Lovers Fall Back to the Earth

by Cecelia Frey

  “A person can’t just toss out twenty-two years.”

  “Why not? People do it all the time. They toss out thirty and forty years.”

  “You don’t understand. You’ve never had a relationship which lasted longer than a few months.”

  “So now I’m promiscuous.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “It’s true because I didn’t find the right person until you.”

  How can I be doing this? wondered George in amazement. How can I be here in this squalid room with this woman half my age? He had the impression of being shifted sideways, of being displaced from himself and deposited in an alien and unknown space. Amanda, thought George. It’s her fault. Well, of course, it’s not really her fault. But yes, it is really her fault. Amanda, the underlying cause of the inevitable effect. Her senseless death the cause, Veronica the effect. He had always been extremely fond of Amanda. When they were young and he was already streamed into a world that could be studied, measured, rationalized, she had appeared to him an anomaly. He had no patience for anything beyond reason and yet there was Amanda, living proof of something that might be called a force of goodness. That this force, that someone so worthwhile, could so easily, so unfairly, be erased; that someone so young, a good deal younger than he, could be wiped off the slate, so quickly and finally, had shocked him.

  If he was being honest with himself, however, as he sometimes was, George had to admit that his malaise, his feeling that he was sinking into a grey predictable region where he was doomed to exist for the remainder of his years, had begun before Amanda’s death. Likely, it had been coming on him gradually, but one day, shortly after Delores had left for the east, he woke up to the fact that nothing astonished him any more. He no longer enjoyed his teaching or his students. He was doing administration instead of research. He had ceased reading anything that was not necessary to his work, had ceased thinking beyond his work. And even his work, the mainstay of his life, was going sour on him. The whole business of life had fallen into a sort of unremitting gloom. This soul sickness, or what might be termed as such by someone who believed in souls, infiltrated everything, the smallest details of George’s life. He became so bored with small rituals such as making his morning coffee, getting himself dressed, walking to the office, that he could scarcely lift the coffee pot, button a shirt, put one foot before the other on the well-worn path. He could not stand himself. His physical being, his flesh, his smell, sickened him. He would catch himself staring at the skin on his soft belly thinking how it was like some hairy white grub. The little toe on his left foot had always been slightly curled under the next one. One morning he sat on the toilet staring at this toe and thinking how ugly it was, all his toes were for that matter. Toes were really a very ugly part of the human anatomy. Human beings were ugly, perhaps the ugliest of all creatures. Sometimes he could scarcely eat; the whole cycle of lifting food to his mouth, chewing, swallowing, digesting, eliminating seemed insanely grotesque. He would catch himself sucking his teeth and be revolted.

  Amanda chose that time of George’s life to be killed, an event that startled him into thinking of mortality in general and of Amanda in particular. He recalled the youthful Amanda of those far away fervent student days. How enthusiastic she had been! How loving! How caring! How dedicated to humanity! The discussions they had had. She felt so deeply for the wrongs of the world. She, even more than the others, wanted to save it. She joined all the causes —deforestation of the jungles, pollution of the environment. He recalled how she had stopped using detergent because of what it was doing to rivers, how she was shocked to learn that he and Esther used spray deodorant. She had been, they all had been, so alive, so involved. Then she was dead. As a scientist he was used to death of living organisms. What could be more natural than death? Things die. He would die. But he had never before truly considered his death. Amanda’s death served to remind him of his own, which would be, relatively speaking, soon. And what had he accomplished? What had he even enjoyed of this life?

  Esther knew nothing of this mental state, no one did. He went about his work, his daily round acting like the same old George. He was not the sort of man to expose his inner self to others and, in fact, his inner self up to then had been in pretty good shape. On that November evening two and a half years earlier when Veronica had come to his house, he had not been looking for diversion of that sort. He knew that he had to pull himself up out of whatever funk he was in. He had to finish the book, although given his lack of motivation he did not know how he was going to tackle a project that took so much creative energy. Perhaps he could get back on track by leaving it for a time, putting his interest into something entirely different. He had always had a faint urge to join one of the biological research teams bound for South America. Or perhaps travel to distant exotic places with Esther would be more appropriate. Or taking up a hobby, photography perhaps, might do the trick. Likely, he did not need to do anything so drastic as uprooting himself. He had always thought that he would like to try sky diving at least once. Then again, perhaps it was already a little late for that.

  Was it any wonder that Veronica’s arrival into his life seemed fortuitous, like the successful joining of cells toward new growth? Was it any wonder that as some men turn to God, he turned to Veronica? During those first weeks, it was difficult for him not to believe in heaven and that she was a miracle from that exalted place dropped into his ordinary existence. Later, he sometimes wondered if she were more properly a demon from hell sent to test him, to entice and ruin him. Whatever the case, if he had been a religious man, he would have been ready to damn himself to hell for eternity for what she offered him. Since he didn’t believe in heaven or hell and their inhabitants, he had to be satisfied to be ready to damn himself to this planet for the duration of his existence on it. Even now, in their close moments, the game seemed worth the candle, for when he was with Veronica he felt connected to his animal self. With her he knew who he was, the being distinct and separate from his social self. But he also knew that life with her would be outside society and, while it was all very well for Ben and Reuben to take that stance, it was not right for him. He had never wished to define himself in their terms and, in any case, he was too old to take the position of an outsider.

