Above The Thunder (27 page)

He was working on the accounts when Jane came over at six o’clock. He invited her in, hoped the scent of vanilla he had simmering in a saucepan would mask the odor that had gotten progressively worse. The drains in the kitchen and bath were perpetually blocked, and the tenants all around him seemed to be cooking with heavier and heavier spices. Even his bath towels smelled of curry.

He turned off the overhead fluorescent light and lit some candles. “How’s the weather out there?” he asked, as Jane walked in.

“Snowy. We’re supposed to get a storm tonight.”

“Have a seat.” Jack picked up the stack of manila folders from the couch, moved them to the coffee table. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Nothing, thanks. I actually can’t stay too long. Leila and I have plans tonight.”

“How is Leila?” he asked from the kitchenette area where he decanted a bottle of wine and took down two glasses.

“She’s good. We’re good. She sends her regards to you. As does Stuart.”

Every week Jack resisted the temptation to ask about him. They hadn’t spoken since the day Jack moved in—almost a month ago now.

“He’s doing well. We had dinner with them last night, as a matter of fact.”

Jack froze for a second. He handed the wineglass to Jane who took one polite sip and put it down. “Them?” Jane hesitated, but Jack rushed in. “That’s all. No more. I’m glad he’s seeing someone. He deserves to be happy.”

Jane nodded. “I’ll tell him you send your best.”

“Who is he?” Jack said, before he could stop himself. The ironic thing
was that he hadn’t seen Hector since he’d moved out. He told himself that it was because he felt too sick, but lying awake at night, free to desire anyone, Stuart was all he wanted.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Jane said.

“No. I think I know anyway. It’s that librarian. That guy Stuart works with.” He picked up his wineglass, drained it. “Well, anyway. That’s his business now. Look, I’m having a party Christmas Eve. You and Leila are invited.” He hadn’t thought about having a party until just this instant, but why not? He could probably get four or five people to commit, which would be enough to make his tiny place look packed.

“I’d love to come, but we already have plans unfortunately,” Jane said, and stood to go. She reached for her coat, kissed Jack on the cheek. “Call if you need anything.” She picked up the stack of folders.

“I will,” he said. He poured the rest of the wine into his glass when she was gone. He should have been more interested in people. Should have bothered a little more with the things that sustained friendships. Was this how he would spend the rest of his days? He was going to have to force himself to do things, despite how sick he felt most of the time; otherwise he’d never have any human contact. Doctors’ appointments and trips to the grocery store were not enough.

He lay back on the sofa, balanced his glass on his chest and listened to the Indian couple fighting next door, their nightly row that half the time sent the husband out till the wee hours of the morning. Jack preferred the loud arguing to the wife’s solitary weeping, which, he heard now, was beginning. He sat up, blew out the candles and reached for his shoes.

He drove into Boston with no destination in mind. All the stores were fully decorated for Christmas. He stopped in front of the Gap where every year he bought Stuart a red sweater. He went in and chose one. He’d mail it after the holidays so Stuart wouldn’t feel obligated to reciprocate. Maybe he should shop for Jane and Leila. Stuart got them something every year—Stuart gave presents to everyone—but he didn’t have a clue as to the kinds of things they might want or need.

He wandered over to Cambridge, drifted toward some folk music festival under a giant tent in Harvard Yard. He wasn’t much into this kind of music, but he was tired of walking. Gypsy-intellectual types buzzed around him. Cheryl Wheeler was singing now about fall coming to New
England, though he couldn’t make out many of the words over the street noise and the food vendors behind him.

He heard Anna before he saw her, heard her voice in line at one of the concessions: “Holy God, man, how long does it take to cook a hot dog? I’ve been in line long enough to break a habit, backslide, and recommit.”

Jack called to her three times as she was moving slowly through the crowd, looking up at the musicians and hesitating, as though unsure about whether to stay.

His voice finally carried to her and her eyes looked in his direction and found his face. “Well, Jack! You have no idea how often I’ve thought of you. I’ve been meaning to call.”

