All Things Cease to Appear Page 28

  She was standing there with her hands on her hips, tilting her head from side to side. I like how it doesn’t ask for anything, she finally said. It just is.

  He grunted in response. It’s getting late, Justine. We’d better round them up.

  Just as they were leaving the museum, pushing through the crowded lobby, somebody tapped him on the shoulder and said his name. It was a familiar voice, bright with accusation. He turned warily and saw his adviser, Warren Shelby.

  Warren, he managed.

  I got a call from someone about you, Shelby said. About your degree? The letter I wrote on your behalf? He shook his head like someone with a toothache. Then there was an awkward pause when it occurred to each of them that Justine was listening intently.

  I don’t know where you get your nerve, he said, rubbing his forehead absentmindedly. I just don’t.

  They watched him wander away.

  What was that about? Justine said as they walked to the bus.

  I have no idea.

  I think you do, she said.

  Here’s what I think, he said. I think it falls into the category of total unimportance, especially where you’re concerned. That was another chapter of my life. It’s in the past.

  Justine shook her head. That guy seemed pretty pissed off.

  They climbed onto the bus and sat down together as the students filed in, taking their seats. A moment later, the driver pulled out into the Midtown traffic.

  I get the distinct impression you don’t trust me, he said.

  Maybe I don’t. She waited for him to say something to allay her suspicion, but he found himself at a loss.

  I hate myself for that night, she told him, then got up and moved to the only vacant seat, right behind the driver. She turned her head slightly, sending telepathic poison arrows at him, and he made himself look out the window as the bus slogged through the city, and the low sun, so bright and sharp, forced him to shut his eyes.

  When he got home, Catherine had dinner ready. The table was set. The kitchen smelled of cumin. She was flushed from the oven. This new Catherine made him nervous. He looked at the food on the table, some strange rice dish, and felt a little sick.

  It wouldn’t be long now, he thought. That wasn’t the last of Warren Shelby.

  How was your day? she asked, taking his briefcase.

  It smells good. I’ll be down in a minute.

  Weary, he climbed the stairs, hoping that if he washed his face…But then Franny ran out of her room and gripped his leg like a monkey. He wasn’t in the mood. He pulled her little paws off and kept going, and she burst into tears.

  George?

  Ah, Mother to the rescue. For Christ’s sake, he muttered.

  George, what happened? Franny, come down here to Mommy.

  You don’t have to come running every goddamn time—you’ll fucking spoil her.

  Momma! Franny cried, rubbing her eyes with her tiny fists.

  Come down, Franny. Right now, please.

  For Christ’s fucking sake. She’s all right, Catherine! Hold the banister, he told his daughter.

  Okay, Daddy, Franny said, still sniffling.

  George? His wife looked up at him, waiting for an explanation.

  I’m tired. I’m going to lie down for a minute.

  In their room, he stretched out on the bed, gazed up at the ceiling and then closed his eyes.

  You fell asleep, she said. The room was dark.

  I’m not feeling well.

  What’s wrong?

  He shook his head. His eyes watery. Maybe a cold.

  I noticed you were pale.

  I’m fine. He turned away and she went back to the door. He could feel her watching him. Finally, she closed it.

  Their voices drifted up through the old boards. Wife and daughter, his only true claim to success, to life. Franny’s little feet running through the house. On the TV something about baboons. They were always doing shows about baboons, for some reason. Given those alarming hindquarters, it was a wonder they endured with such dignity.

  —

  SOMEHOW HE GOT through the weekend. He put on the storm windows, using the ladder from the barn. He felled a tree that had blight, then split the wood. It would take days to stack it, he thought, wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his coat.

  On Monday morning, at the college, preoccupied with a sense of foreboding, he canceled his afternoon class and went home to an empty house. A complicated pressure filled his head, assuaged only by whiskey and the silence of his study; it occurred to him that he was having a migraine. He lay down on the couch, hearing the wind and the leaves rushing around. He recalled a conversation he’d once had with DeBeers about conspiracies, and that’s how he felt now, like the world was out to get him.

  —

  DEBEERS WAS AWAY that week at a conference in Chicago and the department was unusually quiet. George preferred the solitude of his office. He stayed late every night, correcting papers. Occasionally, he’d take a break and go downstairs to the pay phone to call Willis, but the phone in the barn would ring and ring. Once, one of the South American stable boys picked up. George waited while he went to find her, hearing the neighing of horses. When he came back on the line he said she was busy, she couldn’t come to the phone. One night he drove over there. He sat out in his car in the dark, watching her window. She was in there, he knew. He could see her shadow on the shade, and someone else’s—that boy, Eddy Hale.

  —

  UPON HIS RETURN, DeBeers asked George to come see him in his office. Before leaving for Chicago, Floyd had mentioned he’d be sailing up to the marina in Albany today, where he stored his boat for the winter, and George assumed Floyd would ask him to go along.

  You can go right in, Edith said, as pious as ever. He’s expecting you.

  Hello, Floyd, he said, reaching out his hand.

  DeBeers shook it uneasily and squeezed out a fake smile. Look, George, I’ll get right to the point. I ran into Warren Shelby at the conference.

