Love In the Air

by James Collins

  McClernand looked off in the distance and began to reminisce about the last time he had been at Beeche’s, many years before. “Of course,” he said, “there were only about thirty of us. It wasn’t one of those mob scenes like the one you’re going to. Now, this goes back a ways. Let’s see, what was it? Beeche was saying something about working in this business. ‘Arthur,’ I said, ‘I’ve always told people that they have just three things to worry about—their upside, their downside, and their backside!’ He got a kick out of that.”

  “Ah-ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha,” Peter said, articulating these sounds rather than actually laughing.

  McClernand looked at him and grinned. “Go get ’em, tiger,” he said, giving Peter’s arm another squeeze.

  Peter nodded.

  Needless to say, Peter had no intention whatsoever of engaging Seth Bernard in the conversation that McClernand described. If by doing so he could save a large city from destruction by a madman in possession of a nuclear device, maybe. But a medium-sized city? No way.

  Beeche’s dinner was on a Thursday. On the afternoon of the preceding Sunday, Peter was reading the paper and Charlotte was preparing for her lesson with Frau Schimmelfennig. In a little while, Peter was going for a walk with Holly. Charlotte closed her German grammar with a thud, sat up straight, and stretched her arms and neck.

  “What time are you meeting Holly?” she asked.

  “Around four,” Peter said.

  “Is it going to stay light long enough?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Peter said. “Anyway, we like the gloaming.”

  Charlotte smiled at Peter’s remark. “‘We like the gloaming,’” she repeated. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Absorbed in the paper, Peter had not paid much attention to Charlotte, and he was embarrassed by his reply. He looked at her and saw—affection? amusement? indulgence?—flicker in her expression. He found her manner odd. Then he noticed that her eyes were moist and that her hands seemed to be shaking.

  “Charlotte, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing!” Charlotte said. “Nothing.” She sniffled and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “I was just thinking what a good person you are, Peter. What a fine person. And I was thinking about how much I care for you. I care for you very much.”

  Bewildered, Peter said, “I care for you, too, Charlotte, very much.”

  “I know you do,” said Charlotte. Her chin trembled.

  “Charlotte—”

  “Ssh,” she said. “I’m fine, really.” She stood. “Now, I think I’ll make tea. Would you like some?”

  “Yes, please,” said Peter, “that would be great.”

  Charlotte smiled at him again and walked to the kitchen. Peter watched her; she wore a dark gray cardigan and a tweed skirt, a look that was becoming to her. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he could see two white triangles of neck.

  Tea was sacred to Charlotte, and so she took its preparation even more seriously than she did that of coffee. Peter heard her put the kettle on; heard her take down the tea canister, the pot, the cups and saucers. Charlotte would have welcomed plague in her kitchen sooner than a tea bag, and she would have gladly died of plague rather than serve tea in a mug. Her teacups were made of china that was so thin as to be translucent. The ratio of leaves to water, the temperature of the water, the steeping time—Charlotte had determined the optimal values for all these variables. Yet to Charlotte, the perfection of materials and techniques would amount to nothing if a person preparing the tea failed to perform the one crucial operation: scalding the pot. “Scald the pot!” she would call to Peter whenever she subcontracted the tea making to him.

  Charlotte now appeared with the tea tray and set it down on the table.

  “We should wait a moment while it steeps,” she said as she sat. This was part of the order of service. They sat in silence as the tea leaves released their essence to the water. It felt like a peaceful ellipsis in time itself. The tea steeped. It was a cloudy day, so the window cast a soft, diffuse light. The plump silver sugar bowl reflected the window with bowed-out squares. The blue, red, and green of the china pattern were matte, but the white background glowed. The milk was a matte white, but the white china of the pitcher also glowed. Charlotte had brought a plate with shortbread cookies arranged in a circle like a dial; even before taking one, Peter could taste them; they were like crumbly butter, and he could feel the crumbs on his fingertips.

  Charlotte sat facing the window. Light settled gently and evenly on her face, smoothing its angles and irregularities. How pretty she was, really. Peter put his hand on hers.

