The Sixteenth of June (21 page)

We all get stuck, she thinks. Even if you travel the world. It isn't about being in one city or mired in a department. It's about tripping ourselves, ensnaring ourselves. It's as though we lay traps, except that they aren't for animals—they're for our own feet.

“I don't expect you to say anything,” he says gently. “Seriously, Nora. I'm not looking to you for an answer. I don't even know what I'm asking. This is all new to me, too. The idea of leaving—I don't even know if it makes sense.”

She nods. Her words are at the bottom of a pool, dark and deep. She can feel them, even if she is unable to say them. For the first time, she feels as if that's okay.

How lucky she is. How lucky to have this friend who sits beside her and accepts her silence. Nothing is expected of her, no answer or assurance. She needn't say a word. It's a relief to know that his decision is not on her shoulders. That she owes him nothing other than her honesty. That she needn't be anything more than what she already is.

If she had felt trapped, in an impossible place where everything felt inevitable, and the inevitable felt doomed, what does it mean that she has someone who understands? Who seems to have sensed it quietly beside her? What does it mean that they both feel stuck?

Maybe, she thinks, maybe I'm not so alone.

She recalls being in the loft that morning, on the couch, speaking into the air. She wonders if some part of her has been speaking to him all this time, wanting to tell him these things and confide in him. She wonders if her imagination had built a shrink that was, in part, Stephen.

She cannot say yes to Stephen. With Stephen, she never says things unless she means them. It's unthinkable to say something to him that isn't true. He never asks her to comply, to go along with something because it is already in motion. What was it he had said of his grandmother? “She never pressured me to be a certain way.”

I can't say yes, she reflects. But how lucky I am that you don't need my yes. That you don't want my yes for the sake of a yes. You wouldn't believe it right now anyway. You'd roll your eyes if I said, “Yes! Let's do it. Let's go to New York and get the apartment.” You'd say no. I could say yes, and you would say no. Because you know me. Because you've been with me this whole time.

It's just like that night we leaned out the windows, except now we're on the ground. After everything that has happened, in the violet dark of night, I still lean into you beside me. And I know that you are there.

Afterword

I
t is different from what she imagined.

Milan is the same. Beautiful, refined. A shock how much it is the same. She had been prepared for it to not be the place she remembered. You cannot go back, she told herself.

But Milan was like that. Cobbled streets, the women elegant, the men pressed and ironed. Everything felt elevated, gilded, even the doorways and window frames. The Juliet balcony of her flat is a thing of beauty.

There is no anger. This is what surprises her most. The world had not come crashing down.

The envelope sits on the table in the foyer where she keeps her keys and change. She had not known what to do with it.

The ink this year is tangerine. The stock is a soft blue-gray. It was a bold choice. She's still got it, Nora thought wistfully when she opened it.

The invitation was a surprise, yet utterly predictable. She laughed when she received it (how she could picture June composing the guest list!), laughed, but then felt her eyes mist over. She placed it on the table, shaking her head. How life continues! How life continues, spinning like a top.

It had been anticlimactic with Leo. “Okay,” he had said, less sullen, less shocked, less argumentative than she would have predicted. He nodded to himself in confirmation. “Okay.”

“You aren't mad?” she asked uncertainly.

He looked at her, his eyes sad. “Nora, it's okay.”

In some way, she thinks he must have known all along. Those constant efforts to pin her down, to finalize the wedding. Maybe, in a strange way, he was relieved to have her just come out and say it. Listening to her plan, her decision, he had merely gulped, nodded.

Stephen had not taken it well. “But what am I supposed to do?” he asked baldly.

“Stephen!” She laughed, exasperated.

“I know, I know. Go to Milan, then. I will have to fend for myself. God only knows what I will do with you an ocean away.”

It wouldn't have been right, she wanted to tell him. It wouldn't have been right for us to escape together. It was too easy, too incestuous. “Don't be sad,” she said gently. “It doesn't become you.”

They looked at each other and smiled.

