Girl in the Moonlight (25 page)

I sat next to Cesca, who kept refilling my wineglass. A part of me wanted her to stop, another part of me did not. I knew what she was doing. And she knew I knew, and that only emboldened her.
I am getting you drunk,
her eyes told me.
Too drunk
to drive
. At one point she even slipped her hand under the table and held mine, leaving it there for several minutes, intimate and innocent at the same time, our fingers interlaced, as though we had been doing it all our lives.

At this point, I had only betrayed Kate in my mind. When I had sat down to dinner, I had every expectation of shortly getting in her car and driving home tonight. But with each hour, I pushed the time of my departure back even further. The conversation was too entertaining. The company too pleasant. Cesca’s presence too intoxicating. Like everyone else at the table, I needed to lift the great sadness that had climbed on top of me since Lio’s death. We all needed to laugh, to remind ourselves of the joys of life. To forget the pain and remember what it was about Aurelio that made us all love him so much.

Initially, I had intended to leave by eight. I would have a quick bite, say my good-byes, and virtuously be back in the city by ten if I didn’t hit traffic, maybe even early enough to see Kate. Then, when it became obvious that eight was too early, I told myself nine. I’d be fine to drive. I’d only had a few drinks. But then nine came and went, and I was astonished to see that it was nearly half past when I next looked at my watch. If I left by ten, I could still make it back by midnight or so, as long as I drove steadily and didn’t get stopped by the police.

The easiest excuse for a moral lapse is to claim inattention. To deceive ourselves. We want to feel that our sins are not our fault. That we were pushed, or stumbled, not that we made a conscious choice to hurt other people. At trial, few suspects plead guilty. There is always a mitigating factor. Someone else made me do it. I didn’t do it. That wasn’t me. It is simpler to live with ourselves if we can convince ourselves of our innocence. Of course, such justification is simply another word for cowardice.

If I had thought for a moment of Kate, things would have been different. But I didn’t. All that I could think of was how
privileged I felt to be there, sharing this moment with them. To be accepted by this extraordinary family that I had admired so greatly and for so long. Grateful that their love for each other also, in a small way, included me. Even Cosmo made me feel welcome. That in some way I had a right to be there. That there was nowhere else in the world I would rather be. No other people I would rather be with. Such a feeling was as intoxicating as the wine. The distinctions between truth and want become blurred, until we forget the one and focus only on the other.

It was easy, too easy. Like felling a tree that is already rotten; a simple push and it crashes down. That’s all it takes.

“You can stay here tonight if you want,” whispered Cesca, leaning over to me. The rest went unspoken. Nothing else needed to be said. The time for resistance was long past.

I nodded, I was complicit. Like a child trying to brazen out the broken vase on the living room floor, I said, “I have to make a phone call.”

I went to the kitchen and found the phone. There were dishes in the sink. Normally, I would have helped clean but not now. I had a purpose. It was an old-fashioned phone, fixed to the wall. The dial pad on the receiver. “Kate,” I said when I heard her voice. “Baby, hi. Sorry for calling so late. I think I’ll be staying here tonight. I’ve had too much to drink. I’ll just have to wake up early tomorrow and drive right to work.”

“Okay. Are you all right? I’ve been worried about you.”

“I’m okay. A little drunk. It’s been an emotional day.”

“I understand. Call me when you get to work.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

I hung up, guilty but also unencompassed, fooling myself into thinking that I was free, that my actions were without consequence, that it was impossible to hurt someone who didn’t know she was being hurt.

If my older self had been able to sit down with my younger self at that moment, what would I have said? Look at the decision before you. What do you really want? What is best for you? For the people you care for? Who is it that you really love?

