The Life Room (27 page)

“How’s he doing?” he said. “Your husband.”

“He’s good.”

“I never thought he was someone you’d be in love with.”

She grabbed the photograph out of his hand and put it back on her desk. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d have gone for someone a little rougher around the edges. Or more poetic. Is he really happy all the time? You said that in Paris.”

“He comes from a perfect family,” Eleanor thought for a moment. “His parents have been happily married all these years. He gets along with both of them. He has two sisters he adores.” She paused. “I know,” she said, conspiratorially. “It’s unbearably perfect.”

“Not to mention, he’s a doctor.”

She nodded, suddenly caught up in the assumption he was making about how she and he were alike and Michael was different.

“Where do you live?”

“On Central Park West.”

“Fancy.”

“Not really.”

“What kind of doctor is he?”

“A heart surgeon.”

“How did you end up with a doctor? You never told me.”

“You never asked.” She thought for a moment. “You don’t fall in love with someone because of his profession.”

“You are what you do. Aren’t you defined by what you do?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m just trying to figure out how a doctor fits into your worldview.”

“There’s dignity in what Michael does. He saves lives.”

He paused and moved the chair closer to her desk. “I know. But he’s part of them.”

“Part of who?”

“Of everyone we’re not.”

She looked back at him, not knowing if she heard him right, and if she did whether she believed in what he was saying.

“Enough about your husband,” he said. “Grab your bag.”

“We’ll go somewhere around the corner,” she said, asserting herself.

He pointed to his backpack. “I have other ideas. I packed us a lunch.”

“But it’s raining.”

“There’s this underpass I saw when I went running yesterday. It’s by the reservoir. You can see the water. Don’t worry. You won’t get wet.”

The rain came at a slant, soaking her dress, her stockings, her shoes as they went to hail a cab. This is crazy, she thought to herself. But she found herself caught up in Stephen’s enthusiasm. Her umbrella that had barely protected her turned inside out. She dumped it in a garbage bin and stood under Stephen’s umbrella and let him put his arm around her so she would not get wet.

On her way out of the gates of Columbia she passed Mark Zukovsky in a Black Crowes T-shirt. He stopped, looked at her and at Stephen, and then had the audacity to wink at her.

Once they got out of the cab at 72nd and Riverside, they walked down the stairs to Riverside Park. “We could be in Paris again,” Stephen said. Shielded by his big black umbrella, they gazed onto the water, watching the rain fall. They were the only two people along the walkway by the river. “Let’s pretend we are.” Stephen took her to a bench under the overpass where they could still see the water. “It was amazing seeing you in Paris. It was a wonderful fantasy to have you for myself in a place so far away from home.” Overhead the subway occasionally rumbled and they could feel the vibrations. She felt slightly guilty for enjoying herself but then told herself she was not doing anything wrong.

Stephen talked about his work. About how difficult it was to be a freelance journalist. How he was bored by writing for outdoor and men’s magazines and wanted to spend more time on his novel. He talked about moving to New York, only he couldn’t afford the city without getting some kind of full-time job with a magazine or paper. “I’ve got the clips,” he said, “but unless you’re attached to a place, or have the right contacts, nobody really wants you.” She got caught up in the dramatic way he moved his hands as he spoke. She realized how lonely she had been, because in that moment she didn’t feel lonely anymore.

“Most of the writers in New York went to fancy schools,” he continued. “Have you noticed that there are two kinds of people in the world, Eleanor? Those who have the right connections and those who don’t? The thing is, I’m good. I know I am.”

She nodded. She said it sounded like he was on the verge.

“I lost a lot of years.” Stephen unwrapped a sandwich he’d made with mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes, and pesto and handed her half. She remembered his addiction to pain killers. He looked at her for a reaction.

“I’m sorry. It’s not something you need to feel ashamed of.”

He raised his eyebrows affectionately. His lips turned into a half smile. “I knew I could count on you. I knew you wouldn’t judge me. When I move to New York I’m going to try to get my novel published.”

“You’ve finished it?”

