She said the blue hour was her favorite time of the day, after the sun had sunk beneath the clouds and turned its glittering face to a dimmer, more diffuse pulse. He saw this same blue she liked in everything, when life was both lonely and full.
His legs felt heavy with fatigue, his breath growing shorter. He’d switched to freestyle, set on five more strong laps, from end to end, as if to erase the thought that it hadn’t been her beauty that took him, not even her intelligence. Not entirely. Something else. Something about the way she balanced him: how the earth stopped spinning on its tilt when he was with her.
The police station in Montmartre. How calm she’d been with the fans blowing in that squalid office, tucked into a crooked street, the view of the gridded city below them impossibly far away. When Nancy got pickpocketed, she hadn’t panicked like he had. She’d found him there, in the office, screaming, and she’d taken over, pleading with those indifferent officers, not in tears, but through an overwhelming grace, an ease. She’d resisted his desperation. Had brought him back to land. He needed that sometimes, he thought. To be brought back, to breathe. He imagined air moving through his chest, down his back, the cramped space between his shoulder blades.
He thought of her shoulders, their unevenness. How he’d once believed they made her more human.
He stared up at the dark ceiling, over at rows upon rows of wooden seats, their emptiness, as if in reminder, and he couldn’t forget: Nancy had betrayed him.
TEN
Marjorie and Bill lived in a beautiful neighborhood by the campus golf course, and Nancy could admit more jealousy: any time Marjorie mentioned eating at the clubhouse with Bill and the twins. Growing up, Nancy had belonged to a club, so maybe that was part of it, that this option had once been available and was no longer; Murray would never work in finance like Bill, and even if she and Murray both got promotions, she could hardly imagine affording a house even half the size of theirs. Marjorie had a nanny, too—Bridget, her name was—this elusive Indian woman Nancy had met once before, her long black hair loose at her shoulders, a mole in the center of her right cheek. It was Bridget who’d answered the door and welcomed them in for the party. Marjorie was in the kitchen refilling a water pitcher.
“Hi!” she nearly squealed. Marjorie couldn’t be more enthusiastic about Jean. When Jean was only two weeks old, Marjorie had visited with a gift, a stack of cotton onesies, but Nancy hadn’t felt comfortable letting her hold Jean then, not until her immune system was stronger. Now, Nancy passed her five-month-old over to her friend freely—she was practically family, she thought as Marjorie tugged at one of Jean’s sock feet. Just last week she’d dropped off several boxes of hand-me-downs, all the onesies Nancy was surprised she’d saved from her twins. Nancy had been grateful—there’d been no shower, no grandma to help her—and maybe Marjorie pitied her, which Nancy never liked to think, but she couldn’t help but wonder.
“Everyone’s out back.” Marjorie smiled.
“This is for you.” Nancy handed over the pumpkin pie she’d baked from scratch, and an expensive bottle of wine she’d researched. She couldn’t partake yet, not for another few months, but when Jean started fussing in the kitchen, and Murray offered to feed her the bottle she’d pumped earlier that morning, it lessened her frustration somehow.
“Bill never helped like that,” Marjorie told Nancy after she’d set Murray up in an armchair in the living room. Nancy smiled, but she wondered if Marjorie’s tone was slightly accusing. As if she didn’t believe Nancy’s earlier concerns about Murray as a father, when Nancy was still pregnant, especially, were real.
As Marjorie passed Murray a towel and asked if he wanted anything to drink, and he shook his head, Nancy knew she was overanalyzing things again. Incapable of seeing the positive: how focused Murray was on every task, remembering to sprinkle a few drops of milk on his wrist, then the way he nestled Jean close, letting her grip his pinky, a slight smile on his lips as she relaxed.
“How’s it been going?” Marjorie looked at her, her eyes soft.
