by James Wood
Josh’s father, Adam Rich, had several of his son’s mannerisms: he spoke fast, with a slight lisp, and he had the same adhesive way with obscure facts. But Adam was worldlier than Josh, more interested in success and fine things. He enjoyed his many “gadgets,” and showed them off to Vanessa: the Nespresso machine (“best two hundred dollars I ever spent”), the stainless-steel juicer, the odd contraption whose function was to remove a wine cork in three seconds. Adam sometimes reminded Vanessa of her father. She thought the two men would like each other. Then she decided that Adam Rich might intimidate Alan Querry, who was intimidated by very little, except by precisely Adam’s strengths: intellectual fluency, and a kind of confidence that in America was Jewish but which in England would have been aristocratic.
Above all, she liked the way that Adam and Wendy spoke to each other. Unlike her own parents (so she remembered), they had learned how to tease each other without arguing. Adam’s great treasure—his best gadget—was a small boat he kept in the 31st Street Harbor. Wendy complained to Vanessa that he never took it out on the water. “If you added up all the times he’s used it and divided that into the cost of keeping it, you’d have a dismal figure.” Yes, said Adam genially, “but if I divided all the times I think about it into the cost, then the figure would look a lot better.”
It was on her third day in Chicago that Vanessa understood that she wanted to be part of this intellectual but worldly family, and live in their house forever. She noticed, on a side table, one of Wendy’s psychology books, which had an absurd title: Gender as Soft Assembly (“it’s newish—and very good, in fact,” said Wendy). The title became one of those small, silly things that a group laughs about. Josh deliberately worked it into his sentences—“when my brothers are home, it’s more like gender as hard assembly,” and so on—and when at some moment around the table they started laughing once more at the ridiculous Gender as Soft Assembly, she became aware that she wasn’t full of despair. Surrounded by these warm people, encouraged also by the air of holiday truancy—by the fact that it was Christmas outside but not Christmas inside this house—her sadness seemed to lift somewhat. That was Josh’s gift to her: over Jewish Christmas, he gave her his family.
And he did more. After the trip to Chicago, they went back to Saratoga Springs and talked about what lay ahead, and about what life in England might be like, and then he e-mailed Helen and suggested that if she were visiting New York anytime soon, she should come upstate and raise her sister’s spirits. Helen, of course, then spoke to Dad, so that it was Josh who was directly responsible—for better or worse!—for Dad’s first visit to her house in Saratoga Springs.
But despair was never banished; the memory, and therefore the prospect of it, always lurked. She was often put in mind of a childhood holiday she had taken in Cornwall, and her strange, uncanny sense that the blue thrill of the sea was always nearby. Within the corridors of high hedgerows, the funneled lanes, you could feel the sea just beyond, and how the land continued and then stopped, and broke into cliff. In every field, every road, you had that knowledge—of the infinite dashing restlessness of sea, just out of sight, at the end of everything. Magical and a bit terrifying, was how she remembered it. But the image was differently terrifying, humiliating even, for a forty-year-old philosopher who regularly lectured on “Aristotle and human flourishing.” For despair was like a sea. It threshed restlessly, just out of sight, always there: the deep enemy of human flourishing, inching away at its borders. For now, she had pushed away that sadness (but make sure you keep on taking your Wellbutrin, said Dr. Lasky). Happier than she’d been for a long time, she had some reason to hope that Josh’s foolish, wary smile had been ignorantly fearful rather than knowingly fatalistic. He seemed so different now.
30
At the hotel, Alan rose early the next morning to get in a phone call to Candace, who gave specialist information about the Wellbutrin—an antidepressant, commonly prescribed to treat anxiety, insomnia, mood swings, and so on.
“But why is she depressed?” cried Alan, in childish frustration.
“Is that really a helpful approach, love?”
