So now, when the doorbell rings, I think it must be him. Who else would come to my door at ten at night? There ignites inside me a fire of hope, a terrible longing. I fan it by racing for the door, step into the flame itself as I turn the handle.
Then I stop. I think to myself that the Stephen I knew and loved is not exactly the Stephen of today. Or rather; that I have experienced what it feels like to be the object of his scorn and that I will never quite forget that feeling. I think of Jacob, who claims his son can feel the hate upon his back when he walks in certain sections of the city. In Cornwall he’d almost been driven mad by the slightly paranoid, possibly accurate feeling that the people who gave him a bed and breakfast felt he was somehow unclean. As though his blackness might rub off on the furnishings, change the composition of the air in the rooms. I have felt a similar feeling – as though I am considered a contaminant – from my own husband. He blames me for Daniel’s condition, not with the fury of Bettelheim, but with the quiet resentment of a punter who feels he’s bet on a bad mare. My genetic failing is evident to him. There have been no cases of autism in the entirety of the Marsh family tree.
And so I open the door slowly, with a heaviness inside me; I don’t want to seem too eager to see him. I wish it would be Andy with his cocky smile, suggesting we have a little chat now that the children are asleep. ‘Five minutes just to sit with you,’ he’d say, brushing past me before I had time to object. But instead there is a figure sitting on the stone steps, her hair loose and dark, the colour of the ocean at night, reflecting light in all directions. What worries me is that her fingers hide her eyes. And when she rises it is with the stiff, fragile gait of an accident victim, her cloth bag hanging on her shoulder, its strap tangled with her hair.
‘Veena,’ I say. She does not talk, but clasps my arm. We walk inside slowly, holding on to each other.
18
When Stephen left, it was like an emptying out of my life, of all our years together. It was as though where once there had been the essential everyday tools of living – cutlery and scissors, car keys and batteries – there was now an empty drawer. But then I discovered something. It seemed there lay buried inside me a different person than the one who had been living with Stephen. Perhaps, through some subtle sleight of hand, love affairs alter you, displace you, transform you into a kind of alternative person. Andy would say they left their mark. The person I had been with Stephen was similar but not identical to the person I became after he left. My yearning for Stephen, my desire to keep him situated here in this home with our children, did not begin with his disappearance. From the start of our marriage it was always me waiting for him: waiting for him to return from work, or return my phone call, or return to bed. I was always struggling to gain his favour – wearing the correct articles of clothing, brushing up on current affairs, changing a word or phrase that had been mine since childhood – no longer calling trousers ‘pants’, for example. There is that word, ‘couple’, which can mean to be yoked together, as when hounds are coupled during hunting. In the case of Stephen and me, we were coupled, but he was always slightly ahead of me. I tagged behind, willing him to slow down and wait for me, and not to call it waiting, but call it love.
I tell Veena that perhaps it was the same with her man who has left her now, or rather, whom she has left.
‘I thought American men were polite always,’ she says, slumped in the chair, head in her arms, her hair spilling over the knotted pine of the table, the rush mat of the seat.
I shake my head. ‘They vary,’ I say.
‘He is always opening the doors for you, not letting you pay for anything. A real clothes-wallah. In his uniform he was ever so correct, and his hair was like carpet, but short.’
‘A soldier?’ I ask.
‘Actually, the one who came to the door that day. He is a friend of your brother’s, or so he said. I saw him again after I left, standing at the end of the road outside a pub. His pint glass was overflowing, so he was bending his head carefully to drink from its rim. He saw me. I looked at him, but I have been ignoring men since many years. Obviously, I paid no notice. He followed me, leaving behind his glass. I quickened my pace – I am not so stupid. I thought I was not so stupid – oof, what a stupid I am.’
