“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” I ask after a sticky silence. “Did you think I’d just shrug and go on home when you didn’t show? Or—or what?”
“No, Mom. I just—I don’t know, okay? I don’t know why I did it.” She’s sitting alone in the rear seat of the van, staring out the window, ignoring her little sister, who keeps turning around, begging Hannah to put Barbie’s dress on for her.
“Well, could you come up with a couple ideas?” I ask. “Because I really don’t know what to tell your dad about all this.” Some fear or uncertainty keeps me from mentioning my conversation with her teacher. I decide to wait until I have more information.
“Ava wanted me to see her new pool table. And then her neighbors showed up. That’s it—end of story.”
“Okay. And since when does that need to involve forgery and—and going AWOL?”
“I can’t do this,” Emmie whines, thrusting the blue Barbie gown at Hannah.
“You weren’t around, okay?” Hannah snaps. “I tried to call you, like, fifteen times. Did you even check your messages?”
I swallow, squeezing my eyes shut. Of course, I haven’t checked my messages once today—not at the studio, not at home. My cell phone’s been on, but there’s no service in Plainfield. What if there was an emergency? Impatience with myself shoots out toward my daughter instead. “That’s no excuse,” I tell her. “It doesn’t give you license to lie.”
“Why does Dad have to get involved in this, anyway?”
“Because,” I say, turning behind the high school, veering into our street. “Because, Hannah, he’s your father and I just don’t feel comfortable—”
“Keeping secrets?” she inserts.
I stare at her in the rearview mirror—the almond eyes and thick auburn brows exactly like Nathan’s. Then she glances away, just as Emmie bursts into frustrated sobs, hurling the blue gown and the nude Barbie over the front seat and into my lap.
Thanksgiving is an everlasting affair and I’m smiling stiffly through it, trapped in the aperture of my mind. As always, we gather at Nathan’s sister’s house in Amherst—the same lovely cape where Nathan grew up, went to school and dropped out, ran away from home, came back. The same house where he first got drunk and laid, and then finally, where he and I got married, fifteen years ago under the catalpa trees. I love Nathan’s family—his earnest, school administrator sister and brilliant professor brother-in-law, his two hard-drinking twenty-something nephews and his dotty, intellectual mother. I even love Richard, Nathan’s antagonistic older brother who always tries to stir up an argument. But today, I might as well be in south Texas for how connected I feel.
I’m smiling through it, trying to engage in conversations about politics, about the casualties in Iraq which the media never covers, McCarthian threats to our freedom of speech—all of us comfortably on one side in this liberal northeast college town, all of us assured of our rectitude, except me. I’m sitting on the black leather recliner in the corner, spinning outside the circle of light, a space traveler between worlds. Still tasting the smoky tang of my lover’s kisses, still feeling his imprint between my thighs, I wear my guilt like a veil—it obscures my vision of this family, muffles my hearing. Somewhere, in some other universe, I can discern Emmie’s happy shrieks as her big-boy cousins toss her on the frozen lawn.
“I want to give you the name of my acupuncturist,” says Nathan’s sister, Shelly, leaning in close as she hands me a small square of yellow paper. “She’s really terrific, Sylvie, and Nathan told me you’ve been having some somatic symptoms.”
“Somatic symptoms?” I stare at her over the rim of my wineglass.
“The tendonitis—I hope you don’t mind. I noticed you rubbing your hands earlier.”
“Oh, right. Thank you.” I take the paper, slipping it into my back pocket.
“It can help with marital issues, too, if you know what I mean,” she says, winking. “Dan and I once went the better part of two years.” She peers down at me, real concern in her round chestnut eyes. I smile and nod, mortified that Nathan’s been telling Shelly about our sex life, or lack thereof, when he won’t even broach it with me.
Hannah comes across the room like an emissary, hand held out, and asks if she can have a glass of wine—her first? I give her my half-drunk glass of Pinot Noir, still adrift in an ether of unspeakable thoughts. My in-laws turn and stare. Nathan looks at me like I’ve gone round the bend, and I realize Hannah has asked me, not him, because she knew I’d say yes. I remember my half-hour conference with her teacher the previous day, cataloging the symptoms of some new trouble—is it just adolescent rebellion? The long overdue assertion of her independence, or something more disturbing? I haven’t told Nathan anything yet.
