‘That was impressive. Very impressive.’
I felt myself flinch as he touched me – even if the gesture was in no way redolent of anything but gentle reassurance.
‘Again you’re being far too kind,’ I said.
‘No, just accurate. Why do you know that poem?’
‘Doesn’t everyone know that poem?’
‘You’re being disingenuous.’
Disingenuous. He actually used that word. I smiled. He smiled back. And for the first time in this conversation I let down all the self-editing barriers and found myself telling him a story I had always kept to myself.
‘I read the Frost poem during my first semester of senior year. I had an English teacher, Mr Adams, who actually rated me – even though I was a science geek. He was this man in his fifties – very patrician New England, very erudite, very much a bachelor about whom nobody knew a thing. Anyway, Mr Adams worked out early on that, though I was very much drawn to chemistry and biology, words played such an important role in my life. Mr Adams gave a seminar on “Great Writing” for seniors. It was an elective, and there were only five of us in the class. “Book geeks” is what the cheerleader brigade called us. And, of course, they were right. Mr Adams called us his “literate brigade” – and over the course of that final year, he had us reading everything from Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist or Henry James’s The Wings of the Dove to Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard . . . which I particularly loved because it so dealt with self-delusion and the way we all resist looking at the reality around us. But he also made us read American poetry. Dickinson. Whitman. Stevens. Frost. I remember the first time he introduced us to “Fire and Ice” – and I couldn’t believe this was the Robert Frost whom everyone looked upon as the kindly grandfather. This was a poet who had a libido, who felt desire and anger and rage. All the things I was feeling in my own messed-up, “no one gets me, why am I so alone?” teenage way. We spent two whole classes talking about the poem – and how, in just a few short lines, it pointed up the fact that, within all of us, there is this capacity for love, for grace, and for all the dark stuff we don’t want to acknowledge.
‘Anyway, the poem became a real benchmark for me. At the end of the semester – right before Christmas – I actually signed up for a speech competition that was to be held at an assembly in front of the entire school the day before we broke up for the holidays. My speech teacher, Mrs Flack, encouraged me to go in for the competition – the first prize for the winner being that year’s edition of the Webster dictionary . . . which, for a word junkie like me, was something I really wanted to win. And Mrs Flack – who once told me she tried being an actress for around ten minutes in New York during the late sixties – really thought the poem was an amazingly original choice for the competition. She worked with me for a couple of hours on my presentation. It involved all the lights in the hall blacking out and me being discovered in a single white spot and then reciting the poem in a highly controlled, quiet way, with me staring out at the audience at the end, and the light snapping off. When I think about it now, maybe it was all too Greenwich Village circa 1965 for Waterville High in 1986. But I thought it really edgy and out there.
‘Then backstage on the day of the competition, right before going on, I had the biggest case of nerves imaginable. Completely seized. Terrified of getting out there in front of the whole school and looking like an idiot. Don’t know where this came from. Never had it before. When they called me – told me it was my time to go on – I refused to move. Mrs Flack was backstage. She coaxed me onstage. The light blacked out. I moved quickly to the assigned spot. The spotlight snapped on. There I was, alone, staring out into blackness, knowing I just had to say the words as I had rehearsed them, and all would be over in less than a minute, and I could retreat again into my private little life. But, standing there, that spotlight glaring down on me, feeling absolutely naked, exposed, absurd, my mouth couldn’t open. I was frozen, immobile, ridiculous. After a half a minute like this, the giggles started. Even though I could hear some of the teachers hushing the other students, slow hand-clapping started, and a few whistles, and then a girl – whom someone told me later was Janet Brody, the captain of the cheerleading team – yelled: “Loser.” Everybody laughed. The spotlight snapped off. Mrs Flack hurried out and got me off the stage. And I remember, once we were in the wings, putting my head on her shoulder, crying uncontrollably, and Mrs Flack having to call my mother to come collect me. Mom – who was never the most touchy-feely of people, and who hated any kind of personal weakness – drove me home, shaking her head, telling me I would spend the rest of my senior year trying to live down what had just happened, and “Why on earth did you set yourself up to fail like this?” I said nothing, but those words slammed into me like an out-of-control car. Because they were so accurate. I’d set myself up. I’d allowed myself to be publicly shamed. I’d short-changed myself. Just as I did so often afterwards as well . . .
‘And I never recited “Fire and Ice” again.’
‘Until now,’ Richard said.
Silence. I hung my head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I finally said.
‘Sorry for what?’
‘Sorry for boring you with an adolescent embarrassment I should have gotten over years ago. And something I shouldn’t have shared with you.’
‘But I’m glad you shared it.’
‘I’ve hardly shared it with anybody before.’
‘I see,’ Richard said.
‘There’s nothing to “see” here. There’s just the fact that there are moments in life you find so mortifying . . .’
I let the sentence die before finishing it. I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here. Suddenly felt as vulnerable and awkward and lost as I felt that moment on that high school stage with that white-hot spotlight on me. I fingered my glass.
