Autobiography of Us (26 page)

“The light,” I repeated. I’d done my best not to dwell on that particular side effect of Alex’s visit, the guest room when I stopped in that morning to check looking perfectly innocent, the bed made up with fresh linens, the pillows smoothed flat, Gladys—with that imperturbably blank expression I could have kissed her for at times—announcing before she left that everything was in order. She had, she said, cleared out a few drawers, left a stack of clean towels by the sink. “That’s alright,” I said finally. “I’ll find my way.”

“I’ll be asleep in about fifteen seconds flat,” he said, straightening up. “Snoring like a chain saw, sorry to say. Guarantee it.” He stopped where he stood, head cocked to one side. “Just look at that,” he said appraisingly. “You two could be sisters.” He held up his hands like a frame, fingers held in opposing
L
s. “Click,” he said. “American Wives.”

“To the wives,” Alex declared, standing to raise her glass to his retreating back. “To us.” She walked a little unsteadily across the room to the couch and sat, patting the cushion beside her. “You come sit right over here by me, Becky.”

I moved obediently, settling into the crook of the couch’s arm. It was dim in the living room and pleasantly warm, the lamps spilling pools of yellow light across the dark windows. The scent of roast meat hung in the air.

“What’s that?” I picked up my head.

“I was just saying, you outdid yourself. Look at this place.” She waved her hand. “Look at this view. It’s like something out of a magazine.”

“It does the trick. Though sometimes…”

She leaned in. “Spill it.”

“I’m adjusting, that’s all.” I forced a laugh. “Six years in this city and I still have to make an adjustment every now and again. Like a car after going a certain number of miles. A tune-up.”

“Recalibration.” She nodded. “Go on.”

“I’m not making much sense.” I stared out the window at the lights sliding into the river, the slow-moving barges trucking their cargo up and down the Hudson. “It’s just that sometimes I feel like something’s gone missing.” I tried to laugh again, but the sound stuck in my throat. “That’s not right either. It’s more the feeling that I’ve forgotten something. Like when you walk out the door and realize you’ve left the keys on the kitchen table.” I stopped, thinking—prompted by the look on her face as she watched me from her corner of the couch—of those letters locked up in my desk drawer. There was something dangerous about them being in such close proximity to her, the twinning of them and Alex a thing I thought might break me, shatter us both into a thousand pieces. I gave myself a shake. “Listen to me. I’m talking nonsense.”

“Hush. You’re marvelous.”

“I’ve had too much to drink.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “We’re having a conversation, that’s all. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have a little adult conversation. Not that I don’t have anyone back home,” she added quickly. “We’ve got a whole gaggle of neighborhood girls, really. The anti-Malices. They come by every Friday for drinks and backgammon or whatever. A round of cards. Not bridge—Jesus. Rummy, usually, though sometimes I manage to coax them into a little poker.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It’s smashing.” She lit a fresh cigarette. “And you? What do
you
do for fun?”

“I keep busy.”

She looked at me sideways. “You ended up doing just fine in the husband department.”

“He’s very good to me.”

“Good?” She stared. “He ought to be stuffed and mounted on a wall somewhere, for Christ’s sake.”

I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. “And what about yours? You and Bertrand. How is he?”

“Gorgeous. Perfection.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs. “That’s not going to be awkward, is it? Because it was all about a million years ago.”

“It’s just you said you were in some sort of trouble.”

“Did I?” She put her hands on her knees. In the warm light of the navy lamp shade, the skin on her forearms looked blue. “I don’t remember.”

“Isn’t that funny,” I said, leaning forward. “I hadn’t seen that before, with the light.”

“What’s that?” She pulled the sleeves down over her wrists.

“Hang on—”

“Those flights,” said Alex, getting up and stretching extravagantly. “Absolute murder on the old bones.”

* * *

But the next day at lunch when she reached for the sugar bowl, the thin material of her sweater fell back from her wrist. The marks weren’t all blue. They were green and lavender too, half a dozen shades of purple fading to yellow. On the underside of her right forearm, three indigo stripes came together in a clasp like a bracelet. It took me a moment to identify their odd shape as the long lines of fingers, the pressure that must have been exerted in order to leave a bruise immense. Of course he was a strong man, Bertrand, and Alex’s skin that particularly bruisable white.

