All Things Cease to Appear (31 page)

2

SHE HAD
this boyfriend, Eddy Hale. It was starting to get to him. In his rational mind, George understood that she was trying to prove he couldn’t hurt her. You don’t matter enough, her eyes seemed to say. But Eddy Hale did, he mattered a lot. Jealousy wasn’t something George did very well. Sometimes he’d pull up to the house and see Hale’s truck, his ladder up against the barn, young Eddy perched up by the cupola with his shirt off and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he’d have to suppress the impulse to knock him down. She would talk about him. This happened usually after sex, when they were lying there naked and sweating, smoking, each of them intent on impressing on the other that this thing they shared was an aberration, an almost clinical disruption in their otherwise respectable routine, the malevolent consequence of some extreme and rare medical condition.

He plays me love songs, she told him.

Is that so?

He’s going to be famous. He’s very good. We’re in love.

Good for you.

She shook her head. You don’t even know what that means, do you?

Of course I do.

But she shook her head, disbelieving. No, you don’t.

I love my wife, he said.

She laughed. Okay. That’s good. That’s really good, George, I’m happy for you. She sat up and took a sip of water out of an old soup can. Seeing her sitting there, with her pale skin, her dark hair outlining her face, he could predict the woman she would finally turn into, one of rage and unrequited longing, a woman not unlike his wife.

He reached over and took her hand. How do I make you happy, Willis?

She set down the can and gathered her undergarments, pulling on her panties, her bra.

What is it that you want? Just tell me.

Don’t ask me that.

Why not?

Because I don’t know, all right? I don’t know what I want. She lit a cigarette, dragged deeply and blew out the smoke with contempt. I want to go back to school. I’m getting sick of this place. I can’t stay here much longer.

Why not?

I’ll go crazy, that’s why not. I can’t stay here.

I can’t stay here with you, was the translation.

I have a life in L.A., George. She glared at him as if it had suddenly become clear to her how stupid he was. I’m a totally different person there.

Oh, really—how do you mean?

I’m nobody’s fucking secret.

I see.

I’m not somebody like you, George, she said cruelly. Someone who lies and cheats. I’m better than this.

Well. Good for you, then.

You want to be free, right? She shook her head at this obvious impossibility. You’re so full of shit.

Hey, he said.

You know what I think? You’re a fucking impostor.

Now, why would you say a thing like that?

Because it’s true. It’s true and you fucking know it.

She stubbed out her cigarette and stared at him. I don’t want to do this anymore.

He sat up next to her and buttoned his shirt. His heart was on fire. He couldn’t bear to look at her.

This was the last time, she said.

Okay.

She looked at him, expecting something.

Fuck this, he thought, and walked out. For a day or two he could stand it. But then he went back. He had to.

She stood in the doorway. This was what he liked best, her giving him a hard time. He spoke to her, gently trying to convince her that they had something good, something important. After a while it became a sort of habit, the convincing part, her giving in to it. He’d watch the subtle changes on her face, the flush in her cheeks. She accepted him. She accepted the thing they had. That she needed him as much as he needed her. Why this was so didn’t matter. There was no need to explain it. She would stand there, waiting for him to undress her. She had become a source of intense preoccupation. He was infected, he’d become ill. It wouldn’t last, he knew. It couldn’t.

One afternoon, they lay together on the narrow bed, adrift. It began to rain. They listened to it fall like a symphony, starting out slowly and growing in intensity, splattering violently on the windowsill and spraying their naked arms.

I’m cold, she said, turning her back against his.

He held her tighter. Better?

The feel of her in his arms, her warmth, the smell of her like the sea, like the warm sand at sundown in summertime, the sound of life coursing through her, the blood, the air. He thought of how all his life he’d taken things for granted, the simple beauty of everything he saw. He remembered himself as a boy, standing alone on the beach and looking out at all that water.

She turned to face him and dug into his pants like a gardener pulling out a turnip. He put his hand on hers to stop her.

