The Goldfinch (99 page)

She turned to me, and frowned. “Whatever. Baluchi’s is closer. Or—we can do what you want.”

“Oh yeah?” I stood leaning against the door frame with my hands in my pockets. Years of living with a world class liar had rendered me merciless. “What
I
want? That’s rich.”

“Sorry. I thought a curry might be nice. Forget it.”

“That’s okay. You can stop it now.”

She looked up with a vacant smile on her face. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t give me that. You know good and well what I’m talking about.”

She said nothing. A stitch appeared in her pretty forehead.

“Maybe this will teach you to keep your phone switched on when you’re with him. I’m sure she was trying to call you on the street.”

“Sorry, I don’t know—?”

“Kitsey, I saw you.”

“Oh, please,” she said, blinking, after a slight pause. “You can’t be serious. You don’t mean Tom, do you? Really, Theo,” she said, in the deadly silence that followed, “Tom’s an old friend, from way back, we’re really close—”

“Yes, I gather.”

“—and he’s Em’s friend too, and, and, I mean,” blinking furiously, with an air of being unjustly persecuted, “I know how it may have seemed, I
know
you don’t like Tom and you have good reason not to. Because, I know about the stuff when your mother died and sure, he behaved really badly, but he was only a kid and he feels really awful about the way he acted—”

“Feels awful?”

“—but, but he’d had some bad news last night,” she continued rapidly, like an actress interrupted mid-speech, “some bad news of his own—”

“You talk about me with him? You two sit around discussing me and feeling sorry for me?”

“—and Tom, he turned up here to see us, Em and me, both of us, out of the blue, right before we were supposed to go out to the movie, that’s why we stayed in and didn’t go out with the others, you can ask Em if you don’t believe me, he didn’t have anywhere else to go, he’d had a bad upset, something personal, he only wanted someone to talk to, and what were we to—”

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“Listen. I don’t know what Em told you—”

“Tell me. Does Cable’s mother still have that house in East Hampton? I remember how she used to always dump him off at the country club for hours on end after she fired the babysitter, or after the babysitter quit rather. Tennis lessons, golf lessons. He probably turned out to be a pretty good golfer, no?”

“Yes,” she said coldly, “yes he is pretty good.”

“I could say something cheap here but I won’t.”

“Theo, let’s not do this.”

“May I run my theory by you? Do you mind? I’m sure it’s wrong in a
few particulars but I think this is basically it. Because I know you were seeing Tom, Platt told me as much when I ran into him on the street, and he wasn’t too thrilled about it either. And yeah,” I said when she tried to interrupt, in a voice just as hard and dead as I felt. “Right. No need to make excuses. Girls always did like Cable. Funny guy, really entertaining when he wants to be. Even if he has been writing bad checks lately or stealing from people at the country club or any of these other things I hear—”

“—That’s not true! That’s a lie! He never stole anything from anybody—”

“—and Mommy and Daddy never liked Tom much, or probably at all, and then after Daddy and Andy died you couldn’t keep it up, not in public anyway. Too upsetting to Mommy. And, as Platt has pointed out, numerous times—”

“I won’t see him any more.”

“So you’re admitting it.”

“I didn’t think it mattered until we were married.”

“Why is that?”

She brushed the hair from her eyes and said nothing.

“Didn’t think it would matter? Why? You didn’t think I would find out?”

Angrily she glanced up. “You’re a cold fish, you know that?”

“Me?” I looked away and laughed. “I’m the one who’s cold?”

“Oh, right. ‘Wronged party.’ ‘Terribly high principles.’ ”

“Higher than some, it seems.”

“You’re thoroughly enjoying this.”

“Believe me, I’m not.”

“Oh no? I’d never know it from that smirk.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Not say anything?”

“I’ve said I won’t see him any more. Actually I told him I wouldn’t a while back.”

“But he’s insistent. He loves you. He won’t take no for an answer.”

To my astonishment, she was blushing. “That’s right.”

“Poor little Kits.”

“Don’t be hateful.”

“Poor baby,” I said again, jeeringly, since I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She was scrabbling in the drawer for the corkscrew, and she turned
and regarded me bleakly. “Listen,” she said. “I don’t expect you to understand but it’s rough to be in love with the wrong person.”

I was silent. Walking in, I’d gone so cold with rage at the sight of her that I’d tried to tell myself that she was powerless to hurt me or—God forbid—make me feel sorry for her. But who knew better the truth of what she was saying than me?

“Listen,” she said again, putting down the corkscrew. She’d seen her opening and she was taking it: just like on the tennis court, ruthless, watching her opponent’s weak side…

“Get away from me.”

Too heated. Wrong tone. This was going the wrong way. I wanted to be cold and in control of things.

“Theo. Please.” There she was, hand on my sleeve. Nose pinking up, eyes pink with tears: just like poor old Andy with his seasonal allergies, like some ordinary person you might actually feel sorry for. “I’m sorry. Truly. With all my heart. I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh no?”

“No. I’ve done you a great disservice.”

“Disservice. That’s one way of putting it.”

“And, I mean, I know you don’t
like
Tom—”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Theo. Does it really matter to you as much as all that? No, you know it doesn’t,” she said quickly. “Not if you have to think about it. Also—” she stopped for a moment before she plunged on—“not to put you on the spot, but I know all about your things and I don’t care.”

“Things?”

“Oh, please,” she said wearily. “Hang out with your sleazy friends, take all the drugs you want. I don’t care.”

In the background, the radiator began to bang and set up a tremendous clatter.