Was there another, more serious drug, Candy asked, that she might be taking? She thought that Vanessa was almost certainly on at least two forms of medication. If she were your daughter, he thought to himself, you wouldn’t want to confirm the existence of a second drug; you would have to look away from the subject; your gaze would turn to ashes. Instead he told her—it was true—that he felt he’d been away “forever.” It was the snow that locked him into this icy white kingdom; or the intensity of his emotions, which made him frail, despite the brave face he turned to the world. Time seemed to trudge by slowly here in heavy snow boots. Candy gave him news and gossip from home, to cheer him up: their neighbor the Baronet (a word she found movingly hard to pronounce) was going to build an indoor swimming pool, because of Lady Compton’s terrible arthritis—the swimming might help. Alan loved these stories, was easily soothed by them. Right now, the Baronet’s life seemed ideal, an existence of perfect, unreflective Englishness. But he didn’t have time to listen to more, he had to speak to his mother, too. And Mam had stories also—one involved an old lady at the Home who’d been working for years on a sacred tapestry for her church and had finally finished it, only to discover that the diocese was now closing and decommissioning the little church—which predictably did the opposite of soothing him. Mam wanted to hear everything about Josh. Did he look like the photograph Van had sent her? Was he “a nice young man”? Couldn’t Vanessa marry him and move back home? Van was old but not so old that she couldn’t have at least one child. Nowadays women in their forties were having children all the time, “in the newspapers.” She had not the faintest idea about Vanessa’s life in Saratoga, but still she was like Mr. Bridger in The Italian Job, running Italian operations from his English prison cell, thought Alan wearily as he put the phone down. Yet when he heard his mother’s voice, he wanted to be sitting next to her as she sat in the old chintz chair. Long, long ago, when she came upstairs to kiss him goodnight, he would ask her: “Have you brought your knitting?” And when she said yes, he was pleased, because it meant that Mam would stay and tell him a story.
* * *
They all had breakfast together at Vanessa’s. Helen, who was leaving in an hour for New York, and then for London, was powerful, straight-backed, almost embarrassingly vital. She praised her elder sister for rather slight accomplishments: “Fabulous coffee, Van, thanks so much! Whose jam is this? Local, aha. Well done on finding it.” Alan knew what was up: she was atoning for her excitement at leaving. Van was subdued, anxious, otherworldly, slouching. She was teaching her first class of the term, at twelve o’clock, on ethics and action, and didn’t feel prepared; she had brought a book to the table. She made a wan joke about having to lecture “to the lucky kids at Lucy Skidmore Scribner’s Young Women’s Industrial Club” (the college’s original name, it turned out).
Alan had forgotten that Vanessa would have to go out and earn a living, just like everyone else. And Josh—he stood near the toaster, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and sneezing. He had some kind of morning allergy. And there was a new T-shirt: CHILMARK F.D. KEEP BACK 300 FEET. Alan was happy to follow that particular order. “How many do you have?” he asked, pointing toward Josh’s chest. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Josh replied cheerfully.
Helen’s car arrived early, of course—a gigantic black Chevy Suburban, menacing and funereal, the thick exhaust gurgling like a boat’s. A smartly dressed Latino driver, small alongside his glossed black barge, held the rear door open. Inside, cream leather seats, and dashboard fans raging with hot air. American abundance: Helen loved it. She’d paid for a driver to take her the three and a half hours to New York. Farewells were brief and intense. Alan hugged Helen fiercely, gratefully kissing her Cathy-like neck, inhaling her Cathy-like scent—he wanted her to know, by this gesture, that he had no anger. In his line of work, there were two t
ypes of builders: the shouters, the big bullies; and the patient, quiet ones. The ones who rode out the storms. He knew which type he was. Helen promised to call when she was back in London. She and Vanessa embraced, and Helen appeared to whisper something in her sister’s ear. The slab-cheeked Chevy crunched down the drive, the brake lights appeared brightly, and she was gone.