  Certainly, Veronica had restored his faith in life and in himself. He could work, he would finish the book, he would yet make an important discovery. She had given him a reason to live. He would always be grateful to her for that. But he could not imagine dismantling his life, a life so routine, so settled, so written in stone. It was his life. What matter that he had found something with Veronica he had thought lost forever? That with her he felt he was a vital human being, not an old man dragging his feet to the grave? Such thoughts were immature when measured against the structure of what he had built as his life.

  “I have to go,” he said, looking away from her. He didn’t like to see her face when he made that announcement.

  “You don’t have to go. You could stay if you wanted. You don’t have a class today until three.”

  “I have to work on my book.”

  “That’s another laugh.”

  “What do you mean by that remark?”

  “That book is another thing you keep putting off. You’ll never finish it.”

  “Thanks for your confidence. How can I finish it when my mind is exhausted by this constant fighting?”

  “How about me? What do you think it does to my mind? Do you think I like it any better than you do?”

  “Yes, I think you like to fight.”

  “That’s not true. But I’ll fight if I have to. I’m not going to lie back and take it.”

  “Take what?”

  “Your injustice.”

  “I do the best I can.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Look, please, I have to go to work.”

  “Work he calls it. Comin
g on to all the cute little undergraduate bouncy tits and bums.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Don’t forget, I was your student. I know your techniques.”

  “Please, Veronica.”

  “And how about my work? I won’t get any work done today. I’m too upset. Maybe I should find someone else.”

  “Don’t do that.” The idea caused a sort of plunge inside George, as though his blood pressure had suddenly dropped to dangerously low levels.

  “Someone who won’t beat me to an emotional pulp.”

  “Oh come now. It’s not as bad as that.”

  “I can’t put up with this any more!”

  “Shhh, shhh, calm down.”

  George put his right arm under her shoulders. He slid his left between the sheet and her warm body. He held her tightly, pressing her face into his chest. He knew that she liked his chest. She liked its feel of solidity and security. She liked its warm hairy fuzziness. She, who had never had a proper home, could sink into his chest and feel at home there. She had told him that. He ran his fingers through her long pale hair, combing it back from her high brow. Blue veins pulsed beneath her white skin. Her smooth bare shoulder felt like silk to his fingers.

  He could not give her up. Sometimes with her he felt such joy, pure joy. Without her his life would slump back into the grey lifeless mechanical round it had been before she arrived. He would slump back into his soft, lethargic, heap of self. He needed her to fire him up. He was too young for his life to be over.

  There was something else, too, something about her that was a mystery. It was as though he knew her from somewhere else, another place, another time. And that knowledge allowed him transcendence beyond the confines of earth to a place where he could glimpse something larger, something more expansive. The experience affected him profoundly. It was uncanny. He was a man with his feet on the ground. He could not remember ever having the experience before, certainly not with Esther. But he loved Esther; he did love her. He had never said that he didn’t. It is possible to love two people at the same time, he thought. The middle-aged professor, the good neighbour, the family man, the serious, reliable citizen loved Esther. But the primitive man inside, that creature he hadn’t realized was there until two and a half years ago, loved Veronica.

  He was still stroking her skin. “We’ll work something out. If you love me…”

  “I may love you but I don’t trust you.” Veronica’s voice was muffled, but he could tell it was somewhat mollified.

  He made his voice as soothing as possible. “Just be patient a little longer.”

  “You’ve been saying that for the past year.” Veronica turned her face up so that he could hear her more clearly.

  From one of the other rooms came the sound of a radio, the cheerful patter of an upbeat morning show, pleasant voices speaking in a friendly way to people who lived normal blameless lives, who listened to the Top Forty.

  “You don’t understand,” he said.

  “I understand perfectly. You’re a coward. You can’t face pain. Not even discomfort.” Her tone was almost resigned.

  “Things like this take time.”

  “You’ve had enough time.” Her voice threatened to rise again. She flung herself onto her back, out of his arms. She stretched the length of the bed.

  “I have to tell Esther gradually, work up to it so it isn’t too much of a shock for her.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Esther!”

  “Shhh!”

  “Don’t you see? You keep putting Esther before me. Esther has everything. I have nothing.”

  “You have me.”

  “Big deal. So does Esther.”

  “Not in the same way.”

  “That’s what you tell me. You probably tell her a pack of lies, too. It wouldn’t surprise me if you ditched the both of us and went merrily off with a pair of those bouncy tits. You can’t trust a liar.”

  “I’m not a liar.”

  “What do you call what you’ve been doing for the past two and a half years?”

  “I didn’t used to lie.”

  “You’ve been lying like a trouper all your life, Georgie. You lie to yourself.”

