Tolstoy Lied : A Love Story (9780547527307) (22 page)

He nods.

“Hey,” I say. “This is delicious.”

George nods again, more curtly this time. His nods are slightly out of sync. Conversing with him is like trying to track the mouth movements on a dubbed film. I continue, though his distraction is starting to make me nervous. “Back a couple years ago, when Gabby told Aunt Rona about her college boyfriend, of course Rona's first question was ‘Is he Jewish?' Gabby said, ‘No, Mom, he's not Jewish. He's Indian.' Long pause. Aunt Rona, in her most hopeful voice, then said: ‘Is he Brahmin?'”

George doesn't laugh as much as I do.

“So now here's today's news,” I say. “Gabby just told me she's dating a rabbinical student.”

George nods. Then nods again. “Is he Jewish?”

When I don't answer, George blinks at me.

“What's going on, George?”

“Tracy. I have to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” I say, sounding spunkier than I feel.

“The thing we've talked about. Us. Being together.”

His toweled hair arcs in darkened sheaves, and the bits of pale scalp visible in between remind me of sun flashing between corn rows as you drive past. My New York self, that endlessly unraveling spool, is abruptly spent, and I'm homesick for the Pacific Northwest. I understand that George is about to break up with me. Being a gentleman, he's abandoned his usual frugality for a farewell brunch, over which he will explain: my tentative visions of the future don't inspire him.

This is not only absurd, it's tragic. Can he truly deny the strength of this attraction? The odd, happy eddies of our conversation? The sense that we
match?
Simply because I'm not on overdrive toward a future with children? We've had just shy of two months to learn about each other. Surely each of us still has surprises to divulge, yet unanticipated tendernesses or shoals. But George is a man committed to moving forward. He doesn't waste his own time or anyone else's. It's one of the things about him I respect.

Forcing myself to sit straight, I settle my hands on my lap: a calm posture utterly at odds with the sensation that my chest is being flooded with cold air. I ready myself for one of those conversations that plays out like emotional Twister. Right hand on yellow; left foot on blue. The strain becoming clearer with each move. How many will I sustain before collapsing?

“For, as we've said,
a long time,
” George continues. “Having children if we're so lucky. Supporting each other in every way, even if it's hard. Do you”—George looks at me hard—“do you see it?” Dots of perspiration adorn his upper lip. He sits straight-backed on his stool, a furrow of tension between his brows.

“Yes . . .”

“Do you see supporting one another through ups and downs?”

If he's not about to drop the axe, then what? Could he be asking me to move in with him?

George—suffering, wet-headed, and as handsome as I've seen him—waits for my response. There is some kind of choreography to this conversation, and while I don't understand it, I can follow a lead: it's clearly my turn to provide reassurance. Because I love this man. Because I'm hoping this new improbable untested glorious high-wire structure bears weight, too.

“Yes, I see it,” I tell him emphatically.

“Do you see learning to live together? Being a pair, Tracy? I know we haven't known each other for long, but I think we know each other well. And I see it.”

“I see it, too,” I say.

A grin breaks on George's face like a tsunami.

“You know,” he says, “we'd have to sort out all that Jewish-ceremony stuff.”

George and I could get engaged soon.
This idea is absurd. Colossal. And entirely ordinary.

I wink at him. “I think,” I say, “we could handle that.” Because we've now declared that this love is as serious as I think it is. As suddenly as it seized me, the dread falls away. I laugh aloud. I'm not crazy: George and I are contemplating a future.

With George's eyes practically pelting joy into mine, I think of the hurdles I'd want to clear first: I'd want to speak seriously with George, of course, about our ideas of the future; about where we agree; and how we might metabolize our disagreements; and whether we'd want to live together for a while before making the leap. I'd want to have a conversation with Hannah about timing, and whether I'm ready to choose this man—whether I even know what marriage means. And with Yolanda, whose emphatic honesty is like oxygen. And with my parents; though I haven't consulted them about my life in years, I have an urge to bring them, however awkwardly, into the circle of such a decision. Most important, I imagine a few long solo walks in Central Park: tranquil assessment of my own life and hopes.

