Living in the Weather of the World

by Richard Bausch

  V

  The next morning, his mother came to the apartment. He was sitting at the table, staring across at the unfinished painting, when he heard the gravel pop in the little driveway outside. Glancing out the window in the door, he saw her car pulling in. He stood as if caught, and knocked the chair over. “Christ.” The rasping in his own voice surprised him. He looked at the mess of the place—clothes strewn on the bed and chairs, the scraps of aborted sketches and versions in a welter of brushes and tubes of paint on the one table, and the several finished and unfinished canvases leaning against the wall. Then he was looking for signs of what had transpired on the divan. He covered the painting, righted the chair, and opened the door before his mother could ring the bell.

  “So,” she said. “Talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’ve been on the phone with Sonya’s mother. She’s picked me for her new friend, and that carries a price, I’m afraid. I don’t mean to sound petty.”

  He stepped out and closed the door. “Did you tell her?”

  She glanced beyond him. “That’s your job. But I’m thinking I won’t pick up anymore when the woman calls. I mean she’s talking about all of us getting together. Well, they would, wouldn’t they, under the circumstances. That’s what anyone would expect. It’s actually very nice and it fills me with guilt and foreboding and dread. ‘So full of artless jealousy is guilt, it spills itself in fearing to be spilt.’ ” She looked at him. It was a little game they had played since he was in high school: she would toss him quotes from Shakespeare, and he would try to guess the character and the play.

  “Hamlet,” he said. “Gertrude.”

  She smiled. “Good.” Then, after a brief pause: “You are going to take care of this, right?”

  He could only nod.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go eat breakfast.”

  “I’ve been concentrating so hard on the painting,” he told her. “I forget to eat.”

  “Can I see what you’ve got so far?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “All right.” She stared for a few seconds. Then: “Shall we go?”

  A wind was getting up from the west, a thunderstorm approaching. He let her drive him to Brother Juniper’s. There was a line. They stood under the porch roof with others and waited. “So when will we have the chance to meet her?”

  “It’s only been a couple weeks.”

  The rain started, and over the roofs of the buildings down the street lightning forked and flashed. The rain came down in big drops, then just ceased, and there was only the wind.

  “Well. Are we going to meet her? Your hands are shaking.”

  He folded his arms.

  “I don’t think I like what this is doing to you.”

  “I’m fine. I’m working on a painting. You know how dopey I get when I’m painting.”

  The line in front of them moved. “We want you to bring her to dinner.”

  “All right.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’ll ask. I’m having trouble with the painting.”

  “You’re looking at the real thing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re in love.”

  Hearing his mother say the words made him feel suddenly as though there were something profoundly false about it all. He was not prepared for the sensation. When they finally sat down, he had lost his appetite. He ordered coffee and tried to keep his hands still while she ate a Spanish omelet and a bowl of blueberries with yogurt.

  “Being in love takes away the appetite,” she said, “or else increases it.” She smiled. She was a very appealing lady with a rich contralto voice and a charming aphoristic way of speaking. Her students admired her. “Do you know what I think love is really about?”

  “Mom.”

  “Well, I am older than you are and I get to make these kinds of pronouncements. Especially to my son, who apparently has no idea.”

  “I know what I feel,” he said.

  “Of course you do. And you felt the same thing for Sonya.”

  “No. I thought I did.”

  “Yes.” His mother smiled tolerantly. “Of course. Romeo forgets Rosaline in the first instant he sees Juliet. But they’re children, you know. Juliet’s not yet fourteen.”

  “I know the play,” he said.

  “Do you know when I knew I was in love with your father? We were horseback riding and he fell. He looked so silly, and he was embarrassed and tried to hide how bad he’d hurt his hip. That walk, with him struggling so hard to keep from limping. And the hip was badly bruised, you know. I never thought I’d have any interest in him at all. I mean with a name like Wilfred. But there he was trying to hide how much it hurt, and my heart just went crack.”

  The young man knew something of the story—a version of it: she had always said that it’s in our weaknesses and vulnerability that we are most lovable. He said, “I don’t know where or how, or anything. I just know I’m gone on her.”

  “Well, you have to bring her over. And you have to tell Sonya. In person.”

  “I know. Wilfred already said.”

  “And don’t be a smart ass.”

  He was silent.

  “I assume this new girl has parents we’ll have to meet and get to know?”

  “No. They’re gone.” It was simpler just to leave it at that. No part of the history, even what little he knew of it, would please or reassure his mother.

  “I’ve always thought of you as my levelheaded son,” she said. “So I’m gonna trust that you know what you’re doing.”

  Smiling at her, he was full of the sense of deceit, and hoped it did not show in his face.

  She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Then: “Well, let us know. We’ll welcome her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her eyes narrowed in a way he recognized. “Ma’am?” she said. “What am I, a schoolteacher lady?” Then she made a show of seeming to arrive at a realization, raising her hand, index finger pointing up. “Oh, right. I guess I am, huh.”