  George was suddenly aware of the evil-smelling sheets, the flat hard pillow, the stains on the ceiling. He swung himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, his feet landing on his pile of clothes on the floor. Elbows on knees, he stared at the red jogging pants on the shadowy flowers of the worn carpet, at the hooded pullover. Those aren’t my clothes. The thought crossed his mind. This isn’t me here in this room. This isn’t me doing these things. “And yet you talk about us having a life together,” he said. “How can we have a life together when that’s your opinion of me?”

  “I know you and I love you. That’s real love,” Veronica said to his back.

  “And yet you want to ruin me. What kind of love is that?”

  “I want as much consideration as Esther. I deserve it. I’m as important as Esther. I’m a person!”

  “Shhh. I know. But this is a world-shattering step. Do you realize how many lives such an action of mine will disrupt?”

  “Maybe they need disrupting.”

  “It will be the end. The end of me.”

  “Oh come off it. All that will happen is that a wife will learn the truth about her husband. It happens every day. You’ll be surprised how few people care.”

  “Esther will care. Think how she’ll feel. Don’t you have any empathy for Esther?”

  “You can’t be complacent in this life. You can’t sit back and think you’ve got it made. You’ve got to keep your eyes and ears open at the water hole. That’s the law of the jungle.”

  “I know you’ve had a rough time of it. Does that mean everyone has to have a rough time? After all, it’s not Esther’s fault.”

  “It’s not my fault, either. But I’ve never been able to avoid facing reality. I’ve never had that luxury. Unlike Esther, I’ve always had to deal with life in the real world. And as for you, you’ve never had to leave your ivory tower. Anyway, Esther has what she wants, her smug genteel existence.”

  She’d be shattered, thought George, looking up, weary of the arguments. His gaze swung in a semicircle. Near the door was a dresser, the top cluttered with bottles of makeup, jars of face creams, tubes of mousse and gel, canisters of sprays, trays of eye shadow, containers of lipsticks and nail polishes in various shades, hair combs, clips and curlers, curling iron and hair dryer. The mirror had lost much of its silver backing. The resulting black patches caused gaps in reflection, blotting out parts of the room. Its edge was stuck around with snapshots and business cards and greeting cards. On the other side of the door, a card table was set up with a word processor and stacks of books and printer paper arranged in neat piles. Across the room, near the balcony window, a wooden stand held a CD player that he had bought for her last Christmas. On a shelf, was a row of CDs, mostly pop and rock.

  Behind the surface atmosphere of the room, the cluttered paraphernalia of modern young-womanhood, was an old-fashioned quality: the style of the dresser, with its hinged and bevelled mirror, the faded carpet, the wide baseboards, the large-flowered brittle wallpaper. To George, the place had an aura of ghosts. He had been sincere when he had told Helena that he strove to live on the conscious level. Yet, in spite of himself, he recognized that there was something in this room, something he could not name, which drew him like a magnet. It was as though the room contained him, his past, not only in the way it was similar to his family home in Montreal, although that home was much grander and continually refurbished and repaired, but beyond that, to European roots which he had never personally experienced. There was something indescribably compelling about those roots and that lost time. It was this intangible phenomenon as well as the magnet of sex that bonded him so strongly to this perverse goddess. She co
ntained something of him, something he could not name. He couldn’t figure it out. It was a muddle in his brain.

  His eyes lighted on the kitchen component of the room, a counter along one wall fitted with cupboards, a hot plate, and a microwave. A communal fridge and a regular stove were in a downstairs kitchen.

  “Do you have any food around here?” he said.

  “There’s some cookies over there some place,” Veronica informed in a distracted voice before returning to her immediate focus, which, George knew, she would hang on to like a pit bull. “She should know her husband is a cheat.”

  George stood up.

  “I’m tired of being treated like a tramp. You sneak around, fit me in at your pleasure.”

  He crossed the room.

  “When I think of how stupid I’ve been. What I’ve put up with. What I’ve done for you because I loved you. No wonder you think you can treat me like dirt. Well, you’re fucking wrong!”

  “Do you think I like it any better than you do?” George was rummaging through the cupboards. Ahh, there they were, cookies and crackers. He chose the cookies, Dad’s with chocolate coating, his favourite. Veronica must have bought them especially for him.

  “Change it then. You can change it.”

  “Maybe I can’t.” George turned with a cookie in his teeth.

  “If you don’t, I will. I’ll go to the house.”

  “Don’t go to the house.”

  “Why not? Is that sacred ground?”

  Yes, thought George, Yes, it is. Aloud, he said, “Why do you hate Esther? She’s never done you any harm.”

  “She has what belongs to me. And she got it without even trying. “

  George stood in the grey morning light before the curtainless window. This time of year, the branches of the tree were a thick matted network of gnarled and twisted arms. They seemed to be reaching out for him, probing his flesh like long sharp witch’s fingers. Instinctively, he looked down to see that the windows were closed. Almost immediately, he lifted his eyes, berating himself for his foolish thought.