Stephen had not gone to New York after all. He was making progress on his dissertation.
Alarming progress,
he wrote.
Rapid, astonishing progress. It consumes me. Maybe the answer was to give in to the problem.
His postcards were filled with such enigmatic declarations. They came regularly, beautiful little missives, colorful and compact, awaiting in her mailbox like exotic birds. He tactfully avoided any mention of his brother. She hadn't yet gathered the courage to ask about Leo when they spoke on the phone.

But the person who had surprised her the most was June.

June showed up at the end of her last choir practice, standing in the church with her hands clasped before her. Nora had not seen her arrive. She had on her usual makeup, her hair perfectly coiffed, yet something seemed missing, as if a layer had been removed.

Nora stood there uncertainly, unsure of what to say.

June gestured toward one of the pews. “I've never been here, all this time.” She gazed around at the church. “It's quite beautiful.”

“Yes.”

June didn't say whether she had heard them practicing. She didn't say how she had known when to come. She did not engage in her normal June pretenses. They were past that, it seemed, at least in this particular moment.

“I hated the suburbs, you know,” she said suddenly. The sentence sat between them. Nora watched it settle, floating down like a feather. June seemed to be weighing her words. “You'd never think it now, but I was the rebel in the family. The black sheep, if you can believe it. Marrying a Jew! Living in Manhattan! New York in the seventies was not what it is today. I'm not exaggerating when I say that my parents feared for me.” She smiled to herself.

“Michael and I must seem so settled to you, so—I don't know—established. But at the time, we shocked everyone. My friends from school thought I was crazy. Even Michael's colleagues. They all lived uptown, you know, the Upper East Side. They were such conservative WASPs. We were the wacky liberals in the Village.” June laughed, and Nora realized it was a rare sound, the way it escaped from her. Later, Nora would wonder if June had truly called someone else a WASP.

“I wanted certain things for myself. I wanted to be around all that energy, not in a doorman building with gargoyles. I wanted to live a certain way—to see shows and experience art, to not give all that up. I wanted to not resent my kids. I wanted to be happy.”

Nora was relieved that June wasn't yelling at her or discussing Leo; she wasn't attempting to convince her to rethink her decision. The conversation had not taken a turn to Nora's actions. So Nora listened politely, as though it were completely normal that June should be there, in the church, sitting with her in a pew.

“You don't know it now, but for the rest of your life, there will be pressure to compromise. The pull of this will be a force. And it won't go away.” June tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then finally looked at Nora. “You will feel judgment, terrible judgment, for fighting this current.” June's eyes held Nora's. Nora felt her mouth go dry. “But not from me.” And at this June nodded, as though confirming that she had delivered her intended message.

Nora, mystified, nodded back. Wait, she wanted to say. What exactly are you saying?

But June was already standing, smoothing her skirt, and something slipped back into place. A bit of armor, her usual self. “Well,” she said more formally, “we wish you the best of luck, Nora. We really do.” With that, she turned on her heel.

Was it a pardon? A blessing? Nora, still sitting, felt immobilized, and for some time she continued to stare off in the empty church. Finally she rose, shaking off the conversation, not knowing what to make of it.

We of course don't expect you to fly out for this,
read the note accompanying the invitation, in a neat navy script.
But know that you are welcome.

The sixteenth had passed already, a warm Saturday in Milan. Nora had been ordering gelato, hunting through her wallet for change, when the date dawned on her.

Later, back in her flat, she sat by the balcony. She imagined the party as it would unfold. She imagined Michael and June waking on Delancey and making preparations. Stephen, resentful, would drag himself to his parents' town house. Her thoughts approached Leo. Would he bring someone new? Was he dating already? She shrank back from the idea, unable yet to face it.

Weeks later, approaching July, she has not yet talked to Stephen about how it went. “The same, it is always the same,” he will say. The second anniversary of her mother's death looms, a black day on the calendar, but she has been consumed with finalizing an upcoming trip to Paris. A thousand details harangue her, swarm her like insects. She must follow up with the bus company, on strike yet again. She had persuaded the program director that they should stop for lunch at a spot she remembered fondly from when she made the same trip as an undergrad. The students will love it. The magical opera with its dramatic lights and cavernous sound. The daily lessons and classes might later be a blur; she could not remember her own vocal lessons from when she was here. But this trip—the trip would stay with them forever.

