The Uncoupling (24 page)

Dory quickly left the store, and the cold air in the parking lot was a relief now. The capsule had begun to make her feel hot-faced, or was that just the mortification and the shock of what she’d just seen, or had thought she’d seen? No, it wasn’t Ed, she decided. Yes, it was, she thought a second later. No, it wasn’t. It really wasn’t; a lot of men looked like that. Dory wondered if she should even be driving now; she got into the car and was immediately nauseated, but still she drove along the turnpike, and then through streets on which slush had collected and been pushed to the sides.

The lights were all on inside the house. She stepped in with wet feet and walked on through, tracking in water, looking for Robby. She wanted to tell him she was so sorry, and to see his solemn face and his brainy-man eyeglasses and his long, slender hands, and remember all over that this was him, someone she had always been attracted to
.
“Robby?” she called.

He appeared in the doorway of the den, where he’d been napping on the couch. His eyeglasses were atilt. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

Dory didn’t know what the principal’s wife had been given when she came into the back of that store, but it had worked for her. Maybe all the women who came in were given the same thing: pencil shavings and breadcrumbs. Dirt from beneath someone’s fingernails and mineral powder makeup. Anything that would make a woman feel she’d been given a second chance, whether she had chronic fatigue syndrome or loss of desire or some more obscure condition. The cure had worked for Wendy McCleary, but all Dory felt now was sick—sick and far away from touching and love.

The pharmacist had said that Dory would have to want it to work, but no, apparently she didn’t want it to work at all. She still didn’t want to lie down with Robby, and she had no idea of what to do next. Maybe Dory would become one of those women who sometimes remembered what had once been, and couldn’t care less, and was
fine
with it, or one who kept the pain of it from herself with a joke, with a hand on the hip and a roll of the eye, as if to suggest that all women understood and all women would agree: Sex was a thing of the past, and frankly, good riddance.

“Anything new here?” Dory asked Robby.

“Nah. Willa’s working on that history outline. I’m reading.”

“Anything good?”

“No, just crap. I don’t really have the concentration.”

She could have said: Come upstairs. But she didn’t say it, and he went back to the den, where he would spend the night. Dory climbed the stairs, going past her daughter’s room with its closed door and muted stir of electronic life, and she entered her own bedroom and went straight through into the bathroom and closed the door, then knelt down in front of the toilet. Outside, past the edge of the neighborhood, and out past the turnpike, the state of New Jersey stood tall and short, with all its industrial parks and water towers and tire stores and nail salons and struggling restaurants and homes. In her own home, Dory Lang vomited up the ashy root powder she had recently swallowed. Maybe the powder had actually helped other women, but it couldn’t help her. She remained where she was, unmoved. He wasn’t there to hold her hair off her face, or to lean against, or to walk her back to bed, where they both belonged.

14
.

O
n the evening of the dress rehearsal of
Lysistrata
, Lucy Stupak ran like a winged messenger down the long, polished corridor of the high school. She passed the empty classrooms, and the showcase with its old photos of theatrical productions, and the loving cup once presented to the cast and crew of a play performed in 1969. Some of those thespians and tech people had probably gone to Vietnam, and maybe a couple of them had been killed. Maybe quite a few were dead by now from other causes. Lucy Stupak, her whole life invested in the world of this school, skidded past the red pool of reflected light from the exit sign and took a hard right, heading toward the vacuum-shut doors of the auditorium, already calling the drama teacher’s name, shouting it in a voice both self-important and afraid.

As later described, Lucy pushed through the doors and ran down the sloping aisle, crying, “Ms. Heller, are you here? Somebody find Ms. Heller!” In the distance lay the Acropolis, magnificent under the placid blue and white spots. The drama teacher appeared with hammer in hand; she wore a work shirt and a do-rag. She shielded her eyes so she could see out into the audience, and she said, “Who’s that?”

“It’s me. Lucy Stupak.”

“Yes, Lucy. What’s the emergency?”

Ms. Heller walked forward onto the apron of the stage. She seemed to take a long breath and stood up straighter, as if preparing herself for what this girl had to say to her, which was: “Marissa Clayborn said to tell you she can’t come.”

“What do you mean she can’t come?”

“She said she can’t.”

