Anthropology of an American Girl

by Hilary Thayer Hamann

  The woman said, “Sí, sí, gracias.”

  “Gracias, Consuela,” Sara said, introducing me in Spanish.

  Consuela replied in English, “Yes, hello. Yes, hello. Yes, this way.”

  We were escorted through an impeccable hallway and down two stone steps into a living room with an ivory carpet and furniture that was snowy and low as if it had settled in a frost. Wooden stairs without risers went up to our right, and, on the far wall, single-pane glass doors faced the eastern end of a crowded brick terrace. Consuela led us through the formal dining room, which was attached to an enormous kitchen by a skylighted butler’s pantry. Here, the doors to the patio were open: a reggae band was playing on the other side. Consuela set my flowers on the kitchen table and looked for a vase. She made a fuss over how beautiful they were, but I couldn’t help feeling the gift was not right, that it was primitive, and me too, that I was also primitive.

  Her eyes twinkled at me; I remember that, her eyes twinkling.

  Sara and I made our way out, pausing for hellos and introductions. People we knew from school were in ties and skirts and freshly ironed clothes. Past the terrace, there was an open lawn that was decorated with giant paper ball lanterns suspended from bamboo poles, and in the center of the expanse was a fountain, with a bronze sculpture of a cube standing on one corner, and a stone bench wrapping around. A pool the gray-blue color of goslings sat alongside a gardener’s cottage and connected garage that ran perpendicular to the main house. The structure was at least three times the size of my mother’s house.

  “Do you mind if I go out to see the sculpture?” I asked Sara.

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ll find Alicia and let her know we’re here.”

  I took a seat on the concrete ring of the fountain. I raised my head and breathed deeply, giving in to the celestial gardens and lurking servers, the smells of grilled meat and freshly baked goods, the chinks of genuine glass. My back straightened; my head found center. Feeling heartened, feeling sure, feeling finally more than meek, I took my place in that robust utopia. I imitated the want of humility of my hosts, and in my mind I became a guest—someone special, chosen.

  At the edge of the packed terrace I spotted Mark, Rourke’s friend from the Talkhouse. He was moving toward me as though swimming with necessity. The graphic reminder of Rourke filled me with a barbarian sort of hope.

  He crossed the lawn, calling, “Eveline!” Then he gestured to himself, saying, Mark, as though I’d forgotten. He was actually very handsome. By the dark of the night we’d met, with Rourke there, I hadn’t noticed.

  “Hi,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my house,” he said, and he smiled. “Alicia’s my sister.”

  I instantly recalled the day in art class last winter when Rourke came in to talk about the sets for the play. The way Alicia was laughing and touching his jacket. That’s how they knew each other—through Mark.

  “Mind if I sit?” Mark asked. The fountain surged brightly as he came down next to me. “Alicia and Sara told me you haven’t been going out. I was worried you might not make it.”

  I looked at the house. It was strange that my name had been mentioned there. Was it in the hallway or on the stairs or in the butler’s pantry? I considered asking. I had the feeling I could ask him anything.

  “Is it true that you haven’t left your room?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “My mother’s room.”

  “Oh, your mother’s room,” he repeated with a nod.

  And then Mark began to speak; he spoke for a long time. He’d attended UCLA, then he’d gone to Harvard for his MBA. Crew was his sport. He’d biked across Nova Scotia and golfed in Scotland. He’d been hired by a Wall Street firm named Drexel Burnham to work on mergers and acquisitions, something about asset valuation, vertical integration, four in the morning, activity in Japan. He would be moving into his own apartment on West Sixtieth Street, twenty-five stories up, with a terrace overlooking the river.

  “The trick to marinating bluefish,” he said, “is milk. It kills the fishy flavor.”

  The tone of his voice was artificial and intensely sure, pungent and dry as the inside of flowers. It was as if he spoke without allowing his vocal cords to vibrate excessively. The sound was controlled and hypnotic, and I felt subdued by it. I felt a faraway feeling, a night and a dead feeling. Through the sliverish gap formed by our bodies, I trailed the crystal swirl of water. When I looked up, Mark was staring. I perceived the ignition of his desire. I wasn’t sure what to do about that. Probably it was too late to do anything. My own desire for Rourke, for all things indirectly related to him, including Mark, surely only made matters worse.