“Fine,” Nancy said, unsure if Marjorie meant spending less time with Jean now that she was back at work, or her marriage, or both. She felt her stomach tightening again, and when they left Murray for the sunroom, where Marjorie’s boys, Brad and Kyle, were filling their cups to the tip-top with cider, she could have asked, How was it for you, leaving them? But she didn’t; she just watched Brad with Marjorie’s dark hair, grown out long to tell him apart from Kyle, watched as the two of them ran out into the lawn, past Bridget, who was carrying the pitcher of ice water Marjorie had been filling when they arrived. Now Marjorie was chasing after them. “Slow down!” she shouted, cider splashing everywhere.
It was an abnormally warm day for early November, and on the lawn, Nancy noted a few young families, many of them in short sleeves. Young husbands huddled around Bill as he told some story, waving his Corona. More husbands by the grill, flipping hamburgers, mothers watching their children, a handful of toddlers by an inflatable pool Marjorie must have had kicking around in the garage, and then there were a few other coworkers from Beinecke. Holly, a conservator who’d once helped Nancy mock up a bookcase for an event, and George, the head of Early Americana, with whom it was dangerous to converse for too long; one question about his work, and he was apt to take his listener through the history of the Spanish Southwest, and early Mormonism, too, before arriving at his point about a particular manuscript.
And there were some college faculty, most of them without children. Or maybe she’d judged the mothers by the kiddie pool prematurely; maybe some of them were faculty. Anyone might have thought the same of her, that she was just another mother here, another wealthy suburban neighbor.
“Are you hungry?” Marjorie had returned to the sunroom with an empty cup of cider. Nancy was about to say no, she wasn’t, and she wasn’t, not really. The skin still felt loose around her belly, the back of her arms and inner thighs, and she could not imagine resuming any semblance of an exercise routine anytime soon. Yet she stayed silent as Marjorie heaped her plate with the mashed potatoes that’d been catered, clearly, in their aluminum trays.
“Hope you like burgers.” Marjorie smiled. They looked over by the grill, where one of the husbands had already begun serving; Nancy watched as he bent down with his tongs to secure a plain hamburger on the plate Kyle was holding up in earnest. “He loves to be first.” Marjorie laughed.
There were a few seats at the picnic table where George was sitting, and while Marjorie headed over to help Kyle open a new bottle of ketchup, Nancy told herself at least she’d have a way to interrupt George without being rude, that she could say she needed to check on her baby.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
Another man was ready to fill the space across from her. “Of course not.” She smiled. It must have been the lack of sleep, because she knew she’d seen him before—she just wasn’t sure where.
He was carefully positioning lettuce and tomato into his bun, and when he glanced up at her again awkwardly, and she pushed some mashed potato around on her fork, she placed it: the French professor Marjorie knew. Richard.
“You gave the Master’s Tea,” she said. “The one last February?”
Richard’s brow furrowed, like he had a long list of lectures to file through. “Right,” he said. “Good memory. Well, I’m Richard.”
“Nancy.” She smiled again. “It was an excellent talk,” she said, irritated by her need to state the obvious; it had been so long since she’d had a conversation about literature. Even though she was already two months back at the office, she was still playing administrative catch-up, with so little time to read and do research for new projects to the same extent that she had before she left.
Richard asked if she taught, and when she said no, she worked in the library, and he asked the division, and she told him, it came back to her: all of her favorite books she loved to discuss.
“I’m so glad you found each other,” Marjorie said. S
he was holding a picnic basket full of party napkins and plastic cutlery. “What did I miss?”
“Not much,” Nancy began. She had gotten some soap under her ring during Jean’s last bath, and she’d developed eczema, some blistering she tried not to itch.
“That’s not true,” Richard said. And then Murray appeared on the patio with Jean, who was dressed in a jumper Nancy considered the perfect shade of burnt orange. She still had to slice the pie, to let her have a taste.
“Murray,” he said, before she could introduce her husband properly.
“Richard.” Their hands shook.
“How’s the food?” Murray smiled. Jean was wide-awake in his arms, waving a fist.
“Delicious,” said Richard. He crunched a potato chip.
Jean started fussing again. “Why don’t you eat?” Nancy said. “I’ll change her.”
“Sounds great,” Murray said. He passed her over carefully.