“It’s none of my business.” I reached across the table and touched my fingers to a mark just above her left wrist, a finger-size whorl of yellows and greens. Though the restaurant was cool, I saw she was sweating lightly. “But I hope you know you can tell me whatever you like.”

Alex’s hand went to the bunched material of her turtleneck, worrying the edge just under her chin. “As if I need to tell you a thing.”

The room was white-linened, hushed. “Things are different now,” I said. “We’re not girls anymore.”

She laughed; it was not a kind laugh. With one swift gesture, she pulled the turtleneck down.

“Everything alright, ladies?” A waiter paused beside the table. “Another glass of wine?”

“We’re fine,” I said quickly, before another sound escaped me. “Thank you.” I stared down at my plate. The greens were sickening under their slick of oil, but I would have taken anything over looking at those marks—long and slender, ringing Alex’s neck like the tail of a raccoon. “I suppose you’ll tell me there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Let’s see.” She cocked her head to one side. “You married a jellyfish. I find that incredibly worrisome.”

“Paul wouldn’t lay a finger on me.”

“Of course not.” She smiled at me from across the table. “I’m curious, how long did it take?”

“How long did what take?”

“Before you disappeared completely.”

“I feel sorry for you.” My eyes were hot; I drank the rest of my water down. “What you’re going through, it must make it hard to think clearly about anything. You must feel utterly—”

But she was laughing noiselessly, her head thrown back like a woman in a silent film. I got us out of there as quickly as I could. I left far too much money; I would have emptied my purse rather than sit there a second longer. We came out of the restaurant to clear blue sky, though it must have rained while we ate. Scattered puddles silvered the asphalt up and down the street, the rows of parked cars gleaming in the sun like beetles.

“There are people you can talk to,” I said finally. “Trained professionals.”

“How about you lay off the Mother Teresa act?” She was already veering toward a storefront. “How about that? And let’s get back off the street, for Christ’s sake. It’s too goddamn bright.”

We walked through the door, a chime sounding somewhere overhead.

Alex staggered. “
Watch
it,” bracing her arm against my shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes too damp and reflective, like shards of sea glass glinting up through shallow water. I tried to remember how many times she’d gone to the ladies’ room during lunch, each time carrying her soft suede bag.

“Listen,” I began. The saleswoman glided out from behind a rack of blouses. “We’re taking a look around, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” The saleswoman wore her thin hair tied back in a blue ribbon. She had a face like a doll’s, smooth and pink. “We just received a new shipment in for spring yesterday. Please,” she said.

“Please
what?
” Alex put her finger to her lips, shushing me. “Look,” she breathed. “Isn’t this just what you need?” She held out a long black dress, a monster of a thing. Yards of taffeta and lace with enormous shoulders, the collar stiff with ruffles. A line of brocade ran down the center from the neckline to the waist; the buttons were gold and white enamel, big as half-dollars. “I bet you go to shows all the time.” Her voice was suddenly wistful. “Paul probably takes you every month. Opening night, like clockwork.”

I stared. “Not exactly.”

“I haven’t been in years. Theater’s a bore, according to the husband. An exercise in self-indulgent exhibitionism, he says, and thank God I stopped wasting my time.”

“I don’t think we’ve been more than a handful of times. Paul’s so busy—”

“Busy, busy,” she interrupted. “They’re all so goddamn busy.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m stuck, Becky. Rock and a hard place.”

“Nonsense,” I said briskly. “You’re going through a thing. Everyone goes through a thing.”

“Non compos mentis.”

“You’re fine,” I insisted.

“Say that one more time,” she said quietly, “and I scream.”

My eyes had begun to burn again in a dangerous way; I turned to face the dresses. “This is a lovely pink.” I pulled out a light rose-colored dress with a sequined trim, a billow of white lace spilling down the bodice.

“Hello,” Alex called toward the front of the store. “Yoo-hoo? We’ll just slip on back there ourselves.” She held her dress up and the saleswoman nodded, looking relieved. “In here.” I followed Alex into the dressing room and shut the door. When I turned around, she’d already started pulling her sweater over her head. She twitched her shoulders; the sweater fell to the ground.

