The Weight of Water

by Anita Shreve

  I wonder if Thomas is as sad as I am when he awakens in the mornings and hears Adaline and Rich in the forward cabin.

  We are waiting for the check to come. Billie is standing next to me, coloring on a place mat. “Were you born in Ireland?” I ask Adaline.

  “In the south of Ireland.”

  The waitress brings the check. Thomas and Rich reach for it, but Thomas, distractedly, lets Rich have it.

  “This assignment you’re on must be gruesome for you,” says Adaline. She begins to massage the back of Billie’s neck.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It seems so long ago. Actually, I wish I could get my hands on some old photographs.”

  “You seem to have a lot of material,” Thomas says.

  “It was foisted upon me,” I say, wondering why my voice contains a defensive note. “Though I must confess I find the accounts of the murders intriguing.”

  Adaline reaches up and removes a gold hair clip from the back of her head. Her hair is multihued, a wood grain that curls slightly in the humidity, as does Billie’s. On the boat, Adaline most often wears her hair rolled at the back of her head or at the nape of her neck in intricate knots and coils that can be loosened with a single pin. Today, when she removes the clip, her hair falls the length of her back, swaying with the fall. The settling of all that hair, the surprising abundance of hair springing from a knot no bigger than a peach, seems, at the time, like a trick, a sleight of hand, for our benefit.

  I look over at Thomas. He is breathing slowly. His face, which normally has high color, has gone pale. He seems stunned by the simple fall of hair from a knot-as though the image itself, or the memories it evokes, were unwanted news.

  I do not have many personal photographs of Thomas. There are dozens of other pictures of him, photos of a public nature: book-jacket portraits, for example, and formal snapshots in magazines and newspapers. But in my own collection, Thomas has almost always managed to avert his eyes or to turn his head altogether, as if he did not want to be captured on any day at any place in time. I have, for instance, a picture of Thomas at a party at our apartment after Billie was born: Thomas is stooped slightly, speaking with a woman, another poet, who is also a friend. He has seen me coming with the camera, has dipped his head and has brought a glass up to his cheek, almost entirely obscuring his profile. In another photograph, Thomas is holding Billie on a bench in a park. Billie, perched on Thomas’s knee, seems already aware of the camera and is smiling broadly and clasping her tiny fists together with delight at this new activity, at this strange face that her mother has put on — one with a moving and briefly flickering eye. Thomas, however, has bent his head into Billie’s neck. Only his posture tells the viewer he is the father of the child.

  For years I thought that Thomas avoided the camera because he has a scar that runs from the corner of his left eye to his chin — the result of a car accident when he was seventeen. It is not disfiguring, in the way some scars can be, ruining a face so that you no longer want to look at it; instead, Thomas’s scar seems to follow the planes of his face — as though a brush had made a quick stroke, a perfect curve. It is almost impossible not to want to touch that scar, to run a fingertip along its bumpy ridge. But it is not the scar that makes Thomas turn his face away from the camera; it is, I think, that he cannot bear to be examined too closely by a lens. Just as he is not able to meet his eyes for any length of time in a mirror.

  I have one photograph of Thomas in which he is not turned away. I took it on the morning after we met. He is standing in front of his apartment building in Cambridge, and he has his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He has on a wrinkled white shirt with a button-down collar. Even in this picture, the viewer can see that Thomas wants to pull away, and that it is with the greatest of effort that he has kept his eyes focused on the camera. He looks ageless in the photograph, and it is only because I happen to know that he is thirty-two that I would not think he was forty-seven or twenty-five. In the picture, one can see that Thomas’s hair, which is naturally thin and of no distinct color, has recently been cut short. I took the picture about nine o’clock in the morning. He looks that morning like someone I have known a long time — possibly since childhood.

  We met for the first time, appropriately, in a bar in Cambridge. I was twenty-four, and worked for a Boston paper, assigned recently to Local Sports. I was on my way home from a shoot in Somerville of a high school girls’ basketball team, but I needed a bathroom and a pay phone.

  I heard his voice before I saw his face. It was low and measured, authoritative and without noticeable accent.

  When he finished the reading, he turned slightly to acknowledge a nod, and I could see Thomas’s face then in the light. I was struck by his mouth — he had a loose and generous mouth, the only extravagance in a spare face. Later, when I was sitting with him, I saw that his eyes were set closely together, so that I did not think he was classically handsome. His irises, however, were navy and flecked with gold, and he had large pupils, dark circles that seemed to have no protection.

  I went to the bar and ordered a Rolling Rock. I was lightheaded and hollow-stomached from not having eaten anything. It seemed that every time I had thought of eating that day, I had been called to yet another assignment. I leaned against the bar and studied the menu. I was aware that Thomas was standing next to me.

  “I liked your reading,” I said.

  He glanced briefly at me. “Thank you,” he said quickly, in the way of a man who has no skill with compliments.

  “The poem you read. It was very strong.”

  His eyes flickered over my face. “It’s old work,” he said.