“Of course she can,” said Fran Heller. She squinted at her watch. “Dress rehearsal is in an hour. We got her chiton back from the dry cleaner’s. In her bed in the parking lot the other day she promised me she would be here for the dress rehearsal. And then again tomorrow night for the performance.”

“I know, Ms. Heller. But she told me just
now
that she changed her mind. See, she’s been discussing it online. A few different women posted on Marissa’s wall and offered all this encouragement, and told her she should stay in the bed. So Marissa decided that she can’t just ‘come and go’ whenever she pleases. That’s not how you do a sex strike.”

“Oh it’s not?” said Fran Heller. “I’ll have to remember that next time. I have never, in all my years of directing high school plays, had a lead actor who missed the dress rehearsal.”

Lucy Stupak paused, then she said, “Listen to me, Ms. H. Marissa says she’s really, really sorry to let you down—you and everybody else who’s been working so hard. The thing is, she’s not going to do the play at
all
. She’s not going to be Lysistrata. She thinks it’s more important that she does it in real life.”

The drama teacher dropped her hammer, showily.
Pa-thunk
. Then, saying nothing, she went to get her coat, and left the building, followed by a couple of very faithful members of cast and crew. Four abreast, they marched to the Clayborn house around the corner. Marissa was propped up against some pillows in her canopy bed, eating dinner on a tray and doing her French homework. Her mother had brokered a deal with the school that allowed Marissa to protest the war and still keep up her grades. The administration clearly thought that she would fold pretty soon anyway, but even if she didn’t, it behooved the school to accommodate her, as she was one of their strongest students and one of their best candidates for a top college. At first there was some concern that other kids would subsequently insist on skipping school too, in the name of this political cause or even others, but this didn’t happen. Everyone was always so worried about their own academic records, and most of them knew that they couldn’t possibly keep up the way Marissa could.

The cameras from a couple of local news stations, which had gamely hung around for the first day, had retreated. There was a more pressing story having to do with a potentially toxic landfill over near Morristown. But Alex, the reporter from
The Campobello Courier
, hadn’t left. He had been pursuing the story, and Marissa had granted him an interview that had taken place over much of the afternoon today and into the evening. He sat on a chair quietly beside her bed now, blogging for the
Courier
’s website and eating a plate of salmon and couscous that Mrs. Clayborn had kindly put together for him. The drama teacher and the drama henchgirls appeared in the bedroom, and all of them began to implore Marissa to reconsider.

“You swore an
oath,
” Ms. Heller reminded her, but Marissa remained resolute in her decision not to leave the bed at all. Her mother showed the theater people to the door.

Back at the school, the girls in the play had set up a large-scale, open dressing room in the cafeteria. Some of their mothers were there tonight to help out, including Dory Lang, who after some wheedling had been allowed by Willa to come. Right now none of the mothers knew quite what to do. Some had pins in their mouths, hemming chitons, but most of them, like Dory, were just waiting for Fran Heller to return so they could find out what was going to happen now. The boys, who had been down the hall in the music room with their fathers, joined the girls in the cafeteria. Everyone stood around, feverishly discussing the Marissa Clayborn problem. Some of them said that it wasn’t possible to perform the play without Marissa.

“The whole thing should just be canceled,” Jeremy Stegner said to the room, and there were nods and syllables of agreement.

Now the drama teacher entered the cafeteria with a grim expression, and they all knew that she had been unable to lure Marissa Clayborn up from her bed. “Ms. Heller,” said Jeremy, stepping forward into the center of the room that still smelled from whatever oil had been used to cook lunch. “We were talking, and we thought that, if Marissa can’t do it, then the show should be canceled. People will understand.”

“No,”
said Fran Heller. “That is not acceptable.” She ran her hands through her hair. “We have a responsibility to this community. We told them we would put on a play, and that’s what we’re going to do. The tickets raise funds for the school. And anyway, we’re in the middle of a long winter,” she went on. “Everyone needs a play now. Plays bring a community together. We are not canceling this.”

“But who can be Lysistrata?” said Lucy Stupak. “I mean, in all honesty, Ms. Heller, no one even comes close. Marissa is the greatest actor in this whole school. None of us can do what she can.”

