4
Autumn came as an azure tribute to the fading summer, the deep blue sky warm and endless over the Eilenberg clinic. The low, cream-colored walls of the institution were dappled by the moving shadows of low-bending oak trees.
Janice was long familiar with the grounds. She nodded briefly to a nurse as she made her way to the clinic gardens. Bees still hovered around the faded flowers but there was a sensation of aridity, even sterility, and the dust rose upward, chalk white, as she walked into the garden.
Bill sat on an iron bench, a book on his lap. He had lost weight. His white shirt fluttered in the breeze. He was still very pale, and his red bedroom slippers looked like symbols of illness against the white dusty path. He looked up as he sensed her coming. As always, the direct contact of his eyes made her uneasy. He had become someone else, a broken-hearted, altered image of the man she had known and loved.
He smiled. The lips quivered.
“Hello, Bill,” Janice said gently, and kissed him on the forehead.
She sat down next to him and looked at the book in his lap. The type was small and she could not make out the words. It looked like stanzas of poetry. Bill fidgeted with the pages, as though he were very nervous.
“I feel much better,” he said, his voice husky. “But sometimes I get dizzy.”
Janice put her hand on his and smiled. She was gratified that he did not withdraw it.
“Oh, Bill,” she whispered. “It’s so wonderful to hear your voice!”
Bill’s hands trembled, like an old man’s. Janice wondered what powerful emotions surged through the thin frame. He looked up at the oak trees beyond the pink gravel driveway.
“Birds,” he said gruffly. “Like music.”
“Yes, Bill, I can hear them; oh, my, but it’s good to hear you speak.”
Suddenly embarrassed, he stood awkwardly, grasping his book. He looked as though he did not know whether to sit down or to walk down the garden path. Janice looked at the cover.
“John Keats,” she marveled. “Why, Bill, you never read poetry.”
Bill smiled. He had lost so much weight that his cheekbones were unnaturally prominent.
“Dr. Geddes makes me read,” he said hesitantly. “It feels good to read about some things.”
“Yes. Read to me, Bill. Let me hear your voice some more.”
Awkward, Bill licked his lips, and read:
“We are such forest trees that our fair boughs Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves But eagles golden-feathered, who do tower Above us in their beauty….”
Overcome, Bill closed the book, but kept his finger in it to mark the place.
“We did give birth to an eagle,” he said slowly. “You and I. Ivy was the most beautiful, the most courageous…”
He stopped. She tried to brush away the moisture from his eyes, but he pushed her hand aside. They rose, walked in silence, into the bright heat of the afternoon.
Janice felt his gait grow confused, like an old man’s. She led him as quickly as she could toward the entrance to the garden and signaled to a passing nurse. The nurse came quickly, put Bill’s left arm over her own shoulder, and assisted him to a bench in the shade of the clinic roof.
“I don’t know what happened,” Janice said, suddenly frightened. “All of a sudden, his knees began buckling.”
“He’s still in a kind of postshock syndrome,” the nurse said matter-of-factly. “Conversation actually takes a lot out of him.”
They set Bill down in front of the window to the lobby. He apologized weakly, coughed once, then blew his nose into a clean handkerchief. Janice suddenly realized that he looked like an old man, too.
“It’s quite normal,” the nurse assured her. “Every day he gains a bit more strength.”
“Right now I couldn’t lift a finger,” Bill whispered hoarsely. “Christ, I feel all sucked out.”
Janice sat down next to him. “Don’t speak, darling,” she said gently. “Would you like me to read to you?”
He nodded, then closed his eyes, settling his head against the window behind him. The nurse, who had picked up the book from the driveway, handed it to her. Janice nodded her thanks, then opened up to a well-worn passage:
“Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve.”
Janice looked up at a strange sound. Bill’s lips were moving, and in a feathery whisper he completed the stanza with deep sorrow, tinged with a delicacy she had never seen in him before.
