All Things Cease to Appear Page 26

  Justine, he said, gaping at her. She was wearing a long blue frock and her face was thick with yellow paint, her eyes blackened, and black lipstick around her mouth. You have me stumped.

  I’ll give you a hint. She opened her mouth and let out the closest thing to a blood-curdling scream she could muster.

  Very convincing, he said. Munch would be impressed.

  Thank you. She looked him over. And what are you?

  He’d come straight from work. That’s a very good question. I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.

  But she didn’t laugh.

  I’m myself, he said, isn’t it obvious?

  You’re what?

  Just a humble schoolteacher.

  Hardly, she said. In fact, that’s one of the scariest costumes I’ve ever seen.

  She was serious.

  Ha, ha, he said.

  We’re doing a séance later, DeBeers interrupted.

  Go on, Justine said. Eat your vegetables.

  The mushrooms tasted mealy, gritty with dirt. A little anxiously, George chewed and swallowed them, then had a brief, sudden memory of himself as a boy, in the woods behind school, an older kid holding him down and making him eat dirt. It was the same taste, a little foul. He didn’t like the memory, which must’ve been why he’d repressed it. George had learned the deviations of the human spirit at a young age. For reasons that remained mysterious to him, he’d been bullied throughout grade school. For the seventh grade his parents coughed up the money to send him to St. Magnus, where bullying as a spectator sport was not tolerated by the fierce, egalitarian nuns. These were memories he had never shared, not with his parents, not with his wife.

  They went out to the backyard and down a hill to the creek, where strangers were toasting marshmallows in a bonfire. He could feel the fire warming his hands and toes. This was nice, he thought. It was something they did in the country, bonfires. He felt the firelight on his face and could see it reflected in Justine’s eyes—things were, it occurred to him, getting a little strange. The word furry came to mind. The fire cracked and sizzled.

  Where’s Bram?

  Home, she said, staring into the flames, and offering no further explanation. Watching her, he felt a strong bond of love and wondered if she felt it, too.

  —

  THE SÉANCE WAS at the round table in the dining room. He tried not to sit too close to the fire. The room smelled damp, and cool air was leaking through the window frames. Candles flickered madly, casting silhouettes of the guests on the walls, a carousel of shadows. The psychic was a dark-haired woman with a high forehead and an accent he couldn’t place. Maybe Hungarian or something like it. Her fingernails were painted black. He hadn’t been listening to her preamble, preoccupied instead with the faces around the table, yellow and misshapen as ogres.

  Let’s join hands, she said.

  He didn’t really want to, but there was no getting around it. He had Justine on one side, DeBeers on the other. Both their palms were sweaty, and Justine’s was cold. DeBeers had a big bearish hand, warm, and it occurred to him how seldom he’d held hands with a man, or for that matter with anyone besides Franny. It was something you grew out of naturally, maybe because by taking someone’s hand you were admitting to weakness, vulnerability. It was a kind of giving in, he thought, or giving up, he wasn’t sure which. He had no recollection of ever holding hands with his mother or father. He sat there thinking about it and then did recall an exception, with his father. They’d taken him to that place. Maybe he was nine or ten. A hospital of some sort, in the city. He could remember the silent drive from their house. Looking out the windows at the skyscrapers. The uncomfortable clothes he had on, an itchy wool coat. He’d talked to a doctor, a square-headed man with thick glasses and enormous hands. They’d left him there overnight. They’re just going to observe you, he remembered his father telling him as he walked him down the long blue corridor, holding his hand. Strange, the things you remember. He couldn’t remember anything after that. Maybe just the white blocks of light on the slippery tiled floors.

  There is someone among us, the psychic said. Name yourself.

  The room filled with wind. The sort you get only on water. Papers swirled through the room like white birds. The table shook. Through the shaking cold of the room he saw a familiar face.

  It was his cousin Henri, drenched, pale, teeth chattering, lips blue. George could feel the water filling his shoes, rising over his knees, pooling inside his trousers.

