Another You

by Ann Beattie

  Was she talking personally? Not only about The Scarlet Letter, not only about the McCallums?

  “Forgive me,” she said, “I’m overstepping my bounds. This is conjecture. Not something I have any understanding of from both perspectives.”

  “But I thought he’d been your patient,” Marshall said.

  “He hadn’t been there to talk about his home situation,” Jenny Oughton said. “When something like this happens, you feel you’ve miscalculated, though. It does make you wonder whether you should let things evolve, let the client get around to what’s really the problem, or be more directive. I’ve really said too much. It’s not always easy to keep everything compartmentalized.”

  He liked her much better, suddenly, and was sorry she was getting up to leave. He helped her on with her coat, wrote a quick note to McCallum, which they both signed, saying they’d waited for him to get out of surgery (as if they’d known it was going to happen), that each would visit soon. They walked together to the nurses’ station and asked the only nurse willing to make eye contact to give the note to McCallum when he returned.

  In the elevator, the piped-in Muzak was playing a slowed-down version of “Age of Aquarius.” Everyone looked straight ahead, lost in thought as the elevator stopped at almost every floor, slowly proceeding to ground level.

  “You’re sure your son is coming,” he said.

  “As sure as I can be of anything,” she said. “It was nice to see you again.”

  He shook her hand. She had pulled on purple suede gloves with linings so thick he couldn’t feel the hand inside. He felt slight frustration at not being able to register the handshake, at her retreat into the formality of her goodbye. Walking to the parking lot, he thought about partings: McCallum’s odd two-fingered wave; Cheryl Lanier’s attempt at a grown-up sign-off at the end of her letter (“Goodbye, and take care”) that had seemed, instead of exhibiting maturity, to signal her youth with its slightly portentous formal good wishes. And his mother? How had she left the room that night so long ago? Certainly she hadn’t waved, but how had she departed, since she couldn’t have evaporated into air? One of the most upsetting things about having remembered that night was that the more he tried to remember, the more everything seemed to recede.

  He put the key in the lock and opened the car door, slipped in quickly out of the cold, and pulled the door shut. Had something as automatic as that happened? Had she said what she meant to say and then said goodbye and left the room? He invented a hug, instead. That would make sense as what she had probably done. He invented her swooping toward him, hugging him as he sat in the chair, and then realized that yes, that was true. Probably true. Because the feeling that came back to him was his stiffness: she had put her arms around him, but he had not returned her hug. Of course: he had been punishing her for going away.

  Martine, Chérie:

  I am taken aback that you would think of taking the children to your parents’ house in Canada for the remainder of the summer, though I can see that you would feel disheartened and would lack for companionship. I did not realize, either, that you had been the recipient of unwanted affections from my friend E.B. but feel sure that you can insist that he withdraw. Surely, this should not be a factor in your leaving what is, as much as it is Alice’s and mine, your own home in order not to suffer unwanted advances. I can truly sympathize because for so long I have been a victim at the mercy of the doctors. If you have temporarily inherited a life you were not led to expect, so have I dangled like a puppet at the end of some doctor’s string. Alice appears quite exhausted after her series of shocks, and not discernibly better, to me, though apparently she is now able to discuss with the doctors her fears about—well, we know this, both of us—about a continued life with me, and about her unjustly suffered guilt at the baby’s death. Her melancholy had apparently silenced her for quite a while preceding the treatment, though now she seems more willing to communicate. I will get a firm commitment from the doctors about whether or not Alice will be able to travel to Maine in the foreseeable future, and will let you know at once. I know you would not want her to arrive to find the house empty of you, her close friend, and her two boys, as well. In my dreams I see vases of flowers, petals on the tabletops, and your exquisite fingers brushing them into your cupped hand. Yes, the summer grows long, and I must not delay longer. My apologies for leaving you without protection against … well: who would have thought he would harbor amorous intentions toward you? It comes as yet another of life’s endless surprises. Say the word and I will see that this situation concludes immediately.

  Across the miles,

  M.