On the one hand there was Kate. Beautiful, kind, affectionate, and good. There was nothing wrong with her and much to love. I enjoyed her company, and I think she enjoyed mine. I could imagine our lives together spooling out ahead of us. Children, holidays, dogs, a place in the country at some point. There would be money. Enough to live reasonably well, do as we pleased. Maybe I would start my own firm. Become an adjunct professor, lecturing to eager young design students on crisp fall afternoons in Cambridge while the orange and red leaves in the yard rustled in the wind. We would grow old together, our hair turning gray and then white. Grandchildren. At some later date, hazy in the future, there would be death, but only after a happy, well-spent life.

And then there was Cesca. I had no idea what a life with her would be like, if there would be one at all. It would be an invitation to chaos, to agony. What I did know was that since I had met her so many years ago, not a day had gone by without my somehow finding a way to think of her. She touched everything I did, believed in, or felt. In her presence, the world was richer, more exciting. Colors more vivid, senses sharpened. There was no one closer to me, who understood me so instinctually. Removing her would be like removing a vital organ.

And yet, like a cancer, a parasite, she had infiltrated me, siphoning off the nutrients that kept me alive. Time and again she had dashed my expectations, broken her promises. But I couldn’t help myself from going back again and again like a bloodied boxer, hoping that this was the round when I could turn defeat into victory.

Why did I feel the way I did about her? There was no question that I loved her. But that then begs a definition of what love is and, more to the point, how I perceived it. Had I missed the lesson that taught us what love is? Or maybe something about me was broken. How could I love someone who caused me so much pain? Read the poets, however, and you find time after time examples of the pain of love. Like Prometheus, I had my innards regularly torn out, but unlike him I longed for the rock.

It would be too simple to say I loved Cesca because she was beautiful, that she was brave. True, I admired the way she confronted the world, challenging it on her own terms, refusing to compromise or doubt herself. If I had been a psychiatrist, it is possible I might have ascribed other factors to my fascination with her. Maybe I lacked the confidence she possessed in abundance and so hoped she could help make me stronger. Or maybe it was just as simple as wanting to make her love me so I could then reject her. But it was more than all of that. In my deepest heart I believed we were meant to be together, that fate or destiny had conspired to throw us together and we were meant to be, even if I was to be made miserable time and again because of her. Otherwise why would I have put myself through the emotional torture that over the years she had forced me to endure, seeking me out and abandoning me again, if not because I knew one day it would all be made right?

I could not believe that she was willful or capricious, although she could be both those things. That she was incapable of love. What I did believe, or what I wanted to believe, was that she was capable of love. It was just that she needed the right person to show her how, to reassure her, to rid her of her restlessness and let her be at peace. I believed I was that person.

Yet I also knew I was a fool, quick to forgive and even quicker to forget. What I didn’t know was what she thought of me. Was
I simply a plaything, a diversion, or did she regard me in a different way? And how would I know, when she lied as easily as breathing? I had learned years ago that she told people what they wanted to hear, but was no more bound to her words than a musical note is to a violin.

All this rushed through my head as I stood in the kitchen, staring at the phone, hearing the voices in the dining room. It was not too late. I could still leave now. There was a gas station on the highway where I could get coffee, sober up. If I was careful, I would be all right. That way I could wake up in my own bed, clean of conscience. All I had to do was walk back into the dining room and tell everyone in a loud voice good night and thank you, exchange affectionate kisses and handshakes, and that would be the end of it.

I hesitated, my hand on the door, poised to push but unable to move. Would I choose Kate or Cesca? One promised stability, normalcy, a chance at a happy life. The other, passion and uncertainty. I knew I could live without Kate, that I would get over her just as she would get over me. There would be tears, recriminations. But Cesca was my passion, my craving, my magnetic north. Without her I would be lost. And she was waiting on the other side, ready to take me to her room and her bed, desperate to find release from the pain of her brother’s, my friend’s, death. She was looking for me now, needing me to help her to cope with her loss. If she sought my love and comfort now, after so long, would it be monstrous of me to spurn her and deny us both what would almost surely be an unknown period, days, weeks, maybe even months of cherished intimacy? And was I such a fool to keep putting my hand into the fire?

After a lifetime, I made up my mind and pushed the door open.