  The tea steeped. Steam rose from the spouts of both the teapot and the hot-water pot. The plumes curled upward like two quivering wisps of light and shadow, two genies escaping their lamps. Peter left his hand on Charlotte’s until the tea had brewed.

  Peter and Charlotte had drunk their tea and cleaned up. The buzzer from downstairs rang. “That must be Holly,” Peter said. “I’ll tell her I’m coming down.”

  “Oh, please ask Holly to come up,” Charlotte said. “I’d like to say hi.”

  Peter conveyed the message, and Holly appeared presently.

  “Hi, Peter! Hi, Charlotte!” She and Peter exchanged kisses on the cheek. Charlotte gave her a hug, holding on longer and more tightly than was routine.

  “Thanks for coming up,” Charlotte said. “As I told Peter, I just wanted to say hi.”

  “I’m so glad you did, Charlotte,” said Holly. “I’ve hardly seen you since you got back. The trip sounded so draining. Have you recovered?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Charlotte.

  “You’re sure looking well,” said Holly.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said. “So are you.”

  “Thanks,” said Holly.

  Then came a moment when no one said anything. Filling in the gap just before the silence would have grown uncomfortable, Holly said, “And your family, they are well?”

  “Yes,” said Charlotte. “Very well.”

  “Peter told me that you stayed with your stepmother for a little while. How is all that going?”

  “Oh, not so badly,” Charlotte said. “As you can imagine, it’s difficult.”

  “God, I’m sure,” said Holly. “I got to speak to her for just a second at … at the funeral. She was nice.”

  “Yes,” said Charlotte.

  Once again, the conversation flagged.

  Charlotte swallowed. “Well,” she said. “Well, I just wanted to see you, Holly, before you both … went on your way. It makes me so happy that you and Peter are such good friends.” Her mouth twitched and she had trouble maintaining her smile. She looked back and forth from one to the other. “Enjoy your walk,” she said. She laughed nervously. “Enjoy your gloaming!”

  Momentarily bemused, neither Peter nor Holly spoke. They eyed each other.

  “Thanks, Charlotte,” Peter said finally. He gave her a kiss. “We will.”

  “Yes, thanks, Charlotte,” said Holly. “I’m so glad to have seen you for at least a minute.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “See you in a bit,” said Peter. “Hope your lesson goes well.”

  “Good-bye, Holly,” Charlotte said. “Good-bye, Peter.”

  Peter and Holly went down the stairs and out the door. They had been walking for a minute before either said anything.

  “So,” Holly asked, “that was about, like—what?”

  Peter shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “Actually, she’s been acting kind of weird ever since she got back.”

  It was cold, and a thick, seamless, static mass of clouds hung overhead. It looked as if a gray woolen blanket covered the entire city. That gray ranged from dull silver to tarnished silver, but within those limits its shades showed infinite variations, and if one stared long enough, one saw a tint of purple. On this cloudy day, the black, wrought-iron railings on the stoops, which in bright sun looked as lithe and slick as snakes, had the iron coldness and hardness of m
edieval weaponry. The few touches of white on the block—the painted lintels on a couple of houses, the lines on the asphalt—popped to the foreground. It was cold. The cars moved heavily, then with surprising quickness, like bears.

  Holly and Peter entered the park and strolled aimlessly. They passed some people walking their dogs and a couple of especially dedicated joggers. A boy and girl sat on a bench kissing, and the boy was rubbing the girl’s rear; seeing them, Holly and Peter exchanged a bashful glance. Two men, one short, one tall, both wearing leather jackets, approached. They seemed to be deep in a conversation that was verging on an argument. All Peter and Holly could hear as they passed was the short one saying, “But he rejoined the band in the fall of sixty-six! So of course he was on that album!” A woman fed pigeons.

  Peter and Holly walked alongside a high outcropping of rock scored with deep lines. They walked under a bridge and heard the echo of their footsteps. On the wall someone had scratched out “I love you Jessica!” in huge letters.

  “What do you think is up with Charlotte?” Holly asked.

  “I really have no idea,” said Peter.

  “There’s no … trouble between you two?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Peter.