I can imagine perfectly what the young man looked like, the same as my brother might. In clothes with a woodland camouflage pattern, black beret angled on his head with the unit crest on the high side. His trousers would have cargo pockets below the hip, fastened by a flap with two buttons. The boots she remembers are tanker boots, with leather straps instead of laces. Some army liaison officer here on a joint training operation between British and American armies. He could be in the Special Forces on some sort of training exercise, looking to get to know the city in which he will live now for a year or two, before moving on. It is hard to imagine that Veena would allow him near her. She is a woman who does nothing whatsoever to disguise her disdain if a man approaches. I was with her once when a perfectly innocent guy stopped us to ask directions, saw her tip her face from him, refusing to speak so that I had to explain. Afterwards she called me gullible. Called the man who needed directions ‘an opportunist’. And yet, this officer captured her attention, her heart. And to that rare offer from this, my good friend, he showed no gratitude.
‘He seemed such a very nice fellow,’ she says, sighing. ‘I am married to him now,’ she adds, bringing her hand up from under the table and placing it palm down on the wood, fingers splayed. There, on her third finger, is the soldier’s ring. ‘I want you to know this is the first and last time,’ she says, pointing to her eye.
He’s made a perfect target of her left eye, circles of dark bruising emerge from all points surrounding it. I hope this fellow comes here looking for her. My brother, who is a wiry sergeant first class, with a jaw broken twice and knuckles dulled from various punch-outs he’s had over the years, taught me a few of what he calls ‘dirty’ moves that will bring down the toughest of men. All of these involve making sure the victim has no idea you are about to hit him, and require only ordinary household objects. ‘You need ice,’ I say to Veena, staring at her face.
‘It’s too late for ice. I was going to ask if I could sleep on your sofa, but you’ve turned your living room into a gym,’ she says. ‘Where is the furniture?’
‘Sold it,’ I say. ‘You can have Emily’s bed.’
She begins to smile, then winces. She is a tiny woman with dainty, angular bones. In her socks she would fit very nicely into a year six class and not even be the tallest there. ‘How are the children?’ she asks.
‘Daniel can talk. He points and says, “Look, a helicopter. Look, a purple car.” But he cannot ask questions yet.’
‘That is just as well,’ says Veena. ‘I don’t want a lot of questions.’
In the morning Veena drinks herbal tea in bed, asks me to bring her a book. With her good eye she squints. ‘Let me read to you,’ I say. Sunday morning, the children are racing back and forth across the bare floors. I would almost say they are playing together, as Andy once promised. He will arrive later, in his loose jeans fraying at the pockets, the knees already shot out from spending so much time on the floor with children. In his Bono T-shirt, with his lean and freckled arms, he will clasp Daniel by the hips and place him like cargo upon his shoulders. My little boy, into whom Andy and I have collected ourselves, who has linked us in a way we cannot explain. Andy carries him for me, and swings him in his arms.
‘What shall we read?’ Veena asks, sinking back on to the pillow, her dark hair in contrast to the pink and white posies that decorate the walls of Emily’s bedroom. ‘Can it be a happy story?’
About children who run in fields, and surprises arriving like kittens in spring. About the discovery of a secret shop where all the sweets take you back in time, of friendly dragons and clever, speaking owls. Of brave and true men willing even to risk their lives for ordinary girls who discover, later, that they are princesses with royal blood and
kingdoms all their own.
I nod. I promise her this.
Stephen has agreed to a drink. I have tried very hard not to care what I wear to this drink, not to fix my hair just right, not to notice if my make-up is perfect. I don’t want to make it appear I am trying too hard. That would be a turn-off. And I don’t want it to appear I don’t care at all. That wouldn’t do, either. So wearing my favourite jeans belted loosely at the hips, a pair of suede boots and a shirt that shows off my eyes, I waltz into the wine bar as nonchalantly as if I meet Stephen here all the time. Nothing to it I see him seated at the far end punching the buttons on his mobile phone, texting someone. He glances up at me, then back at his phone. I sit down and wait until he is finished. Why do I resent this so much? A few minutes of waiting? Why does it matter?