“She cannot fade,” Bill whispered, “though thou hast not thy bliss; Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!”
Bill sighed deeply. The nurse and Janice watched him, for he smiled without opening his eyes.
“Do you believe that, Janice?” he asked softly. “That Ivy will be forever loved, and forever beautiful? I do. I’ll never forget the color of her eyes… the way she ran… never…”
“Nor I, Bill,” Janice whispered, leaning closer, squeezing his heavy hand.
Bill fell into a light sleep. When he awoke later, with an embarrassed jerk, he had no memory of reading poetry in the garden. Instead, he, Janice, and Dr. Geddes discussed the terms of his leaving the clinic. Tentatively, they arrived at a figure of about six weeks.
Privately, Dr. Geddes reminded Janice not to nurture false hopes. Bill was infinitely better, but only in spurts. He still needed time to grow a solid foundation for his thoughts.
“By the way,” Janice said, as she was leaving, “Bill said you encourage him to read poetry. Is that true? He asked me to bring him some.”
“Yes, a very good idea,” Dr. Geddes said. “Nothing explicit. Nothing violent. But the subject of death is all right. Lovely thoughts about it. Bit by bit, Bill is coming to terms with his emotions, releasing them, diffusing them.”
“Anything in particular?”
“A little of everything. The more variety, the better.”
Janice returned home on the 5:25 evening train. It was already twilight, though unseasonably warm. She stopped at the library, and without thinking much about what she was picking up, collected a small armful of verse that dealt in elegies, dramas of Shakespeare, and even farces translated from French. Anything that would stimulate Bill’s mind, so long fallow and destitute. Exhausted, she dropped the books in a heap on the couch at home and sat staring at her watercolor layouts.
“She cannot fade,” Janice quoted dreamily, remembering Bill, “though thou hast not her bliss, Forever wilt thou love, Bill, and Ivy be fair!”
She rose, suddenly remembering she had one book left from months ago, from Hoover. She found it in her desk drawer. It was the Bhagavad Gita, a slim blue volume, published in London in 1796. Opening it, Janice smiled. The poetry of Eastern resignation. Like honey, the words flowed, half insensible, often contradictory, in what must assuredly be a ludicrous translation, like Victorian English put through a meat grinder. She recognized a few suitable phrases of comfort.
Hesitating for a long while, Janice held it poised over the fallen pile of books on the couch. At long last, the room grown darker already with the onset of the dry night, the slim blue volume lay with the others, and Janice forgot about it.
On Friday evening, Bill telephoned. He sounded tired at first, then the confidence returned to his voice.
“This clinic has lousy central heating,” he said. “It’s cold all the time.”
“Could I bring you a sweater, darling?”
“I’d appreciate that,” Bill said. “And remember those slipper socks your mother sent me for my birthday? I could use those, too.”
“I will. Oh, Bill, how sweet of you to call.”
Bill’s voice changed, almost imperceptibly. Probably Janice was the only human being on the face of the earth who could have noticed it, or understood what it really meant.
“I’ve been missing you,” he said simply.
“I—Me, too, Bill. I
t’s been so long.”
“Not having you around is really the worst thing in the world. Dr. Geddes tells me that maybe I could start coming home—for a night, a weekend—something like that.”
“I’d like that, Bill. I can’t tell you how much I would.”
“It sure is good to hear you say that. After all we’ve been through, you know, I wasn’t sure. I mean, it must have been terrible for you—having to put up with all my…” His voice drifted.
Janice reassured him, but he began to repeat himself. His voice grew weaker, and he pulled himself together, only to wish her good-night. Then he hung up. The apartment rang with silence.
It was an apartment waiting for someone. But whether that someone would ever come, whether it could really start all over again, with even half a faith in living, remained to be seen. For the moment, Janice was content that Bill was coming home, and that Ivy had entered his thoughts once more, and that he was overcoming his guilt and fear.
