Amherst (16 page)

He slipped down onto his knees before her. For both of them it was an act of worship.

It had been a long, slow courtship. From the evening of
“going by the gate” to the night of the consummation of their love, fourteen months had passed; four hundred and twenty-eight days of ever-intensifying passion. From now on, Mabel regarded her relationship with Austin as a second marriage.

•  •  •

On December 20 the Todds left Amherst for a long stay in Washington. From her parents’ house, Mabel wrote Austin a poem of her own devising. She added it to the end of a letter, and she called it “P. S. First”:

You are all that I have to live for—

All that I want to love,

All that the world holds for me

Of faith in a world above.

You came—and it seemed too mighty

For my human heart to hold;

It seemed, in its sacred glory,

Like a glimpse through the gates of gold.

Like life in the perennial Eden,

Created, formed anew,

This dream of a perfect manhood

That I realize in you.

12

Stand at the top of the stairs. Look down into the dark hallway below. She’s there with him, the one he loves, the one I need. A door opens. The rustle of a dress as a half-glimpsed woman passes quickly down the passage, and out of the back door. Don’t move yet. Wait.

He comes out more slowly, as if deep in thought. Halfway across the hallway he stops. He knows he’s watched. He looks up, and there’s wonder on his face.

Come down the stairs now, holding tight to the banister, taking each step carefully.

“Why, Em, you’re not well!”

This is true, but it’s of no account. Reach out to him, press one hand to his arm.

“Are you happy, brother?”

He says, “I have no words.”

“But you’re happy?”

“I never knew such happiness was possible.”

This is good. This is as it should be.

I say, “Make me feel it.”

“What can I say?” But the glow of his face speaks for him. “An explosion—of joy . . .”

An explosion. Like the firing of guns. His arm trembles beneath my hand.

“She loves you too, Em. She feels so close to you.”

I say, “She must come closer.”

He thinks I mean something else.

“Will you see her? She wants so much to meet you.”

“There will come a time,” I say.

He goes on his way, to make his shout in the noisy world. I climb back up my mountain to my lookout. Every day the path a little steeper, until the day I take wing and fly.

Just my little toot of vainglory. There’ll be no playground in the sky when the time comes. Down I shall sink, and the darkness will close over me.

But I do not mean to be silent.

13

Chez Albert on North Pleasant Street is a small, homely restaurant that makes an attempt to re-create the atmosphere of a Parisian bistro. Amber wood floors, candles glowing on copper-topped tables. The front-of-house manager greets Nick as an old friend.

“How is it, Nick? Good to see you again. I heard you were leaving us.”

“You’ll have to put up with me a little longer, Emmanuel. Seat us somewhere where we can hear ourselves talk.”

Emmanuel leads them to a booth at the back. Alice, following, wonders how many young women have come this way in the past. She registers Emmanuel’s brief appraising glance, and feels herself bristling at being presumed to be the next in a long line of dates. For a moment she regrets agreeing to come. Then she looks at the menu and changes her mind. At least she’ll eat a good dinner.

“Paul got anything special on today?” Nick asks.

“The oysters are fresh in. And we have veal sweetbreads with plum marmalade.”

He leaves them to make their choices.

“Emmanuel comes from the Loire valley,” says Nick. “His second name is Proust. How can you not like a restaurant run by a man called Proust?”

“You come here a lot?”

She’s looking at the menu. The dishes are pricey for Amherst, beyond the reach of students.

“Enough,” says Nick. “Thanks to Peggy, I’m one of the idle rich. For now at least.”

Alice frowns, more in confusion than disapproval. The invisible wife has still not returned. Would she approve of this evening out, which looks so much like a date?

Emmanuel brings a basket of warm bread and a dish of olive oil. Nick orders wine. They make their menu choices. Alice chooses the butternut squash soup and pork confit. Nick chooses the veal sweetbreads and scallops. They talk about Mabel and Austin.

“Now here’s a leading question,” Nick says. “Do you actually like Mabel?”

