Read The Last Time They Met Online
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Adult
The Last Time They Met (5 page)
Had been with you,
she might have added.
she might have added.
—
Reason enough to love anyone, I should think.
Reason enough to love anyone, I should think.
—
We had just come back from what was to be our summerhouse in Maine. We’d gone up for the day to meet with the contractor. It was to have been a magnificent house
—
well, magnificent to us. After years of saving for it, it was finally a reality. Our only regret was that we hadn’t done it when the children were younger, though already we were thinking of grandchildren.
She paused, as if for breath, when really, it was the tamping down of anger that had momentarily stopped her.
I went out to the bank and left him in the house. When I came back he was on the floor, surrounded by oranges.
We had just come back from what was to be our summerhouse in Maine. We’d gone up for the day to meet with the contractor. It was to have been a magnificent house
—
well, magnificent to us. After years of saving for it, it was finally a reality. Our only regret was that we hadn’t done it when the children were younger, though already we were thinking of grandchildren.
She paused, as if for breath, when really, it was the tamping down of anger that had momentarily stopped her.
I went out to the bank and left him in the house. When I came back he was on the floor, surrounded by oranges.
—
A heart attack?
A heart attack?
—
A massive stroke.
She paused.
Nothing about his health had ever suggested the possibility. He was only fifty.
A massive stroke.
She paused.
Nothing about his health had ever suggested the possibility. He was only fifty.
Thomas put a hand on hers, which had escaped from her pocket in the telling of the tale. His was cold, his palm roughened to a papery texture, despite the writer’s fingers. He touched her awkwardly, the gesture of a man not used to consoling others.
—
It’s such a surprise to see you,
she said.
I didn’t know. I hadn’t read the program.
It’s such a surprise to see you,
she said.
I didn’t know. I hadn’t read the program.
—
Would you have come if you had known?
Would you have come if you had known?
The question was a tunnel with a dozen furtive compartments.
—
Curiosity might have made me bold.
—
Curiosity might have made me bold.
Thomas released her hand and took out a pack of cigarettes. In a series of gestures both ancient and familiar to Linda, he lit a cigarette, picked a piece of tobacco off his lip, and blew a thin stream of blue smoke that hung in the damp air, a bit of calligraphy dissipating. There would be, of course, no point in mentioning his health. Thomas would almost certainly say he’d lived too long already.
—
Would it surprise you to learn that I came here because of you?
he asked.
Would it surprise you to learn that I came here because of you?
he asked.
Something more than surprise kept her silent.
—
Yes, it surprised me, too,
he said.
But there it is. I saw your name and thought . . . Well, I don’t know what I thought.
Yes, it surprised me, too,
he said.
But there it is. I saw your name and thought . . . Well, I don’t know what I thought.
Behind them, a ferry or tugboat blew its whistle.
—
I am hungry, actually,
Thomas said.
I am hungry, actually,
Thomas said.
—
You have a reading in half an hour.
You have a reading in half an hour.
—
Payment exacted for all this fun.
Payment exacted for all this fun.
Linda looked at him and laughed.
Thomas stood, the gentle man, and took her arm.
I think this means we owe ourselves a dinner afterwards.
I think this means we owe ourselves a dinner afterwards.
—
At least that,
Linda said in kind.
At least that,
Linda said in kind.
They took a taxi to the theater. At the door they parted
—
with customary good wishes on Linda’s part, the obligatory grimace on Thomas’s
—
and truly, he seemed to blanch slightly when Susan Sefton accosted him and impressed upon him the fact of the performance in ten minutes’ time.
—
with customary good wishes on Linda’s part, the obligatory grimace on Thomas’s
—
and truly, he seemed to blanch slightly when Susan Sefton accosted him and impressed upon him the fact of the performance in ten minutes’ time.
It was a steeply inclined room that might once have been a lecture hall, with seats that fanned out from a podium like spokes from a wheel. Linda took off her wet raincoat and let it crumple behind her back, the cloth giving off the scent of something vaguely synthetic. Alone now, anonymous, with two strangers seating themselves beside her, she allowed herself to think about Thomas’s assertion that he had come to the festival because of her. It wouldn’t be entirely true
—
there would have been a sense of reemerging into a world he’d left behind
—
but the part that might be true alarmed her. She didn’t, couldn’t, want such a costly overture.
—
there would have been a sense of reemerging into a world he’d left behind
—
but the part that might be true alarmed her. She didn’t, couldn’t, want such a costly overture.