  “Sorry,” he told her.

  “I think it’s a safe bet that you’re gonna need that very word a lot in the days to come.”

  He nodded, and forced a smile.

  VI

  Reality seemed to be collapsing. Something had been unleashed in him. As the days went on, he began to see every woman sexually, and he could not keep from imagining them naked in bed. The details of lovemaking, the physiology of it, the fact that they opened their legs in that way, those images kept rushing through him like some sort of pornographic new knowledge. He kept seeing the images, kept seeing her. He spent an hour working on the painting and dreaming of her on the morning of Sonya’s arrival, and he was late to the airport. He decided to say there had been a backup, an accident on 240. This was a tremendously hot day for fall. Late October and burning. Not a cloud in the sky. There really was a lot of traffic on 240, so it wouldn’t be entirely dishonest to say that he had been held up.

  And here he was, already thinking about seeming honest. He had wanted to be a man like his father, someone of steady quiet integrity. A married man with a family. It went through him like the knowledge of mortality that he had thought of Sonya as the mother of his future children.

  Her plane had landed, but was not at the gate. Relieved, he went to Maggie O’Shea’s and had a beer. Then he walked over to where she would come out. He waited for what seemed a long time after the plane was shown to be at the gate. And finally here she came. She had put makeup on, and smiled shyly, an uncharacteristically fretful smile.

  She put two bags down and stretched out her arms, and he accepted her embrace, breathing the fresh flower scent of her hair. She wore earrings he had given her. Leaning back, arms still around him, she murmured, “Well, aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  He did so. She moved against him and held tight and opened her mouth. It was a long, terribly uncomfortable kiss. Finally she let him go and he picked
up the bags.

  “Let me have that one,” she said.

  “It’s heavy.”

  “It’s my purse, you goof.”

  “It’s new.”

  “There’s two more bags coming. I bought some things.”

  A baritone male voice announced that there were only two places where smoking was allowed in the airport. He heard the name Maggie O’Shea’s again.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s the matter?”

  He stopped. There wasn’t enough air or light.

  “You smell like alcohol, David.”

  “I had a beer.”

  “Okay.” She waited. “Well?”

  “I don’t know how to say this.”

  “You better tell me.” Her eyes flashed. “You’re scaring me.”

  “All right. I’m just going to say it out. Okay? I can’t—I can’t—I—I can’t marry you. I’m in love.”

  “Someone got you pregnant, and so you—” Before she finished the sentence, her eyes widened, and the color began leaving her face.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “You’re sorry.”

  “I fell in love.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  “No.” He felt stronger now, looking into the narrowing dark eyes, the face twisting slightly, all the attractiveness he had seen leeching out in a furious glare.

  “You came here to tell me this? You picked me up, just to tell me this?”

  “Dad thought I should tell you in person.”

  “Your father.”

  Shumaker simply stared.

  “And—so we’re done, then? You’re gonna take me to my place and say goodbye forever.”

  “We can still be friends,” he got out.

  In the next instant, it seemed, he was on his back and a man was holding his face between rough, long-fingered hands. “You’re all right,” the man said. “Help’s coming.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Don’t move. You took a fall.”

  “I’ve got to pick up Sonya.”

  “Just stay still.”

  A void followed. Nothingness, and then he opened his eyes to see people gliding past him. He realized vaguely—as if he were in the middle of trying to parse a dream—that he was being carried out of the airport on a stretcher. A nervous-looking little bald man who was walking along next to the men carrying him spoke: “I saw it all. They were talking and suddenly she hit him with her bag, and he went over. He hit his head pretty hard on the floor.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve got him.”

  There was another span of absence, of nowhere, not even being cognizant of sleep. He found himself sitting on a hard surface, not much wider than an ironing board, being put carefully down on his back, and riding into a confining off-white tube. And soon he was lying in a bed, and a tall black man with thick dark eyebrows and mustache was standing over him. Shumaker thought of disguises and masks.

  “You’ve had a serious concussion.”

  “I was supposed to pick up Sonya.”

  “You have no fracture, but you’re going to have to be very still for a while, and rest.”

  “Fracture?”

  “Someone said the young woman hit you with her handbag, and you fell and hit the back of your head.”

  “But I’m supposed to—Sonya.”

  “We were told the young woman took a cab home.”

  “My parents should—I don’t understand. I’m supposed to be at my apartment at five.”

  The doctor looked at his watch. Then: “What day is it?”

  Shumaker told him.

  “When is your birthday?”

  He told him that, too. “Look, I’m all right.”

  “Not dizzy?”

  He tried to sit up, then lay back down. “A little dizzy.”

  “Let’s just wait a couple hours, see how you are. Concussion’s nothing to fool with.”

  “She hit me with her bag?”

  “Fellow said you were talking, and she looked to be getting agitated, and suddenly she just up and swung the bag.”

  “I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember seeing her.”

  “They said she waited for her bags and took them and went on out of the place while people were working over you. You were out cold, apparently.”

