Nikos ate with gusto, frequently refilling his own wineglass and topping off Peter's whenever he'd taken so much as a sip. Which, to Meg's surprise, he did more and more often as the meal went on. By the time Leah had cleared the plates and returned with small cups of thick black coffee, Peter had probably drunk two or three full glasses. While Meg was pleased in a way to see him forgetting one of his own prohibitions, she wished for better timing; now she'd have to do the driving on the way back home, and she wasn't that crazy about expressways at night. The coffee, she hoped, would help to clear his head, and hers. She was trying to catch his eye, to tap her wrist and indicate the time, when Nikos, plucking a handful of grapes from the central platter, bellowed something in Greek to Leah in the kitchen. She replied, apparently refusing to do whatever he'd asked, because he suddenly lurched to his feet and with the same choppy motions he'd used while eating, exacerbated by the wine perhaps, stumbled through the swinging doors. He returned with another bottle of wine in one hand, and in the other a strange-looking instrument, made of coarse wooden pipes ranged beside each other like teeth, and curved from one end to the other like a crescent moon. He filled their empty coffee cups with the wine—"Ouzo,” he declared, “your grandfather, this was part of his business"—and then sat down on his chair, drawn back from the table, with his legs spread out on either side. He studied the instrument with some care, blowing away a strand of grass that was stuck between two pipes, wiping off a smudge with a wet forefinger, and finally licking his lips in preparation to play.
“I play for you a song of welcome,” he said, raising his neckerchief and rubbing it back and forth across his mouth. “From my home.” Hunching forward in his chair, he bent over the instrument as if he were about to bite into a generous slice of watermelon; he blew hard into a couple of the pipes, clearing them, then with his eyes closed, drew from the instrument a long, high note of unusual delicacy and sweetness. The sound vibrated and hung in the air, piercing but pleasant, and unlike anything Meg and Peter had ever heard before. It was more breathy and robust than a flute, high-pitched but less shrill than a piccolo; with his fingers dancing now across the air holes, his lips just grazing the ends of the pipes, Nikos played for them a fast and happy melody, the notes tumbling over one another like frolicking children, the refrains periodically bobbing to the surface of the song, then submerging, then reappearing again to lend the cascade a shape and direction. His boots beat time to the rapid tempo, their open clasps ringing like a tambourine; he was like a one-man band from a vaudeville revue, Peter thought with amusement.
Meg found it surprising that such a rough character as Nikos should have this fragile and complex music inside him; she wouldn't have expected it. But his closed eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side as if straining to hear and capture a distant sound, his fingers moving with certainty and assurance, all told her there was more to him than she had first imagined, or at least something to him she hadn't imagined. He paused at the end of the song, his head remaining bowed as if he were in deep thought or prayer, and began another, this one much slower, plaintive and even sorrowful. Leah appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb. Nikos cracked open one eye, saw her there, continued to play with a rich, sad vigor, a song known no doubt to generations of Greeks. When it was finished Leah stirred herself, as if from a trance, and said to Meg and Peter that she had made up the bed in the master bedroom and put out fresh towels. Nikos filled their glasses again, and while they sat wondering what to do, he slapped the table loudly with satisfaction, and hoisted his glass in a toast to the next day and whatever it brought.