T
HE PAIN WE CAUSE OTHERS IS ALWAYS MORE DEVASTATING
than the pain we cause ourselves. If we break our leg in a skiing accident, it’s our fault. It hurts, but there is no one else to blame, which is a comfort of sorts. But if we were to break someone else’s leg, we would be tormented by remorse and guilt. Of course, there are exceptions. Sadists, soldiers in wartime, the morally corrupt, the truly evil. But for the most part, we are predisposed to avoid causing pain of any kind. Where it gets complicated is when we must choose between inflicting pain on another and inflicting it on ourselves. The cowardly decision is to avoid the pain. Spare me, Lord, but take them, is a not infrequent supplication. It is the brave who take the pain on themselves.

I am not brave. Or at least, no more brave than the next man. I avoid unpleasantness. I don’t want to hurt anyone or be hurt. Like so many people, I am content to be left alone with my life, to find pleasures where they come. I am not a political person or a man of strong opinions. Issues of huge import don’t move me with any particular urgency. When students at my college
rallied to compel the administration to divest from companies that were in South Africa, I walked past, agreeing on the one hand with the justice of their aims but also appreciating that the school needed to maintain a strong investment portfolio. It is also possible that if I’d lived in Berlin or Nuremberg in the early 1930s, I might not have been willing to speak out against Hitler, even as the warning signs grew unmistakable, hoping it would all just go away in the end and leave me in peace.

I know I am not alone. The great majority of humankind probably fits in my category. We don’t want to cause pain but don’t want to receive it either. For the most part, we would rather not think about it all. Unfortunately, there are times when we have to choose, to act. It would be so easy just to settle, to allow the waves to wash over us and take us. To postpone immediate discomfort or awkwardness for something equally bad, or possibly even worse, down the road. Like making a large purchase on a credit card that we might not be able to pay for when the bill comes due. We gasp and struggle for a few more moments to avoid the inevitable, clinging to hope and a childlike desire to wish unpleasant things gone, vainly trying to delay the reckoning as long as possible.

Courage is essential to action, but so also is conviction. If we don’t know what we want, then we hesitate. Do I go left or right? In or out? It can be impossible to know until we have no other alternative. It is at these crucial junctures in our lives that everything comes down to a single split-second decision, when uncertainty is obviated and wisdom is supplanted by instinct. A Rubicon crossed, destinies altered. In the time it takes to draw a breath, for a heart to cease beating, for a leaf to flutter to the ground, everything can change. The only thing we know with certainty is that nothing will ever be the same again.

None of this flashed through my mind as I reentered the living room to rejoin Cesca. I pushed open the door, and she
looked up from the table, expectant, smiling, happy to see me. There had been a time when that would have been all.

“Is everything all right?” she asked me as I slipped in next to her at the table, her hand enfolding mine.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re staying?”

“Can we talk in the other room?” I whispered in her ear.

Her head drew back slightly, suddenly suspicious, uncertain of my intentions, but she said nothing. Instead, she shrugged, got to her feet, and walked ahead of me to the library.

“What is it?” she asked, her face stone.

“Look,” I said. The words came out of my mouth, surprising even me. I had made my decision. It was almost as though someone else was speaking. “I’m sorry. But I really do need to drive back to the city tonight.”

She pursed her lips and turned away from me. “That’s too bad.”

“I’ve got to be at work in the morning . . .” Even then I was being a coward for not saying that Kate was my reason. As though I was hedging, knowing that mentioning Kate’s name would be unforgivable.

She cut me off, knowing I was not being entirely truthful and hating me for it. “I don’t need your excuses, Wylie. If you want to go, go.”

“I hope you aren’t upset.”

