The Book Borrower (19 page)

—I think her mind's made up. I think something made her decide I'm just not very bright—and you're her star.

Sometimes Ruben stood in the hall and heard Deborah teach. She thought that what Deborah said was a little oversimplified.

—What did she say when she visited your class? she said, not knowing why she was asking the question. She got up and put on her coat.

—Oh, it was all right. I don't remember what she said. But there's not much you can do with freshman English.

—Oh, there's a lot, Ruben said, though she knew she shouldn't. Her coat was on and she picked up her drawing pad and her plastic bag of stuff, and took a step toward the door.

—Whose side are you on? said Deborah. You think I'm no good, don't you? Did you tell Janet Grey you think I'm no good?

—No, said Ruben. No, no, no, no, no.

—I'm not sure I believe you.

Ruben was sorry she'd come. She felt almost sick, cold and headachy. She couldn't bear to leave with Deborah saying these things. She walked over to her. Deborah didn't push her chair out from the table to meet her.

Ruben knelt next to Deborah's chair and put her arms around Deborah's waist. I'll tell Janet Grey it's both of us or nothing, she said.

—No, you won't.

—Why not? But she was wondering if she would. She was waiting for Deborah to release her from the obligation of saying that to Janet Grey. She sat back on the floor, feeling awk-ward and bundled up in her coat. She knew of nothing good in herself, nothing she could count on.

—Come to bed, Deborah, said Jeremiah, coming into the room. Now he was also in a bathrobe.

—I'm sorry, said Ruben. She stood up. I'm sorry I'm still here.

—I didn't realize you were still here, Jeremiah said.

Ruben hated leaving with everything unresolved.

Jeremiah said, Shall I put on my pants and drive you home? I forgot about you.

—No, I can walk.

—It's not a great idea.

—I do it a lot, said Ruben.

—I guess this is it, then, he said.

For a moment she thought he meant the friendship was over. What do you mean,
it
? she said. Deborah knows it's not my fault.

She realized what he meant as soon as she had spoken. He said, No, I mean the course is over. The drawing course.

—It's over? said Deborah. I didn't realize.

—It's over, said Ruben. Then she could not stand herself to such a degree that she had to change things, even if it was going to make them worse. Jeremiah, she said, that was awful. Tell her. Tell Deborah.

—Tell Deborah what? they both said.

—Oh, Jeremiah, said Ruben.

—The model? said Deborah. What, was she an old girlfriend of yours?

—No, the model was great, Jeremiah said. She was gorgeous. For the first time, I wanted to draw. I could draw her. Toby, did you see my drawings?

—They were great, she said.

—Let me show you, Deb, Jeremiah said, and he picked up his drawing pad. He had put the sheets they'd used that night between the other pages, and now he pulled them out and spread them on the table. Deborah didn't look terribly interested, but she moved toward the table.

—She took a different pose every few minutes, Jeremiah said.

His drawings were almost abstractions—quick, hard strokes that seemed different from anything Jeremiah had done before. Jeremiah, you didn't make her look like a trolley, Ruben said.

Deborah sniffed, and looked without speaking. Then she began to look at the other drawings in the pad. There were many, some stuck together, some folded. She took out a smaller char-coal drawing, a still life of a pitcher and a bowl. When did you do this? she said. Why didn't you show me?

—Oh, that was a homework assignment, Jeremiah said.

—You did it here? But we don't have a pitcher like that.

—Well, said Jeremiah, somebody in the office brought in a pitcher for me to draw.

—Somebody brought in—? Who?

—Carol.

—Why would Carol bring in a pitcher? Deborah stood up and straightened her bathrobe, staring at Jeremiah, who had moved toward the doorway again. They looked across the room at each other in their robes, like Mom and Dad on Christmas morning. Ruben was ashamed to be there.

—Oh, God, Jeremiah said. Oh, Christ.

—What?

—Carol didn't bring in a pitcher. Carol drew the pitcher. The picture! The picture of the pitcher, he said, was drawn by Carol.

Deborah looked at it, put it down, and turned. So what? she said. Are you trying to tell me something terrible about you and Carol?

—No, said Jeremiah. For Christ's sake, you certainly don't trust me, do you? I'm not trying to tell you anything about me and Carol. I'm trying to tell you something about the goddamn art class. The art class was a crock. No, I was a crock. I was lousy at it. I couldn't do it. So I started bringing in homework by other people. Carol did the most, but lots of people did them.

—You lied about it to the instructor? said Deborah. Toby, did you know about this?

—She helped, said Jeremiah. I know, it sounds stupid. It
was
stupid.

—You made drawings and said Jeremiah had done them? Deborah said.