The wine, it must have been the wine Nikos had made—that, or the ouzo. Or both. Meg dimly remembered undressing by the bed, tossing her clothes onto the armchair. Peter, too—swiftly shedding his clothes, simply letting them fall to the floor. Not concealing himself, as he usually did. Falling instantly into a deep, still sleep; the huge bed accepting them both like a boat taking on passengers, creaking loudly, the mattress giving, then righting itself, the gnarled bedposts like masts, the canopy a spread sail—sleeping in a cool wind off the water, the curtains fluttering on the terrace doors. Peter's arm, his left arm, the bad one, was around her waist; they were nestled back to front like spoons in a drawer. She was dreaming, vividly, deeply, of a large hall, as if in a museum, only the walls were plates of glass, and the air was hot, close and damp. She was wandering around, not sure if she was lost or not, carrying in her arms, covered by flimsy cheesecloth, a new sculpture that she had just finished making. She was looking for the baking room, where the kiln was, to fire it. She was wearing her gray smock, tied loosely at the waist, but nothing else; she was vaguely annoyed with herself for having forgotten to put anything on underneath it. She told herself to be sure to hold the smock closed if anyone passed behind her; her bare feet stuck to the floor as she searched for the proper room. She had the unnerving impression that she was traveling now in an enormous, deceptive circle; nothing seemed to change, and time was running out. The cheesecloth was absorbing moisture from the humid air, and she thought she could see, thought she could feel, the sculpture beneath it beginning to move. To awaken in her hands. She couldn't remember what it was she'd made. But she knew it had to be put in the fire soon. Her smock flapped open behind her, and balancing the sculpture with one hand, she reached around to hold it closed. The cheesecloth started to slip, to slide off one side, deliberately, as if it were being pulled from below. She let go of the smock, feeling it fly open again, and tried to reposition the covering. But it wouldn't go; it seemed to be caught on a snag, or a sharp point, of the sculpture. She reached under to untangle it; the cloth fell away. The statue, an exulting satyr, grinned up at her; she was holding it by its penis. The tiny organ throbbed suddenly; she could feel it, between her fingers. In disgust and horror, she threw the statue down, where it skittered across the floor. Her robe billowed open, and she felt herself being pressed from behind. She whirled around, but whatever was there remained behind her. She turned again; the statue was gone, and only the cloth lay crumpled on the shiny black floor. She was poked again, and held by her waist, drawn tightly against the ardent thing she couldn't see. There was a creaking sound—the door to the kiln room, opening?—and a gust of cold air on her legs and back. Then a warm, and insistent, presence. Holding her, pulling her backwards. Prodding. She tried to cry out, she wanted to, but her throat was too dry; she couldn't make any sound at all. She struggled to wet her lips, to catch her breath, then broke just above the surface of consciousness with the noise of her own harsh, labored breathing, and the rhythmic shift of the mattress beneath her. Rising and falling like a boat at sea, her hips in time, Peter's bad arm clutching her body as he pressed himself against, and into, her. Grinding like a machine, relentlessly, wordlessly, unconsciously Meg suddenly realized, his eyes shut, his mouth set. Pushing himself deeper and harder, oblivious to everything else, pushing and straining, with a pounding regularity. Pressing deep, pulling away, pressing again, as if in his own dream he were a shackled galley slave numbly obeying the overseer's drumbeat . . .
When he'd finished he lay as still as death, so still she could hardly detect his breathing; Meg pulled silently away—her stomach ached where his fingers had grasped her—and struggled to make some sense of it, of her fear and confusion. But her limbs felt heavy, like damp, thick clay, and her thoughts were so troubling, fleeing, it seemed, from the present violation, that it was impossible to focus, to concentrate, to sort anything out. Already she could feel herself surrendering . . . against her will . . . to that same disturbing and defenseless sleep from which she'd just been shaken . . . or freed . . .
II
Possession
Six
IT'S BEAUTIFUL.”
Meg didn't know what to say, and was desperately afraid she'd blush.
“No, really, it's even nicer than it appeared in the photographs. All of your work is.” The dealer's finger traced the smooth lip of the blue-glazed teapo
t. “The sculpture I don't have a lot of room for,” she said, glancing over at the half-dozen pieces ranged on a shelf along the wall. “I can take a couple, also on consignment, and see what happens. But with the pottery things, I'm sure we can do well. The teapots, the serving platters, the bud vase . . .”—she pressed the tip of her Bic pen against her teeth—"they'll do fine.”
Jackie, who was building an armature at the other end of the workroom, tried to catch Meg's eye to see how things were going, but Meg resolutely looked away; she didn't trust herself not to let out a whoop of joy. And she wanted to appear completely poised and professional.
“Why don't I take with me these, let's see, ten pieces,” the dealer said, making a notation on an inventory sheet attached to her clipboard. “The terms of consignment are what I laid out in the letter last week. Is that satisfactory to you?”
