“This is just the sort of thing that could ruin you, us.”
“She’s pregnant.”
It wasn’t something she expected to hear and it took her several minutes to process the admission.
“She’s just a girl, really,” he said, gently.
“Just a girl,” she repeated, breathlessly.
“I’m not quite sure what to do about it.” He looked at her. “It’s been on my mind for some time now. It’s always on my mind. She is,” his voice faltered, “on my mind. I’ve been distracted. I can’t seem to concentrate.”
He set his drink down soundlessly. He began to cry. She went to him.
“You are not going to ruin our lives over some stupid girl, do you understand? I didn’t marry you for this. I didn’t bring our child into the world for this.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” He began to whimper.
“We are going to have to think about this very carefully,” she said.
“I know,” he muttered. “You’re right, Mags.” Then he took her hand and sank to his knees. “Please forgive me. I’m a fool. I can’t seem to help myself.”
She ran her hands through his thick hair and raised his chin so that he would look at her. Tears of guilt ran down his face.
“We’ll figure it out, won’t we, Mags? Just like the last time?”
“Yes,” she spoke in a whisper. “Yes, Jack, yes. Just like the last time.”
Part Four
Panic Disorder
[sculpture]
Claire Squire, Hunger Strike, 2007. Wax, pigment, papier-mâché, horsehair, 5 x 14 x 14 ft. Collection of the artist.
Five female figures on their hands and knees in a circle, licking Splenda off the floor, their faces feral in their determination to feed on the sugar substitute as though it will sustain them. Their bodies are nearly emaciated, their ribs exposed, the hip bones and shoulder bones exaggerated.
Hunger Strike addresses a woman’s lifelong obsession with her weight—depriving herself of nurturing in both the literal and figurative sense of the word.
40
He had come to a point with Claire. It was a kind of ache he had for her, a kind of pain in his gut. He had begun to tell her that he loved her. He would look at her. He would say, “I’m in love with you.”
It began to snow late in the afternoon and they’d made a fire and opened some wine. He’d stopped at Guido’s earlier for groceries and she’d spread all the ingredients out on the counter, wild salmon, a baguette, red potatoes, tomatoes. She was good with the knife, chopping the salad, preparing the potatoes. He watched her as she worked, sipping the wine. “Claire,” he said, because he loved to say her name.
She looked at him and smiled. “Yes, Nathan.”
“I need to tell you something,” he said. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.”
“So tell me.”
“I’m afraid to. It’s something from my past, from another time.”
“Don’t be afraid. It won’t change anything.” She put down the knife and waited.
“When I was a much younger man, I lived in San Francisco with a woman. I was just a few years older than Teddy. Her name was Catherine. She was someone I loved. We did a lot of drugs, mostly heroin. She was—we were both addicts. It was a lifetime ago.” He stole a look at her. She was watching him, listening intently. “Anyway, she was sick; she had AIDS. I loved her. It was a difficult time.”
Claire’s face went gray. In a matter of seconds she looked fifty years older. He could see the fear in her eyes.
“I was spared,” he said. “I used to get tested every month—I’m fine, you don’t have to worry—and I’d never put you at risk, I hope you know that about me.”
The color came back into her cheeks. She nodded, she kissed him.
“But being spared only added to my guilt.”
“I’m sorry, Nate.” She took his hand.
“We had a child,” he admitted. “A daughter.”
Claire flushed, surprised. “What happened?”
“We gave her up.”
“For adoption?”
“We had to.” He looked away, guilty. “I was in no position at the time to be anyone’s father.”
“That must have been so hard,” she said. “It must have been awful.”
“It was.”
“Was the baby all right?”
“She was perfect,” he said simply. “It was miraculous.”
He told her about that day, how Cat had died in the car, and then, abruptly, he stopped himself. He had planned to tell her everything, but he suddenly realized that Claire didn’t need to know it was Willa. It would change everything—the way she looked at the girl—the way she thought about Joe and Candace—it wasn’t fair to any of them—it wasn’t fair to him.
“I just couldn’t do it alone,” he said finally. “I wasn’t ready to be a father. For a long time, I felt terrible about it, miserable. I felt so guilty, like I was the worst sort of person. But I don’t anymore.”
“I’m glad.” She kissed him. “You’ll have another baby one day.”
He took her in his arms and whispered in her ear. “Let’s go up and try making one right now.”
Later, in bed, he stayed up for a long time watching her sleep. The wind howled outside. The whole house seemed to be moving, creaking, and he could feel the wind coming through the cracks in the walls. After dinner they’d gone outside with Teddy and made snow angels. They’d laid in the snow catching snowflakes the size of pigeon feathers in their mouths. It had been the most fun he’d had in years. Later, in the shower, she’d tugged on his beard and dared him to shave it off and in the heady blur of passion he’d told her he would. They’d made love in the half-dark room and he’d watched her as she rode his hips, her mouth open, her breasts swaying like heavy summer fruit, her loose hair spilling down her back. He finally fell asleep, conscious of the world outside, the fury of the weather.
