“Bill, you look so …”
“What?”
“Do you need anything?”
“Water.”
The telephones began ringing. He bit his lip until the phones stopped. The comb against his head, her hand on his cheek. Breathe slowly, breathe slowly.
He asked her if she was wearing the necklace he gave her, the gold chain with the small gold pellets. Would she put it on for him, so that he could imagine her in it? Yes, she said.
Then he felt her head resting against his chest.
“Bill. My darling. You’ve got to go to a hospital now. In a few days. Okay?”
“I want to stay here.”
“I promise I’ll come the first thing in the morning and stay until you go to sleep at night. We can’t take care of you here anymore.”
“I know this room.”
She stood up. He could hear the rustle of her clothes. She started to cry, and he knew she was crying partly for him. That was what was left now. He asked her to take his hand and to press it against her body.
“Where is my hand now?” he asked.
“Against my lips.”
“Against your lips.”
“Yes.”
For a few moments, he listened to her breathing. The smell of invisible flowers, white casablanca lilies, her skin.
“Melissa,” he said. “Suppose that none of our lives before now had happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Suppose we just met.”
“You can’t pretend things like that.”
“Try. Suppose we’re just meeting for the first time now.”
“Oh, Bill,” she whispered. “I can’t pretend that everything that’s happened hasn’t happened.” She hesitated. “I’m doing all I can do.” He felt her fingers touch his cheek.
Gerty began barking and the doorbell rang. The sounds of many footsteps on the stairs, a knock on the bedroom door.
Thurston Baker’s voice: “Nice house. Hello there, Bill. Mrs. Chalmers.”
Virginia’s voice: “I’ve left my children downstairs watching TV. I don’t think they should be in here.”
Peter’s voice: “I’m not sure I should be, either. I’ll wait downstairs.”
“Stay, Peter,” said Bill. He imagined Peter, his red hair and his largeness. He imagined Thurston Baker, dressed in a fine suit and gazing from behind the polished lenses of his glasses. The attorney’s footsteps stopped just past the bedroom door.
Melissa’s voice: “Sit down, Mr. Baker. We have coffee.”
Bill sensed a hesitation. People had come into the room, he heard movements in corners, chairs, but no one was speaking. Undoubtedly, Thurston Baker and Peter were shocked by his appearance. He knew what he must look like. His skin pallid, his head lolling about on his chest as if unattached. His legs shaking with occasional spasms. Everyone must have been frightened to look at him, to contemplate his suffering. What he did not tell them, what he alone knew, was that complete incapacity was the easiest thing in the world. For months, he had been fighting his growing incapacity, his powerlessness. But now it was easy.
Virginia’s voice: “Cream, Mr. Baker?” A pause. “Didn’t your firm handle that suit with the Japanese factory a few years ago? Where was it? Reading?”
Baker’s voice: “You mean the Worcester case.”
Virginia’s voice: “Yes. I saw you quoted in the Boston Globe.”
Baker’s voice: “That was Jason Weatherhill, one of my colleagues. I don’t speak to the papers.”
Melissa’s voice: “What is it you came here to tell us, Mr. Baker?”
Bill heard a movement from Alex’s direction. He had a mental picture of where everyone was sitting, and he imagined his son on the edge of the bed, wearing his Nike shoes with the shoelaces untied. Then he heard Alex’s footsteps quietly moving toward him, he felt Alex’s arm on his shoulder. “I’m here, Dad,” Alex whispered.
Baker’s voice: “I have some possibly good news.” A stirring. Plymouth Limited was beginning to talk about a settlement. No one had expected anything so quickly, certainly not in the absence of a diagnosis. Evidently, Baker said, Plymouth’s attorneys had calculated that it would be cheaper for them to settle now rather than later.
Virginia’s voice: “Thank God almighty.” Her heavy footsteps on the floor. “Thank you, Mr. Baker. Thank you. We’ve won.”
Baker’s voice: “We have no idea how much they might offer. I want you to understand that. We’ll begin discussing the details after Ms. Stevenson returns from Ohio next week. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Still, I thought this news might cheer you a little. I wanted to tell you in person.”
