The Amateur Marriage (31 page)

He said, “A James Taylor poster? I just saw a super one at the record store in the mall. You think I could get it, Grandpa?”

“I don’t know why not,” Michael said.

He wished he were so clear himself about what he wanted. He was afraid of looking ignorant, choosing something lower-class. He kept glancing toward Anna as he considered different pictures, but she just gazed back at him with a receptive, neutral expression that offered him no clue. “Why don’t you choose?” he asked her finally. “I don’t know what I like. I don’t have any opinions.”

“There’s no need to make up your mind this very afternoon,” she said. “We’re not in any hurry.”

When he opened the door for her as they left the shop, he set a hand lightly on her back where her shirt was tucked into her slacks. And later, as they were pulling into his parking lot, he asked if she would like to come up for a drink. But she said no, thanks, she had errands to run.

Monday afternoon, he returned to the shop alone and looked through the pictures all over again. A ruddy, pink-haired woman who hadn’t been there on Saturday was standing behind the counter, and he asked her, “Which is the best of these? To put up over a couch, for instance. This one? This?”

“The Chagall is nice,” she said.

He followed her gaze and saw that it
was
nice—whimsical and dreamy, with people floating across the sky in an unsurprised manner. He bought it, along with van Gogh’s sunflowers and another van Gogh of a bedroom, and an antique French liqueur ad and a Grant Wood landscape that he chose on his own because he liked the peaceful effect of the lollipop-shaped trees dotting the green hills. As soon as he got home he hung his purchases—more of a job than he’d anticipated—and then, still sweating from his labors, he telephoned Anna and invited her to come see them the following evening. “I know it’s a school night,” he said. (He knew very well. It was a night when Pagan wouldn’t be present.) “But I could make you supper so you wouldn’t have to cook after work. An extremely early supper, I promise.”

“That would be lovely,” she said.

The next day he left the store in mid-afternoon, laden down with groceries. He came home and roasted a chicken, boiled some potatoes, and put together a salad. It was the simplest of menus (the salad dressing was bottled; the dessert was a cake from the bakery counter), but it seemed that he made every possible mistake, and by the time he’d finished his preparations the kitchen was a wreck. Pauline, he knew, could have produced the same meal without even thinking about it. No doubt most women could. He sent a helpless look toward the pile of soiled pans in the sink, and then he went off to shower and shave.

His couch (the landlord’s couch) was upholstered in beige vinyl. His coffee table (also the landlord’s) had some sort of wood-grained Formica surface. He should have bought furniture, too. He should have bought rugs to hide the beige wall-to-wall carpet, and clocks and vases and thingamajigs to give the place some character.

This was all too much for him. Too much. He sank onto the couch, making sure to adjust the creases in his carefully “casual” khakis, and tipped his head back and gazed despairingly at the ceiling. A single long thread of a cobweb hung almost down to his nose. What a ridiculous idea to have invited Anna here!

But he would have to say that it had been years since he had felt the way he had these past few days—so alive and energized. Anna was his first thought every morning and his last thought every night. Even in his sleep she seemed to drift across the dark background of his mind, radiating a soft, warm glow and a sense of quiet contentment. In fact, had he
ever
felt this way? Even in his youth? Maybe he had forgotten, but it seemed to him that all of this was new. His life was just beginning, and the heavy summer air felt rich with promise.

If it turned out she didn’t love him back, he would still treasure the knowledge that he was capable of such feelings.

She arrived exactly on time, wearing a plum-colored skirt instead of slacks, which made him happy because it implied that she viewed their supper as an event. With her she had a bottle of wine and a round, crusty loaf of bread. “Did you bake the bread yourself?” he asked as he took it from her, but she laughed and said, “Goodness, no. It came from a little place on Falls Road.” Then she glanced toward the picture above the couch. “So you bought the Chagall!” she said. “It looks perfect there. And I like how the sunflower print picks up the yellow in your curtains.”

“Let me show you the others,” he said.

He led her through the dining alcove (the French liqueur ad) and into his bedroom (the second van Gogh and the landscape). “Do you think the landscape is corny?” he asked. “I know it’s not . . . abstract or anything.”

