All Things Cease to Appear Page 16

  —

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, he ran into the girl at the library. He and Franny were in the foyer, returning a stack of picture books. She performed this task with great formality, intrigued by the mysterious slot in the wall that accepted the books like some hungry beast.

  The girl came over and tugged on Franny’s pigtail.

  His daughter giggled and said, What’s your name? I’m Franny.

  Willis, she said, cradling her books under her arm and reaching out for a shake. In case you forgot.

  No, I didn’t.

  Her hand was small and warm. She was wearing an Elvis Costello T-shirt and cutoffs and paddock boots. Her long black hair ran down her back in serpentine ringlets.

  I’m a friend of Eddy’s. When the name didn’t register, she said, Eddy Hale. He works for you.

  He was the oldest of the three brothers, George now remembered. When he’d realized that the boys who were painting the house were the same boys who’d grown up in it and suffered the tragic loss of their parents, he told Eddy, She won’t want you working here if she knows, and Eddy had squinted at him, arrogantly, and said, That’s okay, Mr. Clare. If I’d bought this place, I wouldn’t want to know the owners had killed themselves, either.

  George had felt they’d reached a necessary if awkward understanding, a kind of fraternal bonding. Once he and his wife were completely settled into a comfortable routine, he’d tell her. Sooner or later she was bound to find out.

  Oh, that Eddy.

  Yeah, that Eddy. Her little snarl of antagonism indicated that she knew George kept things from his wife. He wondered what else Eddy had told her.

  Franny pulled on the stringy hem of Willis’s shorts. Look what I can do!

  Let’s see, Franny.

  They watched his daughter push another book into the slot.

  Wow, you’re such a big help to your dad, aren’t you?

  Franny nodded earnestly. The girl smiled at him.

  For some reason his heart was pounding. I’ve seen you at the inn, he said.

  It’s just a summer job—I go to UCLA. She pushed the hair out of her face. I’m taking a year off to find myself.

  Are you lost?

  She smiled blandly. I’m just trying to figure things out.

  What things?

  How I fit into all this…

  This?

  Life, you idiot.

  Well, good luck. I hope you find whatever you’re looking for.

  Thanks. She paused and seemed to reassemble herself, her stature, then looked him over agreeably. So—you come here often?

  Yeah, as a matter of fact. I like the clientele.

  Me, too. Most of them are dead. She shifted her books to her other arm. She was reading Keats, Blake.

  I see you like the hard stuff. Nothing watered down for you.

  That’s right. I take it straight.

  As long as it doesn’t go to your head.

  I have a very high tolerance.

  They were flirting. It was fun, he thought.

  She grinned and held up the Blake. I took a class on him last year. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Do you know it?

  All too well, he said, but his sarcasm was lost on her. He studied her face, her small freckled nose.

  Active evil is better than passive good, she quoted Blake.

  He makes a very good point, George said. But these days evil can be pretty scary.

  I know. She shuddered. There’s a lot of it in this world. She slowly raised her eyes and said, Evil is something I know about.

  Are you a witch?

  She grinned. What if I was?

  I’d hope to catch a ride on your broom.

  I’m referring to my miserable childhood.

  Oh, he said gently. Okay. He waited for her to go on.

  When I know you better I’ll fill you in.

  You’ve whet my appetite. He smiled and she smiled back, their unspoken arrangement somehow confirmed.

  In any case, you can’t have one without the other, she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder. Good without evil, I mean.

  We’ll make a fine pair, then.

  Well, I hope you’re not too good.

  That would be anticlimactic, he agreed.

  Tell me about your friends. She nodded at their bag of books. Goodnight Moon’s your favorite—right, Franny?

  Franny nodded, pushing another book into the slot.

  What about you?

  Most of what I read isn’t available here, he said.

  Are you a snob?

  No, but I read a lot of nonfiction, journals, books about art. I’m an art historian. I teach at Saginaw.

  Oh, she said, then yawned. Is it boring?

  Boring? He shrugged, a little insulted. No, it isn’t.