Melissa’s voice: “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“They feel guilty,” said Bill. He thought he would react more strongly, but he felt very little, he felt as if he were looking at a small dot in the distance.
Peter’s voice: “Assholes.”
Bill imagined everyone moving toward the door. What time was it, he wondered. He wanted everyone the hell out of his room. What time was it?
CALONICE
When Anytus arrived at the hetaera’s small stone house on a narrow street in the Limnae, the air had cleared and the moon hung full over the city, casting shadows from fountains and vestibules into the dirty streets below. The tanner approached Calonice’s door and knocked.
After a few moments, the door was half-opened by a male slave whom Anytus had never seen before. “What is your business, sir?” the slave said unpleasantly. “The lady of the house has retired for the evening.” The porter squinted at the man standing in the moonlight, rudely dragging his gaze up and down Anytus as if he were a servant himself.
“Please tell the lady that Anytus is here.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“An appointment?” Suddenly, Anytus got a sick wormy feeling that he might not see Calonice tonight. And he needed her terribly. “Calonice,” Anytus shouted into the house, “it is Anytus.” The slave slammed the door shut.
Anytus stood outside the closed door, anxiously pondering what he should do next. Sounds of a cithara floated through the street. The instrument was sad and beautiful, a voice of the sad city. Then the door opened again. This time it was Calonice. She moved forward and embraced him, kissing him on his eyelids, then long on his lips, then his eyelids again. He wrapped his arms around her and held her and they stood that way for a time before she pulled him into the house and closed the door. Her scent of sandalwood was all over him.
“I’m sorry about Simmias,” she whispered. “He won’t venture out of his room again tonight. He is a frightening creature, isn’t he. But he does his job. You should have told me you were coming.” She spoke perfect Attic Greek, although one could hear the musical lilt of her faded Corinthian dialect. She stooped down and began unfastening Anytus’s sandals in the dark entry.
Anytus leaned against the wall, overcome with relief. “I don’t like your new servant. Peleus never treated me like that.”
“You should always tell me when you are coming, my dove. Let me look at you.” She stood back, then softly cupped his cheeks with her hands and gazed into his eyes. “It’s hard to see you. Let’s go into the court where I can see you better.”
She reached out her hand, but Anytus did not take it. He continued standing against the wall, his feet cold on the stone floor. “I was …” He started and stopped. “Why is it so important that you know in advance when I’m visiting? So that you will not be with someone else, isn’t that it? Do I need appointments like your other men?”
A wounded look came over her face, but she soon smiled and reached again for his hand. This time, she held his hand firmly and led him into the small rectangular court, with its smell of perfumes and soap and the flaking limestone statue of Callisto in the center. They sat down on a pillowed bronze couch.
In the good light, he could see that she was wearing a flowing silk saffron gown, sleeveless, fastened at the left
shoulder with a lavender brocade. Her black hair was unpinned, and the dark beauty of her native Corinth was accented by kohl tastefully applied to her eyelids and lashes. He looked at her face and her hair and buried his head against her bare shoulder. “Calonice,” he whispered. “Calonice. I can’t bear it that you entertain other men. You know that I can’t bear it. You must stop. I’ll give you anything, whatever you want. You have no need of their money.”
“Is it fair to say such things?” she said softly, stroking his neck with her fingertips. “You have a wife, a woman you sleep with every night. How do you think that I feel about her? I cannot even say her name. I try not to imagine. We should not talk about these things. You know that I love you.”
“And do you love the others as well?” he said, his face still pressed against her shoulder.
“I love you. When you are here, there are no others.”
Anytus sat up and studied her face. “That is no answer to my question.” He took a strand of her long hair between his fingers and played with it.
“Please, Anytus, must we quarrel? Let’s talk of other things.”
A puff of cool air tumbled in from the night sky over the courtyard, and Calonice shuddered. She gently moved Anytus’s head from her shoulder and stood up. “Let me look at you. I will have to get you out of those silly clothes. What is this?” She pointed to a small yellow bruise on the underside of his arm. “This wasn’t here the last time I saw you. You’ve hurt yourself.” She bent over and kissed the spot with her lips. “You look tired, Anytus dove. You’re worried, I can see that. Tell me what worries you. Can you stay the night?” Anytus nodded. “Good. I will have you all to myself. I have missed you, it’s been two weeks.”