‘I should go,’ I said.
‘Just because you told me that story?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Your mother . . . was she always so brutal with you?’
‘“Brutal” is perhaps too brutal a word. She was very much pull-no-punches. All tough love. No real warmth. Why do you ask?’
‘My dad. He was brutal. Physically brutal – as in hitting us with a belt when we stepped out of line. Once my brother and I were beyond the spanking stage – though being whacked on the thighs with a belt is not exactly spanking – he then started working on us in different ways. Like the time I won the short story competition at the University of Maine. A story about a lobster man who takes his teenage son out to teach him the basics of his trade, and the boat capsizes and the son drowns. The prize was two hundred and fifty dollars and the story not only got printed in the college literary magazine, but also in the weekend supplement of the Bangor Daily News. It turns out half my father’s clients Down East saw the story. He called me up at college and tore a strip or two off of me, telling me that I had caused him all sorts of professional problems, as he had insured a whole bunch of lobster men, and my depiction of the lives of these men, and – most of all – a terrible tragedy happening owing to one man’s negligence . . . well, it was just outrageous. Especially as I didn’t know a damn thing about their world, me being a guy who was anything but hearty, and who had the audacity to think of himself as a writer when I was just turning out “mediocre drivel”. Those were his exact words.’
Silence. Then I said:
‘And you’re telling me this to make me feel better?’
‘Absolutely. Because I know what it means to have any sort of confidence zapped out of you through the unkindness of others.’
‘My unkindness was towards myself – which is far worse. Because we all short-change ourselves.’
‘Not you.’
‘You’re sugaring the pill.’
‘Well then, how have you short-changed yourself ?’
‘That’s another conversation.’
The smallest smile formed on Richard’s lips as I uttered that.
&
nbsp; ‘OK,’ he said.
‘If there is another conversation.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘My weekend’s really busy.’
‘All those radiology conferences?’
‘All those radiology conferences.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Except for another morning meeting tomorrow in Brockton, I have the day free.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
My tone was sharp, dismissive, so stupidly defensive. I turned away – but from the corner of my eye I could see that Richard had been unsettled by the hint of anger underlying my reply. Again I had just slammed shut a door . . . out of fear. Fear of what? The fact that this man was suggesting we spend the afternoon together? The fear that I had just told him a story that I could never bring myself to tell my husband – perhaps out of the knowledge that his reaction would have been the roll-of-the-eyes, poor silly Laura look that I saw Dan give me on so many occasions.
‘I’ve obviously uttered the wrong thing again,’ Richard said, simultaneously motioning to the waiter for the check.
‘No, it’s me who’s been the impolite one here.’
‘I shouldn’t have been so personal, asking you how you’ve short-changed yourself.’
‘That wasn’t the reason I got tetchy. The reason was . . .’
I broke off, not wanting to say anything more.
‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ Richard said.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, suddenly wanting a hole in the floor to open up and suck me out of this embarrassed place.
The check arrived and Richard insisted on paying it. He then asked me if I could get email on my cellphone.
‘I could,’ I said, ‘but it’s too expensive to run on a monthly basis. So I rely on texting.’
‘Well then, I am going to put the ball completely in your court. Here again is my card. My cell number is the one at the bottom. I am free tomorrow as of twelve noon – and I would love to spend the day with you. If you don’t contact me, no hard feelings whatsoever. It’s been lovely sharing this time with you. And I truly wish you well. Because – if I may say so – you deserve good things.’
Silence.
‘Thank you,’ I finally said. ‘Thank you so much.’
We stood up. I found myself wanting to say: Shall we meet somewhere downtown around one p.m.? But again I held back.
‘Can I walk you to your car?’ he asked.
‘No need. I got lucky and found a spot right outside the movie house.’
‘That still requires a few steps.’
We left the bar and said nothing as we walked less than half a block to my elderly vehicle. If Richard noticed its decrepitude he was very good at not showing it.
‘Well then . . .’ I said.
‘Well then.’
Another silence.
‘I’m sorry tomorrow won’t work out,’ I said, thinking: Now the door has been slammed twice.
‘You have my number.’
‘That I do.’
‘And that cheerleader – the one who heckled you – I bet she regrets all that now.’
‘I tend to doubt it. But do you want to hear one of the great supreme ironies of my life? My daughter’s a cheerleader. Not a mean one, I hope. But very much a cheerleader. And very much desperate to be popular at all costs.’
‘So she’s lonely.’
And I heard myself say:
‘Aren’t we all?’
As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I whispered a fast goodbye and climbed into the car, unnerved by the fact that I had just told a stranger the one central thing that had been unsettling me for days, months, years: the fact that I’ve felt so terribly alone.
And having made that huge admission, what did I do? I slammed the door and drove right off into the night.
Six
WHEN I GOT back to the hotel it was almost one a.m. When was the last time I had stayed up so late, talking, talking, talking?
I felt a stab of self-reproach. Especially as I saw a text from my husband.