Alice tries to answer truthfully.

“I want to like her. I want to believe in her great love. But it’s not easy. She’s so self-centered, I suppose. But then, why shouldn’t she be? I mean, aren’t we all?”

“I think we are,” says Nick, smiling.

“Why is that funny?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to tease you. It’s just the sight of you struggling with the shapelessness of life.”

“The shapelessness of life? I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means that we want things to fit the clothes we dress them in, but they don’t.”

“Oh, right. Like, life is complicated.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“For a moment there I thought you were saying something original.”

He gazes at her across the candlelit table, the smile lingering.

“You’re very beautiful.”

She flushes.

“Why say that?”

“I was hoping to surprise you.”

“Say that to your girlfriends. Say it to your wife.”

He just goes on staring at her, apparently not offended by her sharp response. It feels as if he’s studying her.

“You’re beautiful in the way the young Virginia Woolf was beautiful.”

“Why are you doing this, Nick?” She has to stop him. “Is this your famous technique in action? Don’t try it on me, it won’t work.”

Don’t try it on me, it might work. What fools we are. A little flattery, and resistance crumbles.

“My famous technique? No. I have no technique.”

“They just throw themselves at you, I suppose.”

“That does happen,” he says. “Doing nothing to attract people is an attraction all by itself. For a certain type.”

“I’m fascinated.”

She means to be sarcastic and he understands her, but he doesn’t seem to mind. How can he be so relaxed?

“Would it help if I told you my love life has been one long catalog of failure?”

“Would it help what?”

“Would it stop you wanting to punish me?”

Their first course arrives. Under cover of the clatter of dishes Alice reflects that Nick is right, and she does want to punish him. This is embarrassing. However he chooses to conduct his love life, it’s not her job to judge him.

She starts on her soup.

“All right. Tell me about the catalog of failure.”

“I’m not asking for pity. Just shifting your perception a little.”

“I don’t pity you, Nick,” she says.

“I expect you can guess. I make no claims to originality. The truth is that from a very young age, I’ve felt I’m alone. I’ve not wanted to be, I’ve tried not to be, but that’s how it’s gone on. For a short time, with Laura Kinross, it didn’t feel that way. But that was long ago, and I was young, and I didn’t know how rare it was to love like that. So I blew it, the way you do. Since then there’ve been others. There’ve been good times. But I’ve always been alone.”

“What about your wife?”

“My wife,” says Nick, “finances cancer research, and a scheme to promote literacy. She’s on the board of trustees of Amnesty International, and the Register of Historic Houses, and the Emily Dickinson Museum. I’m the least of her charities.”

“Oh, please.”

“Actually, she describes me as her leisure activity. In jest, of course.”

“You chose to marry her.”

“So I did.”

He stares back at her, entirely unashamed.

“I still don’t understand,” says Alice.

“Think of it as a genetic defect,” he says. “Some people are born color-blind. Maybe I was born missing some essential ingredient.”

“Except you did love Laura.”

“Yes, I did. I tell myself that. I hold on to that.”

So he’s telling her he can’t love but he wants to love.

“That line from Emily Dickinson,” she says, “ ‘I’ve none to tell me to but thee.’ Where did that come from?”

She’s not asking about the poem. She’s asking why he said it to her. He understands.

“A sense of fellow feeling, I suppose.”

“But you didn’t mean I was the one you could tell yourself to.”

“Didn’t I?”

“You don’t know me.”

“That’s true. I don’t know you at all. But I know what interests you, because you’ve told me. Do you think I talk like this with all my so-called girlfriends?”

“You might.”

“Take it from me, those conversations do not last long.”

“But then I guess you don’t want them for the chat.”

“So I talk to you.”

Great. They get the sex, I get the confession. Who’s more used here? It’s a tough call.

“Some people manage to combine the two.”

“Like Mabel and Austin,” he says. “Which is what makes them so interesting. We want to know how they did it. That’s why I’ll go to see your movie when it comes out.”