—No, but Harry did one, said Ruben.

—Harry? What is this? What kind of kid stuff is this? Didn't the instructor see through you? I hope he did, Deborah said. I hope he let you have it.

—Well, he let me have it tonight, Jeremiah said. I don't know how long he knew.

—You were cruel to him! Toby, how could you take part in this scheme? How would you feel if your students did that? Or don't you care about other people at all? Is all you care about your fabulous brain, that can figure out such a scheme?

—Don't be so self-righteous, Ruben said. They were still all standing up, now leaning on things. They were so tired.

—Self-righteous? said Deborah.

—Look, said Jeremiah. You don't even know the worst of it. I might as well tell you.

—There's something worse?

—I ran him down with the car.

—You ran him down? said Deborah. The instructor? You mean you killed him?

She looked wildly toward the door. Ruben and Jeremiah laughed and tried to stop laughing. No, he's all right, said Jeremiah. But his bike is smashed.

—You ran into his bike? said Deborah.

—I didn't mean to.

—Well, I should hope not!

Deborah pulled out the chair she'd been sitting on before. She sat down. I don't know when I've ever felt so bad, she said in a low voice. She sounded frightened.

Ruben couldn't understand how she had become stuck there, stuck in this scene, how she had somehow participated in depriving Deborah of her job, and how she had become a conspirator with Jeremiah.

She said, We're not Hitler.

—Well, of course not, said Deborah. You didn't kill him. She sounded as if she meant it, but then her voice became sarcastic. You didn't kill him! How kind of you! How kind of you not to kill the instructor! My best friend and my husband. Two disgusting people.

—You think I turned Janet Grey against you, said Ruben.

—I don't know what I think, Deborah said, with cold anger. I think you're both people with no feelings. You want to strip the world naked and draw it. You want to make fun of it. You want—I don't know what you want from me, the instructor, or anybody. Here, she said, standing up again. She moved away from the table and undid the belt of her bathrobe. You want to draw naked women? That's what you want? She pulled off the robe and threw it on the floor.

—Stop it! screamed Ruben.

Jeremiah came toward Deborah, reaching for the bathrobe.

Deborah struck him in the face and he stepped backwards, and in that moment she pulled her nightgown up over her head. There she was, what Ruben—she understood suddenly—had wanted to see for years: naked, beautiful Deborah, fatter than the model, with creases in her belly and pocked thighs, but lovely swinging breasts and those big smooth shoulders in one unbroken line that led to her breasts and her long summer arms.

Ruben cried with longing and misery and guilt, and fled from the house, clutching her drawing pad.

—Deb, she heard Jeremiah say as she ran, it's so cold, so cold in here.

Ruben ran with her pad in the night, then had to slow down. She would never think about the drawing class again, she decided. She would never think of Gregory or his bicycle, nor of Jeremiah, his missing sculptor, his deceitful drawings, his lost book.

Chapter 3

W
HEN
Ruben walked out of her house, her old dog, Granny—who had been Granny even when she was young— rushed barking down the wet street, her gray ears flung back. Ruben caught up and attached the leash, and Granny strained at the leash. Ruben could see Deborah coming toward her a block away, under the stripped, wet trees, in a bright green raincoat, although it had stopped raining and intermittent sun made the yellow leaves translucent. It was a Friday afternoon in November. Deborah's dog, Mac, had never used a leash. He came running ahead of Deborah, and Ruben tensely watched his yellowness, afraid as usual that he'd rush into the street. But when he did the light had changed, and Mac crossed before any cars turned.

Ruben hugged the sticky green raincoat and Deborah hugged back. A plastic bottle of Poland Spring water stuck out of Deborah's pocket. Lately they were always thirsty. They walked toward the park.

—We've never gone up the North Peak, Ruben said. Stevie had shown it to her when he was home from college. A short climb: they couldn't reach the main peak before dark today.

In the woods, Ruben's sunglasses made everything rosy. She took them off and the woods became brown, with blurry edges. She'd forgotten her clear glasses. She put the sunglasses on again. It was almost winter. The woods were still wet and soon wet leaves dampened her feet.

Deborah said, Did you see that woman, in the paper? Lying on her stomach.

—What woman?

—In Rwanda.

They had talked and talked about Rwanda. What if you had to watch your child be shot? Deborah had said, again and again.

—Not Rwanda, today, exactly, said Deborah. Zaire. The woman was in Zaire. One of the refugees. She fled from some-place, but there was no safety, and she had to go back into danger.

—Oh, yes, more fighting there.

—Those refugees are caught in the middle. They're being starved to death while people fight around them.

They crossed the street into the park. But aren't they the bad guys? said Ruben. I can't keep them straight. The Hutu and the Tutsi.

