All Things Cease to Appear Page 27

  Since the day they’d met, Catherine had always been just slightly prudish, in her wool skirts and cardigans. At first he’d found it sexy, if a tad repressed. Now, under Justine’s spell, she dressed like a prairie woman, in peasant blouses and long skirts or bulky Wranglers and flannel shirts from the army-navy store. She wore her hair in a braid, just like Justine, and had the same outdoorsy complexion. Under this free-spirited tutelage she’d abandoned her bra, and her small breasts swam around inside her outsized shirt, flaunting their rebellion.

  He found this transformation disturbing. For one thing, his wife was the most superficial person on earth—superficial and gullible, not a great combination in the hands of a mastermind like Justine. Of course, Catherine saw herself as the complete opposite. Oh, she was smart all right—she’d been a very good student—but ask her to come up with her own ideas, well, that’s where she ran into trouble. Justine was the antithesis. She couldn’t leave things alone, had to keep boring into things like a fucking termite.

  He hadn’t spoken to her since that night at Floyd’s—their tripping extravaganza—and when he recalled their sloppy kiss, his pathetic groping, he was frankly embarrassed. He’d been skulking around campus, trying to steer clear, when she cornered him in the cafeteria, lacquering him with her gaze. You’re avoiding me, she said.

  Not at all. I’ve been busy.

  They looked at each other. In this context she was the same old Justine, chunky, intuitive, savage.

  About that night, he said.

  No need to mention it.

  He looked at her breasts, her full lips. I’m not that kind of person, Justine.

  Neither am I.

  Good, he said. That’s a relief.

  I’m late. She smiled. See you later?

  See you.

  A few weeks later, he ran into her in the quad. It was raining and he let her under his umbrella. Of course she didn’t have one of her own. Not for her, practical solutions. She was too experiential.

  Have you gotten my notes? she asked.

  They’d piled up in his box. Need to talk to you, the first one said. Kind of important!

  Yes, I’m sorry—I’ve been busy.

  Do you want to grab some lunch?

  They went into the dining hall. Their usual table was taken, so they found one near the very back, away from the clusters of students. She took the items off her tray and organized them before her like the ingredients of some elaborate experiment.

  I’m a little worried about Catherine, she said.

  Worried, why?

  She seems depressed.

  He watched her take an enormous bite of her sandwich.

  You’re right to be concerned, he said.

  She looked at him, waiting.

  She gets depressed a lot. It’s an illness. She’s on medication.

  I see. This news, he was sure, came as a blow. It wasn’t something she could pin on him.

  She’s getting very thin. Have you noticed?

  Indeed he had. She has self-destructive tendencies, he said. More than once he’d heard her in the bathroom, making herself throw up, but he didn’t mention this now.

  She says things at our meetings.

  What sort of things?

  Things about you.

  Well, he said. That’s hardly surprising. She has delusions, I think. Paranoia. She has issues with trust.

  But Justine wasn’t buying it, her expression a mixture of disgust and condemnation. You have an answer for everything, don’t you, George?

  Look, he said, mustering a benign tolerance. You know what they say about moving. There’s an adjustment period. She misses New York, her friends there. As good as you’ve been to her, it’s just not the same for her here.

  He could tell she was hurt. After all, there was nobody like her—such brilliance, sophistication, integrity! How could his impressionable wife need anyone else! Don’t take this the wrong way, Justine, but you’re the one I’m worried about.

  She raised her eyes questioningly. Me?

  You seem…

  What? Her tone was indignant.

  Forgive me—he lowered his voice, as though admitting a secret no one else could ever know—but you seem a tad obsessed with my wife.

  That’s ridiculous. We’re friends. Friends look out for each other.

  He only smiled.

  Annoyed, she glanced at her watch. Look, I’ve got a class. But this feels unresolved.

  This? He touched her hand. This?

  She pulled away. She looked off a minute. She thinks you’re fucking around.

  He said nothing; just waited.

  Is it true?

  Of course it’s not! He shook his head as if he were deeply insulted. Catherine is the love of my life, he said, watching her flinch. Why would I do something like that?

  Justine looked annoyed and possibly insulted. She stood up and gathered her things. I don’t know, George, why would you?

  —

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as he was standing at the mirror tying his tie, Catherine proposed a marriage counselor. We’re obviously not communicating, she said. Maybe it will help. Justine thought it might.

  I refuse to speak to some stranger about a problem I don’t think we have. He walked over and put his arms around her. We’re fine, Catherine. We just need to spend more time together.

  She stood there frowning at him. I hardly see you anymore, George.

  That’s what I’m saying. Look, see if you can get Cole tonight. I’m taking you out.

  They went to the Blue Plate, a bustling café famous for its wholesome American cuisine, meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, pot roast, tuna casserole. Not exactly the place for a sexy date, but it was exactly her speed. She ordered the trout, the least fattening dish on the menu, and pushed the almonds off to the side. Using her knife like a scalpel, she deboned the fish, her movements irritatingly self-conscious. It occurred to him, slobbering over his Bolognese, that he despised her.