He embraced her, inhaled the fresh-air scent of her clothes, and a heady perfume of exotic florals. “How have you been? Where are you going? Have you been in the city awhile, or can you get a drink?” He laughed with her at his barrage of questions. “What I meant to say is, don’t walk away from me, Anna, I couldn’t bear it.” He laughed again, but couldn’t get the cavalier self-mocking tone that he wanted. “Don’t tell me you’re on your way somewhere.”

“Well, isn’t everybody on their way somewhere?” She took a bite of the hot dog. “I’ve been Christmas shopping like a madwoman, since we’re leaving for Maine in the morning, that is, Flynn and I. Marvin will come later.”

“Oh? Did you finally sell the townhouse?” Jack had seen the listing in the Sunday classifieds last week. He tried to match strides with her, panting to keep up; she was the fastest walker he’d ever known, bar none.

She shook her head. “Marvin is going to live there till it sells. He’ll come up to Maine on the weekends to visit.”

“Good, that sounds good.”

“I hope so.” She stopped in front of a classy-looking bar with polished brass railings and suited businessmen within. “Want a brandy?”

He nodded, followed her into a booth by the window.

“I’m so glad I ran into you. It’s been so hectic I haven’t had time to call anyone,” Anna said.

“It’s all right. I haven’t called anyone either.”

She raised her glass to his. “
Cent anno
. To the next hundred years, as the Italians say.” She sipped. “I drink Grand Marnier only at the holidays.
I love Christmas, don’t you?”

He nodded, felt his throat get tight.

“Is everything all right?”

“Oh, hey, you know. Heartbreak, AIDS, joblessness, angry Indian neighbors, the usual.”

He drank his brandy down, signaled to the waiter. He looked back to Anna and saw that she was watching him with the intensity Jack had seen in Flynn’s expression. He thought of Flynn frequently, which surprised him because he didn’t like children as a rule. But something about the girl and her worried look, her intelligent strangeness, reminded him of himself as a child, of feeling like he was guarding a secret without knowing what it was.

Anna lit a cigarette, looked at him through the coils of smoke. “I know you’re probably as overextended as the rest of us, but I would love it if you would come to Maine for part of the holiday. My husband and I used to have an annual Christmas Eve party at our house in Maine, and I’ve decided to start it up again, though scaled way, way back. It’ll be pretty sedate, but I’m getting caterers from Boston. Greta and her daughter will be there. Marvin, too.”

“Really?” Jack said. “You’re inviting me?”

“Will you come?”

“I would love to.” He could have wept with gratitude.

“Great. You can get as drunk as you want. The house is huge and the guest bedrooms are ready and waiting for the heavy revelers.”

“How Gatsby-ish.”

She laughed. “Yeah, right. Anyway, we’re leaving tomorrow, Flynn and I. I’ll give you directions and you can come anytime and stay as long as you want.” She took a long sip of her drink, looked him in the eye. “I mean that.”

When they parted, Jack watched Anna until she rounded the corner. Something about the way she turned her head from side to side, looking at this and that, made him think of Thanksgiving night when he and Stuart were leaving Anna’s. Flynn was in the backyard making snow angels, her puppy balanced on her chest. “What do you know of heavenly bodies?” she said to Jack. “How many do you know?”

“Not enough, and too many at once,” he’d said.

At home, he packed a suitcase, then another. Before he knew it, he had gathered together all that he’d brought. Nobody should be expected to live here. He would find a new place after the holidays. Maybe Anna wouldn’t mind if he spent a week or two, long enough for him to find a decent apartment that didn’t speak so loudly of punishment.

That night, he slept peacefully for the first time in months. Anna was so gracious, even the thought of her like a warm shelter. He had never put much stock in kindness, never felt, until now, how small gestures of good will could bring such happiness. Things suddenly seemed bearable. He would call Stuart in the morning to wish him well.

I
t felt to her like all she’d done for the past few days was soothe somebody. First Flynn with her nightmares, then Jack with his pneumonia, and now Marvin, on the phone, for the third time today. Ostensibly, the calls were about real estate—her townhouse was still on the market after sixteen months, and the realtor was urging Anna to lower her price, which she didn’t want to do. Why should she? She was in no hurry to sell. Marvin was still living there, coming to Maine on weekends—though his visits had become more infrequent over the past month or two. She and Jack and Flynn were humming along up here quite nicely. Most of the time.

