A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (26 page)

Why read further? It would only end in a gradual
slide into despair—love poisoned by loneliness, by self-loathing.
Some stories were better not carried through to conclusion. Better
they ended before they became tiring. Tossing the book away, he lay
back, hand reaching over cold leather to the snub-nosed revolver
he’d brought down from his room. Heavy, cold, comforting, he wanted
it near him tonight. For a long while he sat, checkered grip tight
in his grasp, eyes unfocused on the glass of the stove. He never
should have brought her. Now he couldn’t sit here without smelling
her, seeing her, feeling her. There was nowhere clean of her,
nowhere he could forget. Even here, she existed. Slipping the .357
down between the cushions of the couch, he drew a blanket over him,
set his glasses on the table, switched off the light, lay back. He
would rest a bit, just a bit. Then, then he would decide.

• • •

Someone called his name.

Disoriented, he came awake.

Again came the voice. Low as chafing silk, dark as
the river, “Dai.” Skin tingling, he stood, transfixed by the vision
before him in the shadowed room.

The moon hung a gibbous crescent over the river,
illuminating the room in chiaroscuro. Neck prickling with a
dreamer’s dread, he rubbed gravel-filled eyes, desperate to clear
his sight. By the door, back lit by moonlight from the window,
hovered the form of a woman.

“Why?” she said.

Sick with relief— he sat up, pressing his face with
both hands. For the first time in a long time, he breathed. “How’d
you get here?” He reached for the lamp.

“No, don’t, leave it dark.” The moon reflected off
her hair as she moved closer. “Why?” she said again.

She was right, it was easier in the dark. “You know
why.”

She hesitated. “They let you go.”

“I know.” Letting her coat slide to the slate, she
slid down beside him on the old haystack of a couch. In the
moonlight, in the guttering flames of the fire, he could see her
face. Like a moth under the paw of a kitten he was held fast by the
flame reflected in her eyes.

“How did you get here?”

“Frank brought me across. I offered to pay him, but
he wouldn’t take any money, said it was about time.” She laughed.
“After midnight and he came to the door with a cigar stub in his
mouth. Does he sleep with it?”

“He might.” For a moment neither spoke. Then, in an
agonizingly slow pirouette, she turned her back, hair sending a
current through him as it brushed his arm. Turning her head, her
eyes caught his over her shoulder as she lay back over his lap. She
took his hands in her cold ones, and overheated from sleep, he
savored the coolness of her.

“You feel so good,” she said, “I thought I’d freeze
out there.” He could only look at her, struck dumb by the ache in
his throat.

It was impossible—her being here. He was afraid to
touch her, afraid to move. Convinced of what the end would be,
still he didn’t dare hasten it.

He opened his mouth to speak and she covered it with
a hand.

He took her wrist, drawing it away. “I can’t believe
you’re here, I just can’t.”

She smiled up at him. “I am, I am here.” She reached
up to trace the curve of his face with her fingers, and he flinched
as her fingers teased his upper lip. “I thought you’d come to
gloat.”

“I did. Even brought my soapbox.”

She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “How’d you know
what was on that disk?”

“I guessed you’d be stubborn enough to resign. I was
right, huh?”

She reached up for him, and their mouths cleaved in
frenzied tenderness, in pain, the exquisite pain of loving too
much.

Breath coming shallow and fast, she pulled away,
searching his face, voice less than a whisper. “How can you want me
after everything? I don’t understand you.”

He watched her face dim as a scud of cloud passed by
and pressed her to him with all his strength, wanting her closer,
deeper than his skin. “How could I not?”

He gathered her hair, twisting it into a rope in his
fist, drawing it tight. “I won’t let you go a second time.” She
raised her open mouth to his, nipping, grazing. “Don’t…don’t you
dare.”

• • •

He awoke alone, cold light flooding in at the
windows.

A low fog blanketed the river. Friday, and for the
first time in twenty years he had nowhere to go. Needing to move,
to do something, he dressed, ate, built a fire. Through the
ceiling, he heard the shower pattering in the tub, and to his
disgust he found he could think of nothing but her. He’d been so
stupid. To have refused her would have cost only pleasure. Had he
sent her home, he could have chosen his hell. Now he couldn’t even
do that.