I lost my old interest in astronomy somewhere along the way, but I still remember sitting in front of the television with Paul in our apartment years ago when the cameras caught Armstrong and Aldrin landing on the moon, the screen mostly gray and fuzzy with static. We ate our dinner and watched them come down off their rocket, big as polar bears in their enormous suits. They said their lines and planted the flag; all the while, I kept waiting for the moon. I wanted to see it brought to life—the moon I’d squinted at through the telescope all those years ago with kind Professor Tinsley, the valleys and plains I’d pored over on the page made real. But it was the men the cameras wanted to catch, their moment of triumph; all there was to see of the moon was a vague impression of colorless backdrop, mottled white shifting across the bottom of the screen.

“Goddamn zippers,” Alex muttered, yanking at her skirt.

“Here.” I reached my hand out, but she shook me off.

“Got it,” she said irritably. “Goddamn
got
it.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but I read later that Armstrong and Aldrin came after a string of failed attempts, the number of unmanned rockets already launched close to incomprehensible. We’d sent so many into the stratosphere in hopes of landing on the moon that I was surprised the detritus from all those failed attempts hadn’t blocked out the sun, the broken pieces drifting down to settle around the earth like a blanket of volcanic ash. It seemed the trick they kept failing to master was the deceleration. They could make the rockets fast enough, but they couldn’t perfect the art of slowing down, and so the rockets kept battering the surface on all sides with these small explosions, leaving the moon pockmarked and littered with debris.

I understood that afternoon why they’d shown the men instead of the moon, that’s all I mean to say: There is nothing beautiful about the conquered. Alex’s legs were crisscrossed with greens and purples, long zippers of bruises deepening in color as they approached her knees. An ugly mark the size and shape of a hand stood out just below the line of her underwear, the white lace along the hem edging the top half like a frame.

“Can I get you something?” She stepped into the dress and straightened up, pushing her arms into the sleeves. “Popcorn? Candy? You seem to be enjoying the show.”

“It’s awful.” I thought for a moment I might be sick. “He’s an awful man.”

She smiled faintly. “I prefer ‘the Sears Roebuck of men,’ actually. One-stop shopping.”

“You’ve lost any shred of perspective.”

“Perspective is one thing I happen to be an expert in.” She turned to appraise herself in the mirror, touching one hand to her face. “Which is more than I can say for the situation
chez vous
.”

“I have everything I could ever want. A beautiful home. Two healthy boys—”

“You have squat, understand?” She was suddenly furious. “Zippo, zilch.
Nada
.”

I looked down at the floor to avoid her gaze, the rug a dirty gray and shedding. “Next you’ll say we don’t have a chance at any of it. Happiness. Fulfillment. Love.”

“
Love
.” She drew the word out in a dangerous way as she turned to face me.

“Forget it. Just forget I said anything.”

But she clicked her tongue and pulled her hair off her neck, laying one finger against her throat as though checking her pulse. “Love.” She touched her finger to one slender bruise, then to another, another. “Love, love, love.” She took a step forward. We were close enough that I could hear the rustle of her dress as it moved in and out with her breath. “I asked for this. What about that don’t you understand?”

The room was small and smelled of mold and I was suddenly afraid. “I don’t.” I backed up. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“The funny part is, I had to beg him to do it the first few times.” Her face in that light looked ravaged, the hollows of her cheeks dark with shadow. “Isn’t that hilarious? Imagine, a big bully like him.”

I felt the wall behind me and pressed my hands against it—hard, as though that pressure was all that kept me from falling. “I don’t know why you put up with it.”

“How else are you supposed to make it stop?”

“Make what stop?”

“The disappearing, dummy.” She turned back to the mirror and I saw my own face reflected behind hers, pale and worried. “Just get me out of this, for Christ’s sake, will you? I can hardly breathe.”

I watched her reflection now, the long taut line of her back as she bent forward.

“It should have been you.” I pulled the zipper down slowly. “At the wedding.” Underneath my hands, I felt Alex’s ribs expand and collapse. “I wish to God I’d never set foot in that room.”