How to Read an Unwritten Language (20 page)

*

Kate indeed searched for me: I heard her voice whispering my name, “Michael, Michael?” Then, in a gray light, her face peered into mine. “Michael, silly, you fell asleep down here.”

“Oh Kate,” I managed, in a rush of surprise. “I feel so …”

I stopped. The sun streamed through the slats of the blinds, casting bright bars on the rug, and Kate wore a skirt, a blouse, earrings. It was morning, and she'd actually showered and dressed before coming downstairs. What had she thought at the sight of my half of the bed, empty and cold?

I was ready to speak openly. “Kate, we need to—”

“Look at the bolsters, the pillows,” she broke in, “they're almost as rumpled as you are.” Kate made a great show of tidying, as if the real disorder was our living room. When she finished with the imaginary mess she said, “I'm so hungry, aren't you?” and set off for the kitchen. I listened to the busy clatter of her breakfast extravaganza and imagined it drowned out the words she couldn't bring herself to say to me: “Poor dear, you're working too hard,” perhaps, or “Please don't stay away from our bedroom again,” or “Why do you have to bring up our troubles?”

When I finally entered the kitchen the morning paper was opened invitingly by my place setting. I sat down and swiftly paged through it—I had no interest in examining the unhappy headlines. But when I arrived at Dear Abby I paused, half-considering writing her a letter:

Dear Abby
,

My wife hides inside herself, and though she's standing before me right now, organizing the largest breakfast I'll probably ever eat, I don't think I can succeed in finding her. Abby, sometimes I wonder if she's been hiding so long that she's lost
,
and even if she wanted to break out of herself she wouldn't know where to begin. Why, just this morning
—

But what was there to say? This wasn't the style of letter Abby usually reprinted. I hadn't been insulted by a sister-in-law during a holiday dinner, I hadn't received an embarrassing gift from a co-worker, my dog hadn't chewed a resentful neighbor's newly planted shrubs, and I had no minister to consult. Certainly there must be a special trash bin for letters like mine.

I glanced down to the Daily Horoscope—maybe the mysterious conjunctions of the stars and planets would do better than a syndicated busybody. Though I knew it was a foolish indulgence, I laughed grimly to myself and scanned the prediction for my day:
The advantages regarding an ambitious endeavor you are presently involved in can be forcefully expanded at this time
.

Of course—I should shout or cry, sit Kate down for a blunt assessment of our miseries. Not bad advice at all. But there was more, so I read on:
It's best to keep your decisions to yourself until you understand how you want to use them
. The horoscope was right—straight talk would only make her shrink further away. No, I had to intuit unwritten rules for an invisible playing field.

Kate stood before me, holding a tray brimming with breakfast. “Time to eat.”

“Good,” I said, reaching for my fork and knife. “I'm so hungry.”

*

The horoscope became a morning ritual.
If you concentrate too much on a needless detail, you may find disappointment in a joint venture
. Was this business or personal news or both? I knew which possibility was most important to me, but the horoscope never distinguished between the trivial and the significant.
Should, if, may, could, perhaps
were words that tantalized, quietly urging me to interpret and act, and I delved into second guessing, hampered by my desire to make the prediction come true or not. Of course I knew there weren't only twelve types of people in the world, marching individually through twelve singular fates. But none of my skepticism was truly conscious, and I continued to read strategies in those ambiguous sentences. Though there were times when I found no connection, that didn't stop me from trying the next day. I needed to believe.

Caution, my horoscope consistently counseled:
You might give in to an urge to test your will against the will of those with whom you'll be involved today
. I remembered those words that evening as Kate and I ate dinner at a local steakhouse, our table lit by the artificial glow from the dining room's fireplace.

“Another, sir?” the waiter asked, deftly gathering up my empty wineglass.

“No, thanks,” I replied, forgoing a third, knowing it would make me too loud and Kate even more quiet. The waiter continued on to the next table, and though Kate said nothing, an appreciative smile spread across her face in the flickering light.