Deborah said, Did you know those tribes used to be called the Bantu and the Watusi?

Ruben said, No, I didn't know.

—When I read those words—months ago—said Deborah, it made it different, because I recognized the words: Watusi, Bantu.

—Just the words, said Ruben.

—Just the words. Not even something like Trafalgar Square. I've
been
to Trafalgar Square.

—I know. Just the words.

They were on the wide, tended path and then they crossed the river on a footbridge, came to the trailhead, and started down the trail. The dogs stayed shoulder to shoulder on the bridge and then separated, came together again, and ran in loops. The trail was a little muddy, a little slippery.

—I think these refugees are in the worst situation possible, said Deborah. Don't you sometimes spend hours figuring that out, just thinking what the worst possible situation might be?

—I don't want to live like that, said Ruben. Shut up.

—But the rebels are pulling them out of the camp and shooting them. Children.

—I think these are the bad guys, said Ruben. Aren't they the bad guys?

Deborah stopped and her green raincoat glowed. Her hair was still blond, but faded. What do you mean, bad guys? These are children. There was a picture in the paper, a man carrying a child onto a boat. They're just refugees.

—But I think they're the ones who massacred the Tutsis. I think they're the Hutu, these refugees.

—Children didn't massacre anybody.

—Sometimes they did. And they were silent. A man with a dog came toward them, and Deborah called, Friendly! The man didn't answer.

—Good day for a walk! Deborah called.

—Don't, said Ruben.

—Don't what?

—Nothing. She didn't like Deborah's calling to strangers. She was too tired to be friends with everyone on earth, even people in foreign countries who massacred their distant cousins. Ruben had not read the story about the war in Zaire and the refugees. It was so complicated. You still think about dying babies, all the time, Ruben said.

—I do. I worry about our babies, still.

Ruben said, When they were little and we stayed home with them, I'd clean up their shit and walk in the park, thinking, What if they die? But now I have other things to think about, like pots and book orders.

—Oh, God, said Deborah. Book orders. I just got an e-mail from my chair about book orders. Deborah taught full-time at a college ten miles away. Ruben usually taught two courses at two different nearby colleges, but just now she had only one. Ruben worked many hours in the pottery store. Archie came in only a few hours a week. Friday was her day off at the store, but she taught on Saturday mornings. She was annoyed that Deborah usually wanted to walk on Fridays when Ruben was getting ready to teach.

Ruben was fatter than Deborah though, so she didn't turn down the suggestion of a walk. Deborah was bony, these days, and she was always walking, with or without Ruben. Ruben looked for clothes that made her look thinner. She liked clothes with buttons, flaps, and zippers, as if they sectioned her off into acceptable parts. She was wearing a khaki shirt with flaps buttoned down over her breasts, and a heavy sweater under it.

She got fatter when she worried, and she'd worried that fall about Peter, who had dropped out of college and come home. For a long time he just slept. Stevie would call from college and demand to talk to him, and Ruben would awaken him. If she tried to wake up Peter without being told to by Stevie, Peter was angry, which might mean silence and might mean rage. Now he had a job—a new job—but it didn't take many hours of his week.

—Peter has a job, she said.

—Oh, that's great, said Deborah. I knew he'd be all right.

—I'm not sure it's great, and I'm not sure he's all right, said Ruben. But it's a job. He's working for an artist, an old woman.

—Doesn't he do art? Deborah said.

Since he was small, Peter had made things in the backyard out of twigs and dirt and grass. No art student, nothing like that, but he fiddled with things. This fall, all he'd done was iron autumn leaves between sheets of waxed paper, like a kindergartner. It had cheered him, but depressed Ruben. He'd come to the park to gather the leaves, and when he was done ironing them, he'd tape the waxed paper creations to the refrigerator. Ruben didn't know how much irony he intended, if any.

—Who's the artist? said Deborah.

—A sculptor, said Ruben. I think her name is Cooper.

—What does he do for her?

—Mostly he drives her to Stop and Shop, but I believe the idea is that he can help chisel the marble, or whatever sculptors do nowadays. She has an old car that she doesn't drive any-more, and she lets him drive it around.

—I don't think they chisel marble, said Deborah. Can you imagine how expensive that would be? Maybe she gets grants. Is she famous? The name sounds familiar.

—Not to me, said Ruben. Wasn't it always expensive? They didn't know. They were quiet for a while, not knowing, together, about the history of sculpture. As they walked, Ruben looked out for deer, but although there were deer in this park, she was sure they wouldn't see any. Of course the deer hid from the dogs. The dogs were friends and Granny followed Mac.