Showered, dressed, mane bound securely, she came to
stand demurely beside him, warming her hands over the stove. “I’m
ready to go now.” Not trusting himself to look at her, or even to
speak, he went to put on his boots. At the dock, she frowned down
at the sagging rail.

“You ought to fix this, you know.” He said he
knew.

In silence they crossed.

On the far bank, hating himself for his weakness, he
followed her up the frozen gravel path to the rental car. It was
going to be awkward, God, it was going to be so awkward. Still, he
stood there waiting for it, powerless to turn and go back, waiting
for a word, for anything telling him the night had meant something
to her. Anything to her.

She turned impatiently. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

Not sure what to say, he nodded. “I know.”

She came to slip a hand inside his coat and against
his heart. “It’s not you. It’s me—I don’t talk in the morning.
Really, that’s all it is. I’ve always been like this.”

He nodded, not believing, trying his best to smile,
fighting off the notion to stroke her hair, still damp from the
shower. The night before seemed long ago, now.

The icy world was frozen rock hard, the river solid
to its bed, his stomach bursting with river rock. Strength fled,
voice hoarse with anxiety, he said it—the one thing he promised
himself he wouldn’t. “Will I see you again?”

She laughed at him. “Stupid question.”

Heart leaped against his ribs, making him dizzy, sick
with joy. “When?”

“Tonight if you want.”

A rapid breath of frigid air taken into his lungs and
the river surged, alive, behind them. Fish swept ghostlike upstream
against the current. The wind moved again through the top of the
wolf tree overhanging the dock. The sun and moon moved through
their heavens. He pressed her hand to his chest, managed a real
smile this time. “I’ll take you out.”

“Let’s stay home.”

“I’ll make dinner, then.” Her upper lip curled in a
smile. “This gets better all the time.”

Brushing his cheek with cool, dry lips, she drew her
hand out of his jacket, taking his vitals with it. “See you
then.”

• • •

The next six weeks were much too good to last.

Week nights they spent at her apartment. Weekends
were long, lazy days across the river curled up on the couch
reading in front of the rumbling woodstove. She seemed to need him
as much as he needed her. But under it all and through his soul ran
a dark, cold stream of dread.

Shopping for dinner after work, he went over it all
again. He substituted a couple days a week, but still had no job.
Though she said it didn’t mater, he was sure that at some level it
did. She made a hundred a year. He grossed two, maybe three hundred
a week.

There was no arguing with the numbers—if life were a
restaurant, and she were at a table, he was outside parking cars.
If she were human, she had to think about it. It was only a matter
of time. She’d tire of it—and him.

Lugging dinner upstairs to her apartment, he realized
he was afraid. How long would it take? Would tonight be the night?
Picturing himself without her, he felt a gulf yawn wide beneath
him, and stopped, steadying himself on the railing. He’d tried to
keep his distance from her, hold her away somehow, and only now did
he see how completely he’d failed.

Though he loved her, he’d never said the words. Again
and again, in their most intimate moments, she’d told him, but
though he ached to do the same, he wouldn’t. Pain plain in her
face, he kept silent, hoping, praying that somehow, not saying it
would make it not so.

So strong tonight was his presentiment of
catastrophe, he nearly fled. Slowly, he lifted his hand to
knock.

Solange flung the door wide, snaking arms under his
jacket, “I’ve got something to tell you.” He dropped the bags to
wrap his arms about her and cellophane burst, sending noodles
skittering across polished oak. For a long moment he pressed her
hard to him, feeling her body through her thin chenille robe.

When at last he released her, she smiled up at him,
puzzled. His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose. She
set them back in place with a finger, and cinching her robe about
her, kneeled to gather pasta carefully in her hands.

“Is something wrong? You squeezed me so hard you
scared me—not that I’m complaining.”

He hunkered down to help. “I just realized something
coming upstairs, that’s all.”

Hair hanging about her a shimmering jet veil, she
went on working. “Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

He sat cross-legged on the floor, breaking noodles.
“What a fool I am.”

She laughed. “I could have told you that, now move,
you’re on the noodles.”

He felt as if he were stepping out into space. “And
how much I love you.”

She stopped, reached slowly to sweep hair out of her
face. She looked at him, face stricken, hands full of angel hair,
and crawling over on bare knees, climbed onto his lap.