“That is not true,” Fran Heller said, even though it so obviously was. She seemed determined, almost desperate, to keep the play alive. After all, Dory thought, Fran had been brought here to do this, and this was her culminating moment, the climax of her year. After the play ended she would be involved in small evenings of one-acts with her more advanced students, but nothing nearly as big as the winter play. “We’re not quitters,” Fran added, as if she’d been listening in on the lingo of the locker room, where Ruth Winik sometimes pumped up her volleyball or basketball players after a bad game. “And we’re going to find a way out of this.” She looked all around the room, taking the measure of each girl. Everyone was very still, allowing themselves to be assessed.

Fran Heller looked and looked, and though it was true that no one here seemed an obvious choice for Lysistrata—no one had the elegance and vocal command that Marissa did—she paused for a second, then said, “Willa, can I see you?”

Willa Lang was the only Willa in the school, but still she put her hand to her heart and said, “Me?”

Dory, beside her, looked up in concern, so Fran said, “Dory, you can listen too. Come on.” The three of them went into a huddle over at the side of the room by the empty steam tables. The drama teacher said to Willa, “I need you to be Lysistrata.”

“What?” Willa said dumbly. The play was tomorrow night. Dory felt her heart flutter and bloom. “I can’t do that, Ms. Heller,” Willa continued.

But the drama teacher was firm. “Don’t say ‘can’t’; hasn’t anyone taught you that, Willa? You’re my best bet. You’ve got that glorious red hair, which I’ve noticed looks good under the lights. Take your shyness and turn it into an intensity. You probably know a lot of the lines just from being at rehearsals, but we’ll definitely give you a prompter in the wings. You will have to work very hard between now and then, and you will have to let me help you.” Willa didn’t say anything. “Of course I can’t force you,” Fran Heller continued. “But it’s a pretty sweet opportunity, and you may look back on it one day and be glad you did it.”

There was no way to know, thought Dory. You bumped stupidly ahead through life, and you couldn’t know if starring in a play, or sleeping with someone, or marrying someone, or picking a particular college, or even taking a walk down a street, was going to lead to happiness or sorrow. How could you know? A mother couldn’t advise her daughter in such matters, except in the most nebulous and anemic way.

“Well,” Dory said to Willa. “Ms. Heller’s right. You may be glad about it one day. On the other hand,” she felt she had to add, “you may not.”

Fran Heller put an arm around Willa’s shoulders and said look, she was aware that it had been awkward between them, what with her breakup from Eli. But there was no need to feel awkward now. The two mothers had their arms all over this girl, whose freckly, susceptible skin seemed to be percolating with panic.

“Okay?” Ms. Heller said. “What do you think?”

“Okay,” said Willa, though no sound came out. Dory was reminded of how Willa’s flute had sounded back in fourth grade, when she’d begun to play. She blew and blew, and her face got red, and only the faintest hoot was conveyed, like a damsel calling for help from a tower in a castle. Willa, almost against her will, was saying yes to the persuasive Fran Heller, who turned to Dory and instructed her to go home.

“It’ll only make her self-conscious if she knows you’re out in the audience tonight. I’ll take care of her from here on in. Don’t worry.”

So Dory gathered her belongings and left. She could not imagine her daughter being able to get up onstage and play the lead—play Lysistrata, she who disbanded whole armies! Willa didn’t have the clarity or directness or independence of Marissa Clayborn. She had been chosen for some reason that Dory couldn’t understand. Maybe it was out of cruelty, Dory even thought; maybe it was because Fran knew she would fail and wanted to punish this girl: She Who Broke Up with Sons.

 

 

 

S
hortly before midnight that night, Eli Heller stood out in the backyard of the Langs’ house down Tam o’ Shanter, ankle-deep in the snow, beneath Willa’s dark second-floor window. He tossed up handfuls of pebbles, an act that accomplished nothing and soon gave way to tossing up handfuls of dirt and snow and ice. Willa was awake, reading the Aristophanes script with a tiny book light, the way she’d read many books in bed: secretly, almost illicitly. She spoke the lines quietly to herself, trying hard to feel their meaning instead of just reciting a collection of linked words. She imagined the strong-minded Lysistrata as a bit of a loudmouth like Ms. Heller, but also as someone who got things done, like Marissa Clayborn. Willa thought that she herself was a little bit like Lysistrata too, because both of them surely knew the intensity of what could happen between two people in a bed.