He shook his head. “This is crazy. We don’t understand each other.”
“Yes, we do—”
“You think what we have is a relationship? You think we owe each other something? We’re thrown together because of a horrible tragedy, and you think either one of us is undamaged enough to have a bond?”
“I think you like me. And I like you.”
“I do like you—”
“I said that wrong.” She sucked in a breath. “I think maybe you more than like me. And I think the real reason you won’t leave with me is that then you’d have to admit that you actually might be capable of loving someone else, and that terrifies you because of what you lost.”
“You’re crazy. What is this, something you learned in your psychology class?”
“You have to let it go—you have to open yourself up. Tell me that what I’m saying isn’t true. Tell me this isn’t all about protecting yourself, that you aren’t starting to have real feelings for me. I can admit it, even though it scares me, too.”
“I’m not protecting myself,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at her.
“You just said that you are with your body language, the way you jumped out of bed so quickly this morning, the way you’re sitting there so rigid you might as well have steel bars in all your bones. You don’t let yourself feel your feelings. You just—”
“Charlotte, for Christ’s sake!” When she tried to touch him, he jerked away. “You think you get to finish what Lucy started? That I couldn’t love her but I’ll love you? You think we’re going to save each other, is that it? Rewrite the script and get a happy ending? It doesn’t work that way.”
“So what happens to us, then?” she said.
“You go to Boston and I go back to work. That’s what happens.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s not real. It’s built out of Lucy, our grief. It was a moment—a lovely moment—but now it’s time to get back to our lives. Mine is here, and yours is in Boston.”
“A moment? Is that what you think? Is this all you want? You have this little life here, this little job, this little heart—”
“You don’t think you have a little life, too?” he said. “Always taking care of everyone else, using that as an excuse not to really focus on yourself, on what you want. Not to risk anything.”
“I’m telling you how I feel about you. You think that’s not a risk?”
“You want something I can’t give you.”
“Really?” she said. “Say you don’t have any feelings for me. Go ahead. Say it.”
She had her arms folded around her body, as if any moment she might fly away. Her hair was falling into her eyes, and he wanted to brush it away, but what good would that do? Instead he jammed his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have any feelings for you,” he said.
She turned and went back to the bedroom, and he could hear her zipping her bag. He heard her in the bathroom, in the cabinet, the clink of bottles. He put his head in his hands, but he didn’t move until he saw her, now dressed, striding outside into the blistering morning heat, and then he went outside, too. She got into her car and put the key in the ignition. He didn’t call out her name or tell her to stop, and she didn’t look at him as she pulled out onto the road.
AT FIRST, AFTER she was gone, it was a relief. He took all the sheets and towels and threw them in the laundry and then he cleaned so that the house smelled of lemon polish instead of her. His place suddenly felt too big. Everything felt different, as if a layer of life had been pulled away. Now he wouldn’t be able to look at the kitchen table without remembering Charlotte drinking tea. He wouldn’t be able to sit on the porch without thinking of her sitting beside him. He wouldn’t be able to lie in his own bed.
Well, now she was just another person to miss.
ALL THE REST of the month, he kept busy at the stand. And then it was the end of August. It was too hot to hand-weed now, but he had to do it. At work, when he needed the ledger, he called her name until he remembered she was gone. Customers asked for her. “Where’s that nice young woman?” one woman said. “Oh, I’m so disappointed. She promised to give me her recipe for peach muffins.” At night he went through a bottle of wine on his porch before he was drugged enough to sleep. And then he dreamed that Charlotte was there, whispering something in his ear that he couldn’t quite hear.
He bolted awake, rubbing his hands across his face. Soaked in sweat, he went to the dresser and pulled open a drawer for a clean shirt, and there was the photo of Vera and him on the beach. She was, so alive. So beautiful he couldn’t believe his luck that she had loved him. That he had got to love her. He could remember the smell of that day, the salt in the air, the dazzling heat. If he shut his eyes, he could bring that day back, he could feel her behind him, the past nipping right at his heels. He had read that the reason there were ghosts was that the living tethered them to life, that the dead lingered not because they needed closure but because the living did. And the living needed to do only one thing for the dead: let them go. And they could never do it.
A jab of pain hit him, flowering into anger.
He went to the kitchen and got a bottle of wine and opened it. He was halfway through it when he started crying. He stood up, his legs shaking. Vera used to tell him that if he died, she’d live a horrible, haunted life, and at the time he had loved her for saying that. It had sounded so romantic. But grief wasn’t romantic. He thought of being an old man, sitting on this porch alone, remembering the one great love he had once had. The little life he had now. That’s what Charlotte had called it.
Charlotte was so young. If they had stayed together, he would have ended up being her project, and he couldn’t do that to her. She was the kind who needed full-on, uncomplicated love, the kind of love that he had had with Vera. Charlotte could never have that with him because he no longer trusted it.
He walked into the bedroom, swigging from the bottle, and went to the box in the closet that held Vera’s jewelry and some of her clothes. The wine was old and sour with vinegar, but he gulped it anyway. He took out the silver rings he had bought her, the bracelets she had bought herself. He gathered up the blue flowered dress that was her favorite and held it to his face. It didn’t smell like her anymore. It was just cloth.