George rises, encircles me with his arms, and kisses me sweetly on the mouth. “I love you, Tracy,” he says. “I love you so much.”

To the flank of his neck, I confess. “I thought you were going to break up with me.”

My rib cage shimmies with his laughter, which grows to an unexpectedly wild song of celebration. Then he looks into my face, and my confusion dissipates. I think, See. See how lucky. And may I never forget it.

George kisses me on the forehead and leaves me in the kitchen grinning stupidly at the newspaper. The sound of his voice drifts through the wall. A moment later he steps into the kitchen. “My sister wants to get on the phone with you.”

“Your sister?”

“You bet.” George brushes my bottom as I pass him in the narrow hall.

I pick up the bedroom phone. “Paula?”

“Tracy?” The voice on the other end of the line is young and unexpectedly energetic. “George has told me about you.” She enunciates carefully, but with real warmth. “I want you to know I'm so glad. Even though it's fast. But George has never done things the regular way. And sometimes good things don't need time to become clear. Heaven-sent things. I've been hoping for this news. It's
about time George found someone he cares about enough to make a life with.”

She pauses for my reply. George is standing behind me. “Um,” I say.

There is a clatter on the line, and a murmur of surprise from Paula.

“Earl speaking,” says a flat baritone. There's a deep pause. “Marriage is a blessing. If entered in the proper spirit.”

There is a brief silence. Then Paula intones, her words buoyant, “Welcome to the family.”

It is at this moment that something happens that I don't fully understand—something I will puzzle over for months to come. A voice inside me, clear as any voice I've ever heard, says:
Say thank you.

And I do. The “thank you” I utter is a gift to George. It is the greatest gift I have ever given to another human being.

There is a click: George's father has set down the receiver. Paula begins posing questions. Tell her about myself. About my family. “I'm . . .” I hesitate.

“Jewish. I know. George explained. But”—her voice turns solemn—“he's not exactly Christian, as you know.”

In the silence that follows I realize she's waiting for a reply.

“I know,” I say.

I don't register what she says after this, or what I answer—all I know is that she fills in my pauses with
You must be overwhelmed right now,
and brings the conversation to a graceful end with another obviously heartfelt congratulation and a solemn
May God bless you.
And I find myself off the phone.

“George?”

“I know. Paula can be pretty direct about religion, though not as bad as plenty of the people I grew up with. I assume she mentioned it?”

Dumbly I nod.

“But she's extremely excited about you. She knows we're going to live a different life from hers, but she's all right with it. Even glad.”

“Your father said marriage could be a blessing.” My voice is hollow.

“He got on the phone? I didn't even know he was at my sister's house—I was going to write him a letter.” George looks impressed. “That's progress. For my father, that's surprising, given his son isn't entering a Christian marriage.” He falls silent, considering. Then his hand slides around my waist, pressing something cool and hard into my palm. His free hand curls my fingers around the glass of pale, effervescing champagne. “I gave my sister your parents' number, but I told her not to call for twenty minutes, so we can call them ourselves first.”

“George.” I set my champagne glass on the night table. “Okay. I've got a silly question.”

“Anything.” He sets his glass on the windowsill and turns his full attention on me.

The words make me feel ill. “Did we just get engaged?”

His grin thickens. “Why, is there a better term for it?”

“That was a . . .” I grip his hand, which does not grip mine in return, telling me I'm on the thinnest of ice. “That was a proposal?” I whisper.

George's face stiffens as though he's smelled something bad. “That was the best and only attempt at a proposal I've ever made.”

I grip his hand harder. Nothing is making sense. I replay the last five minutes. “You said
we would
need to figure out a Jewish ceremony. I didn't know you meant we
will.
As in, let's-get-married-
we-will.
”

He breathes. “Is this a grammar discussion, or a discussion of whether you want to marry me?” His voice breaks slightly on the last words.