I don't know where it will all lead,
she had written Stephen earlier that day.
I don't know what I'll do after this, how it will turn out.
The program director had suggested there might be a spot for her in New Haven in the music department. “You have a gift as a coach,” he had said.

But I'm glad,
she typed.
Even if it's all a little up in the air. For the first time in so long, I feel happy.
She had paused as these words came out onto the screen, paused and examined them, testing them out.

The cursor blinked, waiting.

It looked right.

She hit send.

Acknowledgments

It is a relief and a pleasure to finally be able to thank those who have helped me.

Miriam Altshuler, you are an extraordinary agent and a wonderful friend. I feel very fortunate to be your client.

Kara Watson, thank you for your exquisite editorial eye, your marketing brilliance, and for being so gifted at what you do.

Whitney Frick, you tended to these characters with me. You have been a fierce advocate of this novel from the beginning, and I'm so happy that this book brought us together.

I wish to acknowledge the Rona Jaffe Foundation and Bread Loaf Writers' Conference for their generous support. Beth McCabe, your belief in this project was a game changer. Michael Collier, I owe so much to Bread Loaf. Thank you, many times over.

To Helen Schulman, for being a remarkable teacher and for leading workshops exactly as they should be led. Teddy Wayne, for being unfailingly generous throughout this process. Dave Gilbert, for being so kind, and so cool.

Ron DeMaio founded an arts program at my public high school that made me think I could be a writer. Before that program, I didn't know that being a writer was feasible. Honestly, I didn't know that writers
existed
. Ron, the program you created and your inspired way of leading it changed the course of my life. You mentored me at fourteen, and you read a first draft of this novel nearly two decades later. In essence, this is all your fault.

Thank you to the magazines and editors who have believed in my work, especially
VQR
.

There are two people I wish to acknowledge who are no longer here. The first, Stan Hall, was my eighth-grade English teacher. A dazzling teacher, he promised he would forever scan bookstore titles for my name. He was certain this day would come, and I wish he could be here to witness it.

The second, Jared H. Miller, was a friend who died in 2005 after a courageous battle with cancer. Jared was in the middle of getting his MD/PhD, and his death came as a shock. I think of Jared often. I think of the example he set, the way he inspired those around him, and his immense generosity and drive. He never would have guessed it, being far too humble, but he influenced me tremendously, and his memory influences me still.

Thank you to Nan Graham, Katie Monaghan, and all of the outstanding people at Scribner. Thanks also to Bronwen Pardes for going to bat for me, Micaela Tobin for her musical expertise, and Reiko Davis for her extraordinary helpfulness throughout this process.

To my friends and family who have cheered me on and rooted for me; your support means more than I can say. I especially wish to thank Manish, Jen, Sofie and Serena Shanbhag. To my mother, Suhas Shanbhag: how lucky I am, to have been raised by you. You taught me more than you could ever know.

Finally, this novel is dedicated to Noah and Zoe Lang. Noah, this book would have been impossible without you. It is that simple.

Zoe, people sometimes ask how I wrote a novel while caring for a baby. They do not understand. I didn't write this book despite having you. I wrote this book
because
of having you. My daughter, you have inspired me to be a better person, raising me up simply by being you. Thank you for being exactly who you are.

Sources

Many resources proved useful in the writing of this novel. Joseph Allen Boone's
Libidinal Currents: Sexuality and the Shaping of Modernism
and Michael North's
Reading 1922: A Return to the Scene of the Modern
were both invaluable. Slavoj Žižek's
The Parallax View
illuminated the term, discussed in
Ulysses
. Michael's idea about insurance policy trades stems from “What's Your Life Worth?” by James Vlahos (
New York Times
, August 12, 2012). Jonathan Safran Foer's “Why a Haggadah?” (
New York Times
, March 31, 2012) was instrumental for Stephen's seder, as was
New American Seder
. Ann Patchett's
Bel Canto
offered a pleasurable and illuminating foray into opera.

Lastly, each chapter in this novel contains lines excerpted from its corresponding episode in
Ulysses
. For a list, please refer to the author's website at
www.mayalang.com
.