Far-Flung

by Peter Cameron

  Then he asks about Ellery and Carly—I lie and say they’re both doing fine—and then he asks about the house. I lie again and tell him someone’s about to make an offer.

  We talk for a while and then Leonard tells me again how much I will love the house; he bangs the telephone on the floor so I can hear the green slate tiles in the kitchen, and then he starts to hang up.

  “Leonard?” I say.

  “What?” he says.

  “Wait,” I say. I’m not sure how I’m going to say what I know I want to say next. We both listen to the static for a moment.

  “I don’t think I’m going to come,” I finally say, listening to my voice unravel across all those miles of cold, dark cable.

  “What?” Leonard says.

  “Maybe it would better if Ellery and I stayed here.”

  “What are you talking about?” Leonard asks. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s happened. But Ellery doesn’t want to move. I think that’s good, don’t you? I mean, I think he’s a little happier here, now. He went on a date tonight.”

  “Really?” Leonard says. “That’s wonderful, great, but that doesn’t mean you can’t come to the Philippines, Arlene. That’s crazy.”

  “I know,” I say. “But … maybe you can get transferred back, or something …”

  “Arlene, I’ve taken this job. I’ve got to stay here at least a year, now. At least. I owe them that. And this house …”

  “I know,” I say. “I know that. But it will be O.K. A year … I mean, it will only be for a year. That’s not too long.”

  “What are you saying? I don’t believe this,” Leonard says. “What’s happening, Arlene? What about us? I miss you.”

  “Stop calling me Arlene,” I say. Whenever Leonard talks to me on the phone, he keeps inserting my name into the conversation, as if, since he can’t see me, he might forget who he’s talking to.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing. I miss you, too,” I say. “I do. But …”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t think I can move again,” I say.

  “But Arlene—honey—you’re the one who wanted to get the hell away … this was your idea.”

  This is true, but it’s not the point. I think for a moment, and then, carefully, say, “No. Not without Ellery.”

  Leonard doesn’t say anything. I listen to our chorus of static.

  “Well, this is a real shock,” he finally says. “I’m going to have to think about this. Have you thought about this?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I mean, not really. Ellery just told me.”

  “Well, why don’t we both think about this then? Maybe there’s another way to work this. I’ll call again tomorrow.”

  “That sounds good,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Leonard says. He pauses. “Is Ellery there? Can I talk to him?”

  “He’s sleeping,” I say. “Do you want me to wake him?”

  “Oh, no,” says Leonard. “Don’t wake him up. Tell him I said …”

  “What?”

  “Tell him I said hi,” Leonard says. “Tell him I love him.”

  After I hang up the phone I let Carly out and stand in the dark backyard with her, watching her squat. I walk down the slope to the clothesline and take down the sheets that have been hanging for a couple of days. They still smell clean, and they feel cool, slightly damp. I think about putting them on my bed: It would be a little like sleeping outdoors. Carly, disoriented, starts to whimper. Her eyesight is especially bad at night. I call her. She walks over to me and inserts her muzzle between my legs: Safe.

  We go through the house and I turn all the lights off, burglars or not. I make my bed with the clean, cool sheets, but instead of attempting to sleep, I go into Ellery’s room. He doesn’t wear his sunglasses in bed. I was very relieved, the first night I came in here, to discover that. It makes it not so bad, somehow. That may sound sick, but you have to measure these things. It’s how you bear it. Ellery is lying on his back, his arms akimbo, with one loosely curled fist resting in each eye socket, as if even in sleep there is some bright light he cannot bear.

  But it’s O.K. I take his hands by their unscathed wrists and gently move them to his side. Ellery doesn’t wake up; he assimilates this gesture into the narrative of his dream. His exposed eyelids flicker with secret vision.

  WHAT?

  RUTH WAS VARNISHING the guest room table. She dipped a rag in the pail of amber-colored syrup and stroked the wood, moved it across the top and then down the legs, palming the thin spindles. It’s like washing a child, she thought: a child standing up in the bathtub, waiting to sit down and rinse off. She took her time, caressing one leg, then another, letting the varnish soak in. When the fourth leg was done she was disappointed to see the tabletop had lost its wonderful wet gleam. Another coat.