  How to undo what had already been done? he wondered, then answered simply: I’ll leave her.

  He smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand. This place is great.

  After dinner they walked through town. As they passed the window of Blake’s, he happened to glimpse the shiny evil of Willis’s hair. She was standing at the bar with Eddy Hale and the son of a bitch had his hand on her ass.

  George? Catherine was staring at him.

  Let’s get a drink.

  Now?

  Why not? He took her hand. Come on, it’ll be fun.

  They pushed through the crowd to the other end of the bar, where he could watch Willis without being seen. It was a townie joint and he was grateful that he didn’t see anyone from the college. Over his wife’s shoulder and through the interstices between bodies, he watched his lover and the boy. Eddy had friends, knew people, and they were all telling jokes, their laughter bouncing off the tin ceiling. While his wife nursed her spritzer, he downed two shots of vodka, and the next time he looked up Willis had disappeared; her boyfriend was still at the bar.

  Need to pee, he told his wife. Try not to let anyone pick you up. She laughed, and he felt magnanimous as he walked to the back of the bar. Willis was waiting at the door to the ladies’ room, her back toward him, and when the bathroom became free he pushed in behind her and locked the door.

  What are you doing? Get off me or I’ll scream!

  But he pushed her back against the tiles and tugged down her underpants and filled her up right there, wedging her up on the sink, and she bit his hand. You’re sick, she said. We’re done.

  He left her there, fixing her face in the mirror.

  What took you so long? his wife asked.

  Long line.

  We need to go.

  He finished his drink and dropped some bills on the bar. He saw Willis weaving back to the boy, her face illegible to him under the dim lights. That would be the last time, he thought.

  Out on the street it occurred to him how bright and stark
the town was, how empty, and he pulled Catherine close and kissed her, praising her in his mind for her purity, her shame.

  3

  SHE ENDED UP getting pretty drunk and going back to Eddy’s. She was sick and he helped her and then let her sleep on the couch. She woke the next morning with the chills. His uncle was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

  I’m a friend of Eddy’s.

  He nodded. You want coffee?

  Okay. Sure.

  You look like you need it.

  He wore an old hobo robe. Dog tags around his neck. POW bracelets on each wrist. There was only one way to get eyes like that. He’d probably been good-looking once, she thought. She sat down at the table and waited while he shuffled to the counter and poured her some coffee. With a trembling hand, he set the cup down before her, and she thanked him.

  Rough night?

  She nodded.

  Drink that down.

  The coffee was thick and bitter. It made her feel even worse, but she finished it.

  You’re that girl, he said.

  What girl is that?

  Let’s just say I’ve heard things.

  Just then Eddy came down the stairs in his undershirt and undershorts. He kissed her forehead and whistled. That’s hot! Maybe you’re sick.

  That ain’t sick, his uncle said.

  Eddy drove her home.

  He doesn’t like me, she said.

  He doesn’t like anybody at first.

  They went up to her room and he put her to bed, pulling off her clothes and laying a wet cloth over her forehead. I’ll come back later to see how you’re doing.

  She nodded. She wanted to cry. She wanted her mother.

  Eddy, she said as he was going out the door. She was going to tell him, but when he turned and looked at her, his eyes as blue and open as the sky, she changed her mind. Instead, she said, I need to leave here soon.

  He nodded. I know it.

  Soon, she said again.

  Yes, soon.

  It was cold in the little room. She watched the white rectangle of bristling light. She thought maybe she’d hitchhike out west. The important thing was going. Getting away from George. It didn’t really matter where.

  Back home, her father would talk about his clients, especially the murder cases. Most of the time he believed they were innocent. He claimed he wouldn’t take a case otherwise, but sometimes they weren’t. You can’t get emotionally involved, he told her. It came down to connecting with the jury. With the smarter ones, who could sway the others. There were always one or two.

  She had seen him in court a few times. She watched the jury watching him. They didn’t want to like him, but they did. They saw in her father the same weaknesses they knew in themselves. How he moved like some burdened, nearly extinct animal—a water buffalo, maybe, humpbacked, disabled by life and its myriad infidelities. Balding, liver-spotted, overweight, divorced, a shitty father, resigned to excess. That was who he was. And they loved him for it.

  The judge would come in; they’d stand. All the seats flapping at once like the galloping of horses. It was quite a show. They tried not to look at the defendant, wondering if it was his own suit or some charity offering. The accused, as ordinary and evil as the best kind of drug. And the prosecutor, pushing his generic brand, pointing out the evidence, the souvenirs of menace. Discounting the defendant with queasy detachment. Curating his destiny with blowups of disfigured dead people, bloody sheets, weapons of torture you could find around the house, unflattering pictures of girlfriends, wives.

  When it was his turn, her father took his time rising from the table, like it was a sacred act. Like he knew something they didn’t and he was above this charade, it was all just a show. And here was a life—this man’s life—hanging in the balance. Then he’d stare the jury down: His fate is in your hands.