  “If you need a shot of culture this summer, come visit me,” he proposed as the sun began to set, its phosphorescence slinking unevenly off, like the thin straps of a dress from a woman’s shoulders. “We’ll hit the Met. Get lunch. Have you ever been to the Stanhope?”

  I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to. I had the feeling he preferred my indifference. I was not offended. He was cunning and agreeable and so obviously without ethics that he aroused me—perversely.

  “So, Kate leaves today. Alicia told me.”

  “She left already.”

  “Canada. Is that right?”

  “Yes, her brother lives there.”

  “And in September, she’s going to McGill.”

  I nodded once. “McGill.”

  “Montreal is beautiful. You’d love it there,” he stated with certainty—already certain that I’d never been, certain as well of the things I’d love. “The old city is an island in the St. Lawrence named after Mount Royal, the mountain at its center. The French say, ‘Mont Ray-al.’ In America, we say ‘Mon-tree-all,’ which, of course, is misleading. We’ll have to visit her sometime.”

  Sara stepped off the patio, moving toward us. Mark stood to greet her. Their voices coupled warmly, turning festive, buoyant, ruffling like emancipated doves. It was clear that they’d known each other for a while. Mark relieved Sara of glasses and napkins, and he extracted a plate from the crook of her forearm. I wondered why they were not in love when they were so beautiful together, when the world they inhabited was legitimate with manageable particulars, when their mindfulness seemed to extend no further than the moment they occupied. They would have had a normal love, a confiding union felt to the core, not the desperation I’d known with Rourke, the panic I felt when he was gone. Mark spoke amiably, though the pressure from his mind to mine was serious and unceasing. His was an exceptional power—he was blessed, he had no doubt. I wondered how he had gotten Sara to get me to come to the party. She seemed like the type who would be immune to influence.

  They were talking about collections. Sara kept keys.

  “Nonsense,” Mark teased. “Keys. I keep cars.”

  “Oh, well, cars,” she said and shrugged. “Naturally.”

  Mark turned to me. “And you, Eveline?”

  I had none that I could recall except the rock portrait collection, which technically Denny had started, so it probably didn’t count. I was not interested in keys, though I agreed that they were collectible, with the way they clink and cleverly hang.

  “What do you think about cars?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t know much about cars.”

  Sara laughed at Mark, “Ha!”

  “Not so fast,” Mark said. “She hasn’t seen it yet.”

  “It is nice,” Sara conceded. “Actually, Evie, you might like it.”

  “It’s so nice, the previous owner didn’t want to sell it,” Mark said. “He finally gave in to persuasion.” Persuasion is the type of word only certain people can use. I’d never persuaded anyone of anything. Mark took my hand and drew me to my feet. “Let’s see what you think.”

  As we descended the mild grade to the gardener’s cottage, he said, “This is my place. And this,” he announced as we made the turn onto an opened garage door, framed on both sides by a fan of wild roses, “is my
new car.”

  We faced off with a gorgeous gunmetal-gray Porsche with an elliptical body. I touched it, bending prudently, as if to pet a sleeping animal, my fingers skimming the semi-scripted chrome lettering that flickered and repeated in the light.

  “1967,” he said, leading me deeper into the impeccable garage, popping the door handle, taking me by the elbow, helping me sit. My legs drew up involuntarily, and when he shut the door, it made a solid seal like the lid of a coffin. The leather interior was supple and medicinal, the color of coffee ice cream. The glove box was at my knees. I was thinking, Once it held gloves.

  Mark joined me, bringing himself behind the wheel. Though it felt wrong to be with him, I did not feel responsible for my loneliness or for his desire to violate it. People had been speaking to me for weeks, and yet only Mark had gotten through. I waited for him to refer to Rourke; it was exactly the right time to refer to Rourke. If he didn’t, it was clear that he had a plan.

  “So,” he said, “NYU. We will both be in New York.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling something sinking. “It’s strange.”

  He started the engine. “Not strange, Eveline. Fate.”

