“What’ll it be?” said the hairy bartender.
“Love,” Levin said, and as the man looked for the bottle, fled.
Hiding under the rattling boards of the old river bridge as the sun set, dust sifting into his hair whenever a car rumbled overhead, Levin, the machinery of his existence creaking, in a private place in the mind put things together thus: that he, S. Levin, the self again betrayed by the senses (if not vice-versa), did not presently desire her, in no way diminished her as one worthy of love (his), and what is worth loving is worth love, or the other way around. What I had from forest to last frustration was worth having—I respect what it was. If I could have it again, I would. I have no cause now not to love her, granted I loved; I grant. I loved her; we loved. She loves me still, I have never been so loved. That was the premise, and the premise you chose was the one you must live with; if you chose the wrong one you were done to begin with, your whole life in jail. You cheated yourself of the short freedom you had in the world, the little of life to be alive in. He craftily told himself time alters everything, premises wear out, change produces incompatibles. He sniffed out reasons to escape, go where he pleased, unbound, unburdened, where fancy fancied and the feet followed … . Then by devious ways he returned to the premise: She was his love, changed by it only as he by hers. What had changed beyond that was badly willed, now unwilled. A man sentenced to death may regain freedom; so may love. It was possible, it surely had happened. No matter what he had suffered or renounced, to what degree misused or failed feeling, if Pauline loving him loves; Levin with no known cause not to will love her. He would without or despite feeling. He would hold on when he wanted terribly to let go.
Love had led him, he would now lead love. Having reasoned thus he cursed reason.
They talked that night in his car, parked on a country road, black fields on both sides. He had for an hour felt relief at a decision made, had begun, he had thought, to anticipate seeing her. But after picking her up on a street not far from her house, he knew it still wasn’t right The feeling he had tried to feel, had in her presence disappeared like a flight of birds sucked into an underworld; or maybe blown the other way, scattered and lost in the sky. He once more hid imprisonment.
It was a cold spring night. Fog drifted in patches across the road. Gray clouds hung low; the quarter moon when it momentarily slipped through, looked lusterless, odd. Levin was his stiff, numb, shattered self. Pauline rubbed her cold nose against his rigid jaw. She teased him to kiss her. More than once he told himself he was no longer in love with her. The reason didn’t matter, the condition did. Having thought it he denied it, weary of denial.
She was bright with plans for them. He had his own: delay, let her say nothing to Gilley, forestall any final commitment. He must see the election through. Win or lose, he wanted another year at the college. He hoped for the dean’s recommendation. Next year would be soon enough to talk of marriage.
But when he suggested that, she asked whether he expected her to go on living with Gerald.
I’m sure you understand I can’t. And when I move out of his house what sort of recommendation do you think you’ll get once he lets it be known why we have separated?
She urged him to let her tell Gerald tonight—she could no longer stand keeping it from him. They would settle things, and when Levin had his grades in, would leave. She spoke of a Nevada divorce so they would not have to wait a year to get married. She had a little money that her father had left her,
and the divorce could be got comparatively cheaply if she stayed with a college friend in Carson City, the girl she had told him about, with the mismatched breasts. He could live, meanwhile, in San Francisco, more beautiful, less overpowering than New York City. After she got back from the divorce, if he had decided to return to graduate school in the fall they could get married and go. They would somehow get along. The references he needed he could get from the professors he worked under. If he would rather give up teaching, her uncle in San Francisco would help him find a job.
She’s got it all planned. He wrestled a rage against her, answered nothing.
Then shall I tell him? she asked. He senses something’s wrong but doesn’t know what. He tends to wait for a situation to disappear and this one won’t. I feel sorry for him. I think we ought to tell him.
The moon had gone again, the fog risen. He felt spasms of irritation and self-disgust.
What’s the matter, darling? You’re so quiet. Aren’t you well?
He denied it.
Don’t keep anything from me, like that time you had the pain I didn’t know about.
Though Levin craftily warned himself to keep his yap shut to protect his undiminished pride, to keep whole her image of him as a man, he at last confessed how tormented he still was.
I feel as though I no longer can love, as though all feeling were buried in me under a rock. I’m in that again. I told you about it that time in the woods. It’s a hellish thing.
In the dark she turned pale, embraced him tightly, blamed herself for his trouble, for not knowing her own mind.
I should long ago have agreed to leave Gerald. Her eyes glistened. Don’t you feel anything for me?
I’m worn out. It’s a terrible emptiness.
Suppose the truth is you just don’t love me any more?
He said, after long hesitation, he had no reason not to.
Then maybe you ought to see a doctor?
No, said Levin, I’ve been through it before. I know what it is.
What will you do?
Wait it out.
How long did it last the last time?
Months. Maybe a year. I’m not sure.
It needn’t again.
No?
You’re not alone any more.
He had forgotten.
Are you afraid? Pauline asked.
More of the world than anything else.
My darling, she said. They held each other.
Levin recalled their fruitless nights in motels. Should we go somewhere? he said.
Go where?
To my room, or maybe in the field now. We both have our coats.
But she said no. I’ve thought of that but decided not to. If we get married—if we ever do—I’d rather not till then. I want to come to you with a little innocence saved up.
Abstaining makes you a virgin?