Some sort of embarrassment overcame them as they sat down again in the kitchen—the embarrassment of nudity, of revelation: they had lost their covering. Without Helen, what on earth would they say to each other? Salvation: the weekend was over, it was Monday morning and time to work. Josh said he had to go into town to scan something, and to print something else out in color. Vanessa would leave shortly for the campus, where she was meeting with students, and then had her noon lecture. Was Dad interested in lunch, after that? Back at the house? What would he do until then? Alan thought he would stay put for a while, have some more coffee, read The New York Times. And then, since Van and Josh were bound to be busy over the next few days, perhaps he would see about hiring a car. He wanted to drive around a bit, explore the surrounding area—the famous “upstate New York.” It would keep him occupied. Vanessa said he should take her car, the Toyota. Because of the arm, she couldn’t use it anyway. Alan had been secretly looking forward to driving a lordly American boat with a flabby V8, but he accepted Van’s generous—and economical—offer. Rising, Josh said he would walk with Vanessa over to the college. She started clearing up the plates. “Leave that to me,” said Alan, “I’m on the personal equivalent of island time. You go and get ready for class.” He enjoyed hearing her run upstairs, the exasperated sighs, the banging of the bathroom door. Like old days, with the girls preparing for school …
31
He was on his own, reading The New York Times—he liked the newspaper’s obituaries: in America they actually told you what the subject had died of, instead of that English euphemism “after a long illness” (which he knew from personal experience to be no euphemism anyway)—and was thinking about leaving when the doorbell rang. Surely it wasn’t Josh, back already from town and temporarily locked out. But there was a complete stranger at the freezing door—a bland-looking middle-aged man, chiefly notable for his lack of a coat.
“I’m Jerry Dent—we met on Saturday evening, but it was dark. We live right next door. The dog…”
“Yes—yes. Alan. Afraid Vanessa’s at work. Back at lunchtime.”
“In fact I’d like to have a quick word with you, if you have a moment. Would you mind?” He was solicitous, forceful, mild, all at once. Alan knew the style: local vicar. Wary but helpless, he felt he had to invite the man into the kitchen. He was taller than Jerry, and stronger, he reckoned, despite their difference in years. If it should come to that … Jerry was shoulderless as a beaver, with a vague soft middle. Unmuscular Christianity. Alan thanked him for helping Vanessa when she fell down the stairs.
“She told me that you and your wife made a sling—with a tea towel!—and drove her to the hospital. That was really very kind. I can tell you, I don’t have any neighbors like that where I live.”
“It was the least we could do … She was … well, she was in pretty bad shape when we found her. I don’t just mean physically. To be honest, this is what I came to talk to you about—I saw that Josh and Vanessa left the house this morning, that you were alone, so I came on over … Diane and I are very concerned about Vanessa. I have the sense”—Jerry looked around, theatrically—“of a house that is not at unity with itself. I get a real sense of sadness here, of spiritual sadness.”
“Well,” said Alan, strangely moved, “over the years, poor Vanessa’s been through the wars. Like her sister. Like all of us—death, divorce, and taxes.”
Jerry was single-minded. “But who’s going to lead her out of the wars? Who’ll save her?” he asked.
“Now what does that mean? I know I’m only here for a week or so, but I am trying to make myself useful.”
“Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal man…”
“Sorry?”
“I’m not reproaching you. What will save her? Vanessa came to our church in Malta, you know. She said she was there just to ‘observe’ things, but she didn’t act like a neutral observer.”
“No? How so?” Alan was interested.
“During one of the testimonials, she knelt down and started crying. We were sitting right next to her. A lot of pain was inside her, we thought, and also sin. It was really the sin coming out of her that made her cry like that.”
“Pain, but not sin,” said Alan firmly. “Not sin.”
Jerry smiled. “You’re very sure about sinlessness. Good for you. Christians can’t be so certain.”
“I’m not certain about my lack of sin, just about hers.” Alan also wanted to say: just bloody well leave her out of it. “And as far as I know,” he continued, “Vanessa isn’t a Christian. Not yet.”
“Maybe not, but she came a second time to the church, and spent most of that service praying. Praying intensely. Eyes tightly shut. Praying to someone or something. Point is—she needs something to lead her out of her pain. And it sure won’t be secular drugs.”
