All Things Cease to Appear (53 page)

October 30, 1978

Dear God,

I’m writing to ask your opinion of ghosts. I believe this house of ours is haunted—I feel that she is trying to warn me, to tell me something. Why else would she be hanging around? Is it true about ghosts? Are they real?
If I died, would I

As a Catholic, I do believe there is a place called Heaven
and that good people go there to exist somehow in peace.

November 1, 1978

Dear Agnes,

I have been reading
Rosemary’s Baby.

In the book—you really must read it—the devil makes love to poor Rosemary and she ends up having his baby. It’s fabulously creepy.

For some reason it makes me think of the Virgin Mary.

Anyway, I am really enjoying it.

Mother tells me you are trying to get pregnant. On second thought, you probably shouldn’t read the book!

November 4, 1978

Dear Mother,

Thank you for the consoling words the other night. I know these issues are mainly my problem and have little to do with George.

November 9, 1978

Dear Mother,

I have discovered poetry. Last night Justine took me to a poetry reading by Miss Adrienne Rich. She had been married, you see, and then, over time, discovered that she didn’t want to be married anymore, and that she was in fact a lesbian. I don’t think it is fair to assume that being a lesbian caused the failure of her marriage—obviously it had a great deal to do with it, but I don’t think it was the only reason (I can practically hear your thoughts!!). Now, Mother, don’t worry about this being my confession of homosexuality—I proclaim I am not a lesbian! But what Miss Rich says in her poetry about women coming into their own lives, their own imperfect bodies, their experiences as free women of strength, about pursuing their own pleasure (can you imagine!)—this is what I want to convey to you. This sense of liberation! There is more to life than a clean kitchen and a well-darned pair of socks. I am throwing out my sewing machine! I am going to dedicate myself to just being myself, not the person I am now, going through the motions, reciting my lines. I am going to wander through my house naked—that’s right, naked—without worrying about what George will think of my bumps and swirls, my broad motherly hips, my stretch marks—even the mole on my thigh, a witch’s tattoo, you used to call it. No more! I am throwing out my razor. I am simply letting my body do what is natural. I want to stink, Mother; I want to glow with sweat; I want to set my breasts free, enjoy their weight, their swagger. I want to masturbate—that’s right, you heard me! I want to touch myself without putting on a show to satisfy my husband’s tender ego. I want to push his head between my legs, feel his tongue wedge inside me, tasting my bitter, lovely poison.

November 17, 1978

Dear Mother,

How many times have I wondered what keeps George so late at the college? I have even thought of hiring a private detective. I must tell you, I feel he is betraying me. Today, with Franny in the car, I drove over to the campus. I circled the faculty lot. I didn’t see George’s car parked anywhere. I must’ve driven around that campus for an hour looking for his car.

Sometimes I notice the way he smells, a cheap jasmine scent on his clothes.

November 25, 1978

Dear Mother,

As you know we went to his parents’ for Thanksgiving. Of course, just having us wasn’t enough for them. Some of their friends came over for cocktails. Everything looked very nice—you’ve seen their house—and she filled her fireplace with poinsettias. She made a pretty good turkey and a ham, too, and it was very beautiful sitting there and looking at the Sound. And Franny was dressed up so cute. That new dress I made for her from the McCall’s catalog. Her little Mary Janes.

Anyway, yesterday, when we got back, he went for a run. I was making dinner and discovered I needed some things, so I put Franny in the car and started for town. I had the strangest feeling,
like all time was suspended.
Then I was driving along the small streets where the townies live—there’s a trailer park nearby, and several bars, a neighborhood that you, Mother, would not approve of. And I happened to notice one of those statues of the Virgin Mary—you know how rural people like to put them on their front lawns inside old claw-foot tubs (a tradition I will never quite understand)—and something made me stop, and I got out and went up to one and her paint was all chipping off her blue cloak, but her eyes, there was something about her eyes, and I touched her and I felt something go right through me like a jolt of electricity….

Then, when I was driving by the inn, the long barn where they put their help, I saw him. Standing there with a girl. What? I thought. Is that George? I took my foot off the pedal and slowed down. I could see they were fighting; that was obvious. They stood apart. There was something about her sharp outline that seemed familiar, and she was crying. George was standing there with his arms crossed, the way he does when he’s angry, unyielding, defiant. I have seen that look, that punitive stance, and found my sympathy going to the woman, whoever she was. In my case, I would be a fool to think there wasn’t something between them. It was unmistakably a lovers’ quarrel. My heart buzzed inside my chest, and my legs, my whole body went flimsy, weak. I could hardly hold the wheel. It was all I could do to keep driving.

December 3, 1978

Mother,

I am gearing up to confront him. It is not easy for me, because as you know I’m not a confrontational person. Plus, something happened to my friend Justine, a car accident. We went to visit her and she was just lying there and her husband, well, I’ve never seen him in such a state. I just couldn’t believe it. Then, when it couldn’t possibly get any worse, George told me about the girl.

She was just some girl he’d met at the library. Some girl with problems. She got obsessed with him. Nothing happened, he said. There was nothing going on. She had latched on to him. She was a girl with serious issues.

I suppose these problems occur in most marriages. I am trying to deal with it. Everything seems so much harder without Justine to talk to. She just lies there. I don’t know, it’s really upsetting.

