Read The Last Time They Met Online
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Adult
The Last Time They Met (10 page)
Oh Marcus, Linda thought. Oh my poor, poor Marcus. She had seen him drunk at Thanksgiving and again at Christmas, but she hadn’t quite realized. Or had she simply refused to see?
—
Are you thinking of an intervention? Is that what they call it?
Are you thinking of an intervention? Is that what they call it?
—
I don’t think that will be necessary,
David said thoughtfully, indicating that he had considered it.
At least, I hope not. He just needs a kick in the pants. And he got it in Nashua. He’s pretty scared.
I don’t think that will be necessary,
David said thoughtfully, indicating that he had considered it.
At least, I hope not. He just needs a kick in the pants. And he got it in Nashua. He’s pretty scared.
—
Do you have any place in mind?
Do you have any place in mind?
—
I’m not sure. I’ll have to make some calls. They say Brattleboro is the best.
I’m not sure. I’ll have to make some calls. They say Brattleboro is the best.
Linda recoiled at the thought of her son in an institution. She pressed her lips together. If it was as bad as David had said
—
and of course it was; Marcus had had an accident
—
what more proof did a mother need?
—
and of course it was; Marcus had had an accident
—
what more proof did a mother need?
—
I really would like to talk to Marcus,
she said again.
I really would like to talk to Marcus,
she said again.
—
He’s sleeping,
David said.
They gave him something at the hospital.
He’s sleeping,
David said.
They gave him something at the hospital.
—
I see.
She took a breath to control her anger. It was unnatural to push a mother away from her cub. Though, to be fair, Marcus was hardly a cub.
I see.
She took a breath to control her anger. It was unnatural to push a mother away from her cub. Though, to be fair, Marcus was hardly a cub.
—
If it’s as bad as you say, the past months must have been difficult for you,
Linda said, trying to be generous.
If it’s as bad as you say, the past months must have been difficult for you,
Linda said, trying to be generous.
—
I love him.
I love him.
The statement, too bald, was like a naked man in the street, something that should be clothed. Vincent’s death had freed Marcus. Within a month, he’d told his mother and his sister he was gay. Within the year, he’d found David.
—
I had no idea he was so unhappy.
I had no idea he was so unhappy.
—
I don’t know how much happiness has to do with it.
I don’t know how much happiness has to do with it.
What makes an alcoholic? Linda wondered. Poor mothering? Bad genes? A fatal gene, commonly carried in Irish blood? She’d hardly known her father, but she had known her uncles, alternately morose or exuberant, sometimes brutish. And to think how smug she’d once been, gloating inwardly over the success of her children: Maria at Harvard, now a medical student at Johns Hopkins; and Marcus at Brown, now in graduate school at Boston University. How often had she casually insinuated those prestigious names in conversation? And now there would be this to say: My son is an alcoholic.
My son, Marcus, is an alcoholic.
My son, Marcus, is an alcoholic.
Was she an alcoholic as well? All her own drinking put now in a different perspective.
—
The car’s totaled,
David said.
They towed it.
Another pause.
He’ll lose his license.
The car’s totaled,
David said.
They towed it.
Another pause.
He’ll lose his license.
—
Oh, I know he will.
Linda stifled an incipient wail.
We need to get a lawyer.
Oh, I know he will.
Linda stifled an incipient wail.
We need to get a lawyer.
And too late, she heard the
we.
we.
David waited patiently, parent to the parent now.
We have one, Mrs. Fallon. A friend of ours. He’s very good.
We have one, Mrs. Fallon. A friend of ours. He’s very good.
On the bed, Linda put a hand to her brow, clammy with the news.
You’ll let me know.
Trying to keep hysteria from her voice.
You’ll let me know how he is and what you’ve done. What you’ve decided.
You’ll let me know.
Trying to keep hysteria from her voice.
You’ll let me know how he is and what you’ve done. What you’ve decided.
She was certain that she heard a sigh.
Of course I will,
David said.
Of course I will,
David said.
Linda lay back on the bed. Marcus was suffering
—
with shame and a battered knee. And would suffer worse, in court and certainly in rehabilitation, about which she knew nothing. Was rehab physically painful? Was it excruciatingly dull? She tried to recall all the times she had seen Marcus drinking. There had been beer in his refrigerator at Brown. At the beach, he would sometimes start with gin and tonics at three o’clock. She’d thought then that the drinking had been festive and celebratory, merely summer playfulness. But she had known, hadn’t she? She’d
known.