“Really?” she said angrily. “Is that what you hope? Well, let me tell you something: If a woman asks a man to spend the night, a woman, don’t forget, who has just lost her beloved brother and is in need of comfort, and the man says no, what do you think the woman’s response should be? And this from a man who has always told the woman that he loves her and now, when she really needs him, when he has the chance to prove himself to her once and for all, he refuses. Do you think she will be happy?
That she will say, ‘Oh yes,
hombre,
go. Your job designing ugly buildings for large multinational corporations is so important, I understand.’ That she will look at him the same way ever again? Tell me, Wylie. What do you think? I’d be fascinated to know.”

I had seen many sides of Cesca. I had seen her happy, sad, excited, bored. I had seen her asleep and in the throes of passion. But I had never seen her angry. There was a glint of fire in her eye. A fire that could consume all the oxygen in the room in seconds, race up the walls and devastate everything in its path.

“I’m sorry. I . . .” What was I going to say? Was I going to change my mind? Even now I can’t be sure. But there was no going back. Only the weak change their minds. A door had been closed. Nothing I said could matter now.

“Fuck you, Wylie. Get out.”

Her disdain was withering. But I understood it. What else should I have expected?

I looked at her. We were beyond words. “Please give my best to your mother and Uncle Roger,” I said feebly as I headed for the door.

“Get out,” she repeated.

I walked through the front hall, skirting the living room, hearing the voices, the tinkling of Cosmo’s piano, and let myself out. In an instant I had gone from being welcome in the bosom of this family to a pariah. I looked back to see if Cesca was watching, but she was nowhere to be seen.

The air outside was cool, the night clear. Overhead there were thousands of stars, but I ignored them, their beauty wasted on me. I was in shock. My brain still trying to comprehend what had just happened. For a while I just sat there in the front seat of Kate’s Bug, staring dumbly through the windshield. Had I really just done what I had done? I felt sick to my stomach. The thought that I might never see Cesca again, hear her laughter, be swept up in her headlong rush through life, was impossible
to imagine. Worse, I knew I had let her down. I had been tested and failed.

Eventually I started the car and backed it out, careful not to hit any of the other cars. A great tiredness came over me, and I remembered that I had actually had quite a lot to drink. I looked at my watch. It was only ten-thirty. I had called Kate just after ten. In the space of a half hour, less, my entire life had changed. I knew I should have been happy; after all, I had virtuously chosen Kate. But I wasn’t. Not yet. Like a traitor, I still loved my betrayal. It would take time.

The car stood idling at the head of the driveway. I looked over at the Playhouse. There were no lights on. It was becoming increasingly apparent that there was no way I would be able to drive back to the city tonight. I had thought I could but now I realized it was impossible. I was too distracted, not sober enough. There was only one thing to do. I drove to my father’s house.

It was too late to call. I knew my father and Patty were there but didn’t want to disturb them. In the darkness I walked to the pool house and tried the door handle, but it was locked. The pool house, which had originally been a barn, had been recently converted by Patty. She had removed the old, heavy sliding door and replaced it with French doors. The kerosene stove that had provided heat had been ripped out. Changing rooms had been built. New furniture covered in expensive fabrics. My old bedroom in the former hayloft had also been upgraded. But now I couldn’t get in. Even if I could, I knew my father had installed burglar alarms and hadn’t shared the code with me. Retrieving an old blanket Kate kept in her car, I opted instead to sleep out on one of the chaises that lined the pool.

For a long time I sat there, playing back the last several hours in my head, worrying about whether I had just made the smartest decision or the worst mistake of my life. Eventually, under the stars, I fell asleep.

“
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE
?”

I opened my eyes. It was light. My father stood over me wearing a gray sweatshirt and holding a mug of coffee. He was always an early riser. Had his little rituals. Now that he was more or less retired, they gave structure to his life. Every morning he would get up, make himself coffee, and then with his Bernese mountain dog, Caesar, walk down the drive to retrieve the daily copies of
The Wall Street Journal
and
New York Times
that had only recently been delivered and lay there wrapped in blue plastic.

Evidently he had spotted my car and then me. The newspapers had not yet been collected.

