All Things Cease to Appear (21 page)

Come in and have a drink. Catherine’s just putting Franny down for a nap.

They went inside and followed him into the kitchen, where he found a bottle of gin and some limes. We’ve got some wine, too.

Wine would be lovely, Justine said.

Bram wanted gin.

George was glad to hear Catherine coming down the stairs.

I thought I heard voices, she said. What a nice surprise.

This is quite a place, Justine told her. I’ve always wanted to see the inside.

They helped themselves to a tour of the living room and George’s study.

Ah, you’ve got a piano. Do you play?

Not very well, Catherine said.

She’s very modest, George offered.

They left it, the people before us.

The Hales, Justine clarified. Poor Ella.

George’s wife went a little pale. Did you know her?

Only distantly. She was very beautiful.

Suddenly it was very quiet.

We can go outside if you like, George said.

Catherine then seemed to remember her manners. Yes, there’s a terrace. Let me get some food.

Don’t bother. We just wanted to say hello.

But Catherine had already disappeared into the kitchen. They sat waiting, out on the terrace, in the late sunlight, until she brought out a tray of cheese and olives and Bram’s baguette, which they ripped apart with their hands. This bread is wonderful, Catherine said.

Bram smiled. My own recipe.

He’s quite the Renaissance man, Justine said.

Bread making’s new to me. I used to be an accountant, then just got to the point where I didn’t want to do it anymore.

George met Catherine’s eyes for a moment. He knew she didn’t approve of people who stopped working when they could afford to. You didn’t earn points with his wife for having more money than God.

Now he’s writing a novel.

Well, that’s ambitious, George said. What’s it about?

I have no idea.

Sounds promising.

Justine asked, What do you do, Catherine?

I’m a housewife.

George detected a tone of defiance. When she gazed over at him and smiled, he was momentarily stirred by the gesture.

She’s a wonderful mother, he told them.

Oh, that’s nice.

Do you have children? Catherine wanted to know.

No, Justine said. I’m a weaver.

There’s a shop in town, Bram said, exchanging a smile with her, that sells all her things. They’re quite beautiful.

I’ll have to stop by, Catherine said.

You don’t have to buy anything. Actually, I’d like to make you a scarf. What’s your favorite color?

Blue, I think. But I’m happy to buy one.

Don’t be silly. She reached out and took Catherine’s hand for a moment. We’re going to be friends.

His wife blushed, her eyes radiant. I’d like that.

Catherine’s also an artist, he said, almost apologetically. He coughed. She’s a trained conservator.

Impressive, Bram said.

Well, I didn’t finish. Catherine shot him a look. I left before—

You mean you left graduate school? Justine interrupted.

Well, Franny came along. She shook her head, embarrassed. We got married.

Such defeat, he thought.

You can always get back to it, Justine told her.

Catherine restores murals. She’s worked with famous architects.

I was mostly cleaning their brushes.

It’s become quite a special niche, he added.

Cleaning brushes? Justine said.

No, Catherine said. Painting Jesus. George is right, it’s my niche.

She and Justine exchanged glances. It was their secret language, he thought. Their meaningful silence rang in his ears like bells.

Are you terribly religious? Justine asked tentatively, as though Catherine might have some disease.

We’re agnostic, Bram explained. Well—she is. I’m a Jew.

Which means, Justine clarified, we eat bagels on Sundays and brisket once a year, during the High Holidays. He makes a very good brisket.

We’re Catholic, Catherine said.

In theory, George said. I refuse to align myself with any denomination.

She shot him a look. We’re raising our daughter Catholic.

That’s not official, he said—and how did they get onto this subject? Yes, it was her latest preoccupation. She wanted to take Franny to church; he was against it. He’d outgrown religion like a tight suit. For a moment nobody said anything, but his wife’s distaste was apparent. He studied both Justine and Bram, expecting some dispatch of consternation, but they seemed indifferent. I guess I have a general mistrust of anything that has the word
organized
attached to it. Maybe I prefer disorder.

Honey, Catherine said, you know that’s not true.