And had forgiven her son even before the word
problem
had had a chance to register, almost as quickly as she’d tried to adjust her expectations when she’d learned that he was gay. And she’d known then, too. Of course she had.
—
with shame and a battered knee. And would suffer worse, in court and certainly in rehabilitation, about which she knew nothing. Was rehab physically painful? Was it excruciatingly dull? She tried to recall all the times she had seen Marcus drinking. There had been beer in his refrigerator at Brown. At the beach, he would sometimes start with gin and tonics at three o’clock. She’d thought then that the drinking had been festive and celebratory, merely summer playfulness. But she had known, hadn’t she? She’d
known.
And had forgiven her son even before the word
problem
had had a chance to register, almost as quickly as she’d tried to adjust her expectations when she’d learned that he was gay. And she’d known then, too. Of course she had.
Despair and irritation grew in equal measure. She looked around at the empty room, its luxury fading with this news from home. She stood up from the bed and began to pace, her arms crossed over her chest. She talked to herself, and to Marcus and to Vincent, pale imitations of what was needed. She paced until she had exhausted all her words and thought, I have to leave this room. Or I’ll go mad.
The configuration of the hospitality suite seemed different when she entered late into the event; it was nearly time to assemble for dinner. The noise was louder than it had been the night before
—
more drinking on the last night of the festival? No, it was something else: the festive temperature in the room had been raised a degree or two with a sense of importance that had previously been missing. There was a woman, diminutive and dun-colored, in the center of the largest group. A flashbulb popped, and Linda strained to see, but felt disinclined to join the crowd, a natural diffidence taking precedence over curiosity. She went to the bar and ordered a beer, but then remembered Marcus and changed her mind. She ate instead, cheese and crackers, pickles from a side dish. Her mouth was full of Brie when the Australian, now neglected, appeared at her side and addressed her.
—
more drinking on the last night of the festival? No, it was something else: the festive temperature in the room had been raised a degree or two with a sense of importance that had previously been missing. There was a woman, diminutive and dun-colored, in the center of the largest group. A flashbulb popped, and Linda strained to see, but felt disinclined to join the crowd, a natural diffidence taking precedence over curiosity. She went to the bar and ordered a beer, but then remembered Marcus and changed her mind. She ate instead, cheese and crackers, pickles from a side dish. Her mouth was full of Brie when the Australian, now neglected, appeared at her side and addressed her.
—
You’ve heard the news.
You’ve heard the news.
—
What news?
She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
What news?
She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
He looked the healthiest of anyone in the room: fit and tanned
—
more like someone who wrestled with horses for a living, not with words. It would be fall now in his own country.
—
more like someone who wrestled with horses for a living, not with words. It would be fall now in his own country.
The news did indeed take her by surprise: while she and Thomas had been on the ferry, a diminutive, dun-colored woman had won a prestigious prize.
—
Festival lucked out, I’d say,
the Australian offered pleasantly. Linda turned and noticed, as she had not before, the bottles of champagne in buckets on the table.
Festival lucked out, I’d say,
the Australian offered pleasantly. Linda turned and noticed, as she had not before, the bottles of champagne in buckets on the table.
—
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of her.
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of her.
—
You’re not alone. Plucked from obscurity. She’s meant to be very good, I’m told. Well, she would be, wouldn’t she? I’d venture there aren’t two people in the room who’ve read her.
You’re not alone. Plucked from obscurity. She’s meant to be very good, I’m told. Well, she would be, wouldn’t she? I’d venture there aren’t two people in the room who’ve read her.
Linda shifted to get a better view. There were more photographers now, asking others to move apart.
—
She uses “fuck” a lot,
the Australian said.
She uses “fuck” a lot,
the Australian said.
A memory was triggered. Maybe she had read this poet after all.
It’s the Age of Fuck,
Linda said, though she herself did not use the word.
It’s the Age of Fuck,
Linda said, though she herself did not use the word.
—
There are so many flowers already in her room, she’s had to ask the bellman to take them down to the front desk.
There are so many flowers already in her room, she’s had to ask the bellman to take them down to the front desk.
Linda felt a touch of envy. She and the Australian smiled, each knowing what the other felt. One could not admit to envy, but one could silently acknowledge it. It would be disingenuous not to.
The Australian’s smile faded. Beside her, Linda sensed a bulky presence.
—
Too bad your boy didn’t get the prize.
Robert Seizek’s lower lip was fat and wet, his sibilants loose and threatening.
Too bad your boy didn’t get the prize.