  I couldn’t get past the Jesus paintings. All those virgins and angels. She glanced out the window. Anyway, I should go. I’m meeting someone. Bye, Franny.

  She leaned over and shook his daughter’s hand, granting him a look down her shirt. See you around, Professor.

  Yes, he said. I hope so.

  George watched as she went outside, the wind blowing her around. She put her books into the basket of her bicycle and rode off.

  Daddy. Franny tugged on his jacket. Daddy! I want books!

  You do, do you? Let’s go see what we can find.

  3

  THE TENNIS CLUB, Black Lawn, was an exclusive little haven off County Route 13, down a potted dirt lane overrun with honeysuckle bushes and wild turkeys—he always tried to hit one as he barreled down the lane, scratching up his car. They squabbled into the bushes like fine old ladies, overdressed for the occasion. It was one of the few clubs in the United States that still maintained grass courts, even though the clay were more popular. Tennis whites were required, of course. Alongside the courts were wood huts painted a murky, campsite green, and an unheated pool that overlooked the distant Catskills, its surface littered with pine needles. Nobody swam here except for the Swedish wife of a shipping magnate who spoke no English and traversed the pool prettily in her plug-white bathing cap, and the dogs that ran wild around the property, some four hundred acres. The clubhouse, with its porches and awnings, once the home of genuine aristocrats, was slightly run-down, giving the place a kind of seedy appeal. It had a cozy little bar where they’d drink after a game. The pro, a craggy, sun-bleached guy named Tom Braden, had gotten him into games on the weekends; before noon, the courts were reserved for men. George’s partner—Giles Henderson, whom people called Jelly—was heavy and fierce even in his seventies, with cropped white hair and shrewd, relentless eyes, a surprisingly agile player for a man that size. Four years ago, he’d cashed in his Wall Street life and bought the inn down the road with his second wife, Karen (pronounced Car-in, naturally). The inn was an historic landmark that overlooked acres of pasture. They’d also started a sheep farm and were known for their lamb dinners. When you drove by at night you’d see candles burning in the outside lights, just as they had been in the 1800s, when this was a stagecoach stop on the Albany route.

  George and Jelly played against two challenging opponents: Bram Sokolov, who identified himself as a farmer, and a retired cardiologist named Bob Twitchell whom everybody called Doc. George was a good player. Tennis had, after all, kept him from getting thrown out of Williams; he hadn’t been much of a student, but he was skilled on the court and for a while had been nationally ranked. He and Sokolov were around the same age and easily became friends.

  One Sunday, just before dusk, an old green Range Rover pulled into their driveway. It was Bram and his wife—Justine, George remembered suddenly. She was an adjunct professor at Saginaw, a weaver, and they’d met on the day he interviewed. Out of his tennis whites, Bram was just shy of disheveled in baggy trousers, a worn T-shirt and old Stan Smiths. Justine was built like a Courbet peasant, with heavy features and the sort of confidence that comes from working with your hands.

  They came up onto the porch. Bram was holding two loaves
of bread, carrying one long baguette like a rifle, the other football-shaped loaf tucked under his arm.

  Well, hello, George said. Welcome.

  Good things come in pairs, Bram said. You know Justine.

  Of course. He took her warm hand. It’s good to see you.

  Likewise, she said, smiling. We thought we’d just stop by.

  Come in and have a drink. Catherine’s just putting Franny down for a nap.

  They went inside and followed him into the kitchen, where he found a bottle of gin and some limes. We’ve got some wine, too.

  Wine would be lovely, Justine said.

  Bram wanted gin.

  George was glad to hear Catherine coming down the stairs.

  I thought I heard voices, she said. What a nice surprise.

  This is quite a place, Justine told her. I’ve always wanted to see the inside.

  They helped themselves to a tour of the living room and George’s study.

  Ah, you’ve got a piano. Do you play?

  Not very well, Catherine said.

  She’s very modest, George offered.

  They left it, the people before us.

  The Hales, Justine clarified. Poor Ella.