December 17, 1978

Dear Mrs. Clare,

Please accept this tardy thank you for your lovely Thanksgiving.
Unfortunately, the sweet potato marshmallow casserole didn’t agree with me, but I’m all right now. I have been fairly consumed with the fact that

December 17, 1978

Dear Mrs. Clare,

I am actually writing to give you some good news. It’s about those paintings your poor nephew had done before his death. They’ve been found. Yes, it’s true. I happened to attend the Christmas party at your son’s place of employment. They had put out a nice spread and plenty of booze and it was fun seeing all the little decorations the secretary had displayed, angels made of Styrofoam, that sort of thing, and glitter everywhere.

I’m sure you don’t know, because George is so very modest, that he has a very nice office. While he was busy socializing and drinking too much gin, I went into his office to poke around, and that’s when I noticed the paintings. Compelled by their subject matter, I found myself walking toward them, getting up good and close. There were five in all. Five lovely scenes of the seaside on which your son, George Clare, had signed his name.

Your devoted daughter-in-law,

Catherine

January 4, 1979

Dearest Mother,

Happy New Year. I took your suggestion and spoke to the priest. He told me that forgiveness is always the best recourse in a marriage. But I have begun to doubt this solution. I am thinking that the priest has no real knowledge of my personal life, and that it is unjust to generalize. I have begun to suspect that my husband is deeply troubled and quite possibly psychotic.

You see, the person we know as George Clare is just a shell—likable, yes, intelligent, charming. But it’s just an illusion, a chimera. Because he keeps his real persona to himself, locked up in some dark, awful place, cut off from the world. I have seen glimpses of that other person when I catch him alone, involved in some menial task—polishing shoes, for instance, one hand thrust inside the shoe, the other tenderly rubbing the leather, preoccupied, wistful—dare I say sexual. Or sharpening knives, the intensity in his eyes, checking the blade with his fingertips, that same expression of faraway tenderness.

You see, Mother, we are animals. We know when we are in danger. It isn’t something that can be argued or discounted. We know what fear is. We know what it means. It’s instinctual. It’s real. There is no faking it.

February 2, 1979

Dear Mother,

I had some time to myself and walked alone out into the field. It was cold but sunny. I walked and walked and thought about God and tried to feel Him all around me, watching over me. I felt loved. By Him. Only Him. Not even by you and Father. Certainly not by George. He’s my adversary. I can’t trust anyone.

Except God. I should have become a nun.

February 16, 1979

Dear Mother,

What good news about Agnes.

If you want the truth about such things I will tell you a story of my own discovery. How I began to feel sick. Sick all the time. And that peculiar heaviness in my belly, prickling around the edges, as if I were stuffed with horsehairs. I went to the doctor and he told me what the problem was. It brought back memories of George in the beginning. How we got stuck with each other in the first place. Why had we? I was weak, insecure. I didn’t believe I could do anything. I didn’t believe I was good enough. Maybe I believed God had a plan for me. But I see now that’s just cowardice. That’s just making excuses for wasted time. I don’t blame you, Mother. You have always done what you thought was right. But it wasn’t right, was it? Not really.

The truth is, it has taken me this long to understand that I am in charge of my own destiny. Not you or Father. Not George. Not Franny. Not even God.

My body is my own. I am making my own plans.

February 22, 1979

Dear Mother,

I have decided to leave him. It is for my own safety. For I have recently made a terrible discovery. One night—the same night our friend Floyd drowned—George came home sopping wet. It was very late, and I heard him in the laundry room. He was standing there naked, holding his shirt, his trousers, his socks, and I could see they were wet, not just a little but dripping wet, drenched, like somebody who had just climbed out of the water. After he went upstairs I went out to look at his car. The seat was soaked through. When I pushed on the cushion, water ran out.

Other strange things have happened, but the worst thing is his distance, his cool dismissal of me. As though he can’t stand the sight of me.

I will close this letter with the following advice: if something should happen to me, don’t assume it was an accident.

Homeward

1

FIRST THING,
he drives over there. He likes this hour best. The sky opening, the early sun.

She stands there with her bloodshot eyes, wearing the same hospital outfit she had on the night before, wrapped in a blanket. What are you doing here? she says.

I gotta fix that overhang.

What?

On the porch.

She shakes her head. Now?

Is it too early?

Uh, yeah—it’s, what, seven?

Quarter till. Contractor’s hours. He holds up his thermos. I come bearing gifts.

Is that actually coffee? she says a little desperately.

Yes, ma’am. With milk and sugar.

She lets him in and they wander into the kitchen. The house smells damp, dirty. It’s the same old kitchen. The same buzzing refrigerator. The same crummy cabinets that never stayed shut. He is stirred by a fresh hatred for this place. If she wasn’t here, he might just put a match to it once and for all.

How’d that woodstove do? Still burning?

He checks and sees it burned out. Let me get this going again. He sets down the thermos and opens the stove and tosses in some wood and lights it up. There, he says. That ought to do it.

She’s standing there shivering, pale, very beautiful, it’s almost too hard to look. He takes off his coat and then his sweater and hands it to her. Put that on. She drops the blanket from her shoulders and pulls the sweater over her head and pushes her scrawny arms into the sleeves. It looks good on you, he says. Then he unscrews the thermos and pours some coffee into the little cup. Drink this.

She does.

He rinses out her old pickle jar and pours himself some coffee. Long night?

Yes, very long.

I had a feeling it might be.

She drinks the coffee. This is good. Thanks.

Should we find a place to sit down?

Let’s go in here.

They bring their coffee into the living room and sit on the old busted-up couch and she asks about Wade and he tells her about his brother’s injury, IEDs, the VA, the whole story.

It’s a terrible war, she says. I wish they’d just end it. I’ve seen some of these guys. It’s really sad.

You work there? University Hospital? I noticed that on your scrubs.