  She was on the third, thinking, I can’t do this forever, when she heard Joanna arrive with Virgil. Virgil was their dog—well, her dog, now. Joanna had borrowed him for her vacation on Block Island. Two weeks ago Ruth had driven Virgil to the Columbus airport for his flight to Boston. Joanna paid for it all. It was almost as expensive to fly a dog as it was to fly yourself.

  Ruth had thought about saying no, forget it, Virgil stays with me, but she hadn’t. She knew that Virgil had been waiting for the ocean. Every summer for the six years she and Joanna had been together, Virgil had swum in the surf and chased gulls, and it didn’t seem fair to deprive him this late in life. Plus, Ruth had thought, having Virgil there is a little like me being there: There’s no way Joanna can help thinking about me, seeing Virgil every day. Or so she hoped.

  So Ruth had got tranquilizers from the vet and shipped Virgil east. He arrived so traumatized it took him a couple of days just to walk straight. Joanna couldn’t subject him to another flight, so Virgil got driven back to Ohio. That Joanna was kind to animals infuriated Ruth.

  The car stopped in front of the house; Ruth heard Virgil bark, and clack up the front steps. Joanna knocked at the front door of the house they had bought together. Jesus, Ruth thought: She knocked.

  “Come in,” she shouted. “I’m up here.” She returned to the table. She hadn’t seen Joanna in ten months, and she wanted to be discovered in action.

  “Hi,” Joanna called, but she didn’t come right up. She went into the kitchen and filled a bowl of water for Virgil. Ruth heard Virgil’s slurping.

  “Virgil,” she called. He bounded up the stairs. He was happy to see her. Ruth had to pet him with the inside of her wrists because her hands were sticky with varnish. She rubbed his fur. She kissed him.

  Joanna stood in the doorway and watched their reunion. She was drinking a glass of water, taking tiny sips. Ruth remembered: She always does that, gulps one glass fast and then sips the second.

  “What are you doing?” Joanna asked, nodding at the table.

  “I was trying to varnish this,” Ruth said. “But it won’t stay shiny.”

  “It probably needs another coat,” said Joanna.

  “I’ve already done three.”

  “Did you prime it?”

  Ruth shook her head no.

  “It probably needs to be sealed. And you should be using a brush, not a rag.”

  Ruth wondered if Joanna knew what she was talking about. She doubted it. “How was the vacation?” she asked.

  “Good,” Joanna said.

  “Were the Goerrings there?”

  “Of course,” said Joanna, a little tersely, for she hated stupid questions. But she softened. “They asked for you,” she said.

  “Did you fish?” All Ruth could think of were stupid questions.

  Joanna swirled the water in her glass for a second, studying it. “I don’t think I want to talk about my vacation,” she said.

  “Oh,” Ruth said.

  “Did you make me a reservation at the inn?”

  “No,” Ruth said.

  “What do you mean? I asked you to.”
/>   “I called,” Ruth lied. “They’re full. It’s the music festival.” It was the music festival: That wasn’t a lie. And the inn was always full during the festival. Everyone knew that.

  “What about the Travelodge?”

  “I’m sure that’s full, too. Anyway, don’t be absurd. You can stay here. I made up this bed.” Ruth pointed to the guest room bed.

  “I told you I didn’t want to stay here.”

  “It’s just one night,” Ruth said. She hid her face in Virgil’s neck. He smelled of skunk. She waited for Joanna to say something, but she didn’t.

  “He got sprayed?” Ruth asked.

  “The other night.” They looked at each other for a second. Joanna said, “I’ll go get my bag.”

  They ate outside in the dark. Ruth had prepared a meal that was a variation of their usual summer suppers, the same ingredients, but with everything presented just a little differently so the similarity wouldn’t be too overt.

  “How has your summer been?” Joanna asked.

  “Fine,” Ruth said.