  Identify yourself, the psychic commanded.

  But the apparition only laughed. I thought you loved me, it said to George, and kept on saying it. I thought you loved me!

  He pushed back from the table and staggered through the rooms of Floyd’s house and out the door. He saw the sharp blades of grass spread out under his feet as he crossed the great lawn. He walked to the dark edge of the property and threw up.

  Hey, Justine said. You okay?

  He felt her hand on his back. He pulled himself up and wiped his mouth.

  It’s the ’shrooms, she said. Collateral damage.

  You sound like an expert.

  She was lighting a joint. Here, smoke some of this, you’ll feel better.

  Sorry, he said, and took the joint. They walked down to the creek and stood there looking at it.

  What just happened in there?

  Nothing, she said. I think it’s bullshit.

  Did you see something? Was there a lot of wind?

  No, and I didn’t see anything. Did you?

  I’m tripping my balls off.

  Duh.

  I don’t even know who I am, he said.

  They walked into a field and after a while were far from the house. They walked like soldiers, without speaking. Suddenly she dropped to her knees. I have to stop, she said. I need to rest.

  Yes, he said. Rest.

  They lay there side by side like they’d been shaken out of the sky. The sky was vast and bright. He closed his eyes, his mind a tomb. The air alive with sound, a pandemonium of indigenous life that grew loud in his ears.

  And then she said, Life.

  He looked at her. She was looking up at the stars.

  You have to be yourself, she said, finally. In life. Or you might as well be dead.

  What?

  Dead, she said. You may as well—

  I think you’re beautiful, he heard himself say.

  No, I’m not. She turned and looked at him.

  To me you are.

  Which means I’m not actually beautiful, but right now, in this moment, I am.

  Right now, in this moment, he repeated, a confirmation of something essential. Then he reached out and put his hand on her breast.

  She shook her head. That’s not—that can’t happen, George. Even if I wanted it to.

  Okay, he said.

  Do you know why?

  He nodded, but he didn’t. Not really.

  She’s my friend.

  I’m really high.

  We don’t have to talk about it. She pulled him up. They were like a seesaw, he thought. Or the oil rigs in Giant. Back and forth, back and forth.

  She stood there looking at him. What are you looking at?

  You.

  What do you see?

  You frighten me, she said. Her makeup had come off, and her skin glowed in the cold.

  I just wanted to kiss you, he said. Nothing more.

  Somehow their mouths came together. Hers was warm and sticky, her tongue thick as fudge. He didn’t know how long it lasted. He could feel her breasts against his chest.

  They walked back, she in the lead. Okay, she wanted to be the leader. That was all right. But he heard someone. Then dogs.

  Justine, he called.

  But she was gone. He was alone. He was alone in the woods, in a clearing of birches, their white trunks like a cult of surrender. The moon was bright, the ground wild with shadows.

  He heard something else.

  He saw the long hair first,
white, and the long yellow robe. He saw the staff. He saw two black dogs. He saw the face of God.

  God, he said.

  You are loved, God said.

  George stood there, then dropped to his knees and wept.

  —

  I HAVE SOMETHING to tell you, he said to his wife. They were lying next to each other in bed as husband and wife. It was not quite morning.

  What is it? she said, concerned. She sat up in bed, pulling the covers up across her breasts, and looked at him.

  I saw God. Last night, in the woods. He told her the story, excluding the part about the mushrooms and kissing Justine.

  You don’t believe in God, she said, doubtfully.

  I know. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the face. It was at once old and young, familiar. It might not have been Him, he said. It could have been someone’s costume.

  What did He look like?

  Exactly how you would expect God to look.

  What do you make of it?

  I don’t know.

  She looped her arms around her knees. I don’t know what you expect me to say.

  I guess I just wanted you to know.

  All right. Now I know.

  It kind of freaked me out.

  She nodded.

  Look: I’m sorry, Catherine. I want you to know that.

  What?

  I’m just sorry, that’s all.