“It's—how did you get my parents' number?”

“It's listed in the Seattle directory. I called them last night.”

“You called them?”

“I called to ask your father's permission.”

“My—”

“I know it's old-fashioned, but I wanted to make sure they felt included. I wanted to do this right.” I sit on the bed.

George speaks in a normal voice but watches me with extraordinary intensity. His face is naked, poised between purest faith and
apostasy. “They were lovely. I think they appreciated the gesture. Your mother was practically effusive. She kept me on the phone a good long while, asking about my family and my work.”

“My mother . . . ?”

He turns up his palms. “It surprised me too.”

The world has unhinged.

“I'm in shock,” I say. Wasted words, a pointless plea for more time to think. The ball sails toward me and gravity cannot be dissuaded. Everything depends on what I do now.

“Did you want something fancier?” George stands like a statue beside the bed. “I thought you wouldn't want some public, skywriting-type proposal. Did I guess wrong?”

“No, you were right about that. It's just . . . a surprise.”

“Well, we
have
been talking about it, haven't we?” Tension rises in his voice; he clears it with a forced laugh.

“Yes, but I wasn't expecting this now.”
Do not push him too hard. Do not push him
—the directive seems to come from the marrow of my bones—
because this is a moment when everything could burn to the ground.
He's watching me. In the severity of his expression I read fear.

I stand and put my arms around him. After a few seconds he reciprocates.

“I'm rattled by your response,” he says. “Just tell me, are you cool with this?”

“I love you, George. And I'm”—the last word I'd choose, my head is about to explode—“cool with this.” It hangs in the air: the first lie I've ever told George. “I just . . . thought there would be a little more time. For us.”

“I'm right here,” he says. “And, Tracy, we have all the time . . . well, all the time we're given, to work out our ups and downs.”

“I just”—each word tentative, as though I'm trying to make myself understood in a foreign language—“wanted some time to think. To . . . I don't know. Talk this over with friends.”

He absorbs this. His face softens. “Talk.” He points to the telephone. “Take the time you need.” He kisses me on the lips and steps away. “I'll be in the kitchen. I'll play music so I can't hear you. Run up the phone bill.”

That is absurd. “George—” He's gone.

The telephone looms on the nightstand like a poorly lit prop
in a thriller. As though I, the heroine, ought to know what to do with it.

Hannah answers on the second ring.

“What's wrong? You sound awful.”

“George proposed to me,” I whisper. Hannah's end of the line goes silent. Shivering, I drag the bedspread over my legs and tuck it around my knees.

“And?” prompts Hannah.

“I said yes. Sort of.”

“So you're engaged?”

“He's sitting in the next room.”

“I don't get it.”

“He's waiting because I said I needed . . . time.”

“But you said yes, right?”

“I said yes, but I didn't know that's what I was saying. I'm”—I draw an uneven breath—“I'm seriously freaking, Hannah. This is crazy. This isn't the way people get engaged. Is it? I didn't know he was asking me, I thought we were just talking in general terms about our relationship, then suddenly he's got me on the phone with his family.”

“All right. Try to calm down.” Hannah's speech, already breathless from pregnancy, takes on a peculiar force. “This is going to be okay, Tracy. It really is.” In the background Elijah begins, uncharacteristically, to whine. His rising cry tells me—for I've long understood that Elijah is Hannah's emotional weathervane—that despite her steady words Hannah considers this an emergency.

“You told me last week”—breath—“you thought this was the guy for you”—breath—“so did something change?”

“I feel . . .” Stunned. Ill. Homesick, but for what home?

“I know it's fast,” says Hannah. There is a long pause.

“
Mo-mee!
” Elijah shouts.

Hannah ignores him. “Yes, it would probably have been better if he'd waited another month or two. Or made things clearer. But do you want to be with this guy?”