The trickle into the theater was modest, producing a pock-marked gallery that could be, Linda knew, dispiriting when viewed from a stage. She ached for Thomas to have a good audience. There were students with backpacks, a few couples on what appeared to be dates, some women like herself sitting in small, cheerful groups. The would-be poets came in singly, supplicants seeking words of inspiration or, at the very least, an agent. But then a side door, forgotten or locked until now, swung open to admit a steady stream of people; and Linda watched as row after row filled and spilled into the next, the gallery’s complexion clearing. Linda felt, oddly, a mother’s pride (or a wife’s, she supposed, though she’d had little practice; Vincent had been terrified at just the thought of public speaking). The respectable audience became a flood, the doors held open by bodies that could go no further into the theater. Thomas’s years in self-proclaimed and necessary exile had whetted appetites. History was being made, albeit history of a parochial and limited sort.
Beside her, a younger couple speculated about the famous silence.
—
His daughter was killed on a boat.
His daughter was killed on a boat.
—
Oh, God. Can you imagine?
Oh, God. Can you imagine?
—
Washed overboard. She was only five. Or six, maybe.
Washed overboard. She was only five. Or six, maybe.
—
Jesus.
Jesus.
—
They say he had a breakdown after.
They say he had a breakdown after.
—
I might have read that.
I might have read that.
The lights dimmed, and an academic introduction was made. An exile, though not its cause, was alluded to. The introduction did not do justice to Thomas, though it suggested a singular achievement that one might honor even if there hadn’t been any work in years. The spotlight made unflattering shadows on the academic’s face. She herself would soon be standing there.
When Thomas emerged from the wings, a hush, like cloud, settled upon the audience. Thomas moved with old authority, careful not to look up at the several hundred faces. When he reached the podium, he took a glass of water, and she saw (and hoped that others did not) that his hand trembled in its epic progress from the table to the mouth. Behind her, someone said,
Wow, he’s really aged,
the words (such power) reducing even the best of them to something less.
Wow, he’s really aged,
the words (such power) reducing even the best of them to something less.
Thomas fumbled badly at the beginning, causing an empathetic flush to run along the sides of her neck and lodge behind her ears. He seemed unprepared. In the growing silence, he flicked pages with his forefinger, the paper having the snap and crackle of onionskin. Linda could hear from the audience murmurs of surprise, the slight whine of disappointment. And still the riffling continued. And then, when she thought she could bear it no longer, when she’d bent her head and put her fingers to her eyes, Thomas began to read.
The voice was deep and sonorous, untouched by the years that had ravaged his face. It might have been the voice of a proclamation, the basso profundo of an opera singer. It seemed the audience held its breath, lest breathing cause the people there to miss a word. She strained to comprehend the startling phrases, then was left to tumble down a slide of images that were oddly pleasurable even though their terrible meaning could not be misunderstood:
“Water’s silk,”
he read, and
“Bed of sand.” “The mother bent, a trampled stem.”
The hair on the back of Linda’s neck stood up, and chills stippled her arms. She held herself and forgot the audience. One could hardly believe in this marriage of confused and servile grief. She knew, as she had not ever known before
—
as she was certain those around her had not known before
—
that she was in the presence of greatness.
“Water’s silk,”
he read, and
“Bed of sand.” “The mother bent, a trampled stem.”
The hair on the back of Linda’s neck stood up, and chills stippled her arms. She held herself and forgot the audience. One could hardly believe in this marriage of confused and servile grief. She knew, as she had not ever known before
—
as she was certain those around her had not known before
—
that she was in the presence of greatness.
He read from
The Magdalene Poems.
A series of poems about a girl who did not become a woman. An elegy for a life not lived.
The Magdalene Poems.
A series of poems about a girl who did not become a woman. An elegy for a life not lived.
Thomas stopped and took another epic drink of water. There was the sound of a hundred listeners putting hands to chests and saying,
Oh.
The applause that followed was
—
one had to say it
—
thunderous. Thomas looked up and seemed surprised by all the commotion. He did not smile, either to himself or at the audience, and for this Linda was inexplicably relieved: Thomas would not easily be seduced.
Oh.
The applause that followed was
—
one had to say it
—
thunderous. Thomas looked up and seemed surprised by all the commotion. He did not smile, either to himself or at the audience, and for this Linda was inexplicably relieved: Thomas would not easily be seduced.
The questions that followed the reading were routine (one about his culpability, appalling). He answered dutifully; and mercifully, he was not glib. Linda wasn’t certain she could have borne to hear him glib. He seemed exhausted, and a sheen lay on his forehead, white now with true stage fright.