  That’s not good enough, George.

  She got up and went to the bathroom and filled the water glass and brought it back to him with some aspirin. Take these.

  He took the pills from her hand.

  Now, rest.

  She left him alone. He lay there listening to the sound of his wife and daughter clomping down the stairs into the kitchen, taking out pots and pans, opening and closing the refrigerator, making breakfast. They were happy voices. They were singing together, a song he knew. If he tried very hard, he could almost remember the words.

  The Mysteries of Nature

  1

  THEY WERE FRIENDS, good friends. Close.

  They’d take long walks together with her dogs, pushing Franny in the stroller. Their farm like something out of a children’s book, with dogs and sheep and alpaca and hens. The alpaca would spit. They’d loiter by the fence, aloof as teenagers. She’d lift Franny up to pet their necks.

  Justine taught her things: how to needlepoint, how to knit, how to make dahl. Catherine loved her disorganized house, the enormous pillows from India, her menagerie of plants, her good-smelling kitchen. Unlike Catherine’s organized closet, Justine’s clothes were heaped in a pile. She’d stand there half naked with her Gauguin breasts, in no particular hurry to cover herself, foraging through the mess for something clean to put on, holding it up, smelling it, decisively thrusting her arms through the sleeves.

  She’d make coffee in a glass carafe, then set down the cup and say, That’ll put hair on your chest. Sugar cubes in a clay bowl. Silver spoons. She served scones that she made herself with thick butter, jam from the cellar in a jar sticky with spiderwebs.

  Justine and Bram, they lived differently. They were always touching, kissing. Unlike her and George, always stepping out of each other’s way.

  In their bathroom, under a stack of magazines—Vogue, Mother Jones, The Christian Science Monitor—Catherine discovered a book called Behind Closed Doors. A large coffee-table book, it was full of black-and-white photographs of a couple having sex—a manual of sorts. She flipped through its pages, taking note of the positions—the man and the woman, their ecstasy, their pale, elegant dance of love—and suppressing a familiar apprehension that something dirty was getting on her hands.

  —

  JUSTINE BELONGED to a women’s club that served the region, and they had meetings once a month in their headquarters in Albany. As a fund-raiser, the group was sponsoring a reading by a renowned poet, and she invited Catherine along. Catherine had told George her plans well in advance, but when he came home that afternoon he claimed to have no recollection. Where’s this you’re going?

  I told you, George. The poetry reading?

  She was showered and dressed, and had put on a little makeup and had dabbed tea-rose oil behind her ears. That was Justine’s idea; she’d given her the bottle as a gift. It suits you, I think, she’d said.

  George looked at her, displeased. Oh, that. What about dinner?

  It’s on the stove. Help yourself.

  I’m not eating that, he said.

  She just looked at him. Franny already ate. She’s playing with her blocks.

  Out the door, her cheeks hot, flushed, her heart beating. She could feel him standing there at the screen, watching as she made her escape.

  She drove a little wildly onto the interstate, the sun in her eyes. Unblinking, she stared right at it. The club was downtown, on Madison. Blinded by the low sun, she almost missed the entrance to the parking lot, already crowded with cars. It was an old stucco house with a front porch. A plaque stated its vintage, 1895, and that it was on the National Register of Historic Places. Stepping into the large, bustling entrance hall, she realized she was nervous. It had been a long time since she’d done anything on her own, without Franny, and she felt like one of those people with missing limbs who experienced pangs of dislocation. Eager for distraction, she removed her coat and scarf and pushed the scarf into the sleeve of her coat and draped that over her arm. Then she pushed her hair back behind her ears. The air smelled of coffee and perfume. Gazing over the din, she saw a lone hand beckoning her. Justine. She’d saved her a seat.

  They kissed hello. I didn’t realize it would be so well attended, Catherine said.

  I’m glad you could make it.

  They settled into their seats. Catherine took in the room, the hundred or so faces of women eager to learn something new, mothers who’d gone to college, grandmothers, students, all ages and all kinds.