He continued, wanting to say it, wanting her to hear it. Her blind devotion was not only embarrassing, it made her seem common. I guess it all depends what pond you’re drinking from.

It’s true, Justine said, there’s a lot of hocus-pocus. But to each his or her own.

It’s a personal choice, Catherine said.

Don’t you just love those? Justine looked at George directly, and he felt they shared an understanding.

Who wants another drink? Bram?

The wine isn’t cold, his wife complained.

I’ll get some ice.

He went inside, happy to have a moment alone. From the kitchen window he could see the three of them out on the terrace. His wife’s hair shone in the late sunlight and she pushed it back over her shoulders and tucked it behind her ears, something she’d been doing since he first met her, instantly transforming herself into the awkward girl he’d picked up at Williams. She hadn’t changed much. He didn’t know why he didn’t like her better.

We should play some time, Catherine was saying as he approached the terrace with a bowl of ice and fresh drinks for Bram and himself. Give these guys a run for their money.

On occasions like these George could actually see the benefit of marriage. Four perfectly civilized people spending an afternoon together. His wife sitting there as erect as a violinist. Justine and Bram, having just recently discovered the comforts of civility, impersonating grown-ups.

She plays well, he heard himself say. And it was true: Catherine could hold her own on the court. They’d played in college, and he remembered how she looked in a tennis skirt.

I’d love to, but I’m hopeless out there. Justine smiled up at him as he handed out the drinks. I’m afraid I’ve been relegated to more creative forms of exercise.

George couldn’t resist asking, Such as?

Yoga, of course. Sorry to disappoint you. She turned to Catherine. They have classes in town, if you’re interested. In the high-school gym.

That might be a stretch, he said, trying to make a joke.

You’d like it, Justine promised.

Catherine smiled and nodded. I’d like to. Sure.

How about you, George? Justine asked.

He would swear she was flirting. I don’t think so. My tendons or whatever you call them are tight as guitar strings. It could be dangerous.

You don’t look tight.

Trust me. He raised his drink. Here’s to the only thing that loosens me up.

That’s too bad. You’re missing out.

Justine goes to India every year, Bram offered. She has a guru over there.

Well, George said.

I’ve always wanted to go, Catherine said.

News to me, he thought.

It’s a very spiritual experience.

Catherine glanced at him uneasily and fingered the hem of her skirt. I’ve heard it’s filthy over there. Is that true?

Not where Justine goes it isn’t, he thought.

Yes, sure, there’s poverty, Justine said. But the people are amazing. And the landscape, the colors, it jumps out at you. Pinks and reds and oranges. It’s really something. Whenever I go there, I feel, well…She shook her head, as if none of them could possibly understand.

Feel what? George said.

Embraced, she said finally.

Sitting there in the sharp light, he noticed her breasts, the heavy bones of her face, her sandaled feet firmly planted on the ground. She looked like some Roman princess. There was a classicism about her, a strength and intelligence that he found attractive.

Just look at that sunset, his wife said.

That’s what you call a cheap thrill, Bram said.

They looked at the sun. It was enormous, brilliant. They sat there, watching it disappear behind the trees. For a long while nobody said anything, and soon they were each painted in darkness. The sudden quiet seemed eerie, and they were all glad for the noisy disruption of Franny, thundering through the empty house and calling her mother’s name.

4

A FEW WEEKS LATER,
Giles Henderson invited George and Bram up to the inn to shoot skeet. It was a glorious fall day, straight out of Inness’s
Morning, Catskill Valley,
he thought, the tops of the oak trees aflame with red leaves. George hadn’t fired a shotgun in years, but he embraced the bourgeois emphasis on sport and managed to hit a few of the clays as they flew into the air. Afterward, in keeping with the tweedy mood of the afternoon, they sat in the dark, paneled lounge and drank bourbon and smoked cigars. Jelly was a chain-smoker, and his face like a topiary of broken capillaries. To George’s surprise, the girl Willis was waitressing there. In the empty dining room she sat alone at a table, wrapping silverware in napkins. She was wearing a short gray dress with white piping and an apron, her uniform. Her hair was pulled back with a barrette, a cigarette between her lips. The smoke, coupled with the glaring window light, formed a mysterious aura around her. She turned slightly, as if sensing him. In profile, he saw the line of her jaw, the pronounced cheekbone, the curve of her upper lip. She was like the girl in Delacroix’s
Orphan Girl in the Cemetery,
with her obvious yet unacknowledged beauty, her black eyes, her fear.