“Drugs…”
Jerry seemed impatient.
“When we took her to the hospital, she had to tell the nurse at the desk if she was allergic to anything, and if she was taking any prescription medication at the time. Diane was standing next to her, and saw Vanessa write down the name of two different antidepressant—”
“That’s her business, it must be her own business. Is that clear?”
“Clear, clear. Clear as navy coffee, as my old man used to say. Okay, wait: I didn’t come here to fight or make you mad. We’re just concerned about our neighbor. I’m very sorry if I’ve given you bad news … But I have a responsibility, as a Christian … Alan, would you—would you mind if I pray with you? I’d like to do that.”
He minded intensely, but didn’t want to seem unreasonable—after all, Van would have to live side by side with these God-botherers, practically sitting in the same pew as them, well after he had gone. Jerry, very unexpectedly, took Alan’s hand, and lowered his head. It was like having to say grace again at meals, as a kid, when all your instincts were to giggle or kick your best friend’s shins under the table. Just like a compliant kid, astounded he was doing this—and aware suddenly that he needed to pee—he closed his eyes. Jerry’s hand was dry. His loose body centered itself, and shook slightly. His voice seemed to take on quivering depth, like an Elvis impersonator: casino basso.
“Lord Jesus, we ask for your blessing on this house, and on all who live and stay within it. We offer up this servant, Vanessa, and this servant, Alan, for your blessing and protection, so that you may turn strife into concord, and dry soil into fertile land. That you may heal Vanessa, Lord. Above all, we pray, Lord, that the gift of your serenity may descend upon this house, mindful of the example of your supreme sacrifice, certain in the knowledge that the greatest serenity can come only from you, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Alan strongly. As prayers go, it—had gone: he’d expected far worse. Jerry looked at him with optimistic surprise, as if the pretty girl at the party had unexpectedly agreed to dance with him. Fishers of men, fishers of men, thought Alan.
Once Jerry had left, Alan, feeling a bit dazed, decided he must quickly leave the house. He couldn’t bear encountering Josh. Wonderfully, terrifyingly, he had no plans—the day was as wide open as a snowy prairie. He had a vague idea that he would drive around a bit, check out the terrain. It was beautiful out there—depthless blue sky, irradiated by the white of the ground—but it was too cold to walk far. So he clicked himself into Van’s Prius, smiling as he noticed four academic library books scattered across the backseat. The Toyota Prius really was a vile machine: he understood that it was a hybrid vehicle, but did it also have to look like an amphibious one? Ugly front lights, like most modern vehicles. When he was growing up, cars had human faces—wide
mouths and round eyes set far apart. The old Rover P5B looked eerily like Harold Wilson, which perhaps explained why the prime minister had always used one. So the silly girl smoked in her car—the thickened, trapped air was almost intolerable at first. Like the old smoking carriages on the trains, or the top floor of the double-decker buses. The ashtray and console were powdered with gray cigarette ash, and twisted fag ends filled the tray; there were two old water bottles, rolling around in the front passenger well; the seat fabric was torn in a couple of places; something had been spilled on the backseat. A box of antibacterial wipes, jammed into the driver’s door bin, offered a chimera of correction.
He drove down Broadway, past the fabulous Alexandria, past the fine buildings, and slowly out of town. All the better if he could get off the main road, into the fields and back lanes. Where the life is. You drive on the bloody right here, he said to himself. Links fahren. Tenez la gauche—no, that’s Dover, coming back from France. A little nervously he fell behind a line of cars. Another Prius was directly in front of him, bright purple, its rear gummed with stickers like a student’s rucksack. AT LEAST THE WAR AGAINST GLOBAL WARMING IS GOING WELL. THE RAPTURE IS NOT AN EXIT STRATEGY. W STANDS FOR WAR. I’M ALREADY AGAINST THE NEXT WAR. It was exhausting, in the way of Josh’s shirts, though he was smiling.