He thought of Charlotte tromping from one place to another, hurtling through Lucy’s past, even though she was hurting as much as he was, and nowhere she went ever made her feel better or gave her any information that might help her, but she kept going anyway, and he didn’t know whether that was brave or stupid, but at least it was hope. He thought of Vera’s parents, what it must have cost them to lose their only daughter. To lose him, too, though that had been their doing.
He dug deeper into the box and pulled out the notes and letters he and Vera had passed in school, the letter she had written to him on their wedding day, promising him all sorts of things. I will never hog the covers. I will always hold your hand. There was a letter from Vera’s parents. They had written him one, too, for that day, and they had read it out loud at the reception. You are our son. We will always love you as our own.
But they hadn’t. At first they had gathered with him in sorrow, but then he had felt them both separating from him, a gulf opening between them. There were all those questions, the endless hammering. Why didn’t you know? Why didn’t you do something? And he couldn’t tell them the truth. They had shut him out when he needed them the most, blaming him, acting as though it were all his fault. And of course, it was. And he needed to own up to it. He hadn’t helped Vera when he could have. He hadn’t helped Lucy. He was a tiny piece of the whole equation, but this was one way he could own up to his part, take responsibility.
Maybe Charlotte was right, and his life was a lie. All this time, Vera’s parents had thought it was his fault, and he had denied it. He hadn’t told them that yes, she had been sick; yes, he had seen her symptoms and had done nothing about them; yes, he had told her she didn’t need to see
a doctor because he was so worried about their bills. He had lied to them because the truth was too terrible to bear. He had known that if he told them, he would lose them, that they would hate him. But that had happened anyway. He had been trying to figure out a way to live with all of this for years, and nothing had worked. You don’t let yourself feel your feelings, Charlotte had said, but she hadn’t realized how big his feelings were, how dangerous.
His hand shook. He was so drunk. He was so tired. He wanted to talk to Charlotte and explain himself, but he didn’t know where she was right now, how he could reach her. He wanted to talk to Vera’s parents. He was swimming through air. He picked up the phone and dialed Vera’s parents’ number, one he had called endless times, and when Vera’s mother picked up the phone, her voice jolted him, and he hung up before she could.
He hadn’t taken time off in years, but he could do that now. He had a whole staff who could run the stand. He could drive there in less than three hours. He could tell them the truth. He owed that to them. He could ask for forgiveness, though he knew he didn’t deserve any. I can’t leave, he had told Charlotte, and the look she gave him had made him feel impaled. Well, here he was, doing it.
Chapter 24
One day in July, while Charlotte was gone, Iris got tired of what she called waiting for the end. Every day was the same. She’d wake up and think: I’m still here. She’d go to bed early because there wasn’t that much to do, and she’d try to count her blessings.
One evening, Iris came downstairs and noticed a man playing the piano, a bad rendition of Moonlight Sonata, but what caught her was how he didn’t care that he flubbed notes, how it even made his smile beam more brightly. He flung his long white hair back dramatically, and she liked that, too. When he finished, he caught her eye and she walked over to him. “You play beautifully,” she said. The words tumbled out.
“I’m Joe,” he said. “And thank you.” He got up and bowed and then glanced toward the front door. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go,” he said, and he walked toward a group of people.
She began to notice him more and more. When he played the piano, she sat down and listened, and he always turned and smiled at her. “Any requests?” he said, and whatever she named—Beethoven, a little Bach—he played for her. A few times at dinner, she sat next to him. She was surprised how comfortable she felt with this Joe. She told him about Doug and Charlotte, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Lucy. He mentioned how he had three big, strapping sons, all of them lawyers at different firms. He liked all their wives and all their children, and he thought they liked him. “I don’t ask or pry. I give them room, and that way, they tell me things,” he said. “I’m just so lucky they all settled in Boston. What would I do if they were in California?”
“Then you’d be with them there,” she said.
“Yes, I most certainly would.”
Dinner was almost over. It had been another glutinous meal. Joe was getting up when Iris touched his arm. “Would you like to have dinner at my apartment tomorrow? Say, around six?” As soon as she said it, she felt stupid. She couldn’t look him in the eye. He considered her, frowning, so that she began to think she might have made a mistake. “So, would you say that this is a date?” he asked.
She was about to tell him no, of course not. It was just two people sitting down, sharing a meal. But she was so tired of always having to make up a story, skirting around the truth, telling people that her eyes were red because of allergies. “Yes,” she blurted out. “It’s a date.”
His smile widened. “I was hoping it was,” he said.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Iris stood at her stove, panicking. She had chicken breasts roasting in the oven and string beans frying in olive oil. She had made a salad with dark lettuce instead of iceberg and had thrown in some walnuts to make it different. Her little table was set with her good china and silverware, and she was wearing a rose-colored dress that Charlotte had bought her. She’d fixed her hair with a rhinestone barrette, which she hoped didn’t look ridiculous. She kept looking at her watch, and then at the door, and once or twice she even opened it to peer down the hall, which was silent as a bottle.