  In his boxy suit and shined shoes he meandered over to the stand like a man approaching a slutty woman in a bar, but he’d ask his questions with the voice of a priest. It didn’t matter what they were thinking now, because he knew the defendant was innocent, and eventually the jury would, too.

  Her father could make you think he understood you, even if you’d done things that bordered on the surreal. Somehow, he justified it in his mind that, under certain circumstances, you could be driven to do anything.

  —

  ONE DAY, soon after they’d met, George took her to Hudson. He’d taught that morning and was still in his preppy work clothes, but he looked sexy in his little green Fiat and they drove with the top down and he put his hand between her legs. Like a bird’s nest, he said, clutching her hair.

  They went to Olana, touring the rooms and walking the grounds, and he pointed out the glorious vista that Frederic Church had made famous.

  For lunch, he brought her to a Mexican restaurant where no one spoke English. They drank sangria and talked about art and she pretended not to know anything. He liked knowing more, being the expert. She didn’t mention her mother’s collection, which included a Picasso, a Braque and a Chagall, because it would only make things weird. Nor did she tell him about the four-million-dollar penthouse her father had just bought for his new girlfriend, Portia. Or about her own money, and that with a phone call she could basically get anything she wanted. She didn’t tell George any of that, because she knew who he was. Her mother had taught her to read people. It was a mechanism of safety, she’d told her. Because you have so much.

  George was someone with a limited menu, as her father always put it. Like most people, herself included, he was the product of his upbringing. He wanted to capture her. He didn’t know about real money, that getting rich could happen to anyone.

  After they ate, they wandered down Warren Street, looking at the antiques. He knew a lot about furniture. They went into a shop with hulking old cupboards and armoires and rooms full of chairs. This is Chippendale, he said, very good quality. And this one’s Federal. He explained that a certain chair was diamond-shaped so soldiers could sit down without removing their swords. He told her that he’d worked in his family’s furniture stores every summer in high school and his father had made him study antiques, even though the stuff they sold was new and most of it made in factories. His job was to polish the furniture, he said, and he hated it. His father couldn’t stand how all the customers touched everything, so they had a special polish to get the fingerprints off.

  On the drive back to Chosen he started talking about his wife, the possibility of divorce, the fact that she’d get the kid. Over my dead body was the phrase he used—a cliché, she knew, but it made its point. Still, it sounded creepy.

  And there were other things. How he talked about the other professors and made fun of his boss. He was competitive. Thought he was smarter than everyone else. You could tell he didn’t care. He could be ruthless.

  Then they hit something and the Fiat swerved to the side of the road. They got out. It was a deer, still alive. There wasn’t any damage to the car, but there was blood on the fender and splattered across the windshield. The deer was making an awful sound.

  George stood over it, watching it. The deer kept jerking its head, nervously glancing up at him with its wide, panicked eyes.

  What should we do, George? It’s suffering.

  But he didn’t seem to hear her.

  George!

  He looked at her then, his face drained of emotion. And then he kicked the animal in the head, over and over and over again, and she screamed and screamed for him to stop, to please just stop.

  And then it was quiet. His shoe and pant leg were all bloody.

  Get in the car, he said.

  For a minute they just sat there, watching the wipers clean the glass. Then he pulled onto the road.

  After a while they came to a gas station, where he threw his shoes in the trash and pulled a thick wad of paper towels from the dispenser by the pump. Go and wet these down, he told her.

  She had to get the key. The room was filthy and
stank of urine. Someone had written Cuntalingus on the mirror with a Sharpie. She looked beyond the loopy letters at her reflection—pale, anemic, like a girl who’d been depleted of something.

  Wipe that off, he told her, pointing at the fender.

  She wiped off the blood as he stood over her. It made her think of his father barking out instructions—Clean this, wipe that!—and she wondered what it had been like for George.

  She put the dirty towels in the garbage, then saw the blood on her hands.

  Get in the car, he said.

  Just let me wash my—

  But he grabbed her arm. I need to get home, he snapped. My family’s waiting for me.

  4

  MIDWAY THROUGH the semester, he chaperoned a student trip to MoMA. When he stepped onto the bus, he was surprised to see Justine. The other chaperone couldn’t make it, she told him. Floyd asked me to help out.

  To his relief, she was sitting with one of her students; he sat alone. When they hit traffic at the GW, he looked down and studied the people in their cars.

  In the museum, he was able to lose her and felt victorious wandering alone through the bright galleries. They stumbled together on the fourth floor, in front of a Cy Twombly.

  I think it’s brilliant, she said.

  He lives in Rome.

  The way he uses the pencil, one line can become everything.

  She made this sound like something ominous. She vanished for a moment and reappeared in front of Barnett Newman’s The Voice, a big white square with one of his famous zips along the edge. This is cool, she said. I really like it.

  He glanced at it indifferently. It wasn’t the sort of painting you liked or didn’t like; that wasn’t always particularly relevant, especially when it came to things of beauty. The room seemed overly bright, its edges throbbing. The lights were keening. His head began to hurt.