Meg muttered that it was fine; the woman ripped off the inventory sheet and handed it to her, and then pushed up the sleeves of her blouse and started wrapping each piece in sheets of newspaper before placing them, quickly but expertly, into a heavy-duty cardboard carton. Meg began to help her, wrapping one of her favorite teapots in a page of supermarket coupons; as the familiar spout and lid disappeared beneath the ball of paper, she felt her pleasure at the sale—consignment, she corrected herself—diluted by a pang of . . . separation. That common-enough feeling, all the others in the co-op had experienced it, and she'd felt it herself before, when something you've created is about to go off into the world, entirely on its own, into the hands and homes of strangers. That's what she created them for, of course, but still it felt strange, and a little sad, at the moment of reckoning. She was glad when the last piece was finally stowed away and the dealer, assisted by her teenage son, had carried the carton out to her van and out of sight. Her work area looked so barren now, so stripped down.
Jackie raced over to congratulate her. “Way to go,” she said, squeezing Meg's arm and leaving a faint smudge of wet clay on the sleeve of her smock. “Now you're really in business.”
“I feel like I'm out of business,” said Meg, surveying the empty work table.
Jackie laughed and pushed her round, oversized glasses back up onto her nose. “I should be so out of business. From what I hear, she's one of the best dealers in New York—you could wind up in Bloomingdale's before you're done.”
“Bloomingdale's,” Meg exclaimed, holding one hand to her chest as if she could hardly catch her breath with imagining it. “Wait'll Peter hears the news—he'll bag teaching altogether.”
That night, she told him, and for the first time since he'd come through the door, he seemed to forget about whatever it was he was turning over and over in his mind, and pay attention to her. “That's great, honey,” he said, waking slowly to real enthusiasm. “That's terrific—how many pieces did she take?”
“Ten. She's got a gallery down in Soho, just off Canal Street, and it's apparently quite a coup to have your work exhibited—”
“Sold,” he corrected.
“Displayed there,” she offered as a compromise.
“So with any luck, you'll have to be turning the stuff out at an ever-increasing rate. To keep up with the constantly escalating demand.”
“I wouldn't worry about it yet.”
But Peter seemed to have embraced the notion, to be earnestly pondering ways of increasing Meg's productivity. He asked about the hours the pottery co-op was open, the availability of the wheels and kilns, the supplies, the tools. And no matter what she answered, his expression remained dubious, as if none of it was what he had hoped for.
“What are you worrying about?” she said, perplexed. “That I won't earn my keep around here?”
He smiled, and uncoiled a little. “No, I was just thinking,” he said, “of that kiln and workshop sitting vacant out on Long Island. On the estate.”
The connection didn't immediately impress her; it seemed a related, but basically irrelevant, thought. What about the kiln on Long Island? “I don't think I could turn out any more work than I already do, even if I had my own kiln in the kitchen,” she said.
“But what if you did have your own place to work,” he replied, reluctant to let it drop, “with your own tools, no waiting for anyone else to finish with them, your own wheel, all the things you need? Wouldn't that be worth it?”
“Yes, I suppose,” she said, warily.
“You know, we do have the right to use the place in Passet Bay"—he found it hard to call it Arcadia, it sounded so pretentious—"until we get around to selling it off.” He went into the kitchen, where she heard him open the refrigerator; there was a hiss as he flipped off the top of a can, probably club soda. “It just seems a waste somehow.”
Meg studied the back of her hand; the grog, the rough particles in the wet clay, had rubbed a patch of skin red. Peter was asking her to . . . what? Commute to Long Island, to work on her pieces there? Open an assembly line? Move?
“Peter,” she said as he returned with a can—yes, club soda—and offered her a sip. “No, thanks. Peter, I'm not sure what you're getting at here. Are you saying you want me—or rather us—to move out to the house? Is that what this is all about?”
