After Benny’s death, Frank had insisted that she get back on her birth control pills. She had not fought him on this because the truth was, she was scared. And tired. The process of taking a wailing, prune-faced infant and raising him into an intelligent, vivacious seven-year-old had been joyous but also difficult. Everything in those seven years had revolved around Benny—breast-feeding, teething problems, potty training, measles, birthday parties, sleepovers, homework, day camp. Watching Shrek 2 instead of Before Sunset, The Three Stooges videos instead of the art movies at the Ann Arbor Film Festival. Seven years of not making a plan or a decision without putting Benny’s needs first, and it turned out that none of it was enough. Being a good, diligent parent was not enough of a talisman against the cruelty of a snarling universe. She had looked away for a split second, and in that blink of time, he was gone. The earth had swallowed him up, turned him into dust, and then Ellie had laid in bed at night, wrestling with the thoughts of worms eating at Benny’s fine, precious body until she felt like the worms were inside her brain, feeding on her. Months after they’d buried her son, she had struggled with this image of the worms, waking up in the middle of the night with her scalp itching, dreading the slow descent back into sleep. Every day she would wake up with dark circles under her eyes and drag herself through another day of listening to the sad stories of her clients. Once, only once, did she unburden herself to a client, a retired schoolteacher who had lost a child twenty-five years ago, and the woman had assured her she didn’t mind, but Ellie was appalled. She had insisted on not charging the client for the visit, and when Lois Shaffer, the psychologist who owned the practice where Ellie worked, asked her why they were not billing for her time, she’d told her. Lois had looked at her for a long time and then said quietly, “I thought you returned to work too soon, my dear. But even now, if you want to take some time off, it’d be fine. We’ll find a way to cover for you.”
Remembering Lois’s words, Ellie shifted in her seat. She had not taken Lois up on her offer then, but when, a few weeks later, she’d gotten wind of Pete Timberlake’s proposal to Frank, she had insisted that Frank not dismiss it without thinking it through. And the more she spoke to Frank about it, the more convinced she’d become that it was the right thing to do, that starting life afresh in India, a country where they knew no one and where nobody knew them as Benny’s dad and mom, was what they needed to do. And much to her surprise, everyone on both sides of the family—with the exception of her mom—had agreed with her. The resistance that she’d expected from her dad and from Frank’s mother never came. Perhaps the dark circles under her eyes, the fact that she battled with images of her son’s skull at night, were more obvious than she’d known. Only Delores had balked. During one of their late-night phone conversations she told Ellie, “Moving to India won’t change the fact of what’s happened, honey. It’s like that saying—you gotta go home with them that brung you to the dance.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mom,” Ellie had said frostily. Her mind was made up; it was late. She didn’t want to deal with her mother’s enigmatic statements tonight.
“I’m just saying, darling, that whatever you and Frank need to work out, you should do it here at home. Where there’s family and friends to hold you up. Who’s going to take care of you in India, my darling?”
Now Ellie bit down on her lip as she remembered her dismissive answer to her mother. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, Mom,” she’d answered. It had been a reflexive answer, a throw-back to her years as an independent-minded, rebellious teenager chafing under the watchful eye of an overprotective mother, but riding in a car speeding through the Indian countryside, Ellie regretted her arrogant words. Today, she felt far removed from that traumatized but hopeful woman who had believed that India—India, land of yogis and yoga and the Ganges and the holy city of Benares—would be the answer to the spiritual and emotional crisis that Benny’s death had inflicted upon Frank and her. Now, she was simply a woman in need of comfort—and she couldn’t turn to her husband, who right now was sleeping in the back seat with his mouth open, his shoulder cradling the head of a boy he had recently referred to as his son. Everybody had somebody to call their own, it seemed to Ellie—somebody that they had loved or married or adopted or birthed or simply borrowed. Everybody except her. She suddenly longed to hear her mother’s voice, hungered for the nuggets of hard-earned wisdom that Delores dropped without seemingly meaning to. She might no longer be a mother herself, but she would always be somebody’s child, and at this moment, Ellie was profoundly grateful for that fact. She would call her mother tonight once they reached home.
Satish turned a corner, and for a second the sun peeked out from behind the heavy clouds, bathing the countryside in an artificial-looking white light. Ellie barely noticed it. Instead, she took in the shivering trees, their leaves battered by the relentless violence of the rain, and the occasional cow, emaciated and wet, seeking shelter below one of those trees. Although it was warm and safe in the car, Ellie felt one with those living things outside, beaten by the rain, unprotected and unsafe in a dangerous world.
Her heart full of misgivings, Ellie eyed the road stretched out in front of them. She imagined it looked like her future—dark and endless and lined with ominous, threatening rain clouds.
BOOK TWO
Summer and Autumn 1993
Ann Arbor, Michigan
CHAPTER 14
He wanted to buy her.