—I should have figured this out by now, Deborah said. I should have done book orders. They're making me teach two sections of freshman comp.

—I like freshman comp.

—You always did. I don't.

—I have this one lady, Ruben said. Then she said, I'm tired of my husband.

—What about the lady? said Deborah.

—I know, I'll get to the lady, but I hate Harry—doesn't that come first?

The trails were marked by color: the Blue Trail, the Yellow Trail. She was trying to remember which trail led to the North Peak. Maybe they'd be lost—but they wouldn't be lost. They were too close to where they lived to be lost. They were perfectly safe. They were half a mile from the playground where they had met when the babies were little.

—It was a hard week, said Deborah.

—Husband, children, or work?

—Oh, all that. And the news. Toby, I still think about that woman all the time.

—What woman?

—My imaginary woman. Every time there's news about Rwanda, I think of her. I picture her sitting in some kind of building, and people come and yank her daughter out and shoot her. I always picture Mary Grace, but black.

—But she's imaginary, said Ruben. Maybe it didn't happen.

—What do you mean, Toby? There are thousands dead.

—I know, said Ruben, but maybe none of them happened to see their children shot. Maybe they got shot first. Maybe the kid was shot behind a tree.

—So she heard the gunshot! So what?

—It's sloppy to spend the whole week thinking of something that vague.

—Vague, said Deborah. I don't know what you call vague. You have a kindness defect, Toby.

Ruben felt bad for the woman whose child was shot, but she wanted to talk about Harry. Deborah wouldn't agree, but she, too, might be angry with her own husband, and Ruben liked to hear about Jeremiah, who still glittered, although less, and who had cried twice in Ruben's presence: when he'd knocked the art teacher off his bicycle, and then, five years later, when Jill turned up pregnant and had to have an abortion, Catholic or not.

—I'm sorry I have a kindness defect, she said, but let me tell you about Harry. Yesterday I went out for milk and fruit, and Harry saw me walking as he was driving home. So he parked the car and got out and walked with me.

—He didn't just give you a ride? Was that what made you angry?

—No, he felt like a walk. I did, too. It was just getting dark. I'd been at work at the store all day. I like the way things look at twilight at this time of year.

—I know, said Deborah. I love it every year. The trees are black and the sky is fluffy.

—We walked to Gagliardi's, she said. On the way back we passed a group of young black men hanging out, leaning on a car. It was that block on Porter where there's parking on only one side of the street, because it's so narrow, and cars were going by fast. One of the men was holding a baby. I saw him hold it up—a three-month, dangly sort of baby.

—I know what you mean, said Deborah.

But the story was not going to be interesting. She had thought, all day, that it was interesting. She went on, though. The baby was overwhelmed by its clothes.

—Right.

—He sat the baby on the roof of the car. As we passed, he lowered his head and kissed the baby's face. It was in a floppy hood. He had to burrow in to kiss it. I saw the baby's curled hand, and it was white. I was so happy, watching them, Deborah. I said, That baby's hand is white. And Harry said, So what? And I said, So nothing. It was just interesting. And Harry said, You think he kidnapped a white baby? You think it's not safe to put him there, with the cars whizzing by?

—Was that what you thought? said Deborah.

—Of course not.

—It doesn't sound safe. What
did
you think?

—I don't know what I thought, said Ruben. I thought nothing. I thought looks. The way it looked—like a painting. Maybe the baby wasn't white. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe he looked white under a streetlight, or in a passing headlight.

—African-American people have light-colored palms, said Deborah.

—No, it was the baby's fist, Ruben said. But it wasn't important. I mean, it wasn't
racial.

—Maybe his wife is white.

—No, that's just my point. I mean, maybe she is. I don't know. But it wasn't racial.

—But why did you talk about the baby's color then? said Deborah.

—Because I could see it. I was talking about what I saw. Like a painter. Like Peter. But Harry. He just jumps to the nearest category. I say black person, white hand, he thinks the history of race in America. If I said fur coat he'd think baby seals getting clubbed. I might just mean fur coat.

—I don't think you can mean just fur coat anymore.

—Bad example. I thought, I have to divorce this man. He is keeping me from thinking.

—I know, I know, said Deborah, and now Ruben knew she would talk about Jeremiah. All of a sudden you hate them, said Deborah. All of a sudden, after all these years, you cannot stand them. What I cannot stand about Jeremiah is he pees like a waterfall. I hear it all over the house.

—Does he leave the door open?

—Sometimes, but even if he doesn't.

—Day after day, you don't mind it. . .

Deborah said, I remember minding it even before we got married. But it gets to me more lately. I thought I was a better person than that. Is that menopause, when you can't stand the sound of your husband peeing?