Anytus put his arms around her, drawing her toward him. He ran his hands lightly over her breasts, then kissed her on her mouth and her neck. “You are so beautiful,” he said. “I want to stay with you forever. Don’t let me leave.” He closed his eyes, holding her. “I feel quiet here. This is my home.”
“You must not say that, my dove. It will make both of us unhappy.”
“I want to be still. You are my stillness. Don’t let me leave.” He held his cheek against her chest, listening to her heartbeat.
She placed her palm against his cheek. “Is it Prodicus?” she said. “Has he been insulting you again?”
Anytus shrugged his shoulders. “No more than usual. Prodicus is a grown man. He does what he wants.” Anytus picked up a jeweled brush and began brushing her black hair, which glistened in the lamp light.
“Your son should be more like you,” she said softly.
“No, not like me. Not like me.”
“Oh, Anytus my dove, my sweet nightingale.” She looked up at the dark square of night above the stone head of Callisto. “Hasn’t the weather been strange? Pouring rain and gray for a whole day, like winter, and then suddenly at dusk the rain stops and the air clears and shines. Who can understand the blessed Immortals.”
At these remarks, Anytus’s hands trembled, and she felt it. She took the brush and kissed his fingers and studied his face. “Promise you will talk to me. You will tell me.” He nodded. “I will remember that promise,” she said. “But we have all night. First, I want to make love to you.” She took his hand again and led him to the back of the court and through the vermilion curtains to her bedchamber.
Later that night, after she had fallen asleep, he lay next to her and stared at the ceiling. They had left one small lamp burning. Its flickering light caused shadows to shift on the ceiling, darting at each other like attacking armies. Or like unfolding vines, struggling to climb down the walls. Below, the room smelled of spring lilies and perspiration. He sprawled naked on the bed, wanting to wake her and talk. He felt empty and full at the same time.
No longer could he look at the ceiling. His eyes wearily circled the room. On a chest near the door lay dim combs and brushes, on another a dark perfume vial shaped like a bird. He closed his eyes but the shadows continued to dance on his eyelids. He turned on his side. His body would not relax and let go. Undulations of strain flowed down his legs, constrictions of muscles in waves. He tightened and loosened his fists. He let out a deep breath and turned to his other side, opening his eyes in the flickering light, then closing his eyes.
From somewhere outside, the cithara again, insinuating its way through the walls of the house. The cithara in the middle of the night, some sleepless person plucking its strings to take revenge on all those sleeping. But he was not sleeping. The sound was not beautiful now but metallic and sharp, cutting the stillness. He found himself waiting for the spaces between notes, between sharp knives cutting into the vast empty dark. How jagged the night had grown, tall and pierced in its great empty rooms. The cithara became louder and bigger until it was voices screaming, an evil chorus chanting some sharp and metallic chant. He had never before heard such voices. He could swear they were coming from the next room. He would get up and go to the courtyard to stop them, but he found himself unable to move. He looked down at his own body and saw that his hands were gripping the side of the bed. He turned and looked at Calonice, the thin skin on her throat, her bare arms and legs.
The cithara stopped.
He watched the shadows, darting ceaselessly back and forth, and the ceiling seemed to descend and descend and he closed his eyes but felt the ceiling lowering further, continuing its descent. He opened his eyes and saw that it was one foot away. In response, he stretched his body as flat as it would go. The world had become two horizontals, nearly touching, the bed and the ceiling. How could Calonice sleep? He raised his arm, expecting it to crash into the upper boundary of the world, but nothing happened. He could not be hurt. Was he not Anytus, former general in the Thirty-Year War against Sparta, defender of the democracy? He turned to Calonice, beautiful and rapturous Calonice. Or was it Pasiclea? In dim light their bodies were similar. They both loved him, did they not? Anytus, distinguished citizen of Athens. Where was this room, this bed? Could it be Pasiclea who lay with him now? She would forgive him everything. Or Calonice? Wasn’t that Calonice’s brocade on the wood chest, glinting in the flickering light? She would also forgive him, had already forgiven him. She was his quiet, his stillness.
