all sorts of opinions, and nobody agrees. It’s all a big mess.”
“It’s about Wonder Woman still?” he asked.
David Booth had written and published a book last year called
The Continuing City,
a book of essays that was so beautiful and thrilling it made me nervous to read it. Every essay—whether it was about reading Voltaire in boarding school, or his mother’s career as a film actress in the sixties, or his grandmother’s recipe for lamb—always wound its way into some really beautiful reckoning with fate, and life, and God. So I didn’t like it that he described my project as a TV pilot about Wonder Woman, even thought that’s exactly what it was.
“It is,” I said.
“What are her powers anyway?” Andy asked. “I should know that.”
“She can force men to tell the truth,” I said. “She has a lasso that can do that.”
“She has an invisible airplane,” Lesley said.
“One thing about her,” I said, “that often gets lost in all the scripts is that she can love unconditionally. She can love people who don’t love her back.”
“That’s a
superpower
?” Andy said.
“No mortal can do it,” I said.
Which is when Berber appeared, bringing in the deep green verdant smell of their front lawn, as well as the ocean. The turban made her look a number of conflicting things—pure and spiritual for sure, but also completely cracked in the head, like she’d had an actual surgical procedure, or maybe an imaginary one. But then it also somehow emphasized her big, square, beautiful teeth.
“Berber, we’ve started,” Lesley said. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know if you’d make it.”
“Oh that’s fine,” Berber said, and quickly slid into her chair.
“We’ve been talking about the Starr Report. Did you read it?” asked Lesley.
“I would have slept with him, of course I would have.”
“Is this how women think?” Andy said.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, I thought you’d all be censorious of him, but really what you’re doing is thinking about whether you would sleep with him or not.”
“You can have both those thoughts at the same time,” I said. “You can feel very critical of a man even as you’re sleeping with him,” I said. David Booth laughed a little at this, a gesture that was enough to keep me interested in him for another few years.
“That explains a lot,” Andy said.
“What about this guy?” I said to Berber. “What’s going on?”
“Lesley told you then. He’s wonderful.”
“Is there going to be a ceremony or something?”
“We haven’t worked out the details, but yes.”
“So he’s getting a divorce?”
“No, his wife is very sick. She’s in a home.”
“She’s dying,” David Booth said.
“She is.”
“Have you met her or something?” I said.
“Yes. She wants Bryan and me to be together.”
Later that night, David and I left the party together. He walked me to my car. The eastern seaboard at night in September is so beautiful, so warm and cold, and the streetlights threw such bright light on the street that it was almost like a movie set. “What do you think?” I said, “About this Bryan person?”
“Yeah, it’s interesting, isn’t it? I don’t know. I’ve been reading about a Utopian community from the late 1800s, in Massachusetts, called Fruitlands. I had the same feeling while listening to Berber’s set up. This should work, but I know it won’t. How can it?”
BY THE TIME WE
met Bryan, it was a few months later, in December, at Lesley and Andy’s annual Christmas party. I was there with David Booth. He had even picked me up in his little car. Looking back, this was the night I silently broke up with him, even though we weren’t dating. The house looked magnificent; Lesley and the girls had draped piney garlands everywhere, and even just the smell of pine and cinnamon was suggestive of the deepest, richest kind of family life. How could David not want this for the two of us—a big fire, our homeschooled children circulating with little silver trays of food, and then the inevitable long gossipy discussions after everyone left and we languidly picked up the living room and then settled down on the couch together.
It was easy to spot Berber and Bryan, since they both were wearing their turbans, which as far as I was concerned joined them more absolutely than marriage.
Bryan reached out immediately to shake my hand. He recognized me without an introduction. He had one of those broad, merry, twinkly faces, with a gap in his teeth. He just looked happy. He looked so happy you wanted to make him more happy. “It’s so nice to meet you,” he said warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you. Berber just loves you so much,” he said.
“Oh thank you!” I said. “I love her. And this is David Booth.”
And here Bryan bowed slightly. “David Booth,” he said in a low, dramatic voice. “Your book was the work of a genius.”
“Thank you,” David said. “Thank you for reading it.”
“The essay on
Tommy
alone was worth the price of admission.”
“Oh, thank you.” (One had to say thank you continually to Bryan; every conversation was engineered that way.) “Yeah,
Tommy,
” David went on, “I saw that when I was eight, perhaps the most impressionable age possible. And then my older brothers played the Who till late in the night, every night, in the basement, so those lyrics are just permanent background in my brain.”
Bryan pantomimed an air guitar and sang in an actually really pretty falsetto, “Deaf, dumb, and blind kid, sure plays mean pinball.”
Berber smiled and nodded a little. She seemed so charmed by him, and I was, too, still, at this point. His cup was full to the brim, and just a little over.
“And how’s Wonder Woman?” Berber asked me, a little conspiratorially.
“She’s good,” I said.
“It’s a movie script?” Bryan asked.
“TV,” I said.
“TV,” Bryan said. “I barely know what’s on TV these days. I like what you said, David, in one of your essays about TV, that it replaces experience to such an extent that the person is no longer privy to the great truths that lie at the heart of action.”
Oh, this. “Well, what about
Tommy
?
Tommy
doesn’t do that somehow? Cause it was on a bigger screen?”
“Oh,” David said, “and I was just posturing. Some of those essays are just bullshit. You know, you get writing, and you just try out ideas.”
“At our yoga retreat—where we met—there are no screens of any sort allowed and what we’ve found is that people have access to the deeper stories of their lives when you’re not distracting them with the shallow, irrelevant stories from a television. Berber and I, for instance, both have shadowy ideas of knowing each other in the past.”
“Really?” I looked at Berber. She sort of shrugged. She was a little embarrassed, I could tell.
“Yes,” he said. “We think we were married in the past. During a plague. One of us perished. I mean, who knows, right? It can’t be known, but we both felt a strong connection to the past when we met.”
“And your wife, who was she in this scenario?” And then I instantly regretted it, because a look of such absolute sadness passed over his face.
“I guess nothing is simple,” he said.
DAVID AND I REALLY
did break up, even though he was unaware of it. But without me calling all the time, we never saw each other, except here and there, once or twice a year, by accident. And in the meantime I got married to an old friend named Mark. He ran the Raptor Center in our town, in the black swamps to the west of us, alongside the Cape Fear River. If you looked carefully, he was a wonderful man. He played the harmonica, he had a beard, he was ten years older than me, he was a settled man, and smart and humble, you could trust him never to have an affair or even leave the house too much. I got pregnant right away, which we’d planned. He was not here tonight. He told me to go ahead, that he’d already had dinner at Lesley and Andy’s, as if dinner with friends were one of those things you did once, to experience it, and never again.
It was 2005, and Lesley and Andy’s home had undergone some major changes. About five years earlier Lesley had discovered a series of pointless affairs Andy had participated in thoughout their marriage, nothing too serious but of course completely devastating to Lesley. Her solution was not to leave him, but to add all sorts of extra rooms and dividers into their home, as if to demarcate places for herself and places for him, and then some mutual territories as well. She’d also installed a huge flat-screen TV high on their kitchen wall. Tonight it showed Hurricane Katrina bearing down on New Orleans. The sound was off but the mesmerizing scenes of water pouring down city streets were both beautiful and terrible to look at.