Our table is a dark circle next to an exposed brick wall. The place is crowded with after-work drinkers and we share the narrow room with a whole slew of people who obviously work together and use this wine bar as a kind of after-work party place. They keep erupting in laughter, which annoys me. I feel like it just punctuates everything wrong between Stephen and me, who do no laughing whatsoever. He’s only got time for one drink, so I launch into what I want from him right away.
‘Come home,’ I urge him. ‘Quit this nonsense and come back to your family.’
He winces, makes a face as though I’ve just said something very, very irritating. It’s clear to him that we were having a hard time before the diagnosis. Certainly we cannot recover now.
‘Why are you always harping on at me?’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t we be discussing more constructive issues, like how Daniel is doing?’
I want to say, Stephen, don’t even pretend you have Daniel’s welfare in the forefront right now. I want to say, Stephen, when have you even considered what is best for Daniel? But, of course, I don’t say this. I would never say such a thing. I am a tactician; my testimony is whatever will help my children. So I glance at the framed pictures of the Thames that grace the walls of the wine bar, squint my eyes at the array of twinkly lights that run along the ceiling, gathering myself together. And then I say, ‘Daniel is playing and speaking at about a two-year-old’s level. So he’s made up eighteen months in the space of seven months. He might be autistic, but he is gaining skills. He’s smart. He’ll make it, but only if we keep doing what we’re doing, working very hard for him.’
‘Who’s we?’ he says.
‘Me,’ I tell him. I don’t mention Andy. ‘And you, if you’d just –’
‘Look, I’m not a therapist, or whatever it is you want me to be,’ he says. His phone beeps and he glances at the screen. I’d like to throw the phone against the brick here, but somehow I think that would be interpreted as insanity rather than longing.
‘What about Emily?’ I say. ‘Don’t you think about her?’
‘Blackmail,’ he says.
‘You’re their father,’ I say.
‘I’ll always be their father.’ That’s a fact, sure enough.
‘I want you to be with us,’ I say.
‘But why? It’s better this way. Less … friction.’
I would tell him because I love him, but I’m not sure that is the case any more. I don’t feel love. But then, this conversation – the whole thrust of this plea – isn’t about me or how I feel at any given minute.
He says, ‘We weren’t happy.’
And this just really makes me cross. He’s talking about being happy? Like his being happy is the most important goal right now. Like it matters so much.
I lean forward, whispering, ‘They are your children. How happy do you need to be?’
He moves back in his seat, gazing at me as though constructing some kind of analysis. Then I realise he’s looking slightly above the level of my eyes. He’s thinking, but not necessarily about anything I am saying.
He sighs. He begins to speak, but then stops himself. He is just waiting now, probably calculating how much longer he has to sit in the chair.
A little longer, I decide.
Picturing my children’s faces, I pour out a whole string of reasons why he just has to come home. We need you; we miss you; the day is not complete without you. Regardless of what has passed, we simply must work it out. I say all this and I look at him in what I hope is a loving way, a beseeching way. He allows this, so I continue. I am giving my best; I can hear the strain in my voice and I wish it weren’t there, but I cannot help it. I want him back. It is as though I can hold in my chest the hearts of my children along with my own, and I respond to those hearts. But then I realise, all of a sudden, that I am only providing a kind of amusement for Stephen. He doesn’t believe a word. And maybe I don’t believe it either. Everything about him is a closed door.
The phone rings. It comes alive all at once, suddenly full of lights, echoing a shrill tone, rattling on the table. He reaches for it – I think at first to turn it off – and then I realise he’s going to answer it. He’s answering the phone. I slap at it, knocking it to the table once more, and we both stare as it rings and vibrates, shifting across the table like a dying insect. I stand up, shaking with fury. I am turning away now, readying to march out of here. The ringing continues, increasing in volume as my words spill out above the sound of the phone, the laughter of the people around us. ‘You’re going to regret this, Stephen!’ I shout at him. But he isn’t listening. He’s answered the call.