  The rest until the end was fast. Frequently there is more time to think than there are things to think about, and you sit around contemplating the most trifling details. Other times it feels you live your life in a minute. Not in the sense of things racing past, though there is that, but of things spilling out in an undulating twist, simultaneous and unoriented, flat and circular, present and future, like a Möbius strip. Because although I was surprised to see Rourke, I’d also been expecting to see him. And though I knew not to trust Mark, I’d been unable to break away.

  The Porsche coasted past Georgica Beach, but then Mark hit the brakes and popped the car into reverse. We swung into the parking lot. Many cars were there, including Rob’s and Rourke’s. As we pulled past the GTO, I saw the ghost of my name still etched on the little window in back. Eveline. From the night at the Talkhouse.

  Let’s go back, I said. I thought I said.

  Mark killed the engine anyway, and we coasted like an arrowhead into the heart of the lot.

  Three figures appeared at the crest of sand—a guy in a Red Hook Fire Department T-shirt and two girls in sundresses. Mark pulled the emergency brake and hopped out. He kissed the girls and shook hands enthusiastically with the man, both of them pumping until their palms swung down. Something was coming up from the direction of the water, from behind the girls. I saw Mark’s face stiffen.

  Through the planes of twilight came Rourke, a silhouette ascending the slope of sand from the west. He passed Mark and the others, moving silently and directly to the car, which was not even as tall as his waist. He stopped at my door, staring down.

  I heard Mark say, Eveline. This is Lorraine, and this is Anna, and this is Anna’s husband, Joey, Joey Cirillo—Rob’s brother. Mark pointed loosely from me to Rourke, from Rourke to me, and with an uncharacteristic trace of sarcasm or maybe pity, he said, And of course, you two know each other.

  Rourke continued to look at me. If I had not been sickeningly aware of my compromise, I would have found proof of it in his eyes. His left hand entered the pocket of his Levi’s and his white dress shirt hung like paper from his shoulders. The wind blew back his hair and his body blocked the sky—no, skies. The one over him and me, and the other one.

  What brings you all out here? Mark asked.

  Harrison dragged us, Joey said. We had lunch in Montauk and a day at the beach. The girls did a little shopping in East Hampton. We just passed your house—looks like you’re having a party.

  For my sister, Mark said. She graduated today. Why don’t you come by?

  How about it, girls, you up for it?

  Heads! A voice. Rob’s. A football appeared from the direction of the water, boring cylindrically up to us. Rourke reached above my head to catch it. I could feel the breeze made by his arm.

  Watch yourself, there, Mark said to Rob.

  Well, well. Look at the new toy, Rob said. And the car’s nice too.

  Everyone laughed and Rob clapped once for the ball. Rourke threw it back. I observed his arm—the lengthening, the retracting, the feverish white of his shirt against his dark skin.

  Let’s go girls, Rob said, let’s go. Harrison. C’mon.

  See you in a few, Joey said.

  Mark said, See you in five.

  Rob turned back and snapped, Harrison. Now.

  Rourke jerked imperceptibly, then he moved, saying Later. I did not know to whom, maybe to me, probably to me.

  Probably all three cars arrived at the same time. Probably when Mark and I went through the crowd down the driveway to the garage, Rob and Rourke went to park on the street. I was thinking about where to find him. Inside, I thought. I’d begun to shiver.

  Mark automatically led me to the screened porch on the side of the house. The roof was low and flat like a tarp, and through the walls the night moved like gentle water. People were lounging on rattan sofas, and there was music. He chose the porch because he knew I wouldn’t go to where I could not easily be found. I began to perceive the scope of his project—it involved not simply a win, but an eventual, strategic win. It was as if he was helping me with Rourke, feeding an addiction, making me dependent on him.

  Alicia knelt at my chair. Is she okay?

  She’s cold. I was driving with the top down. Very foolish of me.

  Is that true, Evie? Alicia asked, glaring at him. Are you just cold?

  My eyes found Mark’s. Yes, I said, it’s true.

  She said, Mark, I could kill you.

  Kill me, please, Alicia dear, he said playfully, smiling. Then slower, to me alone. Not smiling, mouthing the words again. Kill me. And then, aloud again, I’ll get some cognac.

  Honestly Evie, he drove us crazy for weeks to get you here, then he gives you pneumonia. Alicia gave me her sweater, pulling it off, one side, the other. There was an extra hole in her left ear, and in it a diamond that flared in the light, like a miniature exploding thing.