Later, ashamed of his initial reaction, he would try to remember the truth differently, tell himself that his first reaction upon seeing Ellie had not been that crass or politically incorrect. Later, he would amend that to believe that upon first setting eyes on Ellie he had felt a strong urge to possess her or even that he had known in that first instant that he wanted to marry her. But the fact was, before his mind could censor his thoughts, he had wanted to buy that beautiful woman in the sleeveless black shirt and baggy pants who was bent over her cello, her straight dark hair falling across what he thought was the most finely sculpted face he had ever beheld. Wanted to buy her, the way one would want to buy a delicate bone china vase in an antique store or a painting one fell in love with at an art gallery.
He turned away, embarrassed by his own thoughts, but the next second he turned back, mesmerized this time by the men’s watch that she wore and by the improbably rich blue veins running down her thin, tanned wrists, enchanted by the way she was cradling the awkwardly large cello, those long fingers coaxing the instrument into doing her bidding. He had a sudden flash of what this woman would be like in bed, how she would hold her lover lightly but firmly, how those fingers would coax from him a different kind of melody. He imagined himself kissing the inside of her wrists, kissing the narrow strip where her watch had left a band of white against the rest of her tanned flesh. He imagined her body like a cello, a rich, golden instrument, her long, delicate neck, the smooth, polished torso, imagined plucking at her small, firm breasts with his lips, holding those narrow hips against his. He told himself to memorize this woman’s face and body in case he never saw her again, so that the next time he was tempted to sleep with the pretty, inconsequential girls who seemed to be everywhere at the University of Michigan, he would remember what his ideal woman looked like.
Aware that he was staring, Frank forced himself to look away and at his surroundings. It was a beautiful afternoon in June. Ellie was playing in a string quartet hired by Wilfred Turner, whose parents were throwing him a belated graduation party on their large family estate. Wilfred was a year ahead of Frank in the MBA program at the University of Michigan.
The quartet was working through the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2, but Frank scarcely heard the music as he rummaged his way through the guests milling around the enormous backyard, looking for Wilfred. “Good party, big guy,” he said. “How you doing?”
Wilfred made a face. “I’ll be better after all these folks leave, and we can go down a few beers at McLarry’s. Most of these are mate
r’s friends.”
Frank nodded noncommittally. He pretended to look around. “Nice music,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Where’d you find them?”
Wilfred laughed. “Forget it, kiddo,” he said. “You’re the sixth guy who’s asked. From what I hear, she has a boyfriend.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Oh, knock it off, Frank. You’re not fooling me. Either you’re suddenly interested in classical music or you’ve developed a sudden fondness for middle-aged men,” Wilfred said, pointing his chin in the direction of the three other musicians.
“Fuck you, Wilfred,” Frank said, walking away.
He heard Wilfred laugh behind him. “For what it’s worth, they call themselves the Moonbeams.”
He spent the next hour prowling around the lawn, making small talk with the other students, avoiding Wilfred and his mother, picking up an occasional hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter’s tray and sipping white wine. Finally, the musicians took a break, and Frank made a beeline for where the cellist was standing, stopping long enough to grab a fresh glass of wine.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Frank. And you must be exhausted. Care for a drink?”
She accepted the proffered glass without so much as glancing at him. “Thanks,” she said and began to walk away.
“Wait,” he said, and as she stopped and looked at him quizzically, he found himself saying, “A friend of mine is looking for a musician for a—a birthday bash he’s having. Do you have a card or something?”
She gestured with her head. “You should talk to Ted. He does all the bookings.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Frank could see the other guys milling around, waiting for a chance to talk to the girl. “Well, the thing is, my friend’s place is small. He only wants to hire one musician.” Even to his own ears this sounded lame. “Do you happen to know someone who can perform solo? You know, classical guitar or something?”
“Well, I play the harpsichord.”
“Harpsichord? Why, that would be perfect. He—my friend—has a small place. So, let me call you. Do you have a card?”
She looked amused. “Sorry, no card. I just do this on the side, to earn some extra money. Grad school’s not cheap, you know.”
Frank’s eyes lit up. “You go to U of M? Music school?”
“Nope. I’m starting on my Ph.D. in psychology in the fall.”
“Oh, wow. That’s cool.” Frank saw Wilfred waving to her as he approached them. “So let me get your phone number,” he said, pulling out a pen. Wilfred was almost up to them now. He scribbled it on his palm as she recited it.
Wilfred walked over and kissed the girl once on each cheek in the European way. Frank felt a surge of jealousy run through him. Goddamn pretentious prick, he thought. “How you doing, sweetheart?” Wilfred said. “Is my buddy here bothering you?”
Frank spoke before she could. “I should let you two chat,” he said. He smiled at her. “Nice meeting you.”
He nodded to Wilfred and held up his hand as if to scratch his ear so that he could see the phone number written on his palm. “Good party, Wilfred,” he said. “I think I’ll go chat with your—mater.”
He had to control the lift in his step as he walked away. It was only when he had gone to the bar to get another drink that he realized that he didn’t know the name of the woman he had just lost his heart to.