“No, no, it’s an excellent choice.”

She sounded as if she meant it. And she gave no sign she had noticed that his bed lacked a bedspread, or that his bureau held no knickknacks except a mayonnaise jar full of pennies.

In the living room he offered her sherry, bought especially for the occasion, and he poured one for himself even though he’d never liked the way sherry clung to his tongue. He settled in the armchair at some distance from her; he didn’t want to look pushy. Because there wasn’t a table anywhere near his chair he kept hold of his glass, rotating it between his palms as he sat hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. Anna, the picture of poise, occupied the very center of the couch, her own glass placed thoughtfully on a folded paper napkin just as if the coffee table were made of actual wood.

“I ran into Pauline this afternoon when she came to pick up Pagan,” she told him. “She says he’s begging to transfer to the Maestro School full-time as soon as he reaches ninth grade.”

“He’s been talking to me about that, too,” Michael said. “But . . . well, no offense to the Maestro School, but would he get an education there?”

“Oh, they have English and math and all that during the year,” Anna said.

“And then, you know, music is not exactly a profession,” Michael said. “For a boy, I mean. I mean, guitar music. Well, unless you’re some kind of genius or something. I mean, I realize music has worked
lot you,
but . . .”

He seemed to be digging himself into a hole. “So, anyhow,” he said, “did you happen to tell Pauline you’d be seeing me tonight?”

“No,” Anna said, “it didn’t come up.” Then she flushed and said, “Also, I wasn’t sure whether or not she would mind.”

For the first time, it occurred to Michael that maybe Anna too was considering the possibility that they might become more than friends. Maybe this was not just his lone, self-deluding fantasy. She was looking at him steadily, her cheeks still pink, her chin raised in an attitude that struck him as almost defiant. It was his turn to be flustered. “Oops!” he said. “Dinner!” And he lunged to his feet as urgently as if he had something in the oven, although he didn’t.

His kitchen was a mere strip of appliances in plain view of the living room; so he had no excuse not to continue their conversation. Luckily, though, Anna took over, asking him easy questions from her seat on the couch. Was cooking a hobby of his? Did he cook for himself every night? Did he ever go to restaurants?

“I’m a terrible cook,” Michael said. “The only way I managed this meal was to start at four p.m. so that I could get a handle on things. Or try to get a handle. I do eat in, mostly, but I just have a peanut-butter sandwich or tuna straight from the can. I don’t go to restaurants much because I feel like such a fool sitting all alone at a table.”

He set the bowl of potatoes on the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. Then he looked across at Anna and gathered all his courage and said, “I might start eating in restaurants if you would come with me, though.”

She still had her chin raised in that forthright way, and she said, “I would like very much to come with you.”

And that was how it began.

They went to Martick’s, and Marconi, and a place down on St. Paul Street that made good soups. The place on St. Paul became their favorite and they always tried to get the same table there, a little round one near the window; and if one of them ordered the gizzard soup the other had to order it too because it had so much garlic. They were kissing each other good night now—just tentative, cautious, restrained kisses as of yet—so garlic was an issue.

They went to movies and held hands; her hand was muscular and solid, no doubt from piano playing. Her hair smelled like butterscotch. At suspenseful moments during movies she had a habit of not breathing, and Michael always found himself not breathing either, in sympathy.

They went to concerts, but holding hands there seemed inappropriate because Anna was so focused and entranced. Michael would send her sidelong glances to find out when to applaud. A kind of veil would clear from her eyes when a piece was truly finished, and then she leaned forward and clapped generously.

They ate sometimes at his place (ready-to-eat foods from his store, cold cuts and salads picked up at the deli counter) and sometimes at hers (take-out Chinese or pizza). She wasn’t much of a cook. She lacked the most basic equipment—a sieve or a set of measuring cups—and showed no interest in acquiring any. This struck Michael as refreshing. He was impressed as well by her self-sufficiency. If they had a date nearer his place than hers, she would suggest meeting him there rather than expecting a ride, or she might even offer to pick him up. She never rang his doorbell empty-handed; she always brought wine or flowers. She never telephoned him at work even though he wanted her to. And there was something noticeably adult in her dealings with her daughter. No scenes or sulks or silent treatments, or none that she mentioned; just a cheerful, courteous, mutually respectful relationship.