The next time she saw him, he was in a large room converted by the clinic to a kind of gymnasium. He was dressed in woolen pants with a drawstring, white slippers, and a gray sweatshirt, and he was pressing weights upward in rhythmic concentration.
Slowly, he put the long barbell back into the iron slot, ducked under, ran to her and wrapped his arms around her.
“How are you, darling?” he said, kissing her. “I bet I smell real good, don’t I?”
“Just terrific, Bill.”
“Why don’t you keep me company while I shower?”
“Are you sure that’s allowed?”
Bill laughed infectiously, wiping the sweat from his red face.
“You’re probably right about that, Janice.”
Bill disappeared inside, then poked his head out.
“Back in fifteen,” he called.
She waved to him, then stepped slowly across the mats on the floor, over two dumbbells that clanked when she accidentally hit against them. Ropes were suspended from a rafter, and there was a kind of machine to sit in and row simultaneously.
Dr. Geddes came down in his jogging shorts and a blue-striped jacket. He seemed surprised to see her.
“I guess I shouldn’t be here,” Janice said.
“Well, in your case, we’ll bend the rules,” he said, smiling broadly, coming closer. “What do you think? I mean, about Bill?”
“It’s wonderful. You’ve done miracles. I can’t believe the changes.”
“Well, he’s got a tremendous desire to get back together. And this physical exercise improves concentration, promotes self-confidence.”
Janice stepped closer to Dr. Geddes. He caught the changed expression and listened closely.
“Bill telephoned last Friday,” she said. “He wants to come home. For a night or two.”
“I know. Is that all right with you?”
“I would like that,” she said, flushing slightly, “but I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for him to leave.”
Dr. Geddes considered for a moment.
“I think it should be tried,” he said. “Bill wants to leave, and I’d like to promote that. Gradually. He’s still a little dislocated.”
“I just wanted to hear you say that, I guess.”
Bill came from the far end of the makeshift gymnasium carrying his favorite sweater, a thin gray pullover that had holes under both arms and was unraveled in five places at the bottom.
“Are you two conspiring against me?” he asked genially.
Dr. Geddes opened his mouth to answer but Janice cut him off, saying, “We were just saying that you look so fine.”
Bill laughed, but it was a trifle forced, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Come on,” he said, taking Janice’s arm. “Don’t keep staring at me. I’ve got a whole picnic planned.”
“A picnic?” Janice said, surprised and delighted.
Together, Janice and Bill went to his room, where Bill picked up a wicker basket heavy with wrapped sandwiches and a bottle of red wine, plates, and printed napkins. Bill stuffed in his blanket. Janice watched Bill working feverishly, pathetically determined to show her a good time.
He escorted her from the clinic and out to the grounds. They slipped under the wooden fence and walked up the long, hard meadow toward the crest of the hill, holding hands. A bitter wind blew into their faces; Janice wrapped her sweater around her throat, but Bill faced the dark, rolling clouds with only a white shirt, his sweater tucked into his belt, until they crested the hill.
Down below, Ossining was tucked into a series of hollows, dull gray trucks groveling up narrow roads, and a bank of century-old warehouses beyond a clump of nearly denuded trees.
Bill’s hand reached for hers and squeezed slowly, sadly. He smiled—a smile of deep, bitter resignation. He pulled her down slowly onto the blanket he had spread under two intertwined oak trees, shielded from the wind. They looked back down the brittle stalks of dead grass to where the clinic occupied a flat space beyond the fences.
“I love you, Janice,” Bill whispered, and kissed her gently on the lips.
“And I love you, Bill.”
Janice caressed his forehead, and, to her surprise, it was beaded with perspiration despite the chill wind. Bill leaned forward suddenly and began unpacking the wicker basket.
“I’m starving,” he exclaimed. “You must be famished. Hey—I forgot the silverware. No, here it is! Good old Bill—finally wired together.”
“Beaujolais!” Janice exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”
“Geddes,” Bill said, brightening. “He got it for me in Ossining. Great man, Geddes.”
