by Lorrie Moore
“I could never grow asparagus,” said Adrienne. As a child, her favorite food had been “asparagus with holiday sauce.”
“I did grow a carrot once, though. But it was so small, I just put it in a scrapbook.”
“Are you still seeing Ilke?”
“This week, at any rate. How about you?”
“She’s booked solid. I couldn’t get another appointment. All the scholars, you know, are paying her regular visits.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes,” said Kate very knowingly. “They’re tense as dimes.” Already Adrienne could smell the fumes of the Fiats and the ferries and delivery vans, the Asparagus Festival far away.
“Tense as dimes?”
Back at the villa, Adrienne waited for Martin, and when he came in, smelling of sandalwood, all the little deaths in her bones told her this: he was seeing the masseuse.
She sniffed the sweet parabola of his neck and stepped back. “I want to know how long you’ve been getting massages. Don’t lie to me,” she said slowly, her voice hard as a spike. Anxiety shrank his face: his mouth caved in, his eyes grew beady and scared.
“What makes you think I’ve been getting—” he started to say. “Well, just once or twice.”
She leapt away from him and began pacing furiously about the room, touching the furniture, not looking at him. “How could you?” she asked. “You know what my going there has meant to me! How could you not tell me?” She picked up a book on the dressing table—Industrial Relations Systems—and slammed it back down. “How could you horn in on this experience? How could you be so furtive and untruthful?”
“I am terribly sorry,” he said.
“Yeah, well, so am I,” said Adrienne. “And when we get home, I want a divorce.” She could see it now, the empty apartment, the bad eggplant parmigiana, all the Halloweens she would answer the doorbell, a boozy divorcée frightening the little children with too much enthusiasm for their costumes. “I feel so fucking dishonored!” Nothing around her seemed able to hold steady; nothing held.
Martin was silent and she was silent and then he began to speak, in a beseeching way, there it was the beseech again, rumbling at the edge of her life like a truck. “We are both so lonely here,” he said. “But I have only been waiting for you. That is all I have done for the last eight months. To try not to let things intrude, to let you take your time, to make sure you ate something, to buy the goddamn Spearsons a new picnic bench, to bring you to a place where anything at all might happen, where you might even leave me, but at least come back into life at last—”
“You did?”
“Did what?”
“You bought the Spearsons a new picnic bench?”
“Yes, I did.”
She thought about this. “Didn’t they think you were being hostile?”
“Oh … I think, yes, they probably thought it was hostile.”
And the more Adrienne thought about it, about the poor bereaved Spearsons, and about Martin and all the ways he tried to show her he was on her side, whatever that meant, how it was both the hope and shame of him that he was always doing his best, the more she felt foolish, deprived of reasons. Her rage flapped awkwardly away like a duck. She felt as she had when her cold, fierce parents had at last grown sick and old, stick-boned and saggy, protected by infirmity the way cuteness protected a baby, or should, it should protect a baby, and she had been left with her rage—vestigial girlhood rage—inappropriate and intact. She would hug her parents good-bye, the gentle, emptied sacks of them, and think Where did you go?
Time, Adrienne thought. What a racket.
Martin had suddenly begun to cry. He sat at the bed’s edge and curled inward, his soft, furry face in his great hard hands, his head falling downward into the bright plaid of his shirt.
She felt dizzy and turned away, toward the window. A fog had drifted in, and in the evening light the sky and the lake seemed a singular blue, like a Monet. “I’ve never seen you cry,” she said.
“Well, I cry,” he said. “I can even cry at the sports page if the games are too close. Look at me, Adrienne. You never really look at me.”
But she could only continue to stare out the window, touching her fingers to the shutters and frame. She felt far away, as if she were back home, walking through the neighborhood at dinnertime: when the cats sounded like babies and the babies sounded like birds, and the fathers were home from work, their children in their arms gumming the language, air shaping their flowery throats into a park of singing. Through the windows wafted the smell of cooking food.
“We are with each other now,” Martin was saying. “And in the different ways it means, we must try to make a life.”
Out over the Sfondrata chapel tower, where the fog had broken, she thought she saw a single star, like the distant nose of a jet; there were people in the clayey clouds. She turned, and for a moment it seemed they were all there in Martin’s eyes, all the absolving dead in residence in his face, the angel of the dead baby shining like a blazing creature, and she went to him, to protect and encircle him, seeking the heart’s best trick, oh, terrific heart. “Please, forgive me,” she said.
And he whispered, “Of course. It is the only thing. Of course.”
New from
Lorrie Moore
A Gate at the Stairs
Lorrie Moore’s brilliant new novel, A Gate at the Stairs, depicts a young woman from a small midwestern farm coming of age. But under the novel’s languid, easy-going surface, Moore’s writing brings us up against the heart of racism, the shock of war, and the recklessness thrust on others in the name of love.
Available September 2009 in hardcover from Knopf
$25.95 • 336 pages • 978-0-375-40928-8
Please visit www.aaknopf.com