  “Has Charlotte found a bill for a mink stole, but not received a mink stole?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been bringing your low-life friends around?”

  “No.”

  “Leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor?”

  “No.”

  “Huh,” said Holly. “Then it’s sort of a mystery. Oh, well. In the first year of marriage it’s typical to have these little periods of estrangement when you both seem to have lost your bearings, as you wonder who this person you have married really is. There’ll be rough patches. You just get through it, and the beautiful part is that when you work it out you’re closer. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Or at least I doubt that it’s a permanent problem. I wouldn’t worry about it. I wouldn’t give it a second thought.”

  “This is so very helpful,” said Peter. “Thank you.”

  The grass had turned brown and the cold earth had no smell. The trees were tall and grand. They were mature and stood well apart from one another. Bare of leaves, naked and muscular, their turning trunks and outstretched limbs seemed posed to show off their strength, yet when one looked upward, one saw, against the gray sky, the fragile, disordered netting of their topmost twigs. Peter and Holly reached a walk lined with statues of notable literary figures and others. Set on high pedestals, they were larger than life-sized and portrayed their subjects seated in a dignified pose, with frock coats and massive squared-off boots. As they moved from one looming statue to another, Peter and Holly looked like children.

  “You know, I think about Julia,” Holly said. “At the funeral, she looked distraught. She sat with Jonathan at the dinner, so it must have been pretty shocking, in a way, for her, having just gotten to know him.”

  “Yes. She certainly seemed upset.”

  “My father, actually, told me that he had a conversation with her. He liked her. ‘Doesn’t belong with that self-important creep,’ he said. Later, when I mentioned to him that they’d split up and reminded him of that observation, he said, ‘See? Casting. That was always something I could do.’”

  They strolled along silently.

  “What are you thinking about?” Peter asked.

  Holly looked over at him and gave him a small smile, with her lips pressed together. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I was just trying to think about what I would do if I were in Julia’s position. I don’t know. I just don’t think I could go through with it. I wouldn’t want to raise a child all by myself, without any father. I guess half the time people end up getting divorced anyway, so the father isn’t around that much, or he is around but it’s painful. Or look at Alex’s situation. The Creep pays attention to Clemmie intensely for a little while and is very demanding, then he’s gone for ages. I wish he’d fall off a cliff. So maybe it’s not such a problem, there not being a father.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “I was three when my parents broke up, and depending on the year, they lived fifteen hundred or three thousand or eight thousand miles apart; but even still, my father was really in touch with us, and I feel as if we saw a lot of him. I can’t imagine life without him. To bring somebody into the world without any father at all, I don’t think I could do that, and if I were going to be really honest, I’m not even sure it’s right or that I don’t think it’s kind of self-indulgent. The stakes seem so high, especially considering the uncertainty of the payoff. You’re gambling a whole life in order to satisfy some need, some feeling of emptiness, that might only be temporary.”

  She paused again.

  “If I were Julia’s age, though—when I’m Julia’s age—and if this had happened and it were my last shot, and if the guy, whoever he was, was somebody who I wouldn’t mind contributing half my child’s genes, then could I stop it? My brain would give me all the reasons that I should, and I’d tell myself, Look, fate or whatever determined that the parent thing simply isn’t going to happen for you, and an accidental pregnancy resulting from your adulterous affair doesn’t count. But would I want to go ahead anyway? Almost undoubtedly, yes. The desire would probably be so strong that I wouldn’t even think that I really had a choice.”

  “The surprising thing,” Peter said, “is that Julia never had any interest in children. I always had the impression that she thought they were boring and demanding and caused too much chaos.”

  “I guess that’s one way we’re different,” said Holly. “I’ve always loved the idea of having children.”

  “Were you and Jonathan, er, working to that end?” Peter asked.

  Holly laughed a little. “Actually, no.”

  “I wanted to give the marriage a chance to—what?—to settle. But Jonathan really wanted children. He would have loved it if I had gotten pregnant immediately and stayed that way for about ten years. He would have been happy if at the wedding I’d been about to deliver.”