  “How’s the book?”

  “It’s coming.” Ruth was writing a book about women’s war fiction. The title was The Damaged and the Less Damaged. “How’s yours?” she asked.

  “I’ve found a publisher,” Joanna said.

  “It’s finished?” Ruth poured more wine into her glass. In the dark she poured more than she normally would.

  “No,” Joanna said. “But they saw the chapter in World Affairs.” Joanna’s was a book about hostages through history.

  “Who bought it?” Ruth asked.

  “Norton.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Ruth said. “Congratulations.” She could see Joanna smiling. In a way Ruth hated her, but only in a way. It was an intense, flaring hate she couldn’t sustain. Mostly she still loved her. Or something like love—love’s unidentical, ugly twin: the genes the same, their formation, somehow, askew.

  “I’m sure you’ll find somebody for yours,” Joanna said. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Yes,” Ruth said.

  “So things are going well?”

  Ruth shrugged and shook her head. Things were not going well.

  “Good,” Joanna said, mistaking her gesture. “I’m glad.”

  They were quiet, listening to the night. The trees were thick with foliage and droning insects, rehearsing for something big. If she were going to say something she should say it now, Ruth thought. This was her chance. She wanted to know when Joanna had stopped loving her. Had she taken the new job in Boston and then stopped, as she claimed, or had she stopped and, consequently, taken the new job? Ruth felt that, if she understood the chronology, all the other questions, the why and the how and the (perhaps) who, all of them would become clear, or cease to matter. What she couldn’t stand was looking back, and not knowing when.

  “It was very kind of you to drive Virgil home,” she said.

  “Well, I couldn’t have put him back on a plane. It would have been inhuman.”

  Virgil, who had been sleeping beneath the picnic table, roused himself at the sound of his name.

  “I’m going to miss him,” Joanna said.

  “You could get another dog.”

  “Not really. Not in an apartment.”

  “You could get a cat.”

  “I could.” Joanna began examining Virgil’s ears for ticks.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” Ruth asked.

  Joanna looked up at her. “What?” she said.

  Ruth repeated her question. In the dark it was easy: You just looked down and away and spoke.

  “No,” Joanna said.

  She’s lying, Ruth thought.

  “What about you?” Joanna asked.

  Ruth shook her head.

  “What about Tamar?” Joanna asked.

  Tamar was in Slavic Languages. “What about her?”

  Joanna had returned her attention to Virgil’s ears. “I just thought you might, you know, be interested in Tamar.”

  “No,” Ruth said. “Besides, I don’t think she’s gay.”

  Joanna laughed.

  “I’m sure she’s not,” said Ruth. “Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It would if you were interested in her.”

  “I’m not,” Ruth said.

  Joanna completed her search by ruffling Virgil’s ears. “Finito,” she said.

  “Did you find any?” Ruth asked.

  “No. But he got a lot on the island.” Joanna sat back in her chair, and looked about the dark backyard. “How’s the garden doing?” she asked.

  “Fine,” said Ruth. In the dark it looked as if it might be doing fine.

  “Could I take some tomatoes back?” Joanna stood up and walked down toward the garden fence.

  Ruth followed. “I don’t think there are any left,” she said. “I’ve picked all the good ones.”

  “Have you? Already?”

  “Yes,” said Ruth. Up close, in the moonlight, the garden looked a mess. She could sense Joanna’s not commenting, her wanting to go in and set it all to rights: prune and tie and weed. There is something ruthless about gardening, Ruth thought. It’s not natural.

  “I canned all the tomatoes,” she lied.

  “Did you really?” said Joanna.

  “Yes. I want to make sauces this winter,” Ruth said. “I plan to do a lot of entertaining.”

  “You’ll have to give me a jar,” said Joanna.

  “Yes,” said Ruth. “They’re in the pantry.” She’ll forget, she thought; she forgets everything.

  Joanna loitered at the garden’s edge.

  Ruth said, “You must be tired. All that driving.”

