Voice of Our Shadow (19 page)

People think of Austria as a snowy, Winter Wonderland sort of country; it is, except for Vienna, which rarely has much snow in the winter. Yet the day I flew in, there was such a bad blizzard that we were diverted to Linz and had to take a train the rest of the way. It was snowing in Linz, too, when we arrived, but it was a crisp, light snow and the flakes came down lazily, at their leisure. Vienna was under attack. Winds made traffic lights jerk and twist on their cables. There were long lines of taxis at the train station, all of them wearing chains and covered with snow. My cabdriver couldn’t get over the storm and spent the ride telling me about some poor man who’d been found frozen to death in his house, and how a roof collapsed at a movie theater under the weight of the snow … It all reminded me of one of my father’s letters.

I was expecting a cold, dead apartment, but the instant I opened the door, the smells of spicy roast chicken and radiator heat surprised me completely.

“Hail the returning hero!”

India looked as if she’d come back from a month in Mauritius.

“You’re so tan!”

“Yeah, I’ve discovered tanning studios. How do I look? Are you going to put your bags down or are you waiting for a tip?”

I put them down, and she came over and hugged me for dear life. I hugged back, but unlike the time with my father, I let go first.

“Let me look at you. Did you get mugged in New York? Talk to me! I’ve been waiting to hear your voice for two months —”

“India —”

“I was so afraid the snow was going to keep you away. I called the airport so many times they finally got me a private answering service. Say something, Joey. Did you have a million adventures? I want to hear about all of them right now.” Everything came out in a machine-gun stutter. She’d barely catch her breath before the next sentence flashed out of her as if it were afraid it wouldn’t get its chance before the next one came trampling through.

“— I decided to come over here and cook because —”

“India?”

“— and I knew … What, Joey? Is the Great Silent One going to say something?”

I put a hand on each of her shoulders and held her tight. “India, I’m back. I’m here. Take it easy, pal.”

“What do you mean, take it easy?” She stopped with her mouth halfway open. She shivered as if the cold outside had pierced her. The basting brush she’d been holding in her hand fell to the floor. “Oh, Joe, I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

“I’m here.”

“Yes, you really are. Hello,
pulcino
.”

“Hello, India.”

We smiled, and she dropped her head to her chest. She shook it from side to side, and I gripped her more tightly.

“I’m
home
, India.” I said it softly, a good night to a child you’re tucking in.

“You’re a good man, Joey. You didn’t have to come back.”

“Let’s not talk about it. I’m here.”

“Okay. How about some chicken?”

“I’m ready.”

Our meal went well; by the time we’d finished, both of us were much happier. I told her about New York, but not about Karen. That was for some other time.

“Let me see how you look. Stand up.”

She checked me out carefully, reminding me of someone looking over a used car before they bought it.

“You’re not any fatter, God knows, but your face looks good. New York did you good, huh? How do I look? Like Judith Anderson with a tan, right?”

I sat down and picked up my wineglass. “You look … I don’t know, India. You look the way I thought you would.”

“And how’s that?”

“Tired. Scared.”

“Bad, huh?”

“Yeah, kind of bad.”

“I thought the tan would hide me.” She shoved back from the table and put her napkin over her head. It covered her eyes completely.

“India?”

“Don’t bother me now. I’m crying.”

“India, do you want to tell me about what’s been happening or do you want to wait a while?” I pulled the napkin away and saw her eyes were wet.

“Why did I make you come back? What good will it do? I couldn’t get Paul; I couldn’t talk with him. He came and he came and he came, and each time there was a moment when I actually had the guts to say, ‘Wait, Paul. Listen to me!’ But it was so stupid. So
fucking
stupid.”

I took her hand, and she squeezed mine in a scared vise.

“Everything is shit, Joe. He won’t go away. He’s having so goddamned much
fun
. What can I do? Joey, what am I going to do?”

I spoke as gently as I could. “What have you done so far?”

“Everything. Nothing. Gone to a palmist. A medium. Read books. Prayed.” She brushed the air with her hand, dismissing it all with a contemptuous wave. “India Tate, ghost hunter.”

“I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Say, ‘India, here I am back with a million answers to every one of your questions.’ Say, Til kick out the ghosts and I’ll warm up your bed again, and just ask me ‘cause I’m your Answer Man.’ ” She looked at me sadly, knowing my answer even before I gave it.

“The sun is ninety-three million miles from the earth. The pitcher’s mound is ninety-feet from home plate. Carol Reed directed
The Third Man
. How are those for answers?”

She picked up a fork and tapped me on the back of the hand with it. “You’re a jerk, Joe, but you’re a nice jerk. Can I ask a favor?”

I’m not an intuitive person, but this time I knew what she was going to say before she said it. I was right.

“Can we go to bed?” As if she knew I’d hesitate, she didn’t wait for an answer. Getting up from the table, she moved toward the bedroom door without looking at me. “Leave the lights on in here. I don’t like to think of the house dark these days.”

That last sentence struck me hard, and still not knowing what I’d do when I got there, I followed her.