What if he forgot and didn’t show up at all? Or what if he changed his mind?
Or what if she had forgotten and he wasn’t supposed to be coming tonight at all? She had been getting mixed up lately, forgetting her apartment number, once coming down to dinner at six in the morning. When she tried to figure out her checkbook, the numbers blurred. But everything always went back to normal within minutes. She found her apartment. She realized her dinner mistake and balanced her checkbook. It was just stress.
She told herself it didn’t matter, she wouldn’t care whether Joe came or not. She’d eat this fine dinner all by herself, thank you very much. And afterward she wouldn’t pine in her room. She’d march downstairs and sit in the common room and read a book, as if that were just what she’d wanted to do all along, and if Joe happened to mosey by, she’d pretend that she had forgotten she’d asked him to dinner and that in any case it didn’t matter to her one whit. She was about to peel off her apron and take his plate from the table when there was a knock on the door, and when she opened it, there he was, in a suit jacket, his hair combed back so she could see the rake marks from his comb. He handed her a glossy page from a magazine, a photograph of a roomful of roses. “I couldn’t get to the store,” he apologized, and she laughed, and then his whole body seemed to relax, and he laughed, too.
He insisted on helping her serve dinner. He poured them some wine. And when he put his fork down, she was pleased to see that he had eaten every bite of the chicken. “I’ve seen your daughter here,” he told her. “First thing I thought was, Why, she’s a beauty like her mother.”
Iris flushed. Her hands flew to her hair. No one had called her beautiful since Doug.
Joe helped her do the dishes, washing while she dried and put the plates away, and the whole time, he kept talking, telling funny stories about all the places he’d visited: In Barcelona, they sold huge pig legs, called jamón, in all the supermarkets, complete with the black hooves. “Some Spaniards keep the leg in their kitchen, peeling off what they want,” he told her. “Others kiss the damn thing for luck.” In Istanbul, he had bartered in the Grand Bazaar for an embroidered pair of boots for his wife, and when he walked away because the price was too high, the vendor had run after him to make him a deal.
“Well, my world is smaller now,” he said, and then he met her eyes. “Or maybe not.”
She caught her breath. She could see from the windows that it was dark outside. Most of the residents were back in their rooms. Most went to bed ridiculously early, but here was Joe in her apartment, and all she could think about was that she wanted to kiss his mouth. How she wanted to lose herself. Just for half an hour. Just for a few minutes. All she dared hope for was to forget her life for a little while, to forget that she was in an old people’s home, that Lucy, her little Lucy, was dead. Joe yawned and Iris felt her mouth grow dry. “Do you want to lie down?” she said. Her voice sounded tinny to her.
“Lie down?”
“We’ll have a rest,” she said carefully. She stood up, balling her hands into fists to stop her trembling, and then she walked into her bedroom and stretched out on the bed. Who knew what would happen? They might just lie together and talk. Or sleep.
The world was crazy now. Here she was in this place, and young kids, barely out of high school, were fighting and dying in a ridiculous war in Vietnam. They were burning their draft cards, and Iris didn’t blame them. There were those horrible Manson murders, those crazy girls who worshipped him. She had read in the news that Manson had actually been able to pass Linda Kasabian a note in court, after she was given immunity. He was trying to charm her back into the family. “Love can never stop if it’s love,” he wrote. And there was free love. Wasn’t that what Charlotte and Lucy had told her about? At the time, she had been shocked. How could you sleep with someone you bare
ly knew? No one knew how long anything would last. This was crazy. She’d shame herself, and everyone in this place would gossip about it.
She didn’t care. She had lost so much already.
She looked up, and Joe was easing himself onto the bed beside her. She grabbed his hand, her heat rocketing in her chest. A flame rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t care: Just a little while. Just let me have this for a little while.
He cupped her face in his hands to kiss her. Would he know that her top teeth were a dental bridge? Would he care? Were his teeth his own? He held her hand, and she suddenly wished she had turned out the lights, because the darkness would be more forgiving. “It’s been a really long time for me,” Iris said.
“For me, too.”
He took her hand and placed it on his chest. She thought of the times she had been with Doug. They had loved each other, but kissing had felt unnatural with him, as disappointing as a torn sock. And no wonder. As soon as she discovered he loved men, they stopped having sex altogether. Who needed it? she had thought. She had grown content with his companionship, but now, here beside Joe, she wanted to rip off her clothes. She wanted to feel her bare skin against his, and it scared her a little.
When he leaned over and kissed her mouth, she felt a shock of need. She kissed his neck and he turned toward her, and then she carefully took off her dress and she felt his eyes on her. She knew how many flaws her clothing masked. Her skin was tissue, her veins popped out, and nothing was really in the place where it used to be. “I’m sorry,” she said to Joe.
“For what?” Joe said.
“For not being twenty,” she said. “You should have seen me when I was young.”
“I see you now.”
“I’m eighty years old.” As soon as she said that, she felt astounded, because how could that be?
Cruel Beautiful World Page 27
