River Under the Road

by Scott Spencer

  The golf cart was in front of the house—he had wanted to drive it to the yellow house, but Grace objected. “It’s enough we’re bringing fancy take-out food,” she’d said. “Do we have to arrive by chariot?” That wasn’t very nice of her to say, but as part of a story, a piece of make-believe in a world in which everything was an illusion, it wasn’t so awful. In fact it was sort of amusing.

  The key was in the ignition and he turned it. He placed his foot on the brake and put the gear shift into drive and the cart rolled forward, at first with a couple of jolts and then smoothly, with a pleasant, busy hum. The property looked strange to him in the darkness, the rise and fall of it, the dark sky cut into crazy angles by the even darker trees, the smell of the fields and the soil and the secrets of the earth. He kept to the driveway, whose ruts he had memorized. He had the feeling of not being alone. Of being watched? No, it was something else. The coyotes were yipping it up. An owl was at its post, hooting and hooting, and no other owl replied. The wind blew through Thaddeus’s coat, and seemed even to breach the barrier of his skin, and go right for his heart.

  Suddenly, the coyotes went silent, and Thaddeus was plunged into a kind of despair. The hopelessness of life seemed undeniable. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, what a joke. Happiness was fool’s gold. Happiness was a consolation prize for those who could not sustain passion and could not create art. He agreed with some novelist whose essay he’d read in the newspaper, some lucky bastard who had his ticket punched and now was free to pontificate. Thaddeus hated and envied them all, the people who had stayed the course and made him feel like a failure, but he liked what this guy had written: Happiness is for amateurs. Thaddeus heartily agreed, yet he had not spent his life pursuing passion and art. He had chased after happiness like a greyhound in pursuit of a mechanical rabbit, around and around the track, his jaws snapping at nothing. And now? And now he was going to lose his wife, and without Grace, without the knowledge of her, the warm eternity of her body, her breath, simply knowing she was there—what was left? The beautiful rooms, the curtains moving in the breeze, the smell of exquisite perfume, the thirsty towels, the wines that formed sensory anagrams on your tongue, the massages and manicures, the stretch limos and the Egyptian linens, and these windswept acres that streamed past him like useless footage on a Moviola, all of it destined for the cutting-room floor, as was he.

  HE MADE IT ALL THE way to Riverview Road, swung in a wide arc, and headed back toward Orkney. The main driveway had three forks—one leading to the main house, one to the yellow house, one to the pastures and what remained of the old barns. This time, he headed toward the yellow house. This spur was actually in better shape than the main drive; apparently Jennings and/or Hat had done some repair work. For a moment, the main house emerged from the night, like a sunken ship that through some miracle or some horrible perversity has risen from the deep, its portholes blazing with light, the passengers trapped inside, their faces pressed against the glass. He swerved right and the mansion was gone. In front of him now was the yellow house, and just as it came into view the downstairs lights started going out one by one. The sweep of the golf cart’s headlights caught something moving. Grace! Away from the orchard, across the driveway, up the small hill that gave the mansion and the yellow house privacy from each other, a buffer of trees and grass and soil, and the unseen world coursing below. He shouted her name and she stopped, turned toward him.

  She had never looked more beautiful. Her chest was heaving, her hair was moving in the wind. He wound his way toward her. She did not move to meet him, but waited, the golf cart’s anemic little headlights illuminating her face. She looked possessed, a mixture of Mary and the archangel Gabriel who had come to deliver the news, that moment in the garden, the story repeated so often that it may as well have been true, the image rendered over and over and over and over in reverent detail, each brushstroke an invitation to prayer. The glowing paintings, the lost art of them, the faces magically lit, the diaphanous round disks of the halos. Golden David in Grace’s ethereal painting, holding the silver airplane, the canvas thrown into the fireplace in a tearful row a day after the auction, rescued, and now black in one corner and somehow more precious having survived its trial by fire.

  Why had she been running? Why did she look at him now as if afraid? He heard something rustling off to the side, to the left, or the right, hard to pinpoint out here. Without manufactured spaces to limit the reverb, the noise of life seemed to come from everywhere all at once: the staticky sound of crushed twigs, the yearning of that sleepless owl, the madness of the coyotes, the eternal wind, the roar of a jet pulling its sound behind it like a horse dragging a plow across a stony field.

  “Grace!” he called, and she came to him, slowly at first, and a few steps later with purpose, until she was standing next to him and placed her hand on the cart’s roll bar.

  “The dogs are back,” he said. “I’ve got them in the house.”

  “They are?”

  “Hop on.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “They’re fine. Come on. Hop on.”

  She climbed in beside him and he took the yellow house’s driveway to the point where it intersected with the main driveway, which led to the big house.

  “You want to take a little ride?” he asked her. “Maybe go down to the river?”

  “I’m freezing cold,” she said. She rested her head against his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “For?”

  “For finding the dogs, and coming to get me.”

  “Of course.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Don’t make it sound so sad,” he said. He was driving as slowly as possible. Their house was in view now but through a trick of the darkness it seemed to be drifting away.