Which made it awkward when he called her the next day. He could’ve asked Wilfred for her name, of course, but he didn’t want to give him the pleasure of lording it over him, teasing him, or worse, lecturing him. He didn’t want to talk to Wilfred at all. In fact, he didn’t want to talk to anyone except the girl, the girl, the girl who had slithered her way into his dreams the previous night, the one who was responsible for the thudding of his heart and for the dampness of his pajamas when he woke up. The girl who had reduced him to being a callow teenager again, who had no control over his own body. Like a love-struck teenager he had copied her number down on a piece of paper when he got home from the party and then traced its outline again on his palm, not wanting it to fade away.
He tumbled out of bed at nine the next day, brushed his teeth to get rid of the morning hoarseness, and dialed her number. She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?” she said, and the single word made Frank’s body ache with longing.
“Hi,” he said. “This is Frank. We met at Wilfred’s yesterday? I talked to you about playing at my friend’s party?”
There was a slight pause and then she said, “Yup, I remember.”
Couldn’t she sound a little glad or something? Frank thought. But hey, at least she remembers. “Great,” he said. “Well, I was calling to follow up on it. He definitely wants to hire you.”
“What date is the gig?”
Date? Shit. “He doesn’t know yet. That is, it’s sometime in July, but he’s not sure when.”
“Well, he should let me know as soon as he knows. July’s a busy month. Everybody wants to get married then.”
Had he detected something in her voice? Some edge, some sarcasm? Was she against marriage? Against love, romance, men in general?
“Hello?” the voice at the other end said. “You still there?”
“I’m here,” Frank said. He thought fast. “You know, before I introduce you to my friend, you and I should come up with a list of dates when you’re available and go over the musical arrangements. Are you free to meet for coffee or something this week?”
“You want to go over what music I’ll play?” This time there was no mistaking the bemusement in her voice. But before he could respond, she said, “Okay. I’ll bring my calendar with me, and we can pin down some dates. I can also show you a list of selections. But shouldn’t your friend meet with us?”
Damn. This lying business was treacherous. He was already beginning to feel like a dirty old man. “Don’t worry about that. I—we’re sort of cohosting this party together.”
“But I thought—” she started before changing her mind. “Whatever.”
“Listen,” he said. “I have an idea. I was gonna grab a quick lunch at Ali Baba’s at one o’clock today. You know where that is, on State Street? Would you like to discuss this over lunch?”
The slightest of hesitations and then, “Sure.”
Sure? It was that easy? Frank exhaled and realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time they’d been on the phone. “Great,” he said hoping she hadn’t heard the slight tremor in his voice. “See you at one.”
The instant he hung up, he realized he still hadn’t asked her her name.
At noon, he caught himself changing his shirt a second time and stopped himself. Enough preening, already, he told his reflection in the mirror. Either she’ll like you or she won’t. You’re not auditioning for a part. The way he was behaving brought back memories of lingering on the front porch of the house in Grand Rapids, dressed in the suit he wore to church every Sunday, looking for his father to return. For five months after his father left, he kept a vigil after church every Sunday, wanting to be dressed in his finest when his dad came back. And then one day he saw himself, a twelve-year-old boy dressed in his brother’s hand-me-down suit, rocking himself on the big white rocker, his heart jumping every time a car came down the quiet street. Saw the futility of the hope that burned in that boy’s chest. And he went inside and got out of that suit as quickly as he could.
He had grabbed an outdoor table at Ali Baba’s and was paging through a library book when he looked up and saw her standing in front of his table. And he knew that she had seen the look of stunned pleasure that crossed his face when he spotted her. She wore a simple white dress with wide lapels and big black buttons in the front, her sunglasses resting on her head. Surrounded by men and women in T-shirts and shorts, she stood out like a flower in the desert. Frank’s mouth went dry as he stood up to greet her.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey.” He smiled, knowing that his smile was too deep for the occasion but
not really caring. He was happy to be sitting across from this lovely woman and he didn’t care who knew it.
“I grabbed an outdoor table. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s perfect.” She looked around and flung one arm out. “It’s a gorgeous day.”
“It is,” he said. “A perfect day.” And she must’ve heard something in his voice because she looked at him before lowering her eyes.
She ordered an iced tea and a felafel sandwich. Frank ordered a chicken pita and hummus for them to share.
“Okay, I have a confession to make,” he said when the waiter left. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Ellie.”
Ellie. He tried it out in his head and decided it was like swirling a rich, red wine in his mouth. “Nice to meet you, Ellie,” he said.
“You, too. So. Shall we look at our calendars?”
He tore a piece of pita and dipped it in the hummus. “Let’s wait until after lunch,” he said. “Small table.”
“Sorry. That makes sense.”
“Though if you’re in a hurry?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ve nothing planned for today, thank God.”
“So why psychology?” he asked, while thinking, If you don’t sleep with me I’m going to spontaneously combust.
“It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Help people heal their lives. I think it’s one of the reasons I’ve always been drawn to music, too.”
The Weight of Heaven Page 16