  George’s wife went a little pale. Did you know her?

  Only distantly. She was very beautiful.

  Suddenly it was very quiet.

  We can go outside if you like, George said.

  Catherine then seemed to remember her manners. Yes, there’s a terrace. Let me get some food.

  Don’t bother. We just wanted to say hello.

  But Catherine had already disappeared into the kitchen. They sat waiting, out on the terrace, in the late sunlight, until she brought out a tray of cheese and olives and Bram’s baguette, which they ripped apart with their hands. This bread is wonderful, Catherine said.

  Bram smiled. My own recipe.

  He’s quite the Renaissance man, Justine said.

  Bread making’s new to me. I used to be an accountant, then just got to the point where I didn’t want to do it anymore.

  George met Catherine’s eyes for a moment. He knew she didn’t approve of people who stopped working when they could afford to. You didn’t earn points with his wife for having more money than God.

  Now he’s writing a novel.

  Well, that’s ambitious, George said. What’s it about?

  I have no idea.

  Sounds promising.

  Justine asked, What do you do, Catherine?

  I’m a housewife.

  George detected a tone of defiance. When she gazed over at him and smiled, he was momentarily stirred by the gesture.

  She’s a wonderful mother, he told them.

  Oh, that’s nice.

  Do you have children? Catherine wanted to know.

  No, Justine said. I’m a weaver.

  There’s a shop in town, Bram said, exchanging a smile with her, that sells all her things. They’re quite beautiful.

  I’ll have to stop by, Catherine said.

  You don’t have to buy anything. Actually, I’d like to make you a scarf. What’s your favorite color?

  Blue, I think. But I’m happy to buy one.

  Don’t be silly. She reached out and took Catherine’s hand for a moment. We’re going to be friends.

  His wife blushed, her eyes radiant. I’d like that.

  Catherine’s also an artist, he said, almost apologetically. He coughed. She’s a trained conservator.

  Impressive, Bram said.

  Well, I didn’t finish. Catherine shot him a look. I left before—

  You mean you left graduate school? Justine interrupted.

  Well, Franny came along. She shook her head, embarrassed. We got married.

  Such defeat, he thought.

  You can always get back to it, Justine told her.

  Catherine restores murals. She’s worked with famous architects.

  I was mostly cleaning their brushes.

  It’s become quite a special niche, he added.

  Cleaning brushes? Justine said.

  No, Catherine said. Painting Jesus. George is right, it’s my niche.

  She and Justine exchanged glances. It was their secret language, he thought. Their meaningful silence rang in his ears like bells.

  Are you terribly religious? Justine asked tentatively, as though Catherine might have some disease.

  We’re agnostic, Bram explained. Well—she is. I’m a Jew.

  Which means, Justine clarified, we eat bagels on Sundays and brisket once a year, during the High Holidays. He makes a very good brisket.

  We’re Catholic, Catherine said.

  In theory, George said. I refuse to align myself with any denomination.

  She shot him a look. We’re raising our daughter Catholic.

  That’s not official, he said—and how did they get onto this subject? Yes, it was her latest preoccupation. She wanted to take Franny to church; he was against it. He’d outgrown religion like a tight suit. For a moment nobody said anything, but his wife’s distaste was apparent. He studied both Justine and Bram, expecting some dispatch of consternation, but they seemed indifferent. I guess I have a general mistrust of anything that has the word organized attached to it. Maybe I prefer disorder.

  Honey, Catherine said, you know that’s not true.

  He continued, wanting to say it, wanting her to hear it. Her blind devotion was not only embarrassing, it made her seem common. I guess it all depends what pond you’re drinking from.

  It’s true, Justine said, there’s a lot of hocus-pocus. But to each his or her own.

  It’s a personal choice, Catherine said.

  Don’t you just love those? Justine looked at George directly, and he felt they shared an understanding.

  Who wants another drink? Bram?

  The wine isn’t cold, his wife complained.

  I’ll get some ice.