He woke early, before her. The sky was empty and white, quiet now, as if it had exhausted itself. He looked over at his lover, her sleeping face, her lips pale as clay. Oh, how he loved this time with her. She’d had a lot of wine last night, he thought. Maybe she’d forget about his beard. He could understand Claire wanting him to shave it off, as though his true self might be revealed. It would draw attention to his face, he realized. And, even though it had been many years, there was still a chance that the Goldings might recognize him. If it was what Claire wanted, though, he decided, it was a chance he was willing to take.
He got dressed and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. Teddy was sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. “Living in sin,” Teddy said, shaking his head.
“The snow,” Nate tried to explain. He and Claire had been careful not to be too intimate around Teddy, unsure how he’d react to their relationship. “Your mom didn’t want me to drive.”
“Yeah, right.”
Nate looked at the boy. “Are you okay with this?”
“What if I’m not?”
Nate stood there, trying to come up with something to say to make the boy feel better about the situation, but Teddy smiled, shaking his head. “Relax, Gallagher. It’s okay, man. I’m glad it’s you.”
He got up and put his bowl in the sink and Nate said, “Hey,” and pulled him over and bear-hugged him. “Thanks for your blessing.”
“I love you too, Gallagher.” Shaking his head, Teddy went out.
Nate made coffee and sat there for a moment, drinking it, imagining Claire as a young girl in this crazy house full of stuff. Claire came down a little later, smiling in that mysterious way of hers, that grin, and she took his cup and set it down and kissed him, a long slow wonderful kiss, then led him back upstairs, ignoring his complaints. She took him into the bathroom and sat him down on the toilet seat and put a little towel around his shoulders. “Welcome to my leetle shop,” she said in an Eastern bloc accent. “Ve give you a shave, ya?”
She held up a pair of scissors and wiggle
d her eyebrows menacingly and said, in her regular voice, “Do you trust me?”
He looked at her carefully. “Yes, I trust you.” In fact, she was the first woman he had ever fully trusted.
“Good.” She kissed him again and when their lips came apart he repeated her question.
She looked at his face, her hand on his cheek. “Yes,” she said. “I totally trust you.”
He brought her chin down and kissed her. “Good.”
She stood back up. “You are ready, ya?”
“Ya,” he said. And then she picked up the scissors and cut off his beard.
Instinctively, his hand went up to feel the fur that was no longer there. He felt a little worried. But Claire was confident. Like an artist, she stood back appraising her work. “Better already,” she said.
Then she took the can of shaving cream and shook it up—she was enjoying herself immensely—her power over him—her breasts in his face as she sprayed a creamy pile into her hand and patted it on his cheeks. It was turning him on. He gripped her waist, pulling down her boxer shorts, suddenly curious to know if it was possible to shave and fuck at the same time.
It just might be, he thought.
“Look at you,” she said later. “You’re gorgeous.”
She handed him the mirror. Reflected there, he saw his old self, his father’s square chin, his mother’s wide cheekbones. His face had been beaten up over time, the beard had hidden some of the lines. He’d been hiding behind it for too long. He was glad to be rid of it.
He caught Claire staring at him like a long-lost relative. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands off him. They stayed in bed all morning, finally stumbling downstairs at one o’clock to find Teddy eating lunch. "Man, what happened to you?”
"I got a shave.”
“You look naked.” Teddy looked at him. “How does it feel?”
“Smooth.”
“You look different, man. Younger.”
“Same old me,” he said.
Teddy wanted to go snowboarding and Nate offered to take him. With years of practicing on a skateboard, Teddy was an avid snow-boarder. Nate had learned to ski as a small child, when his father would take him to Killington every Christmas. They rented a small chalet there. It was the only time Nate could remember his father actually being proud of him. The slopes were crowded with tourists who’d come up for the day. There was a long lift line. He heard a lot of New York accents. Riding on the chairlift, Teddy seemed anxious to talk and when he asked Nate if he’d ever been with a prostitute, Nate understood that the boy’s sudden urge to go skiing was about more than getting his exercise.
“Not intentionally,” Nate said. “Not that I know of.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was younger, I did some stupid stuff. Drugs. I slept with a lot of women.”
“I know this girl,” he said uncertainly. “She may be a prostitute.” He warily glanced at Nate, who translated the admission: She’s a prostitute.
“We did it, you know? We had sex. I just wanted to see what it was like.”
It wasn’t Nate’s place to start lecturing the boy on the risks of sleeping with a prostitute. “Why are you telling me this?”
“She’s into drugs,” he said. “I don’t trust her.”
“Are you doing drugs, Teddy?”
“No, but Willa is.” He blurted it out, as though he’d been holding it in for a long time. “I’m kind of worried about her.”
Nate felt himself tightening his grip on the handrail. He looked down at the ground and suddenly felt dizzy. “What kind of drugs?”
“Meth. The girl, her name’s Pearl, turned her on to it.” Teddy explained how Willa had met the girl at Sunrise House. “I tried to ask Willa about it, but she won’t talk to me. I think she hates me.”
“I doubt that.”
“I thought she loved me.” He looked at him.
“Maybe she does. Hate and love get tangled up sometimes.”