Another morning I read
You might have trouble today realizing when victory is within your grasp
, and I was grateful for the warning. I looked for clues all day in every gesture Kate made, some hint that she'd tired of hiding. I found nothing, and as I lay in bed beside her I thought of her sudden coughing fit earlier in the evening when we washed the dishes—did part of her want to speak plainly, while another part tried to prevent this?

Suddenly Kate awoke in a grip of a nightmare, words bursting from her as she bolted up—“Oh! No!”

I reached for her hand, found it under the blanket, and then she was oddly calm.

“Michael?”

“Yes, I'm here. You were having a nightmare.”

“A nightmare,” she repeated, as if the word held no special meaning.

“Yes,” I said, “tell me?”

She remained quiet for a moment before burrowing under the covers again. “I can't remember.”

“Try,” I whispered, but she was already breathing deeply in sleep, or pretending to, and I knew the moment the horoscope had warned me of had passed. If only I hadn't asked, she might have told me on her own.

*

Were my new designs against her resistance the source of her nightmare? She did seem preoccupied, staying up late and working with an almost alarming intensity at the new project she'd taken on for the local university: detailed drawings of the latest potshards and artifacts some archaeology professors had uncovered. While Kate carefully sketched under her desk lamp's circle of light, sometimes I lingered over her portfolio and stared at those bits and pieces of something larger that was now lost. Each page boasted a single shard, as if hurtled alone through the air after some explosion. Kate shadowed in the jagged edges in a way that suggested what was missing, yet left it a mystery, and I remembered that drawing she'd made of me years ago when we first met—maybe it hadn't been incomplete after all, but only as much as she'd wanted of my distant, curious gaze.

*

Today may bring you a mutual understanding you've long sought, but you must take advantage of an unusual offering
. I looked across at Kate, lost in concentration over her butter knife and English muffin. Soon she would politely offer me half, and I would accept, thanking her politely—nothing unusual there. What could the horoscope possibly mean? I scanned the rest of the page and discovered an announcement for a traveling carnival, in its second day of a weeklong appearance. Yes, this was a perfect excursion for a Saturday evening and, since Kate and I had never been to a carnival together, perfectly unusual. By this time, though, I made no move without consulting her sign too:
A greater understanding of what is best for you and your family can be accomplished today
. Bingo.

“Hon, when was the last time you were on a roller coaster?” I asked, passing her the paper.

Her eyes swept over the ad. “A carnival? Michael, that's for children.”

“All of them accompanied by adults,” I replied, “who're easily having as much fun.”

We drove to the fairgrounds in the late afternoon, the sky heavy with darkening clouds. “Rain?” Kate asked.

“Oh, I think it'll pass over. Let's take the chance,” I said, knowing the horoscope's prediction wouldn't be in effect tomorrow.

Kate gave in with a sigh. Her blond hair looped across her face from the air rushing through the open window, those light strands a shifting form of camouflage, though of course a sudden gust of wind could just as easily sweep it away.

We paid the entrance fee and parked, then bought a book of tickets for all those rides that cluttered the fairgrounds: the spider ride, its passenger cabs like the thick footpads of an enormous insect; the distant, crackling sparks of the bumper cars; a fun house, its entrance lined with wavy mirrors, the recorded laughter of a clown booming from a speaker; a double Ferris wheel, the two circles twirling over and under each other like a giant, untethered figure 8. Soon the lights would turn on and then the magic of the place would take hold. But now it all looked shabby under the gray sky, and a steady drizzle soon made it worse. Before long, thick ominous drops splattered about us, and then it was pouring. Kate and I ran to the nearest shelter—the carousel.

We stood among the still herd of horses and watched as the dirt paths winding through the fairgrounds turned into long stretches of mud. There was much Kate could have said about this sight, but she leaned against me quietly, her damp hair flat against the back of her blouse, and I matched her silence gratefully. Perhaps this little disaster was what we needed—at least it was unusual.

A longhaired attendant wove his way toward us through the horses, his Guns ‘n' Roses t-shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His smile a bit wary, he hesitated before asking, “Tickets?”