I’m withholding it from myself. Help me to a little virtue, Lev.
Virtue lies between the legs?
It’s a way of being despite what you’ve been.
Then she kissed him with cold lips. I’ll sleep with you if you have to prove something to yourself.
No.
Please love me, she said. Don’t not love me. Please protect me. I’m afraid to be alone. She began to cry.
Don’t cry, Levin said. I love you.
I’m crying for the way things are.
He let her cry.
She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. If we broke up
you couldn’t be sure, could you, that it would be what you really wanted?
No.
I believe in you, do you in me?
He said he did.
Then hadn’t I better tell Gerald?
He said the hard thing was to make decisions without confidence in his feelings. Couldn’t we wait till the end of summer? I might have it licked by then.
It will take till then till I get my divorce. I think we ought to do what I suggested before. I’ll leave Gerald and we’ll go to San Francisco. After that if things turn out well, they turn out well. If they don’t, we won’t get married.
Her eyes misted again.
Secretly relieved, he sat in silence.
Only I don’t believe in that kind of end for us, do you? She asked.
He said no.
Then shall I tell Gerald?
He said yes.
He woke in the dark, both arms flailing. A light blinded him. Papers fluttered in the room as a cold wind blew in through the open door. I got to lock it, Levin thought, struggling to sleep.
A figure emerged at the foot of the bed.
Levin sat upright. “Don’t shoot.”
Gilley stood there in shirt sleeves, his face agitated, eyes lit in hatred of the one in bed.
“You goddamn two-faced, two-assed, tin-saint hypocrite, preaching reform all the while you were committing adultery with my wifel”
Levin lay back, groaning.
“Don’t deny it, you slimy do-gooder, false pretender to virtue. You ought to be strung up—”
“I confess I loved—do love—her—”
“Preach one thing, practice the opposite, a dirty thief throwing up a filthy smoke screen while stealing a man’s wife from him.”
“We were in love—”
“You’re two of a kind—”
Levin slowly sat up. “Are you so innocent?”
“What do you mean?” Gilley thundered.
“You drove her to it, a man not above taking a picture of his naked wife and showing it to a dozen people.”
Gilley’s jaw sagged. He raised his arm as if to defend himself and couldn’t. Looking wearily around he located a chair but didn’t get to it. His eyes had turned glassy, his mask of misery fitted his face.
“CD told you?” he sighed.
“Your pal Avis—”
“She shouldn’t have. She gave—You haven’t told Pauline, have you? She doesn’t know about it.”
“I’d be ashamed to.”
“I was desperate.”
“I’ll bet you look at it every day.”
Gilley shook his head miserably. “It’s been destroyed. Not by me, I’ll admit, though I would have by now if he hadn’t. Duffy did it. I hid the one print I had developed, and the negative, in his folder in my files. One night he sneaked into my office—I’ll never know how unless he picked my lock—I wouldn’t put that past him—and he stole everything in the folder, all his incriminating records, and the picture of them, and burned it in my wastebasket. I found the ashes the next morning.”
“Bravo!”
“She drove me to it,” Gerald said heavily. “First she took up for him, then with him. I suspected something was fishy and watched her, as I ought to have done with you around if I hadn’t been so stupid in underestimating what you were capable of. One day I got wind they were going to the coast
and I followed them. My Leica was in the glove compartment of the car. I always keep it loaded—”
“It was loaded so you snapped.”
“Spare me, for Pete’s sake. Both of my ears hurt. You’re in no position to be preaching to me.”
“My error,” muttered Levin.
“I admit that taking that picture was a mistake, although I thought I might need it for a divorce, but that certainly doesn’t excuse you for all the harm you’ve done here. I want to warn you about one thing, don’t bet on her love for you, if that’s what it is. All she sees in you is a certain resemblance to somebody else.”
“Explain that one.”
“I will,” said Gilley. “A few months after she found out Leo Duffy had bumped himself off, or however he did it, she picked your application out of a pile I happened to be studying. I had my strong doubts about that but in a minute of foolishness let her. She was still in a funk about him and blaming herself for his suicide. I felt bad myself, though I honestly had no reason to, so I let her.”
“Let her what?”
“Pick your application as the one we would take. I had brought home a pile half a foot high from people looking for jobs. We had had a man renege out of his appointment because he had got a better offer, and I had to replace him on very short notice. I had previously put you in the discards as unsuitable, but Pauline was reading the newspaper at the dining table where I was working and her eye just happened to light on your picture among the discarded applications. She picked up yours and read through it. The next thing I knew she was advising me to hire you, a thing she usually keeps out of. I was suspicious right off but wanted to show I was sympathetic to how she was feeling, so I said I would. What a cockeyed mistake that was.”
“Why did she pick me?”
“She said she thought your experience was good and liked
the letter you had written about your ideas of teaching composition, which I thought was pretentious when I read it. I guess it also appealed to her that you were from New York. Duffy was from the East.”
“Chicago?”
“That’s East out here. There were other resemblances between you both.”
“Why did you let her if you didn’t trust her choice?”
“Frankly, I didn’t think she could be interested in you after seeing your picture. Yet I admit I did feel that if I took her suggestion I’d live to regret it.”
“Was Duffy a handsome man?”
“In his way. But that was a good trick of yours coming with a beard.”