All Things Cease to Appear (30 page)

She was just trying to get her head clear and stay off her mother’s Valium and
grow up.
She’d been doing really well until he came along.

This one day he brought scissors and said, I want to do something. What? she said, a little afraid. He said, Your hair, with a freaky look on his face. She just sat there waiting and you could hear the rain blasting down and rushing through the gutters and she shrugged and laughed and said, What? And he said, Come here. He wanted to hold her down and he touched her a little. He ran his hands through her hair. I want you, he said, like a boy. Then he put his hand between her legs. For me, he whispered.

The scissors made a clicking sound near her ear. Pieces of hair fell onto her naked legs. After, with her shoulders bare, he made her let him and she cried. She could feel herself giving up. And the voice in her head came back.
Jump,
it said.

—

SHE MET UP
with Eddy later. What you do to your hair?

Don’t you like it?

No, he said. He seemed mad. What’s wrong with you?

I don’t know.

I guess I can get used to it.

They walked into town holding hands. She could see her reflection in the dark storefronts. Her hair was flat on her head in all directions. She tried to squeeze the thought of George out of her mind, the awful thing he’d done to her. It was warm there inside her skull, like something sick that could stink and fester.

They went to Blake’s and played pinball for a while and she had a rum-and-Coke and watched Eddy’s beautiful frown as he gripped the warm machine and tapped the buttons with his long fingers. He was just a farm boy, she knew. He hadn’t been anywhere. They were different people.

—

IT WAS
a man on the ground who saw her first. He’d run inside the building to tell Alonzo, their doorman, who’d run out and seen her, and when they looked at each other she knew he was remembering the time they’d stayed up all night in the lobby talking about Buddhism and he’d taught her
namyohorengekyo
and they’d sat there together, chanting and meditating, until it was dawn and she’d gone upstairs to her parents’ penthouse and snuck into bed, grateful for everything—so very
grateful.
And his look, even so far down on the sidewalk, was saying, Don’t do this. Pretty soon there was a crowd on the street, looking up at her, pointing, and part of her felt like an exotic bird—singular, detached, glorious. She’d climbed onto the head of a gargoyle, perusing the dark geometry of the city, her arms out, feeling the wind flame over her, tasting her fear. Then sirens, trucks. Cops. At the time she was thinking how nice it was to be apart, separate, delivered from evil—an angel. Beyond the periphery of her vision she could see them, her guides to the next world, waiting for her, solemn, parochial, patient. And the wind trying to lift her up. And the wailing sirens, and the men spilling onto the roof in their black uniforms, scattering like she was the enemy, some invader, when really she was just a girl with serious problems, and they froze as if at any moment the world would crack open, the fragile semblance of civility, and they’d all fall into a vortex of darkness, the place God makes to put people like them.

Landscape with Farmhouse

1

HER HUSBAND WAS
well liked. He had tennis partners, chess partners. On the weekends, he’d invite people to the house, people from the department. It was never just the two of them. He played the part of the generous host. In front of strangers, he was a convincing husband, a devoted father. People thought they were in love, building a life together. They would beam with admiration.

For her part, she was the image of the scholar’s wife in her old kilts from college, somber turtlenecks the color of horses—bay and chestnut, dappled gray. Her skin pale as old bread. She’d pull her hair into a bun and didn’t bother with makeup. None of the Saginaw wives did. They were a conservative lot, with their dull fire-sale pumps, wool skirts, frilly high-necked blouses.

Sometimes Justine and Bram would come. They’d bring people along, as if they’d be too bored if they came alone. Artists. Writers. They could be snobs, Catherine thought. Although the parties always got better once they showed up. The air smelling of dead leaves, of fire, they’d sit around on the terrace drinking undiluted Scotch until it got too cold, then jam around the kitchen table, eating whatever they could find—Irish cheddar in its thick wax cape, apricots, walnuts cracked from their shells, black grapes. With their thick hungry hands, the men were savage, common, and reminded her of Van Gogh’s
Potato Eaters
with their red faces, red from the new autumn wind. The women grazed off their husbands’ plates, smoking incessantly.