  Home.

  “Maybe after you make a fuss about the dogs we can make a fuss about each other,” Thaddeus said, as they walked onto the porch. He offered his arm, and Grace took it with a sense of gratitude she hadn’t felt in a long while. He was here and she needed him.

  Just as they touched the door, Vicky pulled it open for them. She was holding Emma, whose chubby little face was wet with tears. How could a child look so tragic?

  “Here’s Mommy now, just when you thought there is no hope,” Vicky said. She had taught herself English from books while she still lived in El Salvador; she had a large vocabulary, but her accent was a problem. “She’s hungry,” Vicky explained to Grace. “But I know we are trying to be careful.”

  “Come here, you,” Thaddeus said, reaching for the child. “The great food-rationing campaign is over. You want a bowl of cereal?”

  The girl slowly nodded her head yes, as if confessing. He carried her into the kitchen, and sat with her while she devoured a bowl of Rice Krispies. He noticed that she took as much as her mouth would hold, and was already reloading her spoon while she chewed. He was convinced that if she could correct these two things the weight would gradually disappear without having to force a Draconian system of self-denial on the poor child, who was clearly being traumatized by her mother’s campaign to slim her down. There was a middle path. After Emma finished the cereal, she asked for a cookie. She patted her stomach as she asked, as if to prepare it for the insult that usually accompanied her requests for sweets.

  “I’ll split one with you!” Thaddeus said, with great enthusiasm.

  For a moment, it looked as if Emma might argue for the whole cookie, but she thought better of it. They stood together in the kitchen, and when their halves were consumed Thaddeus said it was time for bed and Emma slipped her hand in his and the tenderness of this, its utter lack of artifice or agenda, its simultaneous submissiveness and sense of ownership was almost devastating in its loveliness. She was his child.

  In Emma’s room, illuminated only by a night-light in the shape of a rearing palomino, Thaddeus sat on the edge of her bed and slowly patted her back to help her fall asleep. She felt a little spongy to his touch and he w
as irritated with himself for noticing. It usually took five or ten minutes of gentle patting for Emma to fall asleep. Thaddeus had perfected the routine, beginning with pats that came regularly, one per second, and slowly decreasing the frequency. But tonight as his hand slowed down, Emma suddenly turned over, wide awake.

  “David was mean to me,” she said.

  “Oh no. That’s terrible. Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “He never lets me in his room.”

  “Well, you know. Some people.”

  “You never even had a brother.”

  “I know. I would have liked one, I think. It might have been nice.” He was whispering, still holding on to the idea that she might drop off to sleep at any moment.

  “Or a sister,” she said.

  Without fully considering where this might lead, he said, “Actually, I did.”

  Even in the near darkness of her room, he could see she was amazed. “Where does she live?”

  “In my heart.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she died. She died when she was very little.” As soon as he said the words he realized his error. She was far too young to hear about a little girl dying. She was a little girl herself—what was he doing? Had he become emotionally incontinent?

  “What was her name?” Emma whispered.

  “Hannah,” Thaddeus managed to say.

  Emma reached for his hand and he took it and pressed it to his forehead.

  “It’s okay, baby. It was a long time ago.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “In a way. But I didn’t really know her. I was little, too, when it happened. Hey, you know what? It’s really late and Mommy’s waiting for me, so I better . . .” He had managed to regain control over himself, but it felt temporary. He stood up, light-headed, and Emma’s room momentarily flapped like a sheet in the wind.

  “Am I fat?” Emma asked. Thaddeus had already opened the door; the light from the hall trembled around the shape of him.

  “You’re beautiful and you’re smart and you’re good,” Thaddeus said. “And don’t let anyone ever tell you anything different.”

  In the hallway, with his hand on the doorknob, he backed slowly against the door until he heard it click shut. He stayed there for a few more moments, listening for her, gathering his wits. Closer than usual, the coyotes were wailing. At least he thought they were coyotes.

  Downstairs, he found Grace in the library. Fresh logs were on the andirons and the dogs slept their deep canine peaceful slumber as sparks ticked against the fire screen. The wind had picked up and the windows shuddered in their frames. Grace was on the pale green sofa with the rolled arms, the damask upholstery, the lion-claw feet, and she was drawing. She had her art face on, intense and concentrated in a way that seemed painful. He wondered what their lives would have been like if neither of them had wanted to be an artist, if they had not wanted to be one of the anointed, and to make something out of nothing. What if they could have been happy with each other, with the pleasures of life, what if they could have just taken things as they’d come?

  “She’s asleep,” he said.

  “I know what you did,” Grace said, without looking up.

  “Yes, the cardinal sin of the late-night cookie.”

  “Ha ha, big joke.”

  “Grace, please. She’s our daughter. We want her to be healthy but we can’t have all this pressure. We don’t want her to think there’s something wrong with her, do we? Who knows how long any of us will even be here?”

  She chose not to pursue the conversation. She went back to her drawing, and Thaddeus stood silently, wondering if he should simply leave the room.

  “Do you want a drink? I’m going to pour myself something.”