  Sara came in from outside. Why don’t I just take you home, she offered.

  Let’s try the cognac first, Mark suggested and Sara retired to the window to check on the status of the night, her gauzy slacks undulating. I’ll be right back, he promised me, and as soon as he left the room, I wanted him to come back.

  Within moments, Rourke filled the doorway between the porch and the living room. A luminous band etched the perimeter of his body, giving him the aspect of hanging forward. There was a precision about him. I didn’t need to guess his purpose. I felt surrounded; I felt myself at his center.

  Sara said hello to him, and they spoke briefly. I wondered what she felt. Did she feel what I felt? Did she feel an anthem in her heart? Did she see the lines of his face and think they were beautiful? Did she think if she could not hold him, she would die? Was she sorry for everything she’d ever done?

  Mark returned, passing through, saying hi to Rourke, and excuse me, then coming to me, blocking my view of Rourke, giving me a glass. This is for you. Mark’s voice originated from elsewhere; it was detached from his body. Exactly as he handed me the tumbler, I stretched to see Rourke, but he was gone. The glass slipped through my hand, smacked the tabletop and broke. There was a fanning slosh of liquid.

  Sara pulled back the throw rug. Someone crammed a newspaper against the side of the table to catch the widening stream. I slapped my hand down to catch the pieces of glass.

  Mark shouted, Evie, no! Consuela!

  It was too late. A fragment cut into my palm. Blood mixed with the liquor along the slice and it stung. Sara took me through the crowd to the bathroom, and she left me.

  The door clicked shut; the dim tiled room; in the mirror, my face, so pale. And Rourke. His likeness behind my own, swelling like smoke to encircle me. I did not wonder where he’d come from, nor did I think as he lifted me onto the counter and attended to my wound. When it was clean, he pressed his lips to my ha
nd, then to my mouth. The kiss, the first, penetrating and inquisitive, with each of us trying to capture all that had become active, the mysterious traits of a mysterious desire, now miraculously, and perhaps just tentatively, in hand.

  I need to get out of here for a couple days, he said. I thought I could leave you. I can’t. With my mouth I could feel him speak. His voice was like underwater vibrations, like the inky scuffs and thuds you hear in a submarine. He held my chin. Understand?

  Yes, I said, nodding.

  All right, he said, let’s go.

  There was a place near a pond where the trees divided to accommodate the belly of the night. It was there that we stopped. The moonlight was like a body dropped to earth, a luminous stellar wreck. Rourke eased the car forward to where the issue from the moon was widest, and he jerked the brake to park. Beyond the windshield, day was making minor gains on the night, coming and retreating in whispers like the pull and the push of his breath. By his hands, I was carefully considered, as if it were not me he wanted but something I possessed. I could feel the burden of his eyes upon me, a hunter’s eyes, keen and suspicious, as if I were the keeper of some conclusion that he had intuited but of which he had no evidence.

  Say it, he said, the words caught at the base of his throat. No one.

  No one, I said, I swore, but you.

  I said it because it was true. There was no one but him, and there never would be. I loved him with pain and with something greater than pain, with a barren ache that pealed not in the heart but in the desert dry alongside it. I knew it was so even then: if in his arms I was a woman, beyond them I was nothing.

  Summer 1980

  At first, one is struck by his peculiarity—those eyes, those lips, those cheekbones … that face reveals … what any face should reveal to a careful glance: the nonexistence of banality in human beings.

  —JULIA KRISTEVA

  28

  Rourke drove through the last remaining darkness. The preliminary azure cool of morning was coming up full around us, clear as the whistles birds make. The ground ascended like a platform into day, and across it we shot, passing from one highway to the next—rolling west, rolling south, with the sun rising and the ellipse of the planet beneath. I felt defiant and alive, like a criminal in the midst of a crime—visionary and dissolute and removed from the world about me. I felt I had entered the tempo of my era. When you study explorers such as Magellan or Cortés, you follow lines across oceans and continents. The miles and the perils, the forfeiture of lives and hearts, the years lost and monies disbursed, are all reduced to trails of dots and arrows. Rourke and I were that way—no more than the eye could see, paving paths through the universe, the look of us amounting to the entirety of our story.