by Sarah Dunant
“Don’t worry,” she said gently. “I know it didn’t feel like that for you. But things have gotten better. Little by little. And you’ve changed, you know. Even since we last saw each other. I don’t know if I can describe it, but you’re more relaxed somehow, as if you’ve got a better hold on the world. It’s quite a transformation, Marla. Maybe it comes from teaching.”
“And maybe it comes from having to fend for myself without you,” I said quietly, not looking at her but feeling a pulse of electricity pass between us.
She met me head-on. “In which case I was right to leave. We couldn’t have lived the rest of our lives in each other’s pockets. We both knew that. You were better off without me. I just reminded you of the past. Look at you now. You’ve come through, even if you don’t like to admit it. In some ways you’ve done better than me.”
If it was true it didn’t hurt less. For either of us.
“I missed you, too, you know,” she said with sudden ferocity. “It wasn’t all one-way.”
I studied a crack in the grain of the deck. “I know that.”
Four, five, six heartbeats. The silence was alive between us. It could have taken us anywhere. Her choice.
“What about men, Marla? Extramural activities. Give me a progress report. Are you still chewing them up and spitting them out?”
I had been waiting for the question. A head count for the last two years revealed a visiting academic from Finland and someone I had met at a concert. I selected and embroidered. “You’d have been proud of me. There was one who lingered for almost a month.”
“What happened?”
“He went back to his wife in Helsinki.”
“How did you feel?”
“I had a lot of work to do.”
“Coward,” she said, but with great affection.
“Well, you know me. All cats are gray in the dark.”
“Oh, Marla, sometimes you don’t even tell the truth to yourself, you do know that, don’t you? Maybe if just once you cast off from the side of the pool, you’d discover that you could swim.”
“Maybe.”
“I tell you—Shit,” she muttered angrily, sitting up and reaching for her T-shirt. “We’ve got company.”
I glanced behind me to see J.T., tree-trunk body encased in checked shirt, wicker basket in hand, standing on the edge of the deck looking for all the world like a renegade extra from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Such was the perfection of his catwalk that neither of us had heard him. I was glad we had been talking quietly. Glad also for the excuse to stop. Elly scrambled to her feet. I stayed where I was.
“Fresh vegetables,” he mumbled, crossing over and putting the basket on the table. He stood for a second, as if poised for a fast retreat. Except this time he didn’t leave: this time, quite out of character, he accepted Elly’s automatic offer of refreshment and followed her across to the chair next to mine. He lowered his bulk into it while she sped indoors to raid the fridge.
We sat for a few moments judging each other’s commitment to silence. For such a big man, he imposed surprisingly little of himself on an atmosphere—not at all like Lenny arriving on the scene. On the other hand, he didn’t seem ill at ease. In fact, close to, his stillness felt more like a deliberate strategy than shyness, almost as if he had made a conscious decision to be this withdrawn. On a desert island we might not have talked for years. For Elly’s sake I offered up a few clichés.
“It’s a beautiful view. You must enjoy living here.”
He said nothing, not even the habitual grunt. I was counting to ten before graduating on to the weather when he looked straight at me, the sunlight on his glasses obscuring his eyes. “Is she OK?”
I was impressed by the way I contained my surprise. “Yes,” I said. “She is.”
“How about her and Lenny?”
I took time with that one, picking my way to the right words. “There are still problems. Areas of conflict.”
Behind us came the sounds of glasses and bottles clinking, a fridge door closing. He looked out over the canyon, squinting into the sun. “You should see it when the mist comes in.” He was addressing the ocean. “Rolls right up in the middle of the night. Thick as cotton balls. Sometimes you can’t even see where the deck ends. Lasts for days.” He sniffed. “Is she going to leave him?”
This time I was shocked by the question. Or maybe it was just the number of words, like hearing a monk breaking a vow of silence. Shocked, but also fascinated. “Why? Do you think she should?”