I sat up and stretched. My neck was sore. The air was cool with the dampness of dawn. I figured it was around five-thirty. “Yesterday was Aurelio Bonet’s funeral,” I explained. “I wound up drinking more than I should have and decided to come here rather than drive back to the city. I didn’t want to wake you so I just slept here.”

My father grunted and nodded his head. “That was probably wise. Go on in the house and wash up,” he said. “There’s coffee in the pot. I’ll be right back after I get the papers.” He whistled for the large dog, and it followed him.

When he returned, I was in the kitchen, drinking the strong coffee he always made. He put the papers on the table. Then he scooped some dry dog food out for Caesar, who waited expectantly at his feet until the metal bowl was placed on the floor. Sitting down at the table, he opened the
Times
. He would have already scanned the front page of the
Journal
on the walk back up the drive. For a moment, we sat there in silence. “How’s Kitty doing?” he finally asked, reluctantly snapping the
Times
shut.

“Not too well,” I replied.

He nodded.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to be there,” I said. “I thought you might be.”

“I didn’t really know the boy,” he said. “And I haven’t really been in touch with the family for a while now.”

“But you see Roger.”

“From time to time. We’ve gone in different directions. That’s how it is.”

I nodded. Then after a moment we both sipped our coffees. “I’ve made a decision about something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to ask Kate to marry me.”

He sipped his coffee again. “Huh. You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Your call.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a grown man now. You can do what you like. It’s a big step. Try not to screw it up.”

I looked at the clock above the stove. It was just six. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the advice—and the coffee. I should get going if I’m going to make it to work.”

“Okay. Drive safe.”

“Thanks. Give my best to Patty.”

“Will do.”

I stood up and walked my now empty coffee mug to the sink. “Good seeing you,” I said.

“Think you’ll come out one weekend?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good luck with Kate. When are you going to ask her?”

“Tonight.”

“Have you told your mother yet?”

“No. You’re the first. I only made up my mind last night.”

We shook hands, and I walked out of the kitchen to the front
hall, opening and closing the door behind me. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day. If I drove fast and got ahead of the traffic, I could make it to work by nine. I might even have time to get home and shower quickly.

Once I was out on Route 27 heading west, the traffic moved briskly, and I passed the steady stream of pickups heading in the opposite direction to service the homes of the rich.

I had also surprised myself by telling my father about my intentions. To think about something is one thing, to announce it, especially to one’s father, is another entirely. I had been thinking about Kate, my future with her, if there would be one, and if so what kind, for a while. But now it was obvious. There was no other course of action. I had been thinking about it last night while trying to get to sleep, alternately jumping from my shock at refusing Cesca to my conviction about Kate. I knew I would never conceive the same kind of passion for Kate that I felt for Cesca, and that was a good thing. After all, where had that passion gotten me? It had only produced brief moments of ecstasy followed by long periods of yearning and doubt. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that I had done the right thing. There could be no certainty with Cesca, no guarantee that in a week or maybe two she would not disappear on me again.

That night I took Kate out to dinner at a little bistro near her apartment. I had made no plans. There would be no gypsy violinists summoned at a strategic moment. No skywriter to form a proposal in the air. I didn’t even have a ring. It was in many ways a perfectly ordinary evening. But I knew I had to do it. I told her about Lio’s memorial, about Esther, about sleeping on my father’s pool furniture. She laughed at that. After dinner we went back to her loft and made love. Later, when we were lying there together in the darkness, I asked her.

“Do you want to get married?”

“Are you proposing to me?”

“Yes.”

She smiled and thought for a moment.

“All right,” she said, rolling onto her front, so that her face was only inches from mine. “I’ll marry you.”

It is a wonderful feeling being engaged, especially during the first few weeks, when you both enjoy a kind of celebrity. Everyone is happy for you. Those already married congratulate you, and those who have yet to take the plunge regard you with a mixture of perplexity and awe. You are toasted at every dinner party—and some of the parties are even thrown expressly for your benefit. The other women coo over the ring, and the men smile knowingly and make lame jokes.