Why haven’t I told him? I wonder, as my sister-in-law pours me more wine, calls us for dinner. Are Hannah’s transgressions somehow webbed into my own? Do I fear that one confidence, pulled up into the yellowish light of our bedroom, will unearth them all?
Now we’re all seated around the long table in my favorite sunroom. Always before now, this house has felt safe and full of heart. On the day of our wedding, surrounded by new family on the sheltered lawn, I beamed with the fortune of an adopted stray—never again to roam. Under the catalpa trees, I spoke homemade vows about finding my lost center, surrendering to the beauty of mortality while Nathan wept, grasping my hands so tightly, my fingers went numb.
“So what’ve you been doing for fun, Sylvie?” Richard asks in his affected drawl. He passes me the beets as I recite the litany of my days—the art classes and studio hours, Hannah’s performances, my ailing grandmother, the upcoming trip west…. He nods, then whispers into my ear, “How come you look so damn radiant?”
I feel the flush spreading like an infection over my throat and forehead, and quickly turn my attention to Emmie, clambering onto the chair next to me, demanding Jell-O. I ask Shelly to please send it down and busy myself loading up Emmie’s plate. Hannah is at the end of the table, enjoying the ribbing of Caleb and Andrew, her two beefy cousins. The rest of them are discussing Ron Laughton, a professor friend of Nathan and Dan’s from high school who is leaving his wife for a twenty-five-year-old grad student. I’m so nauseated, I doubt I can eat a bite.
“You have to wonder how many months that relationship will last,” mutters Dan.
“You’re right, Dan,” concurs Clara. “Relationships begun in secrecy don’t fare well.”
“What’ll poor Ron do when his midlife crisis winds down and he’s stuck with a twenty-five-year-old across the table?” says Shelly.
“What’s so awful about twenty-five-year-olds?” Andrew pipes in.
“My mother’s still married to the man she had an affair with,” I find myself saying. Now they’re all staring down the long table, waiting for more. “I mean, I don’t know how blissful they are, but it lasted.” Nathan clears his throat, too loudly, I think. Perhaps I’ve embarrassed him by stating the truth, bringing up my impossible family.
“Yes, but with a student,” Clara continues. “It’s different.”
“It’s the children I worry about,” says Shelly.
“But how can you blame Ron?” asks Richard. “Nobody wants to live in a cage. Now, if you open the cage door, tell the prisoner they can come and go at will, they might decide to stay.”
“Come on, Rich. Let’s not go there today,” suggests Nathan.
“Traditional marriage is too small a container—Ronnie’s just a case in point.”
“Just because a loving relationship feels like a cage to you, Rich,” snaps Shelly.
“What’s Uncle Richard talking about, Mommy?” Emmie tugs on my sleeve. Everybody laughs. Then the table grows quiet.
“Well, he’s talking about how we can’t always make others happy,” I venture, “even those we love.” She blinks, so I try again. “Sometimes, people just need different things.”
“Like, when Hannah won’t play Polly Pocket?” She frowns at the memory of this betra
yal, fresh from the morning.
“Yes, sort of,” I concede after a pause. Hannah guffaws.
“Honestly, though, Sylvie,” Richard persists. “Don’t you think your folks’ marriage would have improved if your mother could’ve had her lover on the side?” I feel the heat singeing my cheeks again, hands hurting. I drop my fork, staring into my mashed potatoes.
“That’s enough, Rich,” says Clara. “There are children present.”
“No, it’s an interesting question,” I manage to respond, looking up. “I don’t think my parents’ marriage was mature enough to weather an open arrangement. I don’t know many that are.” I don’t say that maybe the secrecy was part of the appeal for Elaine—the idea of having something no one else could access. Somehow, I’m realizing this for the first time.
“Your face is the same color as the cranberry sauce, Mom,” Hannah says cruelly.
“Is it?”
“Yeah, you ought to do something about that blushing, Sylvie,” teases Richard. “People will start thinking you’re guilty of something.”