“Delicious!” she said, biting into a chicken sandwich.
Janice poured the Beaujolais into two metal cups. They drank slowly, looking into one another’s eyes.
Then Bill poured another cup. He held it up to make a toast.
“I was going to say—to Ivy,” he said uncertainly, “but, well, to our next Ivy—whoever she is—or he is.”
“To us, Bill. To you and to me and to our being together all over again.”
The second cup warmed them more than the first. Bill replenished the cups, and soon the wind blew in vain against the oak trees. The rain fell in long slants far away over the town, almost as though a hand of God had torn the underbelly of a ragged blue cloud and dragged it downward, releasing its pent-up tons of water.
“I feel a little nervous,” Bill confessed. “Sometimes I know I say things a little abruptly. You have to forgive me.”
“Of course I do, darling.”
“Thank you, Janice. If you only knew what I’ve been through, where I’ve been down deep inside. Hey, did you bring me any books?”
“Of course,” Janice said, crawling toward her bag. “I’d almost forgotten. I brought you a whole library.”
Janice reached in and dumped a handful of volumes beside her plate. Bill picked up several. He examined the titles.
“Twelfth Night?” he asked.
“It’s Shakespeare. It’s about the varieties of love.”
“Sounds good and racy. What’s this? Sonnets from the Portuguese?”
“Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”
Bill laughed.
“You always were trying to get me to like her. What about that blue one?”
“Where?”
“By the picnic basket.”
Janice hesitated. Slowly she picked it up, opened a few pages. Then she closed it again.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this one,” she said.
“Why not?”
Janice hesitated once more, then leaned closer to Bill.
“It was given to me by—” she began.
“Please,” he said. “Just read.”
Searching for the most comprehensible passage, Janice paged backward and forward through the thin volume. At last, and with misgivings, she began.
“‘If someone were to strike at the root of a large tree, it would bleed sap, but live. If he were to strike at its trunk, i
t would bleed sap, but live. If he were to strike at the topmost leaves, it would bleed sap, but live. Pervaded by the living substance, the tree would stand firm, drinking nourishment from the earth and the sun. Therefore, know this, that the body withers and yet the substance never dies.’”
Bill smiled.
“That’s like old what’s-his-name. John Keats. All that sentimental garbage. Read me some more.”
Bill closed his eyes, folded his arms behind his neck, and listened. Warming to her role, Janice read on with more expression, a soothing, almost maternal voice.
“‘Of what is not,’” she read, “‘there is no coming to be. Nor is there destruction of what is. Know, therefore, that all is indestructible, and pervaded by the imperishable.’”
Bill laughed gleefully.
“What wonderful bilge,” he chortled. “Go on, Janice. Let me dream away.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“It all sounds like bilge to me. But it sounds good. Go on.”
Paging ahead, Janice continued. “‘Bodies come to an end, Yet the eternal embodied soul of the universe, Is indestructible and unfathomable, Unborn, eternal, everlasting, that ancient soul, That is not slain when the body is slain.’”
Janice stopped reading. Bill’s silence unnerved her. She regretted having brought the book, and, having brought it, she regretted reading it now.
“You got that from those loonies in the orange robes, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Janice lied.
“Well, I’m not afraid of them. Go on.”
“Bill, I’m terribly sorry. It was a bad mistake—”
“I said, read on. It’s only words.”
“Bill, are you really sure you want me to?” she asked plaintively.
“Sure. What the hell, Janice. I’ve learned a lot these last few weeks. I’ve learned it’s better to be alive than dead. It’s better to look up than down. So go ahead. I’m not afraid.”
Janice bit her lip, then gave in, and paged ahead to another section. She nestled in against Bill’s side, feeling his warmth and the expansion of his breathing. He moved and slid his left arm over her shoulder, still looking dreamily at the sky.
For Love of Audrey Rose Page 6