Peter smiled sheepishly and flopped back down on the sofa. “I was talking to Byron this morning, about his plans for the summer, and our plans, and it just occurred to me that instead of all of us sweating it out in Mercer, we could live like kings in Passet Bay.”
“You already discussed it with Byron?” she said.
“Well, I told him nothing was decided until I'd had a chance to speak with you. I was just sounding him out.” He realized he'd made a tactical mistake by bringing in Byron so soon. “It was just something I'd been considering, hon. That it might be a very welcome change of scene, for all of us.”
Meg thought she detected a reference, however oblique, to the accident and its aftermath; the conversation was instantly transposed into a more serious key.
“We wouldn't be out there for more than a couple of months, at most,” he was saying. “I could finish my dissertation, you could get some sculpting done, Byron could get a tan—you know he's been looking as pale as a cadaver lately,” he said, hoping to coax a smile. “And Diogenes, think of Diogenes; he'd be beside himself with joy. You know how he loves the ocean.”
Meg did smile, and Peter, sensing now that his scheme might actually go over, was surprised at how relieved he felt. No, how happy he was; until that moment, even he hadn't realized how important it was to him that they go to Arcadia. Now that he knew it would just be a matter of time before Meg was persuaded to agree to the plan, he felt positively jubilant. A huge weight had fallen from his shoulders. He felt that he had wedged into place a cumbersome block of some larger design, that what he had achieved was not only right, but—and even he could not have explained it—somehow intended.
Seven
ON THE MORNING of their departure, Meg was unavoidably reminded of the Beverly Hillbillies: to the top of their Datsun they'd fastened two suitcases, the trunk was filled with books and papers, and a small U-Haul trailer was attached to their bumper. The day was warm but overcast, and she prayed that it wouldn't rain; she wasn't sure the suitcases were watertight. Peter took the passenger seat, and at Byron's house he leapt out to help Byron with his own bags and books; Meg maneuvered the car and trailer as close to the curb as she could manage, braking suddenly when she realized that Diogenes had been let loose and was scampering across the lawn. His head suddenly appeared in the open window, his paws pressing against the door.
“Dodger,” she said, with a laugh, “you have got to develop a greater respect for machinery.” He barked, I pushed off from the door, and ran back to where Peter and Byron were carrying one slim suitcase and two plastic shopping bags spilling over with books.
Peter unlatched the trailer doors and, pushing gently to the rear the boxes holding Meg's works in progress, along with the tools of her trade, deposited Byron's traveling library. When everything was s
afely stowed away, Peter took the driver's seat, and Meg waited patiently first as Diogenes was cajoled into the back seat, and then as Byron folded himself into the cramped space, too.
“By,” Meg said, “why don't you sit up in front with Peter? That way you won't be looking at your knees the whole way.”
“That's okay,” Byron replied. “If Dodger throws up, I think by all rights it ought to be on me.”
Meg paused, then said, “You're right.”
The rain held off, but the sky remained resolutely gray and hazy. According to the radio, the sunburn index was up to seven, and the Long Island Expressway was clogged at several junctures with beach traffic—cars filled with teenagers laughing and sitting on each other's laps, towels around their necks, radios blaring. Meg thought of Peter's new red swimming trunks, the pair she'd bought him on first hearing the news of their inheritance; she had surreptitiously packed them in her own suitcase, just in case he'd considered “accidentally” leaving them behind. She knew he considered them too flamboyant to be worn in public. Meg was looking forward to seeing Peter in the suit. She found that, despite her reservations about the place and the unpleasant memories of their sole visit, she was looking forward to the summer. Ever since they'd made the decision to go, Peter had seemed happier.
This time, instead of driving straight to the house, they took a short detour through the business district of Passet Bay; the center of town turned out to be not much more than a cross-hatching of streets, lined with small stores ranging from Lily Pulitzer to Video Shack. At a corner pharmacy, Byron bought a pack of cigarettes and Meg picked up some Intensive Care lotion; potting and sculpting took a heavy toll on her hands.
Approaching the house from the opposite direction, they discovered that there were no neighbors on this side, either; just the bay and the road that paralleled it.
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