  Dear, Dear Martine,

  I have just this moment received your latest communication telling me that Amelia has volunteered to stay with the children while you visit your father after his tonsillectomy. I do realize that such surgery is very difficult when one is beyond childhood, and I am truly sorry for his discomfort. Naturally, if you feel you should be at his side, Amelia would be a most suitable person to watch over the children for a few days, which is what I imagine you are proposing. I must say that I am slightly vexed that she did not call me here at the Waldorf to say that all this might be going on, though I suppose that when one is long absent from one’s routines, one’s regular life, I mean, others tend to make plans of their own. I am sure I speak for Alice in saying that you must, absolutely, do what conscience dictates. I write only to say that I trust you have not abandoned hope entirely of our arrival. I cling to the thought of that moment as much as you must, Martine. I hope that you do not feel you have to escape the home in order to escape E.B. He has been a friend for so long that I hesitate to speak to him about this matter, unless you feel you cannot, or do not wish to, handle it. You seem quite clear that his affections are not reciprocated, and I cannot believe he would be insistent upon this. At any rate, I believe that even without Alice—there being only the slightest possibility she could travel for a weekend following her last treatment—I should like to come and check on things next weekend and see whether a discussion between the two of us might clarify some things. If you feel that you must go to your father before then, however, of course I would understand. Some say that visits are most appreciated when one has recovered a bit—but I leave that decision entirely in your hands. I will, of course, be happy to arrange a plane ticket.

  Warmly,

  M.

  Dear Martine,

  You must promise not to write me again in haste, as it causes me great pain. My opinion is still the same vis-à-vis punishment dealt from above. I simply do not believe this is true, and therefore the question of whether any penance can alleviate one’s unhappiness becomes quite beside the point. Further, I feel that many different factors are responsible for Alice’s collapse, including her early years, and her general approach to life, by which I mean the nervous disposition she was born with—not something thrust upon her. Science still knows so little about the causes of alcoholism, though some feel it may be a disease, the proclivity toward it passed on through the genes. At least, this has been the point of view currently considered most thought provoking by a group of doctors at Alice’s hospital, I am informed. Please do not take on any burden greater than what you have already accepted. As to the other matter you mentioned, I am happy that you have felt free to share with me your innermost thoughts, but I hasten to add the obvious: that nightmares are not reflections of reality, but much changed versions of it (if versions is the correct word at all). What can you think it would do to me to hear that you hear the voice of a child crying repeatedly, that it startles you from sleep, that you check the boys’ bedroom again and again? I understand you must have been quite depressed to say that you assumed even that cry would not register with me. This all registers with me, Martine, and every day I hope against hope that we can all regain a normal life. We cannot do anything for those who have died untimely deaths, except to give their memories the respect due them, seeing that scientific forces—call it ev
en “fate,” if you will—move, as “God” is said to do, in mysterious ways. But we must not see suffering as the product of some punitive agenda. You cannot think that I find it bearable that you suffer under such delusions.

  Most fondly,

  M.

  Dearest Martine,

  I write you instead of responding to Amelia, because I can only assume you are aware of her letter (which I enclose). I am happy she arranged for time off to go to Maine and be with you, though I am slightly taken aback that this happened just as I was considering arriving myself. I assume that now the two of you are together, you will not find my visit so necessary. I am pleased, also, that she can be there when you fly from Boston to visit your father. I do hope he is improving daily and send him my very sincere best wishes for a speedy recovery.

  Can you imagine that from my perspective, Amelia’s letter would appear quite intemperate? I understand, of course, women’s sympathy for one another, but what value will her presence be if she encourages you in skepticism toward me and tells you your nightmares are quite logical? I am arguing only for the necessity of trying to triumph over circumstance. Of course I understand that I have made mistakes, and if you see clearly what I should do now to affect the outcome of situations that have arisen from those mistakes, I would welcome the information. I do not mean to be unkind, as I hope Amelia realizes I like her very much, and she has been quite kind to me in New York, but whatever you write me I would like to be an expression of your ideas rather than the result of conferring with anyone else. Speaking of which, I registered the information that the two of you had spoken to Dr. St. Vance. I think highly of his abilities, and if this mitigates your distress in any way, it was a good thing for Amelia to have encouraged you.