After the three men ordered, she brought their food on a large round tray, balancing it on her shoulder. As she set down plates of oysters and smoked trout with lemon, he noticed her thin fingers, the chipped black polish on her nails. Bending and rushing in her short little dress, she had a tart, wistful arrogance that made him feel useless. They switched to wine, a peppery Cabernet, and watching her open it was like witnessing something sexual, her hands on its green throat as she twisted out the cork, and after a few glasses George was under the impression that her complete avoidance of him held some deep significance. He followed her down the empty hallway toward the bathrooms.

She turned on him, fiercely. What do you want?

He couldn’t answer.

I saw you watching me.

So? Is that so unusual?

So what do you want?

You already know what I want.

It just happened, he rationalized. Maybe he’d coaxed her into it. He was older, and he had a certain influence. Maybe she liked his looks, as other women did—his longish hair, his new beard. Catherine used to say he had noble eyes. They were brown, he thought, totally ordinary. He hung around, waiting for her to get off work, and they went to her room, the bed narrow and hard as a coffin. On the small table was a tea tin she used as an ashtray, a miniature Aladdin’s lamp that held incense. He sat cautiously on the very edge of the bed and watched her kick off her boots. He was thinking about Catherine, how he shouldn’t be here with this girl, up to his old tricks, how he should get up and leave, but she pulled off her socks and he looked at her thin, dirty feet and her small hands and he couldn’t move. Her face was pale, her hair dark like a hood, and a sharp light came from her eyes. Stop thinking about her, she said. And then she kissed him and he came back at her and her mouth tasted milky and warm and he couldn’t stop.

Afterward, they lay there in the tiny room. It was very quiet. He was conscious of the world outside her window. Of the cold air, the smell of the earth, the dead leaves. It was beginning to get dark.

You look sad, she said.

He nodded, because he knew that everything was suddenly different.

We’ve done a horrible thing.

Yes.

She appraised him coldly. You need to go.

Walk with me?

They walked into the woods. The air was cool. She shivered in his arms, her mouth warm, salty. He pushed the hair from her forehead and it was damp and he wondered if she was feverish and then he thought if she were he would take the fever from her, he would kiss it out of her. The trees moving overhead, a vigil of mourning. They walked under the trees for miles.

The day had been like a kind of music, a song you hear once and remember imperfectly and never hear again.

Later, at home, he was glad for its comfort and warmth. His wife at the stove, the table set, daisies in a white pitcher. Everything clean and in its place, laundry folded, beds made. His daughter’s little boots by the door, scattered pinecones. He had a Scotch, he felt he needed it, and Catherine played the piano. He watched her as she played, the fine muscles in her back, her lovely, expressive shoulders. She was playing Grieg, the music like a river bringing him back to her. He thought about the afternoon with Willis, how she’d smelled of fresh air and earth. She was like some treasure you discover and wipe clean, acknowledging its history, its beautiful tragedies. The music slowly unraveled and he returned to her little room, how she’d suffered beneath him, and he felt a supreme sense of contentment. His life was simple, glorious. The old house full of music, his daughter pretending to be a cat and traipsing across the floor on all fours, then climbing into his lap. Meow, she said, and kissed him.

—

HE’D BEGUN
to see again.

The landscape opened up to him. The brown fields. The pale horizon.

She was too young for him. He knew this. But he trusted her. It was too early to say he knew her, but he did feel they knew each other. Body and soul. It went beyond sex, he thought. It was something else, something deeper. He possessed her. She had given herself to him.

I think I’m in love with you, he told her.

You hardly know me.

He sat and watched her. She was free in her body. Unlike his wife, she moved without choreography.