Everyone chuckles. Just as I’m about to melt into the dhurrie rug, darling Emmie knocks her strawberry milk across the turkey platter, necessitating an abrupt transition as the women stand in unison. By the time we sit back down, the conversation has thankfully shifted to home improvement. Nathan and Dan are commiserating over how long it takes to install exterior trim, especially on these old, irregular houses where nothing’s level, nothing’s plumb.
It’s getting dark and suddenly I’m worn out by all this socializing. I’m craving the dark woods around his cottage, the sweet, earthy aroma of his bed quilt, snow softly battering the windows. The restlessness begins at the root of my spine. I’m wondering if I can slip out for a smoke right now, maybe even call him. Will he be with Eli? Having dinner with the ex-wife? Home alone?
I’m startled by Nathan’s lanky hand pressing my shoulder. He’s standing behind me, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention. Then he proclaims that next year, we will host Thanksgiving, at our Ashfield house overlooking Apple Valley. “I know it’s been years, and nobody here believes I can finish anything I start.”
Richard snickers.
“We love you anyway, Nate,” croons Shelly, collecting the dishes.
“Yes, but it is about time, honey,” chimes their mother. I reach back to squeeze Nathan’s forearm, hating myself for somehow joining the conspiracy to undermine him. Hating him for refusing to get angry. This is how these dinners go: Rich holds forth and Nathan is lovingly derided until I come to his defense.
“Anyway, I’m sure you think we’ll be in Tyvek forever,” Nathan says. “Including my wife.” He squeezes my collarbone. “But next fall, we’ll be done.”
“Or, at least moved in.” I amend, hoping to keep his promise within the realm of possibility. “And you guys can come up there for a change and leave the dirty dishes.” At this, Nathan leans over to kiss my cheek, Hannah watching intently from across the table.
“You look sexy,” he whispers. “How about messing around with me later on?”
But once we’re home and the girls finally asleep, I decide it’s time to talk about Hannah’s offenses, and he explodes, short-circuiting the remote possibility of romance.
“Why the hell hasn’t this come up? How long have you known she was in trouble?”
“I only found out about it last week, Nathan. And I don’t know that she’s really in trouble. It could just be normal eighth-grade stuff. Didn’t you ever get into mischief at that age?” I continue rearranging the refrigerator, making room for all the leftovers Shelly has plied us with.
“Hannah’s not the kind of kid to steal a teacher’s calculator so she can cheat on a math test!” he proclaims, banging a Tupperware container full of stuffing on the counter. “It’d be one thing if it was just grades, or boy trouble, but this just feels wrong. For her anyway.” He retrieves the cognac from the cupboard above the fridge, pours himself a glass, then offers me one. I decline. I feel uneasy enough without the blur of more alcohol.
“It doesn’t seem that outrageous, does it? I mean, think about what some of her friends are up to! Ursa Abbott was suspended for selling drugs, for Chrissake. And that Loughman girl—what’s her name?—who dropped out of school last year to have her illegitimate kid down in Florida?” I’m trying to sound unruffled by our daughter’s petty crimes, but deep down, I know he’s right. Hannah’s one of those kids who earns As despite her learning issues, leads community service projects and performs in the Nutcracker. I’m one of the moms other parents avoid at PTO meetings, because they don’t want to hear how great my kid’s doing. Sure, she’s had her problems: she talks too much on the phone, can’t sit still for five minutes, has a tendency to pick up “strays.” Her room looks like the tragic conclusion of a hurricane. And I’m not sure we’ll ever recover from her colicky infancy.
“Remember how she used to cry for five, six hours at a time?” Nathan asks, smiling thinly as if following my thoughts. “Remember what complete basket cases we were?”
I nod, recalling those early, brittle months, our nerves splintered, how we stumbled into the middle of every night in shifts, bouncing our bawling infant, how Nathan drove her for hours through the winding hills. How for eight heartbreaking days we attempted sleep training, gripping each other in bed, weeping together while our tiny daughter shrieked into the dawn.
“She’s always been high-strung,” I tell him. “She’s just wired that way.”
“So, Sylvie,” he scowls. “Are we supposed to feel smug because other people’s kids are in worse shape?”