  I am being as philosophical as possible about the good that may come of Amelia’s knowledge concerning my intimate affairs. I assume that since she is so much a woman of intelligence and good taste that both you and Alice adore her, her discretion can be counted on.

  With great affection,

  M.

  Dearest Martine,

  I will be honest. I, too, have more than one scenario. There are, however, only two, and I keep returning to them—not in nightmares, as you do, or even in dreams, but during the course of a day, never deciding, always in a state of conflict. In the first, I walk away from everything. One cannot truly do this, but I imagine that in cowardice I could rationalize my behavior and avoid the pain of returning to the house, let those who cursed me for a coward curse me for a coward. I could join a business venture beginning in New York, arrange through lawyers, if need be, the care of the children, their schooling. I could send you a large check, which you might cash or not, however you decided, as a thank-you for all you have done. That would be irresponsible, at the very least. Entirely deplorable. But I know deep in my heart that I am capable of doing that. In the second scenario, I return not so much to the house and children as to you, feeling that there is still the possibility that after all the malingering, and in spite of my deficiency of character you would fold me in your arms. Though Alice might be lost to me—isn’t she lost to us?—you would step forward as if out of the fog, and that fog would be the past, which would dissipate, wafting away as I stood with you in my arms. I feel that possibility within me.

  You and Amelia have asked what I envision. One of the above.

  M.

  13

  TONY HEMBLEY STOOD at the grave, beside the other mourners. She had asked him not to come, but when did Tony, headstrong Tony, listen to anyone, let alone a woman who had already been demonstrated to be unable to influence the way he thought about anything, herself included? What had he thought? That she’d be secretly glad to see him? Was he egotistical enough to suppose his presence might make it easier for her to endure the funeral, or just so guilty he had decided to intrude himself in a place where he had no business, perhaps even deceiving himself into thinking his presence revealed a man of good character, one who offered friendly support, who stood by in times of trouble.

  Marshall was thinking: This could quite possibly have been McCallum.

  She thought: Not long ago, Evie was alive; not long ago, that man standing across the grave with his scarf flung to the side like a schoolgirl’s ponytail and I were lovers.

  Sonja was surprised that the sausage nurse had come to the funeral. Dressed all in black, with a black wool scarf tied to hold her black hat on her head, the woman dabbed at her eyes as the priest spoke of Evie’s many good qualities. A teenage girl stood next to her, equally fat, equally sad, a paisley scarf in shades of beige and brown draped over the shoulders of her long black coat. She stood close to her mother’s side, staring straight ahead, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for the funeral to end. Sonja had never seen the girl before she and her mother walked into the church, and she had never seen the old man in the wheelchair—at the church, or elsewhere—though she imagined it must have been the black man who had called on his behalf to inquire where the burial would take place. Marshall had taken the call; at first, he had been taken aback by the lengthy explanation the caller gave about who he was himself: a caretaker; a “student of life in our universe,” he had apparently told Marshall. Now, the black man held the handles of the wheelchair, his orange leather gloves enormously puffy, as if two small life rafts had inflated on his hands. The man was expressionless except when he bent forward to whisper to the old man, to quickly place one consoling hand on the old man’s shoulder, then withdraw to his official position. She watched them out of the corner of her eye as the priest sprinkled holy water on the grave.

  As the true faith united her with the throng of the faithful on earth, your mercy may unite her with the company of the choirs of angels in heaven.…

  “Who knows?” Marshall whispered, sensing her implied question as she gazed—apparently, not as subtly as she thought—at the two men. “Maybe Evie had a boyfriend.”

  “Very funny,” Sonja said, with no trace of amusement. Across the grave, Tony caught her eye and would have held it, except that she looked away. Jenny Oughton stood several yards away from them, alone, her violet coat (so that was why she had had such unusually colored gloves at the hospital, Marshall was thinking) unbuttoned and whipped by the now-steady wind, a large embroidered shoulder bag hanging from her shoulder. She wore earrings that caught the sun so that Marshall had difficulty keeping his eyes off Jenny Oughton. It was as if she were signalling, flashing a message to him or, more likely, to Sonja, who had earlier raced to embrace her, obviously touched that her busy friend had found time to come, on this frigid day, not only to the church, but also to Evie’s burial.