Marjorie followed her into the house. “You’re welcome to do it in the living room. I can grab a blanket, or—” She paused as she seemed to see some defensiveness in Nancy’s face. “Or whatever you prefer.”
“Thank you. But the bathroom’s fine.”
“I can help,” Marjorie said, reaching for Jean. “I miss it.” She smiled.
“It’s okay,” Nancy said, pulling back. “Only takes me a minute.” She smiled dimly, realizing she was afraid Marjorie might demonstrate an ease, a flow of motion, she still hadn’t mastered. Or was it more than that? She needed time alone, to collect herself?
Calm as she could, Nancy wiped Jean’s bottom, then dusted a little powder there, rubbing her soft skin. She relaxed into a smile because Jean was smiling, kicking her legs.
Suddenly she felt warm hands on her bare shoulders. She flinched.
“Better?” Murray’s voice said. He scooped Jean from the mat and kissed her head.
“I should change her clothes,” Nancy said. “I brought a lighter T-shirt, in case she’s too warm.”
“I think she’s okay,” he said. “You’re okay?” He held Jean before him, her legs dangling down, kicking reflexively.
They passed back through the kitchen, and he reached for a ripening cherry tomato in a small bowl. “I don’t think those are for the party.” She shook her head, but Murray didn’t seem to hear her. “I’ll cool off with her in here,” he said. “Go enjoy yourself.”
“No, I’ll take her,” Nancy insisted. “Why don’t you have a beer with Bill—you’ve met Frank, right, their neighbor? Frank wants to try a turkey trot. You should talk to him.” She regretted feeling responsible for Murray. He never tried to make friends, not if he didn’t have anything in common with them. He was the worst at these kinds of parties, so she was surprised when he just nodded and walked toward the grill, where the two men were, grabbing a beer from a cooler.
“Nancy,” Marjorie called. “Over here!”
Marjorie was sitting with Richard on the edge of the patio, facing the lawn. Nancy still doubted she’d enjoy herself with Murray so close, wondering if he was having a good time.
“She’s beautiful.” Richard pulled up a chair for her; she almost said she needed more shade by a tree in the lawn, because she hadn’t thought to bring a hat for a party in November.
“What’s her name?” Richard had crouched beside them, brushing Jean’s fist with his thumb.
When Nancy told him and explained the namesake, he smiled. “You’re film buffs?”
“No. Not actually,” she said. “But we saw Jules et Jim at the Christine and loved it.” Didn’t she sound trite? She focused on Jean in her arms, her contented gaze.
Then he asked if she’d spent a lot of time in Paris, and though she didn’t want to go into it, Marjorie urged her to talk about her research, the transatlantic exhibition she was planning.
“Had been planning,” Nancy said.
“Oh, come on,” Marjorie said. “You’re so dramatic. You’ll be able to focus on it again soon.”
“How long have you been working on it?” Richard seemed genuinely curious.
“I don’t know,” she said, realizing more of time’s fog. How long had it been: two and a half or three? “Three years,” she said, clinging to the whole number.
But he wouldn’t stop there. He wanted to know about the period her exhibit would cover, and it turned out he knew as much as she did about post–Second World War expatriate literature; he was fascinated by the newest archive Beinecke had acquired with all of Baldwin’s letters, his first manuscript drafts.
Then, as Richard mentioned some correspondence he’d been trying to track down, from the corner of her eye, Nancy noticed a young mother in a cropped top and frayed jean shorts crossing the lawn, approaching the patio with her toddler. They passed by the grill, and she saw a few heads turn, including Murray’s.
“Have you read his essay?” Richard asked. She felt herself flinch again but took a moment, hoping maybe he hadn’t noticed her distraction.
“Which one?”
Then he laughed and said, “His notes on Beauford Delaney?” and she knew she’d lost the thread.
“Of course.” Nancy looked down at Jean to hide. Jean sleeping so peacefully in her arms. When she was awake again, she could taste the pie, and Nancy decided she’d get it from the kitchen, an excuse for going back inside. She stood up.
“What do you need?” Marjorie said softly.
“The pie.” She continued to look down, fighting the shakiness in her voice, the fatigue.