Eventually, like some religious cult, the men would disappear into George’s study and huddle over books, argue, drink and smoke—she’d find their ashes on the floor the next day like duck droppings. She’d bring them tea, strong coffee, Cognac, cigars, knocking gently, entering the room into an abrupt silence.

—

ONE NIGHT
George invited his department chair, Floyd DeBeers, and his wife, Millicent, for dinner. Catherine fussed all day to make it nice. She cooked a pot roast, only to discover when they arrived that they were vegetarians. Millicent walked with a cane. In private, DeBeers had told George that her condition was worsening. Still, her beauty was dignified, elegant. She wore a long gauze dress, overcast-gray. He had longish sideburns, a distracting mustache and an outlandish taste in clothes—bright blazers with stripes and clashing colors, awful wide ties. She wondered at first if he was color-blind.

While George made a fire, she showed Floyd and Millicent around. She was pleased with how the house looked. The table, the flowers. The good bottle of Bordeaux. Millicent declined going up the stairs, since, she explained, they’d become difficult for her in recent weeks. When Floyd entered their bedroom he stopped abruptly, staring down at the bed.

Is something wrong? she said.

We’re not alone.

What do you mean? she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

She doesn’t mean any harm. She wants you to know that.

She’s watching over her boys, Catherine managed.

So you’ve seen her?

Catherine nodded. Once. Don’t tell George, he already thinks I’m crazy.

DeBeers nodded sympathetically. People like your husband can’t accept the abstract. It makes them uneasy. I know that about George. He’s afraid.

Afraid?

Yes, he said confidently, as if he were privy to some exclusive truth. But you and I, we’re open. Open to life, to all the possibilities.

She looked at his face, his kind eyes. Should I be frightened?

It’s nothing to worry about, he said. They’re among us. He shrugged as if he were talking about mosquitoes or mice. People don’t want to believe it, but we both know better, don’t we? He smiled at her and touched the side of her face. It was such a tender gesture she almost cried. I suppose we’re special, aren’t we, dear?

I don’t know, she said, overcome. No one had ever called her special.

Come, now, don’t be upset. Let’s not spoil such a lovely evening. He pulled her against his chest and hugged her. She can’t hurt you. She has her reasons for lingering. If anything, she’s grateful.

She held on tight, clutching him like a child. Grateful?

You’ve been good to her sons.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.

It’s all right. You don’t have to explain. Some of us just know things. It’s a gift and a curse that some of us have to bear.

He smiled, studied her carefully and asked, How are things with George? Is everything okay?

Of course, she said, embarrassed. Why wouldn’t it be?

I know it’s hard moving up to a place like this. You’re not lonesome, are you?

She shook her head—she wasn’t about to tell George’s boss everything.

Your husband has his own way of doing things, that’s for sure.

She nodded and smiled, but found the comment disturbing. She didn’t know how George behaved out in the world. There had been occasions when she’d seen him being discourteous. Once, leaving the mall, he’d barreled through the glass door without holding it open for the woman behind him; the door was heavy and swung back hard enough that the woman was hurt, and she’d called him an asshole while Catherine pretended not to know him. It was a small thing, she knew, but it said a lot about his way of doing things.

An outburst of laughter clattered up the stairs, the result of some silly joke, she guessed. DeBeers took her arm. Let’s go join them, shall we?

—

WASHING THE DISHES,
she reflected on the evening. Even without her roast, the meal had been good, the salad and wine to everyone’s satisfaction. They were interesting people and she especially liked Floyd. He was warm, kind. More than once she’d caught him contemplating her across the table with a fatherly sort of understanding that she’d never witnessed in her own father’s eyes.