She made no fuss about being alone—spending an evening alone or attending some event alone—and she capably arranged for her tire rotation and her washing-machine repair and the removal of raccoons from her attic. To Michael (who was still taking Pauline’s Chevy in every three thousand miles for its oil change) this seemed remarkable. To Anna it was hardly worth notice.

Unlike most dating couples, they saw more of each other on weekdays than on weekends. Pagan was there on weekends and Michael felt uncomfortable about combining the two parts of his life. Gradually, though, as June gave way to July and July to August, he became so accustomed to having Anna with him—so dependent, really—that he began inviting her to various activities on Saturdays and Sundays. She went out with them for burgers or ice cream; she swam with them in the rooftop pool, wearing a dignified one-piece black knit swimsuit that somehow managed to be the most alluring piece of clothing Michael had ever laid eyes on. The tops of her breasts were tanned and freckled like her arms, but they paled where they met the cloth and he had the impression of moon-white, cucumber-cool globes. The slight swelling of her thighs where they emerged from the legs of her suit cried out for the touch of his fingers, and it was all that he could do to look away toward Pagan’s back flip.

And had Pagan mentioned Anna to Pauline? Well, he must have. Her name would have had to come up, at some point. (“When me and Grandpa went to Anna’s house for lunch . . .”) But Pauline said nothing about it, and Michael saw her often enough so she had plenty of opportunities. Maybe she knew and didn’t care. Maybe she was glad for him, even. For once, perhaps, she was being a grown-up.

Anna said she’d had no more than the briefest contact with Pauline—the chitchat mere acquaintances exchange when they meet in passing. “After I first moved back we talked about getting together,” she said. “She phoned me about the Maestro School; Belle Adams from our old church had given her my number. We said we’d have to have lunch, but you know how those things go. And now it’s just as well, because I think it might be awkward.”

Might?
She didn’t know the half of it. She seemed to assume that everyone was as sensible as she was.

Once when they were driving on I-83, Michael started telling her about an accident he had had at that very spot. His brakes had failed and he had slammed into a laundry van. “The funny thing was, this thought popped up when I realized what was happening,” he’d said. “No control at all, the pedal sliding clear to the floor without the slightest effect; and what occurred to me was, Whee! Not that I said it aloud, or even had time to. But, Whee! I thought. I’m crashing! Splat! All hell is about to break loose! And this enormous sense of relief rushed through me.”

“Relief!” Anna said. “Do you mean you were wishing to die?”

“No, no . . .”

“Was this when you were depressed in some way?”

“No, not in the least. I just—”

He felt an unexpected prick of impatience, and he made himself take a deep breath. “I just enjoyed an instant of not . . . having to be responsible,” he said.

Anna said, “Goodness.”

He saw that there was no hope of making her understand.

Although didn’t that prove her virtue? She was purely a woman of reason. She was everything he had longed for when he was married to Pauline. It was miraculous that he had been given this second chance.

The Maestro School announced a program for parents on the last Friday evening of the summer session. There would be a string quartet, a piano solo, a dance from
Giselle,
a reading from
Troilus and Cressida . . .
and a girl singing “Wayfaring Stranger” accompanied by Pagan’s guitar.

Pagan groused about the choice of songs—couldn’t it be something the whole world hadn’t done to death?—and he said the singer had a whiny voice. But obviously this was an honor. (The only other guitar student was relegated to a ragtag group playing background music for
Troilus and Cressida.
) He spent the weekend before the concert practicing almost nonstop, sitting in a C shape on Michael’s couch with his head bent so low that his face was completely hidden. “I’m going
the-ere . . .
” he sang, breaking on the high note. Michael got the tune stuck in his head, and during the week that followed he seemed to hear it, forlorn and wistful, while he was reading over invoices or fielding a call from a customer.