  “I went there to meet her.”

  “That’s the way it is with concussions. You know, you never see the punch that knocks you out. And believe me, you were out when they brought you in here.”

  Suddenly, he was crying. The tall man stood there patiently, one hand on his chest, and waited. But Shumaker couldn’t gain control of himself. He broke forth finally, “If I could see someone. My mother or father.”

  “They should be here soon. There’s a police officer here who wants to ask you a couple things. You up to it?”

  “I guess.”

  The police officer, who had been at the airport, walked over with a little notebook and a pencil and asked for his full name and his address. Shumaker gave them to him.

  “I’m assuming you knew the young woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you say what happened?”

  “I broke up with—I broke our engagement. And I guess she hit me.”

  The officer wrote something down, and seemed to cough.

  “I was gonna do it over the phone, but my father said I should do it in person.”

  He nodded, and turned and coughed again, and in the next moment Shumaker realized he was laughing. The officer cleared his throat, ran his forearm across his mouth, and took a breath. “Guess you’ll want to say something to your father.”

  “No, sir.”

  Once more, the cough, the head turning away. Then: “Uh—agh. Well. Do you want to press charges? What she did qualifies as assault and battery.”

  Shumaker looked at him.

  “Well?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “I don’t want to see her again.”

  “I guess not.”

  “I’d like to forget about it, please.”

  “I understand,” the officer said, folding the notebook. “Well, I guess that’s it, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It seemed that in a blink he was gone. Replaced by the tall doctor, looming over him, all concentration.

  “Did I pass out again?”

  “You went to sleep. An hour. See if you can sleep a little more.”

  “Do my parents know what happened?”

  “I believe the young woman may have called your mother. She’s—your mother—she’s on her way here. They’re on their way here.”

  “The young woman?”

  The doctor smiled. “No. Your parents.”

  “Did I have a CAT scan?”

  “That’s right. And there’s no bleeding.”

  “I’m tremendously sleepy.” He sobbed. “Is this normal?”

  “It’s all to be expected.”

  —

  HE SLEPT. NO DREAMS, NOTHING. Only a form of nonbeing that he recognized as the same sort of absence of sensation that had come down on him in the airport. When he woke, he saw his mother sitting in the chair by his bed. His father stood gazing out the window at the darkness.

  “How long have I been here?” Shumaker asked her.

  “A little over three hours.”

  His father walked over. “You think you can sit up now?”

  “Think so.”

  “Don’t go too fast,” said his mother.

  He turned on his side and came to a sitting position. There was a little dizziness, but it wore off as he straightened. His mother stood before him and looked into his eyes.

  “I have to get in touch with Alexa,” he told her.

  “You can call her from home.”

  “I was supposed to meet her at my place. I couldn’t get through to her.”

  “We know why you can’t call her, Son.” His father came and pulled gently on his arm above the elbow
, helping him stand.

  The doctor spoke from the door. “Take it slow. No lifting and no straining for at least a week. And you should probably see your family doctor next week. Just to be cautious about it.”

  “I will,” Shumaker said, feeling his father’s attention, like being nine years old again.

  “You want to talk about it?” the professor asked.

  “No.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” demanded his mother of them both, looking from one to the other.

  “The new girlfriend belongs to someone else.”

  “How’d you—?” Shumaker began.

  “Mr. Lessing walked into the restaurant looking for you. Told Terry you’re doing a portrait of his lady friend.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Wilfred Shumaker turned to his wife. “Lena, give us a second, will you?”

  She stared for a moment, then went out.

  “Okay, Son. This is just—I’m really worried.”

  “Dad, she’s the most amazing person.”

  “Really. Okay, why is that? Really. Tell me how you know that. Have you seen her with other people? Is there some public record of service to humankind? What exactly do you know about her, Son?”

  “I know I’m in love with her.”

  “And she’s supposed to marry a very powerful man in this city.”

  “Lessing? He’s eighty-three.”

  His father’s voice rose. “Don’t be naïve.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  “You’re in here with a concussion. Terry says your work has suffered. You don’t come see us—”

  “The painting…”

  “I don’t care about the painting, okay? I care about you with a concussion and about what else might happen when this Lessing guy gets wind of what’s going on. And this—this Alexa, what’s she doing? How can you go along like this cheating with her and knowing what she’s doing when she goes back to him? Does that look right to you? How does that feel?”

  “I just know I have to be with her, Dad.”

  “Well, where is she?”

  There wasn’t anything to say.

  “You have to be with her. Does she feel the same way about you? Where is she? Son, you just got clocked by one girl because of this other one, and where is she? Who is she? Are you in touch with her? Can you be in touch with her? You can’t bring her over to the house, because this is an affair. And you know there’s nothing at all romantic about this kind of thing—it’s sordid and low and vulgar, and it means lying and stealing around dark corners and worrying all the time about getting caught. Is that the kind of life you want? And for what? For a woman with a good body and sex?”