“If it comes out.”

“Come on. Have faith.”

He’s navigated them back onto safe ground. After a dangerous lurch into real emotions, the nondate can resume.

He’s tucking into his sweetbreads.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever find out how they did it,” Alice says.
“Here’s one of the twists in the story. I don’t think they would ever have become lovers if Austin’s little boy hadn’t died.”

“You think they would have gone on talking love but never doing it?”

“The shackles were on him, weren’t they? Adultery was beyond the reach of his imagination. And then Gib died, and it’s as if he just rose up, like a mythical hero chained to a rock, and ripped himself free.”

“The opposite of death is desire.”

“Is that a quotation?”

“Blanche, in
A Streetcar Named Desire
.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“You mean even if written by a metaphor-drunk pansy like Tennessee Williams, it’s still true?”

“Oh, God. Is that how I sound?”

“He was a metaphor-drunk pansy. But it’s still a fine play. And desire is the opposite of death. That’s a big, big truth.”

“And a big, big cop-out.”

Emmanuel comes to their booth to ask if the starters are good. Nick raises one hand, puts thumb and forefinger together. Emmanuel leans a little closer and speaks in a sympathetically low voice.

“I heard about you and Peggy. I’m sorry about that.”

“So it goes,” says Nick.

“She’s a great lady.”

“And always will be.”

Emmanuel departs. Alice stares at Nick.

“What was that about?”

“Oh, me and Peggy have been in here together a few times. Peggy’s a generous tipper.”

“Nick, are you and Peggy going through a bad time?”

Now, for the first time, he’s not looking at her. His eyes on the copper glow of the table between them.

“Not anymore,” he says.

“She’s supposed to be coming home, but she never comes. I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but what’s going on? I am staying in her house. I feel really confused.”

He’s nodding, accepting the justice of her complaint.

“I know,” he says, “I know.”

“So what am I supposed to think?”

“Does it matter what the situation is between Peggy and me?”

“No. Not to me. Except that you’re the one who gave me that Emily line. You’re the one who’s saying we’ve got this fellow feeling, and telling me all your life you’ve been alone. You’re the one who talks about big truth. And behind it all I hear is silence.”

Silence.

“You’re right,” he says at last. He looks up. He’s so handsome in the candlelight, his face so frank, his gaze so gentle. “It’s no secret. Peggy and I are getting divorced.”

“Divorced!”

“All very amicable. I think it’s come as a relief to both of us. We’re really very good friends now.”

“Divorced! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Should I have told you?”

“Well, I would have thought . . . I mean, you offered me a room in your house—naturally, because I knew you were married . . . I mean . . .”

She starts to flounder. Everything she says leads to humiliating revelations. Unnerved, she goes onto the attack.

“Yes, you should have told me! I seem to be the only one who doesn’t know. Even the waiter knows!”

Too strong. Tone it down.

“I’m sorry. I’m overreacting. It’s just that you’ve put me in the wrong. I’ve been judging you unfairly. But why have you let me? You know I was shocked by Marcia, but you never told me what was going on. You let me think you were cheating on your wife. I don’t get it. All you had to do was say, ‘It’s over with my wife, I’m single again.’ But you never said a word. You let me go on thinking you were a selfish shit.”

“I am a selfish shit.”

“Yes, but, but.” She waves her soup spoon in the air. “This changes everything.”

“How does it change everything?”

“Oh God. You know.” She’s getting into the mess again. “So what went wrong? With you and your wife, I mean.”

“You’d have to ask Peggy that.”

“What’s your version?”

“My version? I think I’d say we had a great affair and a lousy marriage.”

“In other words you screwed around.”

“Not at first.”

He seems to have no more to say.

“That’s it?”

“I’m not getting into the blame game. It didn’t work out. We’re both old enough to deal with that in a civilized way. So yes, that’s it.”

“Okay.” There’s something here she’s not getting. Several things. “So why not tell me?”