The questions stopped
—
it wasn’t clear by whose mysterious signal
—
and the applause that followed could be felt in the armrests. Some even stood, as at the theater. Unskilled and unpracticed at accepting praise, Thomas left the stage.
—
it wasn’t clear by whose mysterious signal
—
and the applause that followed could be felt in the armrests. Some even stood, as at the theater. Unskilled and unpracticed at accepting praise, Thomas left the stage.
She might have met him backstage and embraced him in mutual exuberance. And perhaps he would be expecting her, would be disappointed by her absence. But then she saw him in the lobby, surrounded by adoring fans, the torturous words inside his head put aside, and she thought: I will not compete for his attention.
Needing air, she walked out into the night. People stood in gatherings, more exhilarated than subdued. She didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but couldn’t help but hear the words “shattering” and “brilliant,” though one woman seemed incensed that a poet would turn a daughter’s death to advantage. “Opportunistic,” Linda heard, and “rape of other people’s lives.” A man responded dismissively. “Dana, it’s called art,” he said, and Linda knew at once the two were married.
She walked around the block, the experience in the theater seeming to require it. The drizzle turned to serious rain and soaked her hair and shoulders before she could return. She entered a side theater and listened to a Rwandan woman catalogue atrocities. Linda sat benumbed, exhausted of feeling, until it was time for her own reading.
She was taken backstage, snake-infested with coils of electrical cables. Her eyes, not adjusting quickly enough to the darkness, made her stupid and overly cautious, and she knew she was being seen as middle-aged by the younger organizer. Seizek appeared beside her, his breath announcing him before his bulk. He put a proprietary hand on her back, letting it slide to the bottom of her spine
—
for balance or to assert some male advantage, she wasn’t sure. They were led, blinking, onto the stage, which was, indeed, harshly overlit. They sat to either side of the podium. Seizek, ignoring manners and even his own introduction, staggered to the podium first. Nearly too drunk to stand, he produced a flawless reading, a fact more remarkable than his prose, which seemed watered down, as if the author had diluted paragraphs for the sake of length, made careless by a deadline.
—
for balance or to assert some male advantage, she wasn’t sure. They were led, blinking, onto the stage, which was, indeed, harshly overlit. They sat to either side of the podium. Seizek, ignoring manners and even his own introduction, staggered to the podium first. Nearly too drunk to stand, he produced a flawless reading, a fact more remarkable than his prose, which seemed watered down, as if the author had diluted paragraphs for the sake of length, made careless by a deadline.
The applause was respectable. Some left the theater when Seizek had finished (bored by Seizek’s reading? not fans of poetry? not interested in Linda Fallon?), further reducing the audience to a desperate case of acne. She strove to overcome, by act of will, her seeming unpopularity (more likely the wished-for anonymity) as she walked to the podium; and by the time she had adjusted the microphone, she had largely succeeded, even though she couldn’t help but notice that Thomas wasn’t there. She spoke the words of her verse, words she had some reason to be proud of, words that, though they could no longer be fresh to her, had been crafted with care. But as she read, her mind began to drift, and she thought of Thomas’s suggestion that she turn her images into prose. And she found that even as she said the phrases, her second brain was composing sentences, so that when a stray word jolted her from her reverie, she felt panicky, as if she’d lost her place.
The applause was that of an audience made good-humored by promise of release to beds and dinners. There were questions then, one oddly similar to the dyspeptic complaint of the woman who thought it opportunistic to use another’s life for purposes of art (why this should so rankle, Linda couldn’t imagine, since it was not
her
life in question). The line in the lobby to buy Linda’s books was no deeper than twenty, and she was, actually, grateful for the twenty. She contrived to linger longer than she might have, wondering if Thomas would appear after all for the dinner they’d felt was owed to them; but she did not stay long enough to feel foolish if he did eventually arrive. When she left the theater, she walked out into the night and was stopped by a streak of white along the roof of the sky, the low clouds having caught the light of the city.
her
life in question). The line in the lobby to buy Linda’s books was no deeper than twenty, and she was, actually, grateful for the twenty. She contrived to linger longer than she might have, wondering if Thomas would appear after all for the dinner they’d felt was owed to them; but she did not stay long enough to feel foolish if he did eventually arrive. When she left the theater, she walked out into the night and was stopped by a streak of white along the roof of the sky, the low clouds having caught the light of the city.
Water’s silk,
she thought.
Trampled stem.
she thought.
Trampled stem.
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