  The barman brought my Rolling Rock, and I paid for the beer. Thomas picked up his glass, leaving a wet circle on the highly varnished surface of the bar. He took a long swallow and set the glass back down.

  “This is a reading?” I asked.

  “Tuesday night. Poet’s night.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  I tried to signal to the barman, so that I could order a snack.

  “Thomas Janes,” he said, holding out his hand. I noticed the fingers, long and strong and pale.

  He must have seen the confusion on my face.

  He smiled. “No, you’ve never heard of me,” he said.

  “I don’t know poetry very well,” I said lamely.

  “No apologies.”

  He had on a white shirt and a complicated cable-knit sweater. Dress slacks. Gray. A pair of boots. I told him my name and that I was a photographer for the Globe.

  “How did you become a photographer?”

  “I saw a show of AP photos once. I left the show and went out and bought a camera.”

  “The baby falling from the third-story window.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you’ve been taking pictures ever since.”

  “It helped to put me through school.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of terrible things.”

  “Some. But I’ve seen wonderful things, too. I once caught the moment that a father lay down on the ice and pulled his son from a fish hole. You can see the clasped arms of the boy and the man, and the two faces with their eyes locked.”

  “Where was this?”

  “In Woburn.”

  “It sounds familiar. Could I have seen it?”

  “Possibly. The Globe bought it.”

  He nodded slowly and took a long swallow of his drink. “Actually, it’s much the same, what you and I are doing,” he said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Trying to stop time.”

  The barman beckoned to Thomas, and he walked to a small platform at one end of the room. He leaned on a podium. The audience, to my surprise, grew quiet. There was not even the chink of glasses. Thomas pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers and said he wanted to read something he had written just that day. There were words that stayed with me: Wainscot and redolent an
d core-stung.

  Later there were a great many glasses on the table, mugs of cut glass that refracted the dregs. There seemed to be endless circles of liquid oak. I thought that nearly half the people in the bar had come to the table to buy Thomas a drink. Thomas drank too much. I could see that even then. He stood and swayed a bit and held the table. I touched him on the elbow. He had no shame in his drunkenness. He asked me if I would help him get to his car. Already I knew that I would have to drive him home.

  A sink with a rusty stain leaned along one wall. A small bed that sagged and was covered with a beige blanket stood in the center. Thomas lay on his back on the bed, which was too short for him. I removed his boots and sat on a chair by the desk. Thomas’s feet were white and smooth. His stomach was concave and made a slight hollow under his belt. One of the legs of his trousers had ridden up to expose an inch of skin above his sock. I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

  When I knew that he was asleep, I slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and removed the folded piece of paper. I took it to the window, where there was a slit in the curtain. I read the poem in the street light.

  After a time, I put a finger to the skin at his shin. I traced the scar on his face, and he twitched in his sleep. I put my palm on the place where his belly dipped. The heat of his skin through his shirt surprised me, as though he were running a temperature, as though the inner mechanisms of his body burned inefficiently.

  I slipped into the bed and lay beside him. He turned onto his side, facing me. It was dark in the room, but I could see his face. I could feel his breath on my skin.

  “You brought me home,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “No, I know you don’t.”

  “I drink too much.”

  “I know.” I brought my hand up, as though I might touch him, but I didn’t. I laid my hand between our faces.

  “Where are you from?” he asked me.

  “Indiana.”

  “A farm girl.”

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ve been in Boston since I was seventeen.”

  “School.”

  “And after.”

  “The after sounds interesting.”

  “Not very.”

  “You don’t miss Indiana?”

  “Some. My parents are dead. I miss them more.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Cancer. They were older. My mother was forty-eight when I was born. Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “You’re a woman in my bed. You’re an attractive woman in my bed. Why did you stay here tonight?”

  “I was worried about you,” I said. “What about your parents?”

  “They live in Hull. I grew up in Hull. I have a brother.”

  “How did you get this?” I reached up and touched the scar on his face.

  He flinched, and he turned onto his back, away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “No, it’s all right. It’s just…”

  “You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”

  “No.” He brought an arm up and covered his eyes. He was so still for so long that I thought he had fallen asleep.

  I shifted slightly in the bed with the intention of getting up and leaving. Thomas, feeling the shift, quickly lifted his arm from his eyes and looked at me. He grabbed my arm. “Don’t go,” he said.

  When he rolled toward me, he unfastened one button of my shirt, as though by that gesture he would prevent me from leaving. He kissed the bare space he had made. “Are you with anyone?”

  “No,” I said. I put my fingers on his face, but I was careful not to touch the scar.

  He unfastened all the buttons. He opened my shirt and laid the white cloth against my arms. He kissed me from my neck to my stomach. Dry lips. Light kisses. He rolled me away from him, pulling my shirt down below my shoulders. He lay behind me, encircling me, pressing his palms into my stomach. My arms were pinned beneath his, and I felt his breath on the nape of my neck. He pushed himself hard against my thigh. I bent my head slightly forward, letting go, letting this happen to me, to us, and I felt his body stretch with mine. I felt his tongue at the top of my spine.