Kate glanced at me doubtfully, but I said, “Sure, how many do you need?”

He grinned. “Three apiece—not bad for a roof over your head, eh?”

“Quite a bargain,” I said, tearing the tickets from the book. He walked off, whistling, and I turned to Kate. “Why not, honey? That's what we're here for, right?”

She managed to smile and nodded. I picked a nice brown horse with a rearing head, fit my shoe into a stirrup and pulled myself up. Kate settled on the palomino in front of me.

The carousel lurched forward with a mechanical grunt and the calliope music burst into a dizzy, extended melody. I slapped the fiberglass rump of my horse and shouted “
Yee ha
,” hoping to coax Kate into the spirit of the ride.

“Giddyap,” she offered. The carousel turned and turned, and soon the muddy fairgrounds, the skeet-shooting booths and the food stalls advertising corn dogs and elephant ears seemed to spin around us.

“Not too bad, huh?” I called to Kate, though the music was now so loud she didn't hear me. I hoped for a sight of her profile, a sign of what she felt, but she kept staring forward, as if she were actually leading that horse somewhere.

The rain never let up: we were still stranded together on a tiny, circling island, so at the end of the ride I tore more tickets from our booklet for the attendant. Kate sat patiently, waiting for the carousel to start again, and I waited in vain for her to turn around and say something, to join in the carnival spirit.

Two, three more times I paid our fare and we wheeled about to the cheery, slightly mad music. And still Kate kept to herself. Why wouldn't she give in to this minor pleasure, why not turn and smile? But her knuckles were white from gripping the iron pole tightly: as always, she fled from me.

What about that “greater understanding” the horoscope had promised? I'll make her turn around, I thought, I'll make her see how much I want her. Holding my arm out over the rim of the carousel and into the downpour, I cupped my hand until I had a puddle of rain. I flung it at Kate, streaking her dress. Her back arched in surprise, and she turned a terrified face to me.

Then I knew what she saw, what she thought: I was right behind her and always would be, and she'd never manage to put any more distance between us. No wonder she didn't turn around—how horrible to see me in such relentless pursuit. And what did my face tell her: that she had finally revealed herself to me, and that I was frightened by what I saw? We raced in place, in endless circles, and I'd never be able to draw closer.

Slowly the storm eased into a misty drizzle. I swung down from my horse. “That's more than enough,” I said. Kate stepped down too, murmuring something I couldn't make out.

Water dripped from the soaked canvas canopies of the various stalls. “Game of chance?” we heard. “Try your luck?” But we were done—there was little to stay for. We stepped carefully past dark puddles, the last, stray drops of rain falling into them like little explosions, and our reflections shimmered and shook to pieces all the way to the parking lot.

Trying to deny what happened at the carousel, Kate and I made furious and exhausting love that night. She wrapped her legs around mine and held me inside but even as I shook and shook, Kate's hidden self stared out through narrowed eyes, determined that I would never truly enter, and we battered ourselves against each other, the equal pressure keeping an invisible door between us closed.

Finally we lay on our backs, panting in cross rhythms that slowly eased into silence, and then Kate pulled one tissue after another from the cardboard box. I winced at the rasping sound, which ran through me like the cry of some creature roaming through the neighborhood backyards, avoiding the sudden sweep of a flashlight. We wiped ourselves off as if sopping up damning evidence. Then we flung it away.

Listening to Kate yawn and settle above the damp sheets, I turned to her in the darkness. The warmth of her body almost touching me, I could hear the slow pulse of her breathing, feel its faintly moist draft. I inhaled deeply, trying to catch what had just coursed through her lungs and nostrils, and I held that breath inside as long as I could while it mingled with mine. Then I released it in the moment before her next intake of breath, and I continued this secret exchange, foolishly hoping it could somehow hold us together.

When I woke the next morning and padded over to the blinds, I stopped and knelt down in the dim light. Scattered across the carpet were last night's tissues. But they no longer resembled flowers. I reached out for one of the little twisted balls and held in my hand its convoluted, unpredictable angles. When I flicked at one of its folds, a dried crust flaked away.