She let the water run a minute. She stacked the dishes in the rack, then scoured the big white sink. She wiped down the faded Formica counters stippled with cigarette burns. It saddened her to think how careless people could be. The floor needed sweeping, but it was very late and she wanted to go to bed. It could wait, she decided, and untied her apron and hung it on the hook. When she turned around George was standing in the doorway, watching her. She couldn’t tell how long he’d been there. He looked at her dully.

George, she said.

Come over here.

What is it?

Closer.

She stood there waiting. She thought he might be drunk.

He pushed her hair to the side, tilting his head, considering her. He put his hands on her shoulders. You did a good job tonight, he said.

It was fun.

Floyd likes you.

He’s a nice man.

You were up there a while.

I was showing him the house.

What did he say?

He liked it. He said it was nice.

About me, I mean.

He didn’t say anything about you, George. Why would he?

At length he answered, No reason.

He stood there looking at her. The weight of his hands bore down on her. She realized her heart was beating very fast. She thought he might be planning something, that he might want to hurt her.

Gingerly, she pulled his hands off her and moved away and opened the cupboard and took out a glass and filled it at the sink, just to have something to do. Good night, George, she said without looking at him.

Aren’t you coming up?

I want to do the floor. There’s something sticky here.

Can’t it wait?

I know you don’t like a dirty floor.

His eyes shifted to the floor, then back up on her. Suit yourself. He waited another minute. I’m going up, he said finally. And then he did.

She found her cigarettes and shut the light off and went onto the porch and stood there in the cold, smoking. The screens waffled in the wind and dry leaves circled her feet. Her eyes scanned the black fields. Anything could happen out here, she thought. And no one would know.

She stepped inside and closed the door. She could hear the floors creaking overhead, water running through the pipes. The springs of the bed. Then silence.

A glass of vodka made her feel better. She was her own best friend. Her mother had told her that when she was a girl. Whenever you’re in trouble, just remember you’re your own best friend.

After that night at the Sokolovs’, when he’d hit her on the drive home and ripped her dress, she had lain awake all night, struggling over what to do. When she saw her eye the next morning, a bruise like a jellyfish, the answer was obvious. Somehow she got through the day. When he came home he brought flowers and watched as she filled the vase with water, her hands trembling. They were carnations, her least favorite.

She waited for him to pour a drink; she’d already had two. Then she said, I’m leaving you.

Without a word, he backed out of his chair and went upstairs. She could hear him rummaging through the closet, opening drawers. When he came back down he was holding her suitcase.

What’s that? she asked him.

You’re leaving. That’s what you said, isn’t it?

She just looked at him.

Obviously, you’ll be needing your suitcase.

Franny began to whimper. She reached up for Catherine, her lower lip quivering. Where you going, Momma?

Your mother’s going away, George said flatly. She’s leaving us, Franny.

The child began to cry.

Catherine could barely speak. She crouched down to her daughter, taking her in her arms. I’m not. It’s not true. Momma’s not going anywhere.

She grabbed the suitcase and carried it back upstairs and took out her belongings and put them away. Later that night, when he came to bed, he pushed up her nightgown. You can leave anytime you want, he told her, but Franny stays here.

—

SHE FINISHED
the vodka and put her glass in the sink. The house was quiet. She could see the moon through the window.

Then she climbed the stairs, like all the women who had lived in this house before, whose tired feet had worn the treads of the old stairs, solace coming only in the deep of night, when they were at last alone.

Soundlessly, she stripped off her clothes and pulled on her nightgown. She stood there over the bed, the sound of his breathing filling the room.

Taking care not to wake him, she slid beneath the sheets and shut her eyes very tightly. White was the color she saw in her head. Hospital white. White like resurrection, the first color you see when you awake from death, when they unzip your body bag and the world fills again with light.

This in itself was an odd thought. She’d begun to have a lot of them. Whole schools of them swimming in her brain.

She couldn’t tell George, he wouldn’t understand, but she’d stopped sharing most things with him by now. The only one she could tell was Ella. Whispering into the empty room. Already it seemed to Catherine that she had developed a relationship with the ghost. They were a morbid pair—one dead, one alive. Both stuck.