He looked at me sharply, and there was anger in the movement, as if I had said something self-evidently stupid. But now was not the time to explain. The screen door was already opening, and we could both hear her coming toward us, tray in hand. He returned to his study of the horizon.
After which he didn’t stay long. The beer took him no time at all, and he gave the impression of being a man who had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment. Elly did most of the talking. Pleasantries. Half of me listened; the other half worked at lasering through those pebble wedges to the eyes behind. They gave nothing away. It was becoming a habit, these snatched conversations with cocaine men. First Lenny amid potted palms, now J.T. by a canyon. Whispers in cloisters. The equivalent of a professional tic. Did it really come with the job? Had he taught Lenny or had Lenny tutored him? Maybe I should ask. There was no reason why he should have the monopoly on curiosity.
He must have heard the thought forming, because he picked that instant to make his getaway, squashing his beer can in one hand and delivering a monosyllabic speech of farewell before padding off into the high noon sunshine. We watched him go.
“Strange,” murmured Elly. “He didn’t say anything. I wonder what he wanted.”
“Hungry for human contact, I expect. He asked how you were.”
“Did he?” She frowned. “I should have talked to him, gone round to see him. But what would I have said? ‘I’m sorry I didn’t take your advice. You were right.’ I can’t imagine the conversation. You know, it’s funny, but I think he makes me shy. Me, old blabbermouth. Can you believe it?”
“Maybe he holds a torch for you.”
“J.T.? Never.” She laughed. “He’s impenetrable. I don’t think he needs people at all. All his loyalties go to his lettuces.”
“So he knows nothing. How come Lenny doesn’t tell him?”
“How come stones don’t talk? I told you, their camaraderie is professional. It doesn’t extend to emotional confessions. Real men don’t eat humble pie, remember? Come on, let’s get out of the frying pan.”
In the shadows at the back of the house, we tried to recapture the rhythm of the day. Elly was doodling, reproducing bits of me in quick, sure pencil strokes. It reminded me of the old days. There had been a time when she always had a pencil in her hand: cartoons doodled on school notebooks, pupils and teachers as animals and monsters. I sat obediently still for her, a book on my lap. Illustrations from the Lindisfarne Gospels, snakes and monsters curled around the word of God. The truth according to the Bible. But on this particular afternoon not even the genius of Bishop Eadfrid’s pen could hold my attention. It was hot in the shadows, and the decorated words danced on the page. We fell into a sleepy silence. After a while I looked up. The pencil had slipped from Elly’s hand, and she was curled like a cat on one of the floor cushions, eyes closed.
I put down the book and went outside. Day five. Progress report. We had heard nothing from Lenny since our arrival.
That much was perfect. Despite her sadness, Elly was growing stronger. Her own description had been accurate. It was like watching a body fighting back an infection, manufacturing antibodies to expel the invader. From what I could tell, the balance of power was already shifting away from that late-night despair of the Manhattan balcony. Now there were signs of anger poking through, the odd glimpse of another, younger Elly, one who did not approve of bloodsucking as courtship ritual. The longer Lenny stayed away, the further the distance between them. With luck
we would not need his mystery tour to England. It might prove a voluntary repatriation. Things were going better than I could have hoped.
I walked up from the deck onto the meadow. From the brow of the hill everything was quiet, the only sign of life a solitary bird wheeling overhead in search of shade. Close to, the ground was parched and cracking in the heat. Any garden would now be in need of constant attention. Lenny may have had trouble with true love, but Elly was right, his partner clearly had a serious relationship with his vegetable patch. From where I stood, I could just make out the house and its enclosure, marked by the giant sunflower ring of confidence. I decided, on what seemed like impulse, to pay a call on his estate and ask a few questions of my own.
The place felt deserted, although both the pickup and the lovingly preserved VW were parked on the gravel. J.T.’s home was altogether a more modest statement than the guesthouse, smacking more of solidity than of imagination, while its view, although magnificent, did not have quite the wild extravagance of the jungle canyon to recommend it.