  George instantly understood what was about to happen.

  DeBeers took up his pipe and gingerly investigated a bag of tobacco with his fingers—somehow, George thought, it was like catching him in an obscene act. He trickled some tobacco into the bowl and lit it. This letter…He fished an ecru sheet of stationery out of a file. He claims he didn’t write it. He said you’d asked him and he’d told you he couldn’t—

  In good conscience, George finished.

  DeBeers looked at him. You forged it?

  I wrote the letter I deserved, he blurted. It felt good to say it because it was true.

  The man studied him. I need to think this through, George.

  I understand.

  But the look on his face told George he’d made up his mind. It wouldn’t surprise him if Floyd had already written the letter asking for his resignation.

  I’ll let you know, DeBeers added in the soft tone you use when talking with someone who’s marginally deranged.

  His legs felt heavy walking back to his office. He spent a few minutes just sitting at his desk. He imagined they’d check the rest of his credentials, the esoteric awards and grants. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He went outside and sat in the gazebo. It was unseasonably warm. He looked down at the river. There was a good wind, the water dark.

  He had a good view of Patterson Hall from there. When he saw DeBeers heading toward the dock he walked down after him, keeping a distance behind. Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, that was possible, but in situations like these you had to trust your instincts. It was Friday, just after five, and everybody was gone. George watched him board the boat, start the motor and prepare to cast off. Stealthily, he stepped onto the deck just as DeBeers tossed his lines.

  George, he said, startled.

  Mind if I join you?

  DeBeers appraised him briefly, seeming to deduce his need for consolation, and nodded. I suppose so. I’m sailing up to Albany. I’m bringing her ashore today.
r />   Yes, I know. You mentioned it before you left.

  He nodded. Yes, I remember.

  There’s no better place to clear the air than out on the water, George said foolishly. I’d like a chance to explain. He looked at the man’s red face. We’re still friends, I hope?

  Friends don’t lie to each other, DeBeers said, standing tall and priestly. He gripped the tiller and motored out.

  For reasons that are still unknown to me, George said, I was not well liked in the department.

  Forgery’s a crime, George. I can’t have you on my staff. He looked at him fiercely. I’ll have to check out your other credentials. Then I’ll have to inform HR. That’s just part of the job. You’re not the only one caught off guard here, George. I rather liked having you around. I felt as if we were getting somewhere.

  Getting somewhere?

  You and I. You seemed to be opening up.

  George nodded that he understood, but these assertions couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, his vision had been siphoned, diluted, misconstrued.

  He sat down heavily on the bench. He’d begun to sweat. It shocked him that his career was coming to an end. He could hear the metal doors of his destiny slamming shut on an unemployable and disgraced fraud.

  By now they were far from shore, in deep water. DeBeers had put up the sails and cut the motor. Soon it would be dark.

  George? he said, alarmed. Are you all right?

  I’m not feeling very well, Floyd. Suddenly he vomited onto the deck.

  Jesus, man, DeBeers said, and put a comforting hand on his back. Look, I’m sure this can be resolved.

  George began to weep, then noticed that Floyd had turned the bow back in the direction of the dock. On impulse, he wrapped his arms around the man’s legs, disrupting his balance, and in a matter of seconds, Floyd went overboard. The halyard snaked across the deck, the boom swung and the sails rippled in irons.

  George dove into the freezing water and swam hard until he came upon DeBeers flailing about, coughing and spitting. He gripped his shoulder as the man struggled for air. At first Floyd looked grateful—but then he understood, meeting George’s eyes with terror just as it occurred to both of them what had to happen next.

  5

  IT WAS TWO in the morning when she heard him pulling in. She’d fallen asleep with the light on. She got up and put on her robe and found him in the laundry room, naked, starting the washing machine. In the moon-splattered darkness, he had the freakish appearance of an alien.

  George, she barely got the word out.

  I’m sick, he said.

  What happened?

  Something I ate.

  Are you drunk, George?

  A little.

  She could smell the gin when he walked past her up the stairs. She knew something was wrong, very wrong. She stood there, hearing him overhead, the springs of their mattress.

  Tightening her robe, she slipped on her coat and boots and went into the garage. The car seemed to beckon her. Conscious of every sound, she opened the door and swiftly pulled out the keys. George didn’t like her snooping in his business, he’d made that perfectly clear. The interior was odorless and exceptionally clean, no sign of sickness, but the seat was wet. Not just damp—it was soaked.

  —

  THREE DAYS LATER, sitting next to her husband at Floyd DeBeers’s memorial service at St. James’s Church, she reflected on that night. They’d found his empty boat in the middle of the river, sails luffing and lines askew, its owner not on board. Several hours later, his body was discovered, washed up on the shore in Selkirk.

  There was vomit on the deck, indicating Floyd had suffered some physical event—possibly a stroke—that caused him to fall overboard. Foul play was not suspected, and his wife, who said he’d had a serious heart condition, didn’t request an autopsy. The police had concluded it was an accidental death, case closed.

  Floyd was buried in the cemetery behind the church. The mourners stood around the open grave as Father Geary said a prayer. It was the first time Catherine had seen her husband cry.