Robert Seizek’s lower lip was fat and wet, his sibilants loose and threatening.
—
He’s not mine, and he’s not a boy,
Linda said of Thomas.
He’s not mine, and he’s not a boy,
Linda said of Thomas.
—
Odd thing is,
said the Australian,
there weren’t a dozen people at her reading last night. Now they’re trying to get her to do a special appearance tonight.
Odd thing is,
said the Australian,
there weren’t a dozen people at her reading last night. Now they’re trying to get her to do a special appearance tonight.
—
I’m pleased for her,
Linda said, trying to ignore Seizek.
I’m pleased for her,
Linda said, trying to ignore Seizek.
—
She’s a librarian in her day job. From Michigan.
The Australian collaborating.
She’s a librarian in her day job. From Michigan.
The Australian collaborating.
—
You’re pretty tight with Thomas Janes,
Seizek said too loudly, unwilling to be dismissed.
You’re pretty tight with Thomas Janes,
Seizek said too loudly, unwilling to be dismissed.
Anger, so successfully tamped just minutes ago, stretched its limbs inside her chest
—
a caged animal to Seizek’s lion. She turned to face him and was daunted (only momentarily) by his excessively large head.
—
a caged animal to Seizek’s lion. She turned to face him and was daunted (only momentarily) by his excessively large head.
—
Thomas Janes has not published any work in years.
She spoke in as controlled a voice as she could manage.
And therefore cannot even have come to the attention of any prize judges. Though I’m sure if you were at his reading last night, you’ll agree that future publications might win prizes in any number of countries.
Thomas Janes has not published any work in years.
She spoke in as controlled a voice as she could manage.
And therefore cannot even have come to the attention of any prize judges. Though I’m sure if you were at his reading last night, you’ll agree that future publications might win prizes in any number of countries.
—
And if you were at Mr. Janes’s panel this afternoon,
Seizek said, not missing a beat,
I’m sure you’ll agree with me that your boy made a perfect ass of himself.
And if you were at Mr. Janes’s panel this afternoon,
Seizek said, not missing a beat,
I’m sure you’ll agree with me that your boy made a perfect ass of himself.
Linda glanced at the Australian, who looked away.
She knew that she was behaving like a schoolgirl whose friend had been insulted on the playground. But she couldn’t leave now; she was in too deep.
—
I for one,
Linda said,
would rather have the brilliant words of a man who may or may not have embarrassed himself in public than the watered-down prose of a drunken would-be novelist who seems to be itching for a fight I will not give him.
I for one,
Linda said,
would rather have the brilliant words of a man who may or may not have embarrassed himself in public than the watered-down prose of a drunken would-be novelist who seems to be itching for a fight I will not give him.
And Seizek said,
sotto voce,
so that only she could hear, thus trumping her in battle etiquette as well,
I didn’t know such fire could issue forth from someone whose bland exterior is matched only by the dreariness of her poetry. I suppose there are women who read this stuff? The kind of women who regularly read romance novels, I should have thought. I suppose there might be good money in it? No?
sotto voce,
so that only she could hear, thus trumping her in battle etiquette as well,
I didn’t know such fire could issue forth from someone whose bland exterior is matched only by the dreariness of her poetry. I suppose there are women who read this stuff? The kind of women who regularly read romance novels, I should have thought. I suppose there might be good money in it? No?
Linda matched his
sotto voce. Don’t fuck with me,
she said, trying the word on a stranger.
sotto voce. Don’t fuck with me,
she said, trying the word on a stranger.
Seizek looked startled, even if only for an instant; Linda counted it as a victory, nevertheless. She glanced again at the Australian.
With deliberately slow movements, so as not to appear to be fleeing, Linda turned and made her way to the door.
She liked the word, she thought as she left the room. It sounded good. It
felt
good.
felt
good.
She took out the rest of her anger on the elevator button, which seemed to retaliate by refusing to fetch a car. An elderly couple came and stood beside her. From a room somewhere in the hallway could be heard the sounds of lovemaking: a woman’s rhythmic grunts, strenuous and lengthy. The elderly couple were rigid with embarrassment. Linda felt for them and wished a clever remark would come to her to put the couple at ease, but instead, their embarrassment became infectious. Moving toward the stairs, she thought, What reservoir of guilt has Thomas tapped?