  “No thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m going to work.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “Liam’s asked me to do something for him. He even offered to pay me.”

  “Good!” Why not tell her right now that in all likelihood his little gallop through the pastures of plenty had ended at Craig Epstein’s birthday brunch? Yet the shame he felt silenced him.

  “It’s not movie money or anything like that,” she said. “But earning money with my art? It was always the thing I wanted. To show the world what I saw and what I felt. It’s really so awful when the world shrugs and walks away. You have no idea.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I really am.”

  “I guess it didn’t work out that much better for you.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Well, we have that in common.”

  “We do!” He felt his spirits lifting. It was a new and unexpected kind of union between them, a new equality. They were runners expired halfway through the marathon, holding on to each other as they fought for breath on the side of the road. Was there any greater intimacy?

  “So what do you think? They’re labels for his avocados.” She moved a floor lamp so the light shone directly on the two avocados, one whole, the other neatly split. Grace had been rendering avocados with colored pencils for many years, the dark rough shell, the pale green meat with its gradations of color, the dark ripples where the flesh had begun to spoil.

  “Amazing,” Thaddeus said. “Beautiful.”

  “I hope Liam likes them.”

  “I kind of miss your brother being an outlaw,” Thaddeus said. “The journey from pot to guacamole is a little disheartening.”

  “It was always the plan,” she said, her gaze fixed on the drawing. “He just needed to make a certain amount of money.”

  Thaddeus kneeled in front of her and to his surprise she ran her fingers through his hair and then pulled him toward her. From the distance, they heard the party boat with its full complement of revelers, and the sound of the Allman Brothers singing “Whipping Post.”

  “Oh, those party boats,” said Grace. “Don’t they know there are people trying to enjoy the peace and quiet of their homes? We don’t want to hear their stupid music while they stuff their faces with chips and salsa.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Oh, don’t pretend. You can’t stand their food.”

  He patted her hip and she made room for him to sit next to her. “Remember back at that benefit for Brandon?”

  “More chips and salsa.”

  “Well, I never wanted to bring this up. But Muriel . . .”

  “Oh Muriel,” said Grace, her face twisted into a sneer. “Mur. She started off crazy and has only gotten crazier. I can’t stand her or her stupid baskets and all the little found objects, as if she and she alone can appreciate the beauty of forgotten things. You know what I think? We should buy them out. Just get them the hell out of here. After Hat dies. Jennings will take the money if we make an offer. I know he will. He comes on like this free spirit of the woodlands, but he’s very focused on money.”

  “I don’t think so, Grace.”

  “Don’t I have a say in this? I never wanted to give them that property to begin with. Your stupid Communist parents. Excuse me. Trotskyist. Whatever they are, they filled your head with a bunch of shit they don’t even live by themselves. You don’t see them giving away their stuff. They gave us a check for one hundred dollars for our wedding.”

  “I’m not in a position.” He stood, walked over to the hearth. He used the poker to take a hard whack at a burning log, launching an eruption of embers that rose in a bright orange cloud and then drifted up into the flue.

  He turned toward Grace, the heat of the fireplace on his back. “I want to tell you something.”

  “Maybe put the poker away. I don’t like being told something by a man with a weapon.”

  He looked at the poker, shrugged, and put it back with the tongs, the ash rake, and the shovel.

  “Better?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Last time I was in L.A., I was at this party . . .”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just say. Y
ou were at a party.”

  “And I lost my temper and threw a drink in someone’s face.”

  “Rilly?”

  “You look pleased.”

  “I thought you were going to say something else. Worse. That’s not too bad.”

  “I was going out there for a job, and I didn’t get it.”

  “So you’ll get another one. You always do.”

  “I don’t think so. I really fucked up.”

  “Should we be worried?”

  “My agent seems to think so. I don’t have an assignment right now, and he says he’s not getting any inquiries.”

  “But come on. That’s crazy. You always get work.”

  “I’ve got no real prospects. I don’t know what we’re going to do for money. And I’m sorry. I had no right to act so rashly. I realize everyone here is counting on me.”

  “You actually threw a drink in someone’s face?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m trying to imagine it. What kind of drink?”

  “A mimosa.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I’m not sure. He was wearing pajamas. I didn’t think he ought to be wearing pajamas when everyone else was dressed.”

  “So you did it on a whim?”

  “It felt like inspiration.”

  She closed her eyes, hoping in the darkness there might emerge some pattern in the shattered pieces. “Are we broke?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Soon?”

  “Depends on what you mean by soon.” He was sitting close to her again, patting her knee, as if she had let her emotions run away with her and needed calming.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “In six months?”

  “Maybe. Yes. That could happen.”

  “Can you stop patting my knee?”

  They looked at each other like two people on a suspension bridge who can hear over the raging water below the fatal ping of one of the cables snapping and then another and another.

  “Men are such idiots,” Grace said, finally.

  “Okay, your turn,” he said, taking her hand. “I told you something I didn’t want to. Now you. Tell me something I need to know about. Something I don’t know but I should. Something important.”