“I want to make her stop,” Teddy said. “I want to—” But he couldn’t finish, it was time to get off the lift and within seconds Teddy was halfway down the mountain. Nate went after him, but he wasn’t a daredevil like the boy. It was very icy; he wanted to take his time. And all the way down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something behind.
The next morning, he went into school early to finish reading the journals. He was anxious to see if Willa had mentioned anything about the drugs. He couldn’t help feeling responsible, as if there were some genetic reason for her wanting the meth, as though the hunger for it ran in her blood.
Pulling onto campus, into the empty faculty lot, he noticed a young woman sitting on a bench outside the main office. It was nearly seven and the place was deserted, but in less than an hour the buses would arrive. Nate had never seen the girl before, but she was young—too old to be a student—but pretty close. She sat there waiting, it seemed, for someone, and she was smoking. There was a no-smoking rule on campus. She had on a white coat, some sort of fake rabbit, and a skirt without stockings, her white calves shaking slightly in the cold, unsuitable white pumps on her feet. Nate went over to her. “Hello?”
“Hello.” He detected an accent. She grinned, showing off a grim set of teeth.
“Can I help you with something?”
She dragged on her cigarette, squinting in the smoke. “Maybe.”
“You’re not supposed to smoke, there’s a rule.”
“There’s nobody here.”
“Not now, but soon. The buses will start pulling in.”
She shrugged and put it out, twisting the butt into the bottom of her shoe.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
She showed him a newspaper advertisement. “Greer Harding.”
“I see.”
“There is job,” she said. “I want to clean.”
“It’s cold. Do you want to wait in my office?”
“No, I wait here.”
“Are you sure?”
“She is nice lady?”
“Ms. Harding?” Nate hesitated. “You could say that.”
“She will give me job?”
“Yes, I think so,” he said, wanting to reassure her.
She folded her arms over her chest. “I will wait. It’s okay.”
He left her there and went into Walden House and took the stack of journals off the shelf and began with Willa’s:
When I’m with her, I sometimes imagine the ghost of my dead mother. I watch her getting high, smoking the pipe, her eyes yellow like a wolf’s. The girl is my friend, but we are from different lives. I have money, parents who love me, and she does not. Her parents died in a car crash when she was little. Her uncle raised her. She is a dancer. What I like about her is this: I can tell her things; anything. I can be free. I can be myself.
We went into the belly of the whale. You could make sounds and they’d echo off the walls and I thought of Pinocchio when he gets swallowed up by the whale and I thought of Moby Dick. My dad took me to see that movie at the old Capitol theater when I was little and I can still remember the taste of that popcorn. I remember feeling sorry for the great fierce white whale and not understanding why they wanted to kill it. And then my dad took me to Melville’s house to see the little room where he’d written it and I thought about what it might be like to be a writer and to sit in a chair day after day putting down your thoughts. You can find places in your mind. I try to imagine the place I lived as a baby, after I was born. I try to picture my sick mother. I don’t know, I can’t remember it. But sometimes I think I can see her face looming over me, her sad smile.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy.
Sometimes when I look in the mirror I can see a glimmer of her shining through, like a ghost. I sometimes think she’s watching over me.
We snuck into the old ballet studios on North Street, just before they closed. We could hear the class finishing, the girls clapping for their teacher, the tapping of their wooden toes. We huddled
in the janitor’s closet, giggling, and I felt close to her, like she’s my sister or something, this trust between us. I always wanted a sister anyway. When it was quiet we crept out into the studio. It was still light enough outside to see. We pulled open the curtains. Through the window you could see a brick building, a secretary sitting at her desk. I thought about that woman watching the dancers all day and wondered if she thought about them when she went home at night, if she ever dreamed of dancing when she was sitting at her desk. Pearl knew about ballet studios; she knew where to find the music and how to turn it on. It was Chopin, I think. She played it softly, then found some toe shoes and put them on. “When I was small, my mother used to sew my shoes,” she said. “Shiny pink ribbons.”
Pearl danced for me. She was amazing, twirling around the room. She made me get up and dance with her. I could smell her sweat, the perfume she always wears. The way she walked with her legs turned out, penguinlike. The way she stood there breathing hard with her hands on her hips, her back slightly curved, contemplating herself in the mirror. She would be pretty if it weren’t for her teeth, the sores she gets on her face.
We sat for a while, very close, and we could see ourselves in the mirror across the room. We almost look the same. We have the same legs, the same hair. It’s just the faces that are different. Anyway, that’s when she told me she was pregnant. She fell asleep for a few minutes on my shoulder. I stayed up all night, worrying about her. She is the type of person you can easily worry over. We just sat there and I watched the sky turn from purple to gold, like an old bruise.
Willa didn’t come to school that day and Nate felt at a loss. Against his better judgment, he drove over to their house after school. Pulling up the long driveway, his mind reeled back to that day full of rain. It had been like a dream, he recalled, with the windows all fogged up. Nothing had seemed real.
He parked and walked to the door. It was a wide door from another century, painted a glossy black. He used the brass knocker. Joe Golding opened it. His face was cold, and for a moment Nate thought he’d recognized him. Instead, he shook his hand. “You shaved,” he said.
Somebody Else's Daughter Page 31