The main garden was a large enclosure to one side of the house. The place was packed with crops, jostling against each other for growing space. Corn, lettuce, beans, all of them California big and pushy. To one end there was a small herb garden, the soil newly watered, and nearby a flower bed partly protected from the sun by a carefully erected canopy.
I picked a few sprigs of mint and crushed them in the palm of my hand. Their smell was sharp and sweet. I walked up onto the patio surrounding the house. My feet creaked on the boards, and somewhere in the distance I heard chickens cackling. At the far end there was a hot tub, covered with a wooden barrel lid. I was beginning to feel like an intruder. What should I say if I came across him now, face pressed up against the window, staring out at me? “Good afternoon. I’ve come to ask some questions about your questions?” The idea of being thus caught unnerved me. I marched up to the front of the house and knocked smartly. Nothing. I tried the handle, and the door clicked open at my touch. Inside I glimpsed a room, almost monklike in its sparseness: bare wooden boards, two chairs in one corner, a table, and a couch that looked as if it doubled as a bed. The only color in the place came from an Indian bedspread draped over one of the chairs and a small rug with bright, intricate weaving, probably South American, on one wall. Apart from that there was order, space, and precision. And no J.T.
It was only as I pulled the door behind me that I noticed a smaller, more makeshift hut at the back of the house, partly obscured by trees. Why not? Such a substantial garden deserves a gardening shed. Even as I approached I had a sudden sense that I would find him there. Still, something made me go to the window rather than the door. I was careful not to make any noise. Like J.T., I have discovered that big people can make soft footfalls. It is one of a number of ways to do what you want without having to be noticed. Peering in through a corner of the glass, I saw what was, in fact, some kind of study: a desk, a filing cabinet, and on the wall a large diagram of what looked like the night sky. What had Elly said about him? Vegetables and stars? Maybe this was where he noted his findings, although there was no sign of a telescope. On the desk there were scatterings of paper, and the wastepaper basket was full. And then there was the bunk. The bunk on which J.T. was lying.
He was sprawled flat on his back, asleep, his head turned away from me and his arms and legs flung out at awkward angles. He was wearing loose cotton trousers and a T-shirt, which had ridden up over his chest, exposing a carpet of dark fuzzy hair. I remember thinking there was something in the way he lay which reminded me of a grossly overgrown child. The sensation of voyeurism both fascinated and repelled me. I would not like to be so observed. Then, quite suddenly, he moved his head, pointing his face up toward the ceiling. It was a deliberate gesture, not the careless kind that people make in their sleep. It was then I realized that his eyes were open. I pulled my head back abruptly, but not so fast that he might not have registered a shadow of movement. I decided not to announce myself formally. Clearly this was not visiting hour.
I was halfway to the vegetable plot when I heard the door being flung open, and a shout pulled me to a halt. “What do you want?”
There was real aggression in his voice. I swung round, defending with an attack. “I knocked at the house. There was no answer.”
He did not respond, just stood staring at me, squinting into the sun, head cocked to one side like a blind man sensing direction. “You alone?” he said at last. “Where’s Elly?”
“Asleep.”
We stood growling, each waiting for the other to make the next move. Technically, I was the trespasser. So why was I here? “Elly told me you were something of a stargazer. I was wondering if you had a chart or map I might borrow.” Not bad, conjured as it was out of thin air.
“Why?”
I had to hand it to him. He was even harder to have a conversation with than I was. “Because I’m interested,” I barked back. It was not a total lie. Who isn’t curious about infinity?
His face creased into an unexpected, almost sly smile. It was obvious to both of us he didn’t believe me. But I didn’t care. The pause began to lengthen, but this time I stood my ground. I didn’t mind silence either. After a while he turned on his heel and walked back toward the hut. I understood I was not being invited to follow. I waited, paying unnecessary attention to a small, fresh mound of earth near my foot. He took his time. I wondered vaguely what I should say when he returned. I had gone back to playing footsie with the earth mound when he arrived. Now, it seemed, he wanted to join in.
“Gophers,” he said, looking down at my feet.
“What?”