Don’t you want to?

No, I just want to talk.

Talking’s boring.

I want to know you.

She turned on her side, leaning on her elbow, her cropped hair sticking up in all directions. He liked her like this, lithe and boyish. What do you want to know?

Ordinary things. Where you grew up.

I told you. The city.

I know—but where? You don’t want to talk about it?

She sighed dramatically, as if he was her interrogator and had finally, at long last, broken through. Her eyes were black. Her lips pale. I grew up on the Upper East Side, she said flatly. I went to Brearley. Do you know it?

He shook his head.

A private school for girls, she said in a British accent.

And your parents?

What about them? They’re social climbers, like everybody else in that town.

What does your father do?

Suddenly defensive, she asked, Why do you want to know?

I want to know you. Is that so wrong?

Kind of, she said.

Why?

Because. Because it’s not part of this. Because you don’t deserve to know me.

Why not?

Because you’re fucking married, George.

To this he said nothing.

What did you think? That I was an orphan or something? Some kind of Jane Eyre?

He laughed, surprised.

That’s what you thought, isn’t it?

No, it isn’t.

You wanted to cut my hair—do you remember that scene in the book?

I’ve never read it.

One of the other orphans has beautiful curly hair. This guy cuts it off. It’s humiliating.

He ran his hand through her hair. Were you humiliated?

You wanted me to be, didn’t you?

He only looked at her.

You wanted me to be some stupid girl, didn’t you? That’s why you did it.

No, he said, I didn’t want that. But in truth, he didn’t really know why he’d done it. Even if he did, it wasn’t something he’d likely share with her. The things he did to her were kept sequestered in a deep little nasty place he didn’t show to anyone. He would do something, and while doing it he was totally consumed in it, and afterward it was forgotten.

You wanted me to have nothing. Isn’t that right, George?

Yes, he said. You’re my own private orphan.

Seriously. What do you think my father does? Take a wild guess.

I have no idea.

He’s a lawyer, she informed him, then added, with what felt like cruel intention, A criminal defense attorney.

Well, he said. That’s impressive.

Does that worry you, George?

It did, in fact, but he said, Why should it? He tried to remember what she’d told him. She was twenty-one, on birth-control pills. I’m my own person, she often said. If these things were true, she was here with him of her own volition. He had nothing to worry about.

He defends despicable people, she said accusingly, as if to elucidate
people like you.

And your mother?

She’s a lost cause. I don’t want to talk about her. Why are we even talking about this?

He thought of his own parents, how irrelevant they seemed just now. They would never understand his relationship with this girl and would consider it a reckless mistake. You’re right. They don’t belong in here with us.

She gave him a look, some dark truth smoldering in her eyes, and got out of bed. I need some air, she said. I need to go outside. She pulled on her jeans, her sweatshirt.

Watching her, he lit a cigarette. There was very little light, only dusk showing through the curtains.

Look, George. We need to stop this. We need to stop this right now.

Willis—I’ve told you my situation. You said it yourself. That thing about Blake. What I have with Catherine, it’s not real. It’s hypocrisy.

She put her hands over her ears. I can’t listen to this bullshit.

With you I feel—he paused a minute, wanting to find the exact word—whole.

Congratulations. She was pulling on her boots. You, George Clare, are exactly the wrong thing for me.

He fished his shirt out from the pile of clothes on the floor, slipped it on and began buttoning it. That’s not true and you know it.

You have become the evil in my life.

How can you even say that?

Don’t you know how wrong this is? She looked at him, demanding an answer.

Okay, he said. Okay. Maybe it’s wrong. He tucked in his shirt and fastened his belt. He was moving slowly, like a drunkard, trying to piece together his thoughts. I don’t know why I married her. I wanted to be honorable.

Trust me, not a word in your vocabulary.

You can be so—

So what?

Degrading.

I’m honest, George. I tell the truth.

I know you do. That’s something I love about you.