“That’s not what I was—”
“We’re supposed to be reassured because she hasn’t had her first abortion yet, or what?” He slumps onto a stool at the counter, drops his head into his hands. I can almost see the disenchantments of his forty-five years—our house, his job, the intricate knots of family, the endless toil tugging his tendons, failure’s shadow stalking him. I resist my habitual impulse to squeeze his shoulder, run my fingers over his spiky hair. I can’t bear to touch him just now, with the memory of another man so freshly inscribed in my skin cells. And not for the first time, I’m seized by a sickening urge to confess—why not just have out with everything? Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and discover Tai’s heart-shaped agate nestled against my groin. The edginess that’s gripped me of late takes hold again. I need a cigarette, a solitary walk in the dark.
“Let’s just see how things pan out,” I whisper, clutching my elbows. “In three weeks we’ll go to California for Christmas. Maybe seeing her grandma and cousins will snap her out of it. We can plan some special time with her, without Emmie.”
He’s silent now, looking at me sideways.
“Nathan? Don’t you think that’s a reasonable plan?”
“Yeah. Only, I’m not coming west with you.” He drains his glass, sets it on the counter.
“What?”
“Not this time—there’s just too much work to do on the house.”
“I see. And it doesn’t matter to you that my grandmother’s dying? That you may not—”
“No offense, Sylvie, but your gram has been ‘dying’ for the past ten years.”
“I think this is different.” My rage is bubbling to the surface now, laced with ten years’ worth of quarrels in this kitchen, the slow erosion of hope.
“We haven’t seen my family for four years. We haven’t even—”
“I know. Look, I can come Christmas day if you want. But it seems nuts to spend six days, when there’s so much to do at the site.” He isn’t saying anything about how far we’ve been sliding, how distant he feels, but I see it in his closed-door expression, the tilt of his jaw, arms clenched protectively over his heart. Maybe he senses my betrayal, the way a dog smells fear.
“Okay,” I finally say. “I’m not going to force you to come.” The truth is, part of me is relieved. Part of me needs the extra bubble of space his absence wi
ll provide—space in the bed beside me, space for my mind to wander and spin, space for missing Tai.
Now he’s cataloging all the tasks he wants to accomplish over the holidays, all the things needing his attention more than the girls and I: milling up the trim, laying the mudroom tiles…. The list goes on, unrealistic as ever, and my restiveness builds to a painful pitch. I lace up my boots, rummage in the cubbies for mittens.
“You going somewhere?” Nathan pauses in his diatribe.
“Just for a walk.”
“Another walk, huh? I think I’ll catch a few scores then.”
“You do that. Have a nice sleep on the sofa.”
“Oh, Sylvie. Cut me some slack, for Chrissake.”
But before we can get into it, I’m busting out the door, rushing into the night. November air slaps my cheeks as I squint at distant constellations, fumbling to light one of the cigarettes Tai has left with me. Then I inhale deeply, as if taking my first real breath after a long dive underwater. I move fast in the darkness, wishing I had a dog to justify all this walking to the neighbors who pass me in their cars, or peer out their windows. The moon casts an ephemeral light on the Fullers’ barn, the abandoned paper mill, the Lutheran church spire, the distant black line of the Berkshires just beyond town.
In Tai’s bed next week, I’ll feel myself begin to sink beneath the questions and conversations, beneath guilt and silence, flesh and floorboards, beneath years of erasure and disenchantment, beneath the wild frozen earth to a time before everything came apart.
1975
ONE SUNDAY MORNING IN APRIL, MY FATHER WOKE US all early and said he had a surprise—just the thing our family needed—and we had to get out of bed and get moving. He looked a little crazed. He clearly hadn’t slept much, seemed wired on coffee and was cultivating a beard that now covered his face in random, silvery-black patches.
The three of us dressed as quickly as we could and squeezed into the Corvette, my mother sending Ali and me worried glances. The last time Dad had done something like this, three years back, it turned out he’d bought a dairy farm in Modesto that went bankrupt within months. Lately, he’d been talking about wanting to buy his own winery.
Outside the Ordinary World Page 19