He turned over and over, kicking the sheepskins to the floor, and finally settled on his left side in an uneasy chasm, half asleep and half awake. He opened his eyes to look at Calonice and saw that she had also opened her eyes. They were red and inflamed. She turned toward him and smiled, but her smile was a horror. Blood dripped from her tongue, and a rotting smell jumped out of her mouth. She began coughing a deep hard cough, like stone against stone. Yellow and brown liquids trickled from her body and soaked the bedsheets. Plague. He sat up, sweating. “Anytus dove,” she said. “Where are you going? You cannot leave me now. No matter what’s happened, you cannot leave me now.” She began retching and shaking, and the lamp seemed to get brighter, and he saw that small pustules and ulcers had formed on her breasts and her stomach and legs. Her breath smelled of decaying flesh. Still smiling, she reached out to touch him with swollen red fingers. “Anytus dove.”
She wiped his face with her dripping hand and he screamed and she sat up. “Anytus, what is the matter?” she said. “Are you all right?” She got out of bed and lit a second oil lamp. Her pustules and ulcers were gone. “Are you ill?”
“No, I’m all right.”
“Are you sure you’re not ill?” she said, her lilting voice rough around the edges with irritation. “You frightened me, my dove. I am sorry, but I need my sleep. I need my sleep.”
“Yes. I’ll be quiet. I’m all right.”
She extinguished the lamp and got back into bed and put her arm around him. Soon she was asleep again, but he lay awake, listening to her breathing.
After Melissa had finished reading the story, the room fell into silence. Bill waited for Melissa to say something, to move from her seat on the blanket chest, but the only sound he could hear was the soft clopping of a hot-
water pipe. It was late, after midnight. Far away, a car engine coughed. He listened again and heard her breathing.
“I’ve done a terrible thing to you,” she whispered. He heard her rise, go the bureau and pour herself a scotch and drink in swallows.
“Melissa,” he said.
“I’ve caused everything. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“What are you talking about? Come here.” She remained by the bureau, sipping her scotch. “Please come.” Her feet softly clapped on the floor. She would be barefoot, he knew, wearing her turquoise silk robe. He imagined her in her robe, her delicate nose and mouth.
“I’ve done a terrible thing,” she said. Her sleeve brushed his cheek, her fingers.
“I don’t want to know,” he said.
“But I have to tell you.”
“I don’t want to know. Whatever it is. Just touch me.” She put her glass down on a table.
“Oh, Bill …” She paused, the glass moved again.
“Do you love me?” he said.
“Yes. Yes. I feel like we’re in a nightmare. Isn’t this all a nightmare? I do love you.” He felt her hand on his forehead, heard her sigh with exhaustion. Her silk sleeve touched his eyelids.
“Alex has stopped losing weight,” she said. “He’s been drinking some milkshake supplement. His first match of the chess tournament is on Wednesday.”
“Good.”
“He’ll be getting out to matches. He needs to get out.” She paused and slumped against him, resting a limp arm across his chest. “Isn’t it amazing that we made him,” she said, slurring her words now. “We did that together. At least that’s something.”
Her body moved, and he heard her fall across the bed.
“I’ll take care of you,” she mumbled. “I’ll take care of you. I will.”
Then he allowed himself to slip down into the dark of his illness. Vague sensations of shadow and light flickered across his blind eyes, the errant pulses of nerve endings. The body had its own memory. His fingers were tingling wires, his legs vibrated like echoes in vast canyons, his stomach throbbed with each pulse of blood. Waves traveled his arms. A tear slid over his cheek. For a few moments, he wondered what Melissa had wanted to confess. He envied the sharp point of her guilt. Then the familiar black bile stirred in his stomach. Peter. How despondent and spiritless his friend’s voice had been that afternoon. The pressure of his existence, the chase and the emptiness were slowly crushing in on Peter. He had no center. One of these days he would collapse completely, lose his job to a less used man, end up sitting on the couch in his house in Drexel Hill, unshaven and watching television all day. Or maybe he would just slowly fade, never knowing. And Bill had been unable to warn him, knew it with certainty and could do nothing. Bile, all bile. Bill wanted to escape his body, he wanted to spill it, to shed it, to slough off the cowardice and rot.
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