“Look. We’re right for each other. This marriage is absolutely the right thing for both of us. You know it and I know it. Because—I mean, look, I
know.
You don’t have to tell me. And, I mean too—things are better for you now since we’ve been seeing each other, aren’t they? You’ve straightened up a lot.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Straightened up’? What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Look—” she sighed in exasperation—“no point pretending, Theo. Martina—Em—Tessa Margolis, remember her?”

“Fuck.” I didn’t think anybody knew about Tessa.

“Everyone tried to tell me. ‘Stay away from him. He’s darling but he’s a drug addict.’ Tessa told Em she stopped seeing you after she caught you snorting heroin at her kitchen table.”

“It wasn’t heroin,” I said hotly. They’d been crushed morphine tablets and it had been a terrible idea to snort them, total waste of a pill. “And anyway, Tessa certainly didn’t have any scruples about
blow,
she used to ask me to get it for her all the time—”

“Look, that’s different and you know it. Mommy,” she said, talking over me—

“—Oh yeah? Different?” Raising my voice over hers. “How is it different? How?”

“—Mommy, I swear—listen to me, Theo—Mommy loves you so much.
So
much. You saved her life coming along when you did. She talks, she eats, she takes an interest, she walks in the park, she looks forward to seeing you, you can’t
imagine
how she was before. You’re part of the family,” she said, pressing her advantage. “Truly. Because, I mean, Andy—”

“Andy?”
I laughed mirthlessly. Andy had entertained no illusions whatsoever about his sicko family.

“Look, Theo, don’t be like this.” She’d recovered now: friendly and reasonable, something of her father in her directness. “It’s the right thing to do. Marrying. We’re a good match. It makes sense for everyone involved, not least us.”

“Oh yeah? Everyone
?
”

“Yes.” Perfectly serene. “Don’t be like that, you know what I mean. Why should we let this spoil things? After all, we’re better people when we’re with each other, aren’t we? Both of us? And—” pale little smile; her mother, there—“we’re a good couple. We like each other. We get along.”

“Head not heart, then.”

“If that’s how you want to put it, yes,” she said, looking at me with such plain pity and affection that—quite unexpectedly—I felt my anger drop out from under me: at her cool intelligence, all her own, clear as a silver bell. “Now—” stretching up on tiptoe, to kiss me on the
cheek—“let’s both be good, and truthful, and kind to each other, and let’s be happy together and have fun always.”

xxii.

S
O
I
SPENT THE
night—we ordered in, later, and then went back to bed. But though on some level it was all easy enough pretending everything was the same (because, in some way, hadn’t we both been pretending all along?) on another I felt nearly suffocated by the weight of everything unknown, and unsaid, pressing down between us, and later when she lay curled against me asleep I lay awake and stared out the window feeling completely alone. The silences of the evening (my fault, not Kitsey’s—even in extremis Kitsey was never at a loss for words) and the seemingly unbridgeable distance between us had reminded me very strongly of being sixteen and never having the faintest idea what to say or do around Julie, who though she definitely couldn’t be called a girlfriend was the first woman I’d thought of as such. We’d met outside the liquor store on Hudson when I was standing outside money in hand wanting someone to go in and buy me a bottle of something and there she came billowing around the corner, in batlike, futuristic garb incongruous with her clumping walk and farm-girl looks, her plain-but-pleasing face of a prairie wife of the 1900s. “Hey kid—” hoisting her own wine bottle out of the bag—“here’s your change. No really. Don’t mention it. Are you going to stand out here in the cold and drink that?” She was twenty-seven, nearly twelve years older than me, with a boyfriend just finishing business school in California—and there was never any question that when the boyfriend came back I wasn’t to come by or contact her ever again. We both knew. She hadn’t had to say it. Galloping up the five flights to her studio, on the rare (to me) afternoons I was permitted to come see her, I was always bursting with words and feelings too big to contain but all the things I’d planned to say to her always vanished the instant she opened the door and instead of being able to engage in conversation for even two minutes like a normal person, I would instead hover speechless and desperate three steps behind her, hands plunged in pockets, hating myself, while she walked barefoot around the studio looking hip, talking effortlessly, apologizing for the dirty clothes on the floor and for forgetting to pick up a six-pack of
beer—did I want her to run downstairs?—until at some point I would almost literally hurl myself at her mid-sentence and knock her over on the day bed, so violently sometimes my glasses flew off. It had all been so wonderful I’d thought I would die but lying awake afterward I’d been sick with emptiness, her white arm on the coverlet, streetlights coming on, dreading the eight o’clock hour which meant she would have to get up and dress for her job, at a bar in Williamsburg where I wasn’t old enough to stop in and visit her. And I hadn’t even loved Julie. I’d admired her, and obsessed over her, and envied her confidence, and even been a little afraid of her; but I hadn’t really loved her, no more than she’d loved me. I wasn’t so sure I loved Kitsey either (at least not the way I’d once wished I loved her) but still it was surprising just how bad I felt, considering I’d been through the routine before.

xxiii.

E
VERYTHING WITH
K
ITSEY HAD
pushed Boris’s visit temporarily from my mind but—once I went to sleep—it all came back sideways in dreams. Twice I woke and sat bolt-upright: once, from a door swinging open nightmarishly into the storage locker, while kerchiefed women fought over a pile of used clothes outside; then—drifting back asleep, into a different staging of the same dream—storage unit as flimsy curtained space open to the sky, billowing walls of fabric not quite long enough to touch the grass. Beyond was a prospect of green fields and girls in long white dresses: an image fraught (mysteriously) with such death-charged and ritualistic horror that I woke gasping.