  He went inside, happy to have a moment alone. From the kitchen window he could see the three of them out on the terrace. His wife’s hair shone in the late sunlight and she pushed it back over her shoulders and tucked it behind her ears, something she’d been doing since he first met her, instantly transforming herself into the awkward girl he’d picked up at Williams. She hadn’t changed much. He didn’t know why he didn’t like her better.

  We should play some time, Catherine was saying as he approached the terrace with a bowl of ice and fresh drinks for Bram and himself. Give these guys a run for their money.

  On occasions like these George could actually see the benefit of marriage. Four perfectly civilized people spending an afternoon together. His wife sitting there as erect as a violinist. Justine and Bram, having just recently discovered the comforts of civility, impersonating grown-ups.

  She plays well, he heard himself say. And it was true: Catherine could hold her own on the court. They’d played in college, and he remembered how she looked in a tennis skirt.

  I’d love to, but I’m hopeless out there. Justine smiled up at him as he handed out the drinks. I’m afraid I’ve been relegated to more creative forms of exercise.

  George couldn’t resist asking, Such as?

  Yoga, of course. Sorry to disappoint you. She turned to Catherine. They have classes in town, if you’re interested. In the high-school gym.

  That might be a stretch, he said, trying to make a joke.

  You’d like it, Justine promised.

  Catherine smiled and nodded. I’d like to. Sure.

  How about you, George? Justine asked.

  He would swear she was flirting. I don’t think so. My tendons or whatever you call them are tight as guitar strings. It could be dangerous.

  You don’t look tight.

  Trust me. He raised his drink. Here’s to the only thing that loosens me up.

  That’s too bad. You’re missing out.

  Justine goes to India every year, Bram offered. She has a guru over there.

  Well, George said.

  I’ve always wanted to go, Cathe
rine said.

  News to me, he thought.

  It’s a very spiritual experience.

  Catherine glanced at him uneasily and fingered the hem of her skirt. I’ve heard it’s filthy over there. Is that true?

  Not where Justine goes it isn’t, he thought.

  Yes, sure, there’s poverty, Justine said. But the people are amazing. And the landscape, the colors, it jumps out at you. Pinks and reds and oranges. It’s really something. Whenever I go there, I feel, well…She shook her head, as if none of them could possibly understand.

  Feel what? George said.

  Embraced, she said finally.

  Sitting there in the sharp light, he noticed her breasts, the heavy bones of her face, her sandaled feet firmly planted on the ground. She looked like some Roman princess. There was a classicism about her, a strength and intelligence that he found attractive.

  Just look at that sunset, his wife said.

  That’s what you call a cheap thrill, Bram said.

  They looked at the sun. It was enormous, brilliant. They sat there, watching it disappear behind the trees. For a long while nobody said anything, and soon they were each painted in darkness. The sudden quiet seemed eerie, and they were all glad for the noisy disruption of Franny, thundering through the empty house and calling her mother’s name.

  4

  A FEW WEEKS LATER, Giles Henderson invited George and Bram up to the inn to shoot skeet. It was a glorious fall day, straight out of Inness’s Morning, Catskill Valley, he thought, the tops of the oak trees aflame with red leaves. George hadn’t fired a shotgun in years, but he embraced the bourgeois emphasis on sport and managed to hit a few of the clays as they flew into the air. Afterward, in keeping with the tweedy mood of the afternoon, they sat in the dark, paneled lounge and drank bourbon and smoked cigars. Jelly was a chain-smoker, and his face like a topiary of broken capillaries. To George’s surprise, the girl Willis was waitressing there. In the empty dining room she sat alone at a table, wrapping silverware in napkins. She was wearing a short gray dress with white piping and an apron, her uniform. Her hair was pulled back with a barrette, a cigarette between her lips. The smoke, coupled with the glaring window light, formed a mysterious aura around her. She turned slightly, as if sensing him. In profile, he saw the line of her jaw, the pronounced cheekbone, the curve of her upper lip. She was like the girl in Delacroix’s Orphan Girl in the Cemetery, with her obvious yet unacknowledged beauty, her black eyes, her fear.