“You never really finish a novel. It exhausts you finally.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“It’s either fantastic or it’s a piece of shit. I don’t know, Eleanor.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s written in vignettes. I don’t even know if it’s a novel. I’ve read parts of it at bookstores and bars where they have readings in Colorado. They work as performance pieces. The audiences seem to dig it. I was trying for the moody masculinity of a Hemingway character and the boy-meets-road of Kerouac. But it’s more poetic. All I know is that writing it makes me feel alive.”

“I know how you feel. I couldn’t live without my work, without novels like
Anna Karenina
. Sometimes I’m afraid to say anything about an essay I’m working on until it’s finished.”

“You’re superstitious, too?” He looked at her seductively “But does this mean you are not going to tell me what you’re working on? I want to know everything about you.”

She laughed.

“Maybe we could work on something together. It would be amazing to collaborate on something with you. What about a film adaptation of a book? I know about the world and you know about books. We could do something really sexy together.”

“I don’t know anything about how to write a script,” she said, but caught herself enjoying the idea. She was curious about his novel. She wondered if he had talent and almost asked if she could read it. What was she doing? Had seeing him for lunch meant they had made a decision to be in each other’s lives again? Seeing each other for a single time in Paris she could write off as curiosity, but meeting him again meant something else. She crossed her arms against her chest.

“If I hurt you in the past, I’m sorry.” Stephen turned to her and reached for her hand. “You don’t think I’ve forgotten, have you.?”

“Forgotten what?”

“When you came to visit me in Colorado. Before you got married.”

She could not summon any words. She was surprised he had brought it up. She had been touched by his intensity and earnestness, by his interest in her, but now he looked remote and she remembered that she couldn’t trust him. She realized that she had been drawn in again and that she needed to put some distance between them.

It stopped raining, and as they walked along the walkway near the water, dodging the puddles, she wondered why he seemed so intent on wanting her back in his life. Once he was gone she’d be left with the same unanswered questions about their past. It came as a surprise to her that she could be angry at someone for almost two decades. She had to ask him.

“Do you have a second to sit down?” She pointed to a bench. The sun had come out, finally, illuminating the water and the blades of grass slick with rain, making everything sparkle.

“Sure.”

“The time I came out to visit you. In Colorado. So you
do
remember what happened?”

“The poem. I still have it, Eleanor.”

Her face flushed. She had forgotten about the poem. It was true. She had written him a poem.

It was a furnace inside her apartment. Her clothes were sticking to her skin. She couldn’t breathe. Walking down Broadway the air was stagnant, heavy, as if she were parting it with her body The sidewalk smelled of garbage and rotting fruit. Adam had left. Part of her was relieved. There was always a part of her that knew it wouldn’t last. But she had gotten used to his presence in her life, her absorption in his work, his absorption in her. The isolation and loneliness made it impossible for her to think. She couldn’t sleep. She went to pick up the phone. There was no one she wanted to call. And then out of nowhere she thought of Stephen and on a whim called him in Colorado.

When he picked up the phone she realized she was still mad at him. “What happened? You promised you’d come to the barbecue that night. You left without saying good-bye. You didn’t even call me.”

“I couldn’t stay.”

“But why didn’t you call? You could have at least tried.”

“You know why.”

“But you promised.”

“I’m sorry, Eleanor. I thought you understood why I needed to get out of there.”

“But I thought I could count on you.”

“You can. Do you still want to come visit me in Colorado?”

The cold Boulder air stung, and she felt nauseous from the elevation. She slung the strap of her black duffel bag over her shoulder and climbed the four or five steps to Stephen’s door. She half expected he wouldn’t be there when she showed up and asked the cab driver to wait in the driveway before taking off. Barefoot, in black jeans and a red flannel shirt, his hair soft and runaway, he greeted her. She had forgotten how attractive he was. But he looked tense. She doubted for a moment whether she should have come. His house had a simplicity that suited her. It was an A-frame, with big open windows facing the mountains. She had an image of him pensively at work, the mountains their own majestic inspiration.