“Gophers. Little bastards. They chew their way through everything. First couple of months after we laid the electric cables I kept getting power failures. Spent days digging up the cable only to find teeth marks right through it. In the end I had to take up the whole damn thing—miles of it—case it in steel and stick it back again. Now they just break their teeth on it and go for the plants instead. Here …”
He held out the map but stood his ground. There was four or five feet still between us. I was meant to go to him. As I walked, I was aware of his eyes on me. The scrutiny had nothing to do with sexuality. It was more abstract than that. I wondered what he thought he saw. I put out my hand to receive the chart. “Thank you.” This time we looked at each other. “I wanted to talk about Elly.”
It was a calculated risk. I am not the kind of person to put everything on one throw of the dice. The length of his speech and the fact that he had held on to the map just a fraction too long told me he wanted to talk too. Or so I thought. He made a small impatient movement and scowled in the direction of the truck. “I have to go pick up some feed for the animals.”
“I see,” I said evenly. “Well, don’t let me stand in your way.”
He was still frowning as he strode past me to the truck. It was hard to know at what point he changed his mind.
“You might as well come along for the ride,” he grumbled, flinging open the driver’s door. I must have shot a look across the hill, because he added curtly, “We’ll be back before she wakes.”
The journey did not prove conducive to chatter: both of us straight-backed, eyes stapled to a road which whipped and snarled its way through the mountains. It was his fault. He drove deliberately too fast, taking corners in third gear and straight stretches with his foot down. After the fourth bend I had to catch hold of the door strap to avoid being flung against him. He was in an awful hurry. Was this plain bad temper or his way of trying to impress? After a few miles he seemed to ease up a little. The wind, which had been whipping in through the open window, calmed down and blew hot again.
“How long have you known each other?” His voice, even though I was expecting it, made me jump. I shot him a look, but his eyes were firmly on the driving. One of the screws which joined the metal arm of his glasses to the lens frame was loose, I noticed. For a man who owned a chunk of the Pacific coastline, he wore pre
tty cheap spectacles.
“Eighteen years and five months,” I said, talking to the windscreen.
“And when did you last see her?”
“Two years ago.”
“You think she’s changed?”
“No, not really. Not underneath.”
In front of us, from round a bend, a red estate car appeared, moving fast. The road didn’t seem wide enough for both of us.
He put his foot down on the accelerator. I felt my body snap into attention. The cars rushed toward each other. And sliced past. Just. I let out a breath I was not aware I had been holding.
“She’s stayed off the coke?” he said, perversely slowing down now.
“Yes.”
“But she’s still strung out on Lenny, right?” This time he did look at me, a fast poking glance that seemed to have a fist of anger in it. Interesting how I found his bad temper easier to handle than Lenny’s slimy charm. “Yes,” I said, finding his phrase surprisingly satisfying. “She’s still strung out on Lenny.”
He grunted. We were approaching a small settlement, a sprinkling of houses and the odd store, breaking open the forest and widening the road. In the sunshine it seemed picturesque and romantic, the kind of place where Sissy Spacek might have come from. J.T. screeched into the forecourt of what looked like the outhouse to a farm.
“Wait here,” he mumbled, snapping open the door and sliding out. I watched him stride across the space. It suited him, this landscape. He was built for it.
He disappeared inside the barn door. I sat and wondered what they did here when it rained. From a large wooden cabin across the road a woman came out and stood on the porch, watching me watching her. She had long, silvery gray hair and was wearing dungarees with a skimpy T-shirt, which showed off her brown arms and shoulders. There was something in the way she held herself that was both lazy and alert at the same time. She was very attractive, not so much from her looks as from a kind of careless sexuality which clung to her almost without her noticing it. She was the sort of woman writers create as one-night stands for heroes-of-the-road novels. Someone who gave of herself without having to check if anything had been lost. Reality or male fantasy? If I got out of the truck and went up and asked her, would she tell me? How is it that other people are always such mysteries? Maybe she was thinking the same about me. The interest was certainly mutual.