  The poet was already famous, not only for her poems but also because she’d been a married woman who declared herself a lesbian. Standing there at the lectern, she was a vision of courage, vulnerability, strength. Her voice carried to the far corners of the enormous room. As she listened, Catherine felt something unlock inside of her, a part of her set free.

  After the reading, they each bought a copy of her book, and stood in the long line to get them signed. In a tiny, frightened voice Catherine told her she’d liked hearing her poems. What I mean is, I’m grateful, she added.

  The poet squeezed her hand and thanked her, giving Catherine the deep pleasure of acknowledgment.

  Driving up to the house, she saw the light burning in his study. She’d hoped he would’ve gone to bed by now, but he stumbled out of his office like a drunk, blinking at her. How was it?

  Interesting. She showed him the book.

  He flipped through it casually. What does she mean by that title? The Dream of a Common Language?

  What do you think she means, George?

  I don’t have a fucking clue.

  It’s a dream that we all understand each other.

  He grimaced.

  That women understand men and men understand women. That we share a common language.

  What crap. Since when are you interested in poetry?

  I’m broadening my horizons.

  She’s really getting to you, isn’t she?

  What?

  Justine.

  We’re friends, George.

  Do you think she’s gay?

  Gay? No. Of course not.

  What makes you such an expert?

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  You’re not the most experienced person on earth.

  So?

  Something about her strikes me as rather dykish.

  Why? Because she doesn’t shave her legs?

  For starters, yeah.

  That’s ridiculous.

  He shrugged. Put it this way: how well do you really know her?

  Well, I think. We’re good friends.

  He stoo
d there looking at her. It’s obvious she’s had an influence on you. I’m not convinced it’s a good one.

  2

  IT WASN’T THAT he didn’t like Justine. In fact, they were good friends. He’d never been just friends with a female. Usually such relationships were confounded by sex. But he sensed that she was above all that. Plus, she was an ally at the school. George had observed a kind of casual animosity among members of the department, who held him at a distance and treated him with cool indifference. Although his position was billed as tenure-track, he would be reviewed annually and certain things would have to be in place—publications, a book—for it to be granted. His three-year contract stipulated no incremental raises—symbols of appreciation were rare—and yet he was grateful to be employed.

  Justine had worked part-time for years. She taught two classes: one on Renaissance Velvet Textiles, and some dubious seminar called Craft Workshop. She was exceptionally popular with students—especially his female students. He gathered that she had a sort of Mother Hen approach, fawning and solicitous. He often saw her traipsing through the halls wrapped like a mummy in multi-textural drapery, ornaments hanging off her like a Christmas tree. More often than not, some remnant of her last meal would be in evidence, a tendril of bean sprout on her bosom after lunch, for instance, or a chocolate parenthesis on either side of her mouth. When they met each week at their usual table, she always had some arbitrary news item racking her conscience. She was the sort of person who demanded your full attention before lecturing you on an array of pressing dilemmas; her manifesto on women’s equality or lack thereof seemed to be her personal favorite. In truth, he was a little afraid of her. Lately, when he saw her on the path in front of him, walking with her cadre of forlorn friends, he’d take a circuitous route to avoid her. In their hulking wool sweaters they resembled lumpy farm animals turned out to graze. She’d be wound up in some endless scarf with her hair spilling over her shoulders and those awful baggy pants, a lump of yarn in her pocket, wooden needles sometimes sticking out like a weapon. Come to think of it, he found her a bit repugnant. But his wife thought she was a goddess.

  She’d recruited Catherine into the inner circle of her women’s group. He imagined a cult of malcontent females, bitching about men and the lousy deals they’d been handed since birth. Catherine would come home from these excursions hardly recognizable, as if someone had slipped amphetamines into her tea. Her vocabulary was now peppered with words and phrases that must’ve been lifted from some pop-psych book on feminism. I need you to listen to me, or My expectations of us as a couple are not being met or We don’t seem to be communicating.