“Oh, God, I didn’t think you did,” she said, mouth
against his neck. “I kept saying it, but you never…” Her breath
caught. “You never did.”

He cradled her to him. “I do. I have. I will.”

Eyes shut, he rocked her long and slow and at last
they went inside.

• • •

In the kitchen, she sat, content, chin on palm,
watching while he sautéed onion for sauce.

He noticed her smiling. “What?”

She hid a smile. “Just thinking.”

“Come on, what?”

“How my mother told me to trust you.”

“She did?”

“That’s what she said.”

“So, do you?” She shrugged, gathering her hair.
“You’re here.”

He tipped a dollop of olive oil into the water for
noodles, dropped in a handful of pasta. “So what did you want to
tell me?”

She smiled, savoring the moment. There he stood at
her stove, and she had the best news in the world to tell. She took
a deep breath. “I signed a contract today.”

He scraped softened onions into a large pan and set
the skillet back on the fire. “A contract? For what?”

This was it. “For superintendent. Hugh resigned
yesterday, and today they offered it to me.” She smiled, biting her
lip. “I made it.”

He looked as if he were a long way away. “That’s…
Uh…” He shrugged. “That’s fantastic, I’m glad for you.”

She didn’t like what she heard in his voice. “No
you’re not. You should see yourself—you look like you just got a
letter from the IRS.”

He dumped ground sirloin and sausage into the pan. It
squealed and sputtered on the overheated iron as he chopped it
apart with a wooden paddle. Clouds of steam rose to the ceiling,
filling the kitchen with the odor of fennel, browning beef.

Though they’d never talked about it, she knew what he
must feel. She wanted to tell him the rest of her news, but needed
to hear his reaction first. She clamped her hands together so hard
they turned white, dreading what he might say, but needing to hear
it. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Grabbing the hot pan with a bare hand,
he slammed it back down on a cool burner with a hissed
malediction.

She was up and had him at the sink in an instant.
“Idiot! What were you doing?” She held his hand under cold water as
the sizzling pan slowly quieted.

Finally he said something. “For god’s sake baby, I’m
a substitute teacher. A substitute—that’s one step up the
evolutionary ladder from filamentous algae.” He pulled his hand
away, went to find his jacket. “You can do a hell of a lot better
than that.”

Cold hand of fear at the nape of her neck, she
followed him into the living room and leaned against the wall
watching him work his burned hand through the sleeve. “So you’re a
sub, what’s wrong with that? Something’ll open up next year.”

“Don’t play dumb. You make more in a day than I do in
a week—in two weeks..” He lifted a hand in the direction of the
kitchen, frustration on his face. “I mean, this dinner, that was
half what I made today—a lousy spaghetti dinner. How the hell can I
ever take you out?”

She didn’t believe what she was hearing. “I don’t
care about going out.”

“Ah…” He waved her words away. “I can’t even buy you
anything.”

He was so funny, he didn’t understand anything. “I
have what I need.”

He gave up the argument, threw down his jacket in
frustration, clamped his burned hand under an arm. “Damn, damn,
damn!”

She went to take his hand, and what she saw
frightened her. The skin had blistered, the outline of the pan’s
handle imprinted in negative on his palm. “Christ, it looks bad,
come back in here.” She led him back into the kitchen and held it
under the tap. Seeing the relief in his face, she reached up to
smooth his hair. He was so brave, so foolish—she wanted to strangle
him.

He pulled away. “Look, I’m…I’m going.”

Her hand, wavered on the chrome faucet. “Don’t be an
ass! Bring your hand back here.”

He backed away. “No…I’ve got to go.”

“Why?” He was scaring her now. “Why would you
go?”

Motioning with his burned hand, he looked as if he
might cry with frustration. “I told you, it’s a joke! It’s…” He
searched for words but found none. “Ah, to hell with it! It’s just
too stupid. This isn’t going to work, that’s all!” He went back for
his jacket, Solange following hard on his heels down the hall.
Grabbing him by his shirt, she slammed him hard against the wall,
knocking askew a print of Courbet’s Despair. It swung, scraping on
its wire, while they sized each other up, breathing hard in the
silent hallway.