“I have to go in anyway,” Marjorie said. “I’ll get it.”
Nancy felt Richard waiting for her; what else could she say about an essay she might have read a decade ago?
“How old is she?” Richard smiled.
“Five months,” she said, trying to appear less embarrassed.
He asked when she’d lived in Paris, and they discovered he’d been living in the Marais, finishing up his dissertation around the same time. He said he was looking for a typescript of Baldwin’s unpublished notes on Delaney—was that the bit she’d missed earlier?—and he wondered if she could help him. “Yes,” she said, relieved by this chance to redeem herself when she returned to work. She brushed Jean’s hand, her baby still sleeping so soundly, and she looked out at all the other children on the lawn.
Jean wouldn’t attempt crawling until a month later. One morning in December, the day after Christmas, when she was already seven months, and they had decorated the tree and hung stockings, opening a few small gifts with her on the floor. Murray decided to crouch low, a few feet away. “Jean,” he said, “come over here.” She looked up at him. They waited as she reached for a small piece of leftover wrapping paper on the floor, straining arms and neck. Murray patiently waited. “Come on, Jean.” Then she reached out her arms farther, just grasping the edge of the paper, and pushed herself forward, slithering another half inch, neck still straining. Nancy turned to Murray, her eyes bright, placing her palms behind Jean’s feet to guide her.
“She’s advanced!” Murray cried, hurrying to his study for the video camera.
“I bet she’ll skip walking,” Nancy called out, “and just run!” Her voice was full of playful sarcasm, but Murray didn’t seem amused. He already had the camera and was focusing it.
Nancy had to agree—Jean was advanced. All of her books said most babies first attempted crawling at eight months, and here Jean was, not far from all fours.
But later that night, all the excitement must have been too much, because Jean became fussy, refusing mashed sweet potato, her new favorite. She had another tooth coming in, Nancy said, “That must be it.” Murray wasn’t convinced—he thought maybe he should try and change her.
She went to Jean’s table first for the Desitin, then their bedroom, since sometimes they changed her there, but she couldn’t find it.
“I swear I saw an extra right here,” Murray said, shuffling around a stack of diapers on the kitchen table.
Nancy offered to take her, but Murr
ay told her to rest. “I got it,” he said. He paced around her room, repeating, shh, shh in sets of three.
Nancy remembered she’d set Jean’s pacifiers in the fridge to keep yeast from building up—these white patches that might appear in Jean’s mouth at any time and lead to thrush.
Maybe they should check Jean’s temperature. But Nancy was always on high alert, more than most, she guessed. How could she be sure she wasn’t overreacting?
Murray continued to pace between the living room and Jean’s room. Selfishly, Nancy couldn’t help but wish for the moment they’d find sleep, that it might reset her somehow. It was already 9:00, past when they usually put Jean down, the sky through the window dark—darkening.
“What do you usually do?” Murray said, his voice desperate. “Has she ever done this before?”
She was a bit annoyed, since it wasn’t as if she spent much more time with Jean than he did these days. He was holding a bottle he’d heated up in case she was hungry, since she hadn’t touched the sweet potatoes. Some milk had dribbled over his T-shirt.
“I don’t remember the last time she was like this,” Nancy said. She was desperate enough to offer to breastfeed, but if they gave in to the temptation, it would be that much harder to wean her later. She reached to take her from him, and pressed Jean to her chest, kissed the back of her head, rubbed her back.
“Maybe she’s sick,” Murray said, and Nancy felt better—that she wasn’t the only one who worried this far. She told him where the thermometer was, but when he tried it, Jean’s temperature came back normal, and it had only made things worse, Jean’s cry louder, shriller.
“We could try playing some music,” Nancy said, sounding panicked. She’d just gotten a cassette tape, in the box by the bookshelf, for playing the sound of the ocean. Murray found the player and put the tape in. He turned the volume up. Nancy stroked Jean’s feet, her red arms and sweaty forehead, but the cries wouldn’t subside.
“What if we took her in the car?” Murray’s eyes searched hers. “For a drive.”
Late Air Page 11