V
incent’s apartment in Boston was unlike anything she had ever seen before
—
unadorned and architectural, like a schoolroom, its centerpiece a draftsman’s table that cranked up to different angles with a winch. He had black-and-white photographs on the walls, some of his prodigious family (it would be months before she learned all their names), others of windows that had captured his imagination: austere colonial twelve-over-twelves; vast, complex fanlights set deeply into brick; simple sidelights beside a paneled door. His rooms were clean and masculine, curiously adult and oddly Calvinist in their sunny moral rectitude. Sometimes, when he was gone for brief periods on weekends, she would sit at his draftsman’s table with a pad of paper and a pen and write simple paragraphs that functioned as letters to herself, letters that Vincent would never see. He did not know her as troubled, for he had met her laughing; and she discovered that she had no desire to taint the happiness she’d found with him with sordid stories of her recent past. And consequently
—
and partly as a result of expectation
—
she rose to his image of herself: sensible and practical (which was largely true), drowsy and easy in bed, and prone to laugh at the foibles of others and of herself. The first night he took her back to his apartment, he made her a meal
—
spaghetti with red gravy
—
impressing upon her the fact that he was Italian to her Irish. The sauce was smooth and thick and seemed to have little to do with any tomatoes she had ever seen or eaten. Yet, she, who had been carelessly starving herself, ate ravenously, furthering the impression that she was a woman of appetite, an impression that was not altered in bed when she (who had been starved there as well) responded to her new lover with an almost animal greed. (Was it Vincent’s sleek pelt that made her think of seals?) And it was not a lie, this presentation of herself as healthy, for with Vincent she wanted to be and therefore was. And she thought it was probably not so unusual to be a different person with a different man, for all parts were authentically within, waiting to be coaxed out by one person or another, by one set of circumstances or another, and it pleased her to make this discovery. So much so that when, at the end of that first glorious weekend together, she returned to her rooms on Fairfield, she recoiled from the sight of the bathtub on its platform, the single Melamine plate on the dish rack. And immediately she went out and bought more dishes to put in the drainer and a Marimekko spread for her bed, so as not to frighten Vincent away, nor allow herself to be sucked back in. When Vincent first came and stood in the doorway of her apartment and looked around, he fit the surroundings to suit the person he knew (like designing a house, she later thought, only in reverse). And she, too, began to see them differently as well
—
as unadorned rather than bereft.
incent’s apartment in Boston was unlike anything she had ever seen before
—
unadorned and architectural, like a schoolroom, its centerpiece a draftsman’s table that cranked up to different angles with a winch. He had black-and-white photographs on the walls, some of his prodigious family (it would be months before she learned all their names), others of windows that had captured his imagination: austere colonial twelve-over-twelves; vast, complex fanlights set deeply into brick; simple sidelights beside a paneled door. His rooms were clean and masculine, curiously adult and oddly Calvinist in their sunny moral rectitude. Sometimes, when he was gone for brief periods on weekends, she would sit at his draftsman’s table with a pad of paper and a pen and write simple paragraphs that functioned as letters to herself, letters that Vincent would never see. He did not know her as troubled, for he had met her laughing; and she discovered that she had no desire to taint the happiness she’d found with him with sordid stories of her recent past. And consequently
—
and partly as a result of expectation
—
she rose to his image of herself: sensible and practical (which was largely true), drowsy and easy in bed, and prone to laugh at the foibles of others and of herself. The first night he took her back to his apartment, he made her a meal
—
spaghetti with red gravy
—
impressing upon her the fact that he was Italian to her Irish. The sauce was smooth and thick and seemed to have little to do with any tomatoes she had ever seen or eaten. Yet, she, who had been carelessly starving herself, ate ravenously, furthering the impression that she was a woman of appetite, an impression that was not altered in bed when she (who had been starved there as well) responded to her new lover with an almost animal greed. (Was it Vincent’s sleek pelt that made her think of seals?) And it was not a lie, this presentation of herself as healthy, for with Vincent she wanted to be and therefore was. And she thought it was probably not so unusual to be a different person with a different man, for all parts were authentically within, waiting to be coaxed out by one person or another, by one set of circumstances or another, and it pleased her to make this discovery. So much so that when, at the end of that first glorious weekend together, she returned to her rooms on Fairfield, she recoiled from the sight of the bathtub on its platform, the single Melamine plate on the dish rack. And immediately she went out and bought more dishes to put in the drainer and a Marimekko spread for her bed, so as not to frighten Vincent away, nor allow herself to be sucked back in. When Vincent first came and stood in the doorway of her apartment and looked around, he fit the surroundings to suit the person he knew (like designing a house, she later thought, only in reverse). And she, too, began to see them differently as well
—
as unadorned rather than bereft.
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