  The priest spoke, and many in the crowd blessed themselves. The sausage woman elbowed her daughter, and her daughter repeated her mother’s motions, quickly, out of time with everyone else. Her scarf fell to the ground, but when she bent to pick it up, her mother put her hand on the girl’s arm, and the girl straightened without having touched it. The sausage woman’s foot slid forward to pin it to the ground, which caused the girl further dismay. Finally, in spite of her mother’s warning, she bent forward and snatched it up from under her foot. In the sudden, strong wind, the girl found that she was holding something that looked like an unwieldy towel swept up from a clothesline in a great wind, or a huge, flapping pennant. The priest saw it in his peripheral vision and missed a beat, then began again the drone of his prayer. If looks could kill, the girl’s mother would have killed her, yet Sonja was relieved for the distraction, happy to have something to focus on so she wouldn’t think of the sadness of the occasion, and of how bereft she was, and cry.

  Take away out of their hearts the spirit of rebellion, and teach them to see your good and gracious purpose.…

  It was a cold March day, the ground frozen, the trees leafless. Evie had gone into the hospital in winter and she had died in winter—Evie, who so loved flowers. Sonja regretted not taking her more bouquets. She regretted passing along one of the Godzillas Tony
had given her, putting it on Evie’s bedside table as if it had been her token of love to Evie, not a secondhand valentine from her lover.

  She hadn’t told Evie the history of the windup toy, but she had told her about Tony, confessed the way Evie confessed to the priest, though Evie had been Sonja’s only priest, and she had spared Evie the details, spared herself the shame of making her story more specific. Just the outline: a man at work, a mistaken notion that she would go so far and then no further, followed by the mistaken impression that sleeping with Tony could remain a harmless game, having as much to do with being childishly silly, with letting go and having some fun, as with sex itself. Well: what had she really spared Evie, if she’d told her about their chasing each other through empty houses, playing hide-and-seek, going through the houses and closing the drapes or dropping the blinds as they discarded their clothes, the excitement building as the house grew darker, the potentially prying eyes of neighbors or passers by adding to the thrill? She had reassured Evie that it was something she’d done in the past—in the not-distant past, she hadn’t told her. And the end of it? She’d made it sound as if their folly had finally impressed them with their silly, risky behavior; she’d implied that she had simply seen the light one day, regained her common sense, reminded herself that her marriage to Marshall meant something. It meant, at that moment, that he was standing at her side, head bowed in prayer. He hated funerals—didn’t believe in them. He was there because of Sonja, there because he was her husband, there because he loved Evie, however much he had been cowardly in avoiding her after her stroke.

  What a disturbing winter it had been, with hardly anyone doing what was proper. The word came to Sonja’s mind because Tony sometimes used it, as in “a proper tea.” She had once found his Englishness charming and often amusing, his diction as arch as his behavior seemed uninhibited. A proper fuck, she had said to him once, turning down the bed in their motel room and smoothing the sheets, lighting a little devotional candle she’d bought while wandering through the drugstore in search of Evie’s beloved Muguet des Bois dusting powder. Instead of wildly discarded clothes and a football tackle, she had wanted them to sit on opposite sides of the bed and undress, to make love with classical music playing on the radio and the candle glowing. To her horror, Marshall had come upon the candle in her purse several weeks before. She had left it unzipped and, passing by, he had sneezed, then sneezed again, then reached into her bag, which was on the kitchen chair, for a tissue, coming up with a handful of pens and credit card receipts and the candle, yet he’d acted as if scooping a candle out of her purse was entirely unexceptional. He’d stuffed it back along with everything else, without even commenting, dropping the little white candle back in the glass holder, extracting a tissue and sonorously blowing his nose. There it had been, the moment that could have changed everything, and he had simply blown his nose long and hard, his quizzical look a response only to her standing and staring at him, horrified.