  They both gave Jonathan some silent contemplation.

  “Does anybody know anything about the father of Julia’s child?” Holly asked.

  “Not really,” said Peter. In fact, having recalled the seating arrangements at the bridal dinner and counted months and having considered this evidence with regard to Jonathan’s mysterious presence on the first fairway, Peter had made a wild speculation about the child’s paternity, but he certainly wasn’t going to share it. “Nobody even knows how long they were involved. She says that he discovered he was sick right after she got pregnant and went very fast. I guess it must have been something like lung cancer or liver cancer.”

  “Wow. How horrible,” Holly said.

  They walked along for a bit, lost in thought. Having passed by all the great men, they had reached a different kind of sculpture: two eagles attacking a ram. The ram twisted in pain as the eagles, their wings spread, ripped into its flesh with their talons and beaks. Holly and Peter stared at it.

  “I would like a child, though. Children,” Holly said. Peter looked at her profile; a tear was forming in the corner of her eye. “But it’s so hard, finding the right person. I’d really want to be in love.”

  With that last remark, Holly involuntarily, it seemed, glanced at Peter. It took less than a second, a quarter turn of her head, her moist eyes widening and darting over. Holly instantly looked away. She studied the sculpture. “What a strange statue,” she said. “I wonder if it’s based on some myth or legend.”

  Holly’s aunt, her mother’s sister, owned a large apartment on Central Park West where Holly had stayed from time to time over the years, and she moved in after Jonathan’s death. Her aunt lived there for only part of the year, but she stayed with Holly for several weeks, and Holly’s father, mother, sister, and friends visited. At the moment, though, she was staying in the apartment by herself.

  Standing outsid
e the building at the conclusion of their walk, Peter put his hands lightly on Holly’s shoulders and touched her cheek with his dry, pursed lips. Holly returned this peck, twisting her mouth around and looking beyond Peter’s ear at the charcoal clouds above. They said good-bye, and the huge, ferocious-looking doorman let Holly in. He smiled and crinkled his eyes. “Goot eve-en-ink, Miss Owly,” he said. “Hello, Josip,” she returned. As she walked through the large, high-ceilinged, and gloomy lobby—despite intensive efforts, no one had ever found a way to fully remove decades-old grime from the elaborate plasterwork scrolls and medallions—and rode up in the elevator, Holly’s shoulders retained the feeling of Peter’s hands, and her cheek, his lips. She saw an afterimage of his ear (out of focus) and the clouds.

  She opened the front door of her aunt’s apartment. The foyer was large and high-ceilinged—and gloomy. It suffered from some of the same conditions as the lobby. The plasterwork had been painted over so many times that the details seemed to have melted together, and ineradicable grime had silted up in it. Holly tossed her coat, scarf, and keys on a chair. She stood for a moment, lost in thought, then she stepped into the library. This was a room decorated in soft, crimson fabrics; it was plush, cushioned, and dark. Holly went over to the window, lifted it, and leaned out. The wind whipped her hair; she heard the loud wheeze of a bus starting. The streetlamps and scattered windows were lit. Looking down, she experienced mild vertigo; the park seemed to tilt toward her. Looking up at the sky, she was still more disoriented. Her only reference was the side of the building, faced with pale gray limestone. Seen from such a low angle, it raced upward before disappearing. Holly felt as if she were on one of the minor thrill rides at an amusement park.

  Leaning out the window on the twelfth floor of a building across from the park, it was easy to imagine that the whole city was being funneled into you. That was interesting and exciting. But if the entire city was being funneled into Holly, she wanted to put it through a sieve—a very, very fine one, so it might take a while—for all she really wanted from the entire city was one morsel. A trained eye could identify the gaps between the buildings on the other side of the park that indicated a side street. An expert could count those gaps and find the side street she wanted. Holly found that street, and then followed it, as if she could look through the buildings, down to an avenue, then across that avenue, and then about halfway down the next block. Here her eye followed a path up a stoop, through heavy wrought-iron doors, up a flight of stairs, and into an apartment. She “stared” at that apartment quite intently. What she really saw was a water tower.