  Sometime later that night, I was awakened by a ragged moan. Thomas, naked, was sitting at the edge of the bed, the heels of his hands digging angrily into his eye sockets. I tried to pull his hands away before he injured himself. He fell back onto the bed. I turned on a light.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “It’ll pass.”

  His jaw was clenched, and his face had gone a sickly white. It couldn’t simply be a hangover, I thought. He must be ill.

  He raised his head off the pillow and looked at me. He seemed not to be able to see me. There was something wrong with his right eye. “This will pass,” he said. “It’s just a headache.”

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “Don’t go,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t go.” He reached for my hand, catching my wrist. He gripped me so tightly, he raised welts on my skin.

  I prepared him an ice pack in the tiny kitchen of his apartment and lay down next to him. I, too, was naked. It’s possible I slept while he waited out the pain. Some hours later, he rolled over, facing me, and took my hand. He placed my fingers on the scar. His color had returned, and I could see that the headache was gone. I traced the long bumpy curve on his face, as I was meant to do.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” he said.

  In the morning, after our long night together, after the migraine, the first of dozens I would eventually witness, I persuaded him to get up and take me out to breakfast. I made him pose for a photograph at the front door of the apartment house. At the diner, he told me more about the scar, but the language, I could hear, had already changed, the telling of it was different. I could see that he was composing images, searching for words. I left him with a promise to return in the late afternoon. When I came back, Thomas had still not showered or changed his clothes, and there was an unmistakable exhilaration about him, a flush on his face.

  “I love you,” he said, getting up from the desk.

  “You couldn’t possibly,” I said, alarmed. I looked over to the desk. I saw white-lined papers covered with black ink. Thomas’s fingers were stained, and there was ink on his shirt.

  “Oh but I do,” he said.

  “You’ve been working,” I said, going to him. He embraced me, and I inhaled in his shirt what had become, in twenty-four hours, a familiar scent.

  “It’s the beginning of something,” he said into my hair.

  In the restaurant in Portsmouth, Thomas turns slightly and sees that I am watching him.

  He reaches across the table. “Jean, do you want a walk?” he asks. “We’ll go up to the bookstore. Maybe we’ll find some old photographs of Smuttynose.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” says Adaline. “You and Thomas go off for a bit on your own. Rich and I will take care of Billie.”

  Rich stands. My daughter’s face is serious, as if she were trying to look older than she is — perhaps eight or nine. I watch her smooth her T-shirt over her shorts.

  “Fat repose” Thomas says. He speaks distinctly, but there is, in his voice, which is somewhat louder than it was, the barest suggestion of excitement.

  At the next table, a couple turns to look at us.

  Adaline reaches around for a sweater she has left on the back of the chair. “Spaded breasts” she says.

  She stands up, but Thomas cannot leave it there.

  “Twice-bloated oaths on lovers’breath”

  Adaline looks at Thomas, then at me. “The hour confesses” she says quietly. “And leaves him spinning.”

  Thomas and I walk up Ceres Street to the center of the town. Thomas seems anxious and distracted. We pass boutiques, a microbrewery, a home-furnishing
s store. In a storefront window, I see my reflection, and it occurs to me there are no mirrors on the boat. I am surprised to see a woman who looks older than I think she ought to. Her mouth is pressed into a narrow line, as if she were trying to remember something important. Her shoulders are hunched, or perhaps that is simply the way she is standing, with her hands in the pockets of her jeans. She has on a faded navy sweatshirt, and she has a camera bag on her arm. She might be a tourist. She wears her hair short, hastily pushed back behind her ears. On the top of her hair, which is an indeterminate and faded chestnut, there is a thin weave of dew. She wears dark glasses, and I cannot see her eyes.

  I am not, on the afternoon we walk up Ceres Street, or even on the evening I first meet Thomas, a beautiful woman. I was never a pretty girl. As my mother once said, in a moment of honesty that I used to resent but now appreciate, my individual features were each lovely or passable in themselves, but somehow the parts had never formed an absolutely coherent whole. There is something mildly disturbing, I know, in the length of my face, the width of my brow. It is not an unpleasant face, but it is not a face that strangers turn to, have to see. As Thomas’s is, for instance. Or Adaline’s.

  Thomas and I do not touch as we walk up Ceres Street. “She seems a pleasant person,” I say.

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Billie likes her.”

  “And Rich.”

  “He’s good with kids.”

  “Excellent.”

  “She has a beautiful voice. It’s interesting that she wears a cross.”

  “Her daughter gave it to her.”

  At the top of the street, Thomas pauses for a moment and says, “We could go back.” I misunderstand him and say, looking at my watch, “We’ve only been gone ten minutes.”

  But he means, We could go home.

  There are tourists on the street, people peering into shop windows. We reach the center of town, the market square, a church, a tiny mall with benches. We round the corner and come upon the facade of a tall, brick building. The windows are long and arched, multipaned. There is a discreet card in the window.