“You didn’t think I’d show, did you? It’s written all over your face.”

“Yeah?” he said, in a question. “I don’t know. I’m just startled to see you in the flesh.”

“Are you glad I came?”

“Eleanor, never ask a guy if he loves you.”

“I didn’t ask whether you loved me.”

He took her duffel bag out of her hand and carried it upstairs. They both stood awkwardly in the center of his room without saying anything.

A double mattress was on his floor covered with a sheet and a royal blue nubby cotton blanket. Against the wall were propped two pillows, one without a pillowcase. Facing the bed was a tank for tropical fish but only one swam inside. He saw her looking at it. “It’s a Chinese fighting fish. They’re loners. If another fish is in the tank with it, one will try to kill the other.”

She buried her head in Stephen’s crinkled leather jacket as his motorcycle sped through a windy mountain pass. He parked the bike off the road and they hiked until they reached a secluded spot where the frame of a new house was being built. The concrete for the basement was poured. On top was built a barn-style frame. They sat in a field of wildflowers beside the unfinished house. Stephen picked a daisy. “She loves me.” He tore off a petal. “She loves me not.” He paused at the last petal. “You can’t do that to me, Eleanor.” He looked at her seriously. “You can’t break my heart.”

She stopped picking grass from the ground into a pile and looked at him. “I won’t.”

“You have to promise.” He fell on top of her, crushing her with his weight. “You know I’m not like other people.”

“I’m not either.”

“You know it’s because of what she’s done to me.”

“I know.”

“See this house? Me and my buddies are building it for a developer. Follow me.” He walked her through the layout, underneath the exposed beams. “This could be our house. Imagine our bedroom. And this is the living room. And here’s the bedroom for our kids. Would you have kids with me, Eleanor?”

She smiled, reluctantly. “Is that what you want?”

“We have something between us no one can take away. You know me like nobody else. I bet you’d want a big kitchen. I’ll build you a study on the third floor. You could write your books up there. This town is made up of people who don’t fit into the rest of the world. That’s why I like it here. A town of misfits.”

“Are you trying to get me to move to Colorado?” Tears of delight filled her eyes. Suddenly it all made sense. Stephen was the man she’d been waiting for.

He took out a bottle of wine and two plastic cups from his backpack. They sat on the newly built wooden floor, which was covered with shavings. The air smelled of pine. Even the wine tasted of it. The western sky formed a ceiling over the open rafters.

“I write at night after the bars close down. Maybe that’s why no one thinks my novel makes any sense.” He laughed. “I’m obsessed with it, Eleanor. It’s about a guy on the run. Searching for himself. That kind of book. It’s set in Alaska. In the snow. I’m trying to do something interesting. I’m trying to write from my heart.”

“I’d like to read it, if you want another pair of eyes.”

He looked at her funny. “It would have to be pretty good before I’d show it to you.”

“I think that’s great, that you’re obsessed. Your novel.”

“I still have to figure out how to tap into it.” He pointed to his temple. “Everything up here. It’s got to go somewhere. Boulder’s great. But nobody really cares what you do here. You wake up in the mornings and the beauty is awesome. You look out at the mountains and you think none of it really matters. It’s like you disappear into all the beauty.”

He ran one finger up and down the inside of her arm. “I mean, me and you, this is all that matters. I feel your loneliness. I know where it comes from.” He tucked her hair behind her ears.

They put on their helmets. As they stood by his bike, Stephen slipped his fingers in the belt loops of her jeans.

“Do you think I could really do it? The conventional thing?” He looked back toward the unfinished house. “I think I could do it with you, Eleanor. Come on. We need to go before it gets too dark.”

Country music drifted through the cowboy bar; the walls were studded with deer antlers. She took pleasure in being in a foreign place, in a new surrounding, in a world different from her intellectual life in New York. There was something dusty and stagnant about her academic existence. She wanted to embrace life. She felt the exuberance of the endless possibilities reflected in the openness of the mountain air. She could barely contain her happiness.