“Flynn is outside with the dog,” Anna said. “Do you want me to get her, or do you want me to have her call you later?”

“She doesn’t want to come to visit me anymore. She barely acknowledges me when I’m there. Did I do something to make her mad? What did I do wrong?”

“It has nothing to do with you, Marvin. She’s at that age.” Anna cringed, hearing her mother’s voice in her own. “She’s just twelve and weird. All girls go through these stages. They start to develop their adult characteristics, but haven’t yet worked them into the weave.”

“The what?”

“She’s changing, is all. It’s not that she doesn’t want to see you. She’s just strange and solitary these days. Come up this weekend. Take her to the movies. She’ll be all right.” The truth was, Anna was a little concerned. To
say Flynn was solitary was an understatement; whole days went by with Anna barely seeing her. She’d grown taller in the past year, and was beginning to develop, which Anna saw as a hopeful sign—Flynn’s moodiness was mostly due to surging hormones and not mental imbalance. Anna couldn’t remember much about Poppy’s adolescence, except that it was unbearable.

“I thought girls were supposed to adore their fathers. Shouldn’t she being going through some Ophelia complex?”

“Oh,” Anna said. “I can’t remember what that is.”

“It means I can do no wrong. That I’m a kind of demigod in her eyes.”

Anna sighed into the phone.

“I’ll try to make it up Friday.” He paused. “I heard from Poppy last week,” Marvin said.

“Oh? Where is she? How is she?”

“She’s in England. Trying to get into some interior design school. She’s dating someone.” Marvin made a wounded noise. “I might have to go over there and kill him.”

“Well, you’re dating, too. You started seeing someone almost immediately.”

“That’s different. Poppy is my home, Christine is my home away from home.”

“Something tells me Christine doesn’t know that. Anyway, I have to go. I’ll have Flynn call you soon.”

Anna hung up and went into the sunroom where Jack had been for four straight hours, listening to every recorded version of Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.” He had lucid days, and not-so-lucid days, but this one was a mysterious blend of both. He debated with Anna, with Flynn, and on the phone with Stuart, about which version of the song was the best. She didn’t know what to do with him today. His emotions were all over the place, which was partly a result of his medication. His physician had recombined the AZT cocktail when the original meds seemed to be failing. For a stretch of a few weeks he seemed so sick that Anna was afraid he was going to die. His white count was now slowly on the rise. His fortieth birthday was in three weeks. Assuming he remained stabilized, Anna planned to throw a party, the size and style of which to be determined later.

Joan Baez’s rendition of the song was back on. “Anna!” Jack called, with the urgency of someone having a stroke.

“What?” She wheeled around. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I just wanted you to hear that Baez has varied the song in key places.” He stopped the CD then started the track anew. “Listen. The original line as Cohen wrote it was ‘and she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.’ Here comes Baez.” Anna stopped to listen, dust rag in hand.

“Do you hear how she changed the line? Baez replaced ‘perfect body’ and ‘mind’ with ‘being kind.’” Did Anna think the song was diminished in any way? She didn’t, she said. She dusted the end tables, ran a damp cloth over the wicker chairs. The cushions needed to be washed.

“But which is better?” Jack said.

“Which do you like better?” The windows, too, were filthy. Flynn’s dog had pressed its nose all along the glass.

“That’s not what I mean. Is Baez’s version better than Cohen’s and Judy Collins’s? Is kindness better than perfection and beauty?”

“Yes,” she said, “it is always preferable. Perfection can be achieved through gentle kindness. Unkind beauty can only go so far.”

She said it off-handedly, but he started to weep. “Oh, Anna, you are such a reproach to me.”

“Jack,” she said, and turned off the CD player. “I think it might be time for something else. How about something classical? It’s getting a little tragic around here.”

He blew his nose, agreed she was right, said that after one more time through the Judy Collins’s he would find something else to listen to.

She tucked the blankets around his legs, kissed him on the forehead, and went to answer the phone, which was ringing again. This time it was Violet, the neighbor down the road, a widow who grew more eccentric by the year. She’d lived in the same house for decades. Anna and Hugh used to invite Violet and her husband, Floyd, to their annual Christmas party. Anna saw Violet in the grocery store last week wearing what looked like three pairs of pants.