  Later, with friends and family filling the DeBeerses’ home, Millicent came up to them and said, tearfully, Floyd was so fond of you, George. I want you to have the boat. He would’ve wanted that.

  George stood there. I don’t know what to say, Millie.

  Don’t say anything. I’ve already made the arrangements. In the spring, all you have to do is pick it up.

  We can’t accept that, Millie, Catherine told her.

  Please, he really would’ve wanted it. She took Catherine’s arm, her eyes filling with fresh tears. I miss him so much.

  To everyone’s surprise, George was appointed acting chair of Art History, and he seemed immeasurably proud. She hoped, perhaps, that all of his hard work and determination were finally paying off.

  6

  HE WENT ON with his life. What else could he do? He threw himself into the work routine, now ensconced in Floyd’s office. Edith had boxed up every scrap of paper on the desk. It was like evidence collected by a detective, George thought, but instead of scrutinizing this material Edith had stuck the box labeled PROFESSOR DEBEERS in a storage closet and forgotten all about it.

  She was nice to him. She even made him coffee.

  He would turn his chair toward the window and stare out at the river, making a bridge of his hands, as Floyd always had. A bridge of contemplation, he thought, that might lead him to the other side of himself, if that was possible.

  When he walked into his classroom that first morning after the funeral, an Inness painting was already up on the screen, The Valley of the Shadow of Death, one of his signature works. But George didn’t plan on talking about it in this session and hadn’t included it in his lecture notes.

  Momentarily besieged by confusion, he surveyed the class like a jury and pointed at the screen. Did someone put this up?

  It was up when we came in, one of his seniors said.

  He studied them individually, and each looked right back. A girl in the front row asked, Are you all right, sir?

  Of course I’m all right, he snapped. Why wouldn’t I be?

  Tempted to loosen his bow tie, he instead took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his brow. With no small degree of agitation, he rifled through his notes and discovered a statement Inness had made about the painting. Let’s get started, shall we? Can someone dim the lights?

  This painting, originally part of a commissioned trilogy, was based on a Swedenborgian theme on the Triumph of the Cross, which related to the Last Judgment, as described in the book of Revelation—a spectacle the philosopher, with his skills of clairvoyance, claimed to have witnessed. One can only assume, George said dryly, unable to disguise his cynicism, that God gave Swedenborg exclusive access to these meteoric events. Highly implausible, I know, but Inness bought into it. And so did a lot of other people.

  His students, he thought, were buying into it, too.

  There’s a story about Swedenborg, he said. A woman who’d lost her husband was immediately hounded by a creditor, claiming her husband hadn’t paid a bill. She knew it wasn’t true; the receipt had merely been mislaid. When Swedenborg heard the story he offered to go into the spirit world and ask her husband where he’d put it. The woman was so desperate she agreed, doubting that anything would come of it, but Swedenborg returned and told her where it was, in a locked cabinet in his office, a place only her husband knew of. And Swedenborg was soon the talk of the town.

  An emperor-and-his-new-clothes sort of fairy tale, he said, but you get the idea.

  They were listening plaintively, their faces wan, innocent.

  Now let’s look at the painting.

  The painting depicted a cavernous landscape, jaggedly formed around a blue sky lit by a moonlit cross. A lone pilgrim stood on the rocky ledge in silent contemplation.

  It looks like an eye, one student volunteered.

  Yes—and what might Inness be suggesting?

  God, of cou
rse, said another.

  That’s right—an all-seeing God. Inness believed that art was representative of spiritual principles. Although he wasn’t a symbolic painter, this one does seem to be an allegory of faith. His intention was to—and I quote—convey to the mind of the beholder an impression of the state into which the soul comes when it begins to advance toward a spiritual life….

  George surveyed the students, who were listening intently. Death meant something to them, he realized. Its mystery, glory and seduction. The afterlife all lit up in neon, with its tawdry promise of peace.

  He read on in the painter’s words: This I have represented by the cross, giving it the place of the moon, which is the natural emblem of faith, reflecting light upon the sun, its source, assuring us that although the origin of life is no longer visible, it still exists; but here, clouds may at any moment obscure even the light of faith, and the soul, left in ignorance of what may be its ultimate condition, can only lift its eyes in despair of Him who alone can save, and lead it out of disorder and confusion.

  Disorder and confusion, he thought. Tell me about it.

  Walking to his car, he reviewed the class in his mind. Though unprepared, he supposed he’d pulled it off, and the painting had generated good discussion. How open they were to these ideas! So impressionable. So willing to believe. More than two hundred years had passed since Swedenborg, nearly a hundred since Inness, and they were still eating the wafer, he thought. Nothing had changed. No matter Darwin, science or technology. People still clung to the notion of a savior. The idea that Swedenborg had witnessed the golden glow of heaven, the punitive measures of hell—and lived to tell about it. Well, what could you say to that? It was so extraordinary you almost had to believe it.

  Driving home in the dark, he had the sensation that he wasn’t alone. In his rearview mirror he saw only the empty back seat and the empty road behind him. In his headlights, only the woods, the spindly bare trees. For a moment, his route and location bewildered him, until the abrupt reminder of a familiar landmark set him back on course.