I was out of line before. Sorry. Dan
So there it was. An apology of sorts. Terse. Telegraphic. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of love.
And how did I react to this detached expression of regret? Without a pause for reflection I texted back:
No problem. We all have our off moments. Love you. Laura
Once contempt is finally articulated in a marriage, it never really stops. And though Dan’s anger of late had been so quietly contemptuous, his surliness tonight was, in part, due to the stress he’d been under, and the fact that he’d been roused out of sleep by my ill-timed call.
Why was I excusing his very bad behavior right now? Because part of me was feeling just a little guilty about having those two glasses of wine with Richard . . . and so enjoying myself. Just as I was also simultaneously castigating myself for turning my blurted-out admission of loneliness into a reason to dash off into the night. No doubt he now considered me highly strung and profoundly uptight. Except for that one innocent aside about this being something akin to a first date – an aside which I absurdly jumped on – Richard did absolutely nothing to indicate that he was in any way cruising me. Nor did he signal whatsoever that he was unhappily married or so frustrated with his personal situation that he wanted to . . .
But the way we talked about words, the way he got me to recite that poem by Frost, the way this man – who struck me initially as rather gray and fusty – suddenly came alive when we got discussing matters literary. He really seemed to get me on a level that . . .
Oh, will you listen to yourself. ‘He got you?’ Now you sound like an adolescent who’s met the fellow class geek and is dazzled by the fact that he seems genuinely interested in what you yourself so value.
And what is so wrong with meeting someone who actually thinks there is worth in language spoken and written? And why the hell are you classifying yourself and Richard as geeks?
Because I married a man who told me once he feared his son had ‘inherited the geek gene from his mom’.
Of course, I never said anything about this remark (made just before Ben had his breakdown and was already displaying signs of fragility). Of course, when Dan saw my shocked expression in the wake of this comment, he then backpedaled, telling me he was just jesting, ha-ha. Me being me I let it drop. But it has nagged at me since. Because it struck me as so unkind. And because, before that, Dan had never done unkind.
And now . . .
Once contempt is finally articulated in a marriage, it never really stops.
Bing.
Another text on my phone.
Hey Mom – weird thing happened today. Out of nowhere Allison dropped by my studio.
Oh God. Why do manipulative heartbreakers always come back to wreak more havoc? I read on.
She was being all-friendly. Saying what a brilliant artist I am. Making really complimentary noises about the new painting I’m working on. Dropping all these hints that she really missed me. I know you’re going to say not to go near her. But the thing is, I want to. Even if I get burnt again. Maybe will be a bit more flame-resistant this time. No lectures, please, but would like to know your thoughts. B xxx
Oh God. Allison the Arch Manipulator. Having aided and abetted my son’s breakdown she now has probably sniffed out the fact that he’s gotten over her and is back painting. So, naturally, she has to see if she can inflict more damage on him. But, reading through Ben’s text around five more times, what intrigued and pleased me most was the hint that he knew she might do her best to hurt him, but he could handle it. Part of me wanted to tell him: Slam the door in that vixen’s face. But I knew that Ben would interpret this as far too maternal, edging perhaps into the puritanical. Ben saw himself as a bohemian – and one who reacted badly when lectured on morality or the need to ‘be responsible’ or act like ‘some dull asshole who sells insurance’.
I thought about phoning Ben right back – he never got to bed before three o
n most nights – but also knew that this was not a wise idea. When Ben wanted to talk he’d phone me. When he wanted to limit the communication to the written word he’d email. When he wanted an immediate response – without direct conversation – he’d text. So I resisted the temptation to dial his number. Instead I punched out the following message:
Ben – all cliches are true, especially: leopards don’t change their spots. I think she’s toxic. But I am not you. If you feel you can get involved again – and not get hurt – then by all means enjoy the sex, but don’t think it’s romance, let alone love. Those are my words of wisdom for Friday night. Call me whenever you want to talk. I love you – Mom
As always I read through the text several times before sending it, making certain it didn’t sound too cloying. I hit the ‘send’ button, then sent a text to Sally:
Hi hon – in Boston. Hotel isn’t much, but nice having a little time away. Hope you’re having a chilled weekend. You deserve some serious downtime. Around if you need me. Otherwise see you Sunday night. Love – Mom
Again I scrutinized the message carefully before sending it, taking out the word ‘chilled’, as that was an expression Sally used all the time (as in: ‘I so wish I could chill’ – something she genuinely found hard to do). Coming from me it would sound a hollow note, as if I was trying to use her generation’s argot and could stand accused of trying to be ‘with it’ (to use my generation’s argot). Just as I know that Sally certainly didn’t need some ‘serious downtime’. She needed seriousness.
Children: the ongoing open wound. And the two people without whom life would be unimaginable. As I once told Sally when she went into a ‘I know you’d prefer a brainier daughter’ routine:
‘I have never – and would never – think that. You are my daughter – and I love you without condition.’
‘Love always has conditions.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I just know it.’
Five Days Page 12