She scoffed. You don’t love me.

Hey, he said. Stop trying to sound so mature.

Fuck you, George. This isn’t about love and you know it.

Hey. He grabbed her hard.

Let me— She pulled away, angry, and grabbed her coat and opened the door. I need to get out of here.

He grappled with his wallet, his cigarettes, then raced outside after her. The sun almost gone. Cold. You could smell the dead leaves, the dirt.

What’s wrong with you? he shouted.

She was walking toward the horses.

He was afraid of them. Why are you so angry?

Because you get whatever you want, George. You do whatever you fucking want. I don’t have that, okay? We don’t get to do that.

What? That’s ridiculous.

She climbed the fence and jumped into the pasture. Willis! he called as she mounted a black one and took off, kneeing its ribs, gripping its mane. He’d never seen anything so dramatic. He froze there, moved by it. A woman on a horse. Beautiful. A little violent. Riding off into the sunset.

—

WHEN HE WENT
to visit her the next day, she apologized. I was in a bad mood. I was getting my period.

They lay there side by side, fully dressed, smoking.

Do you want some whiskey?

He poured them each a drink.

I have cramps, she said.

Are you hungry?

She shook her head. They drank. This is good, she said. Just what I needed.

I’m glad.

You thought I was just some girl, she said.

He waited, watching her.

Just some dumb, ordinary girl that you could do whatever you wanted to.

I never once thought that.

Some girl you could fuck over. That’s all men want anyway. To fuck over women.

That’s an outrageous statement.

But it’s true, isn’t it? Admit it.

I wouldn’t hold your breath.

Here’s the thing, George. I know how you think. That’s what you don’t get. I grew up with people like you.

What’s that supposed to mean?

That there are certain behaviors, she said, certain characteristics. She shook her head, looking at him and not looking, and stopped herself. I know you, George. I know who you are.

An indictment, obviously. For a moment he couldn’t speak. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

I think you do. She got up off the bed and went to the dresser and found her cigarettes and lit one and stood there before him, declaring his failures. You think you’ve got it all figured out, but look at you. You’re the most screwed-up person I know. You’re a fucking psychopath.

He slapped her. They were both surprised.

She turned away, her hand on her cheek. You’d better go.

I’ll go when I’m ready.

George. Please.

Put out that cigarette.

She looked afraid.

He snatched it from her hand, took a drag and then ground it out. He wanted to tell her something important—something reassuring, philosophical—but his mind was empty. He was depleted of anything useful. Please, he said. Just let me love you.

I can’t. We have to stop this. It’s not good for either one of us. It’s horrible.

Lie down. Take off your clothes.

At first she resisted. Then she buried her face in his chest and cried. He kissed her hands, her knees. This thing we have, he said. You’re like a drug.

Afterward, he said, I can’t control the way I feel.

She looked at him, waiting.

I’m not a bad person.

Okay. That’s good to know. But guess what? I am. She finished her drink. I’m a very bad person. You need to understand that.

That’s not true. I refuse to believe it.

Well, that’s your choice, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. She lit another cigarette. Anyway, I’m in love with somebody else.

He couldn’t bear it.

You should go now.

He couldn’t move.

George?

He’d never cried in front of a woman and didn’t know why he was doing it now. Except that he had an awful feeling inside him.

Get out, she said.

He didn’t argue. He went down the narrow staircase that smelled of dirt and sheep shit and sour milk, out into the cold wind. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, nearly dark, and the air smelled of fires. He felt the need to walk. To brace himself for some unknown catastrophe. It would come soon, he knew. There was no doubt.

The Reality of the Unseen

1

IT DIDN’T TAKE
long for rumors to circulate about George Clare. Though he had won the favor of students, the older, stuffier faculty members found fault with his showy confidence, his rather cavalier disregard for the mood of austerity that had defined the department for decades. During his office hours, there’d be a little crowd outside his door of students who just wanted to talk. Witnessing such celebrity could be annoying.