  “I am,” Joanna said. “I think I’ll go to bed.” She looked up at the stars. She seemed about to say something.

  Ruth stood still, waiting.

  “Good night,” Joanna said.

  There were no canned tomatoes in the pantry. There was very little of anything in the pantry, Joanna noticed. She turned out the pantry light and looked around the kitchen. There were several pictures of Devon and Denise, Ruth’s nephew and niece, stuck to the refrigerator. Joanna looked at them. They both looked older and less cute. Devon had braces.

  Joanna did the dishes she had brought in from outside. Through the kitchen window she could see Ruth sitting at the picnic table, drinking wine and talking to Virgil. It was obvious that she was drunk. This is why I didn’t want to stay here, Joanna thought, I didn’t want to see this. But she could not look away. It was like one of those violent, fascinating traffic accidents you pass on the highway: debacles you feel compelled, against your better judgment, to observe.

  Ruth lay in bed, watching the small, mean hours of the morning go by. At four o’clock she got out of bed. She’d sit in the living room. Maybe Joanna was having trouble sleeping, too. Maybe if she heard her, she’d get up. They could drive out to Dairy Maid for breakfast.

  Virgil followed her down the hall. They paused outside the guest room door. Ruth stood for a moment clasping its knob. It was a beautiful knob: cut glass. They had found them in the attic when they bought the house, and restored them.

  Ruth opened the door. The moonlight was sudden and bright: It looked as if it had just been turned on. Joanna slept on her stomach, her head mashed into the pillow, her freshly tanned skin dark against the sheets. For a long moment Ruth just stood there, watching.

  Joanna raised herself on her arms and turned her head toward them. “What?” she said.

  Ruth just stood there.

  “What?” Joanna repeated.

  Ruth knew she had to say something. “When did you stop?” she asked.

  “Stop what?”

  “Loving me,” Ruth said.

  Joanna sunk back into the bed, and then just as quickly threw the sheet aside and swung herself to the floor. Her nakedness was too sudden to be erotic. She began to dress.

  “What are you doing?” Ruth asked.

  “I’m leaving,” Joanna said. “
I never should have stayed here.”

  “Don’t leave,” Ruth said. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—I mean, go back to bed. Please, just go back to bed.”

  Joanna was shoving things in her bag. “I’m leaving,” she said.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Ruth said.

  “I’m leaving,” Joanna repeated.

  “You can’t drive now. You’re still tired. You’ll have an accident.”

  “I’ve already had an accident,” Joanna said. “This is an accident.”

  She squeezed by Ruth and ran down the stairs. Ruth and Virgil both followed. The grass was wet. Joanna threw her bag into the car through the open window and then walked around to the driver’s side.

  Virgil began to bark. Ruth held his collar, which only made him bark louder. He pawed at the side of the car. He wanted, to get in. He wanted to go.

  “Virgil, no,” Ruth yelled. “No, Virgil, no.”

  Joanna started the car. She had to back down the long driveway, the headlights shining out at Ruth, at her holding Virgil with both hands now, Virgil barking and lunging toward the departing car, their shadows cast behind them onto the scrim of darkness. Joanna turned the headlights off. She backed away without seeing.

  After a while Virgil was quiet. It was as if he knew math: Each bark seemed to be interspersed with twice as much silence as its predecessor. When he was done he lay down in the driveway, exhausted from barking and lunging. I wish I were a dog, Ruth thought. I wish I were a dog who could bark bark bark and then be done. She lay down in the driveway beside Virgil. He did not find this odd. He extended his paw and touched her arm.

  After a while it was very quiet. Or rather it was no more quiet than it had been but the quietness asserted itself. It came into focus. After a while you couldn’t help but be aware of the quiet, no matter what else you were thinking.

  If I lie here long enough the sun will rise, Ruth thought. She lay with her ear to the ground, hearing nothing, but thinking of Indians and railroads and buffalo and the car driving away and Joanna in the car. Above her were stars. They were bright and confused. They were crowding the sky. The more you looked the more you saw. So after a while she stopped looking. She closed her eyes.