All the way home I look at men. In their business suits, in their jeans, wearing denim jackets or sweatshirts or no shirt. I look at them and I wonder what’s going on, who are these guys? Where’s the mother ship or whateveritis from which they’ve come?
When I tell Larry what happened with Veena and his army buddy, do you know what he says? He says, ‘Like I had anything to do with it.’
No expression of sympathy, no further information about this guy – his friend – who was so awful to her.
‘That’s it? That’s your comment on the matter?’
‘Uh, yeah, I guess so. I mean, I don’t even know your friend Frieda –’
‘Veena!’
‘Whatever.’
I tell him he’s a loser, a complete loser, and that it’s almost unbelievable that he’s related to me.
‘Uh-huh,’ he says lazily. ‘Yup. So? I sent the kiddies presents, though, and that was good, wasn’t it? So that girl got a black eye. Shit, I’ve had dozens of those. Hundreds even. Sometimes I wake up and my eye is just black and I don’t even know why.’
Now I’m really cross. ‘Larry, I’ve really had enough of you!’ I say.
‘Had enough of me, what? Look,’ he says, ‘what did I do, hold a gun to her head and make her marry the guy?’
He’s right, of course, but just to punish him anyway I tell him that not only are guns not allowed in England, but since they’ve banned fox-hunting, the government now feels compelled to ban all gun-related metaphors: shoot from the hip, right on target, under fire. None of these are allowed by law.
‘When you next arrive in this country, you will be unable to use any of these terms,’ I say to him now, using a sorrowful voice as though this is true.
And bingo, I’ve got him.
‘Stop this madness! It’s fascism!’ he says. I can imagine him clutching his head.
‘… no more on the wrong side of the barrel, straight shooter, bring out the heavy artillery …’
‘Oh my God! When does this insanity begin?’ he says. He’s clearly in agony. Behind his voice the whole of the Amazon jungle he lives with call out their inane, senseless chatter. Especially the one bird. Life is sweet rings loud and clear across three thousand miles.
‘Tomorrow, at noon. There will first be a moment of silence for all people shot by guns over the whole of world history. And then, an end to the metaphors.’
Daniel is naked from the waist down, his slim legs like two drinking straws, his knees splayed out as he sits on the chequered tiles of the bathroom floor. We have brought in the Duplo bricks, hundreds of colours
that make a pleasing sound like seashells if you roll them together, and which fall clattering to the hard floor when we tip a tall tower. The base must be wide, so we form a square of bricks across the green Duplo board, its grid of convex circles perfectly in line.
‘You watch his willy, I’ll do the tower,’ says Andy. He squats on the floor in his dirty trainers, no socks, his jeans the colour of the sky on a cloudy day. He’s missing a rear pocket, a fact I noticed when he came through the door this morning, looking at him the way I do now, studying his anatomy as a careful student might. I am aware, as a lover might be, of the curling hair along his ankles, thickening as it disappears inside the dark folds of his jeans, the ruby birthmark the size of a thumbprint that begins at the hairline on the back of his neck, the white scar above his right eyebrow, where he has pierced it, then let it heal.
We are teaching Daniel to use a toilet. There is no hope of regular nursery school for him unless he abandons the nappies.
‘When you see it rise just a little bit, then get him to the toilet,’ he says. ‘And be prepared that he might scream.’
Daniel looks at me, then at Andy. ‘Nappy,’ he says,
‘Toilet,’ says Andy.
On the ledge at the head of the bath we are armed with chocolate drops and orange juice – both of which are particularly coveted treats. Daniel has been taught using this reward method for so long that he knows the prize reliably arrives with his best effort. He thinks he is meant to make a tall tower, and so focuses all his energy on creating what he thinks we want, a colourful tower as tall as his arms will reach.
‘I want juice,’ he says.
‘Nice try,’ says Andy. He looks at the juice, indicates with his finger. ‘Can I have some juice please?’
Daniel watches him, considering this example, but turns to me instead. ‘I want juice,’ he says.
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