On the plane I’d resolved not to sleep with India when I returned. A private promise to myself to remain true to Karen, however sophomoric that seemed. I felt that, if I kept that promise, somehow Karen would know or sense it in that profound and mysterious way women are capable of sensing things, and it would reassure her when we got back together again. I didn’t know when that reunion would take place, but I was sure it would.

The familiar glow of the familiar lamp in that familiar room. India was taking two small brown combs out of her hair and had already unbuttoned the top brass button of her jeans. I could see the top line of white on her underpants. I stood in the doorway and tried not to watch or respond to the casual sensuality of her actions. For a moment, while her arms were raised high and angled over her head, she stopped and looked at me with a combination of desire and hope that made her look sixteen years old and open to everything in the world. How unfair! It wasn’t right for her to show me this side of her when all I wanted to do was help, not love, her. I felt the pulse in my throat and was scared by the extravagance of my heart’s response.

“You look as if you swallowed a clam shell. Are you all right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Uh huh.” She was already back into the private motions of undressing and seemed to have barely heard me. I was grateful for that, because I needed time to break the uncertain spell she had cast.

I had only just clicked on the light in the toilet when she screamed.

The first thing I saw was her standing by the side of the bed in only her white panties, looking down. Her breasts were so much older than Karen’s.

She had pulled the bedspread back. Laid carefully in a row were many centerfolds from
Playboy
magazine. The vaginas of the women had been cut out, and in their place were faces: old men, children, dogs … All of them were smiling with the greatest glee. Written somewhere on each picture in big crude letters was WELCOME HOME, JOE! GOOD TO HAVE YOU BACK WITH US!

The Viennese, who are old hands at snow in the Austrian mountains, seemed dismayed that it had come to visit them in town, particularly in such abundance. Children and a few slow-moving cars owned the streets. While looking out the window, I saw both a man and his dog slip and fall down at the same time. Every few hours the snowplows tried to bully the snow out of the way, but it was useless.

India stayed with me that night, but I did no more than hold her in my arms and try to calm her. At her insistence I took the pictures off the bed and burned each to a gray-violet crisp in the sink before washing the ashes down the drain.

The next morning the sun shone weakly for a few hours, but by midmorning the sky had clouded over, and it was snowing hard again by the time we reached the street.

“I want to walk for a while. Can we walk?” She was holding my arm and watching where our feet went. With every step her high rubber boots disappeared up to the calf in the white.

“Sure, but I think it’d be better if we walked in the street.”

“I don’t know why, but I feel a lot better today. Maybe it’s just being outside.” She looked at me, and her eyes, straining to be happy and unconcerned, asked that I agree. The complete whiteness of the world did calm some of the violence of the night before. But I had a strong feeling that no matter what we did or where we went, we were being watched.

India reached down and took a handful of snow. She tried to pat it into a ball, but it was too fresh and light to stay together.

“Old snow is best for that.”

We were standing in the middle of the street, and I kept looking around for cars. “India, are we going to walk or what?”

“I’m pretending this interests me so I can avoid asking why you didn’t make love to me last night.”

“Last night? Are you nuts?”

“I wanted you to.”

“Even after all that?”

“
Because
of all that, Joey.”

“But, India, he … he might’ve been there.”

“Too bad. I wanted you.”

“Come on. Let’s walk.”

She dropped the snow and looked at me. “You know what? You held me as if I were dying of the plague.”

“Stop it!” My embarrassment turned to anger. The kind of anger that comes when you know you’re to blame but don’t want to admit it.

“You said he might’ve been in the room. But you know what, Joe? He’s been in the room for months. You know what it’s like to have him there for months? It’s shit, Joe. And, God, I wanted you back. If you came back, so what if he was there? Months, Joe. Live alone with him for months like this and then ask me why I wanted you last night. He’s everywhere now; there’s nowhere to hide. So take me and
let
him see us. I don’t care.”

What could I say? Better to explain it all, tell her about Karen, so at least she’d have a concrete answer? There are so many different ways to fail a person. Answer this question honestly, thereby hitting her again after she’d already been hit so many times? Keep quiet and add to the confusion, her valid fear that she was almost entirely alone now in the battle against her dead husband? Standing there, helpless, I felt the weight of her need, and I came close to hating her for it.

My heart was beating like an angry dog’s, and I was so overdressed against the snow that I felt hot and bound in by all my clothes. If I’d had three wishes, I’d have rolled them into one and asked to be sitting in a Chock Full o’Nuts in New York, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts with Karen. That’s what owned my mind then — coffee and doughnuts with Karen.

The year before he died, Ross had a girlfriend named Mary Poe. She was a tough babe who smoked two packs a day and had the longest fingernails I’d ever seen in my life. She’d been Bobby’s girl for a while, but it hadn’t worked out, and Ross’d inherited her. Between cigarettes, she laughed a lot and hung on Ross like tinsel on a Christmas tree. After they’d gone out for a few months, however, Ross grew tired of her and tried to end the relationship. It turned out to be one of the few times I ever saw my brother completely confused, because no matter what he did, she would not go away. He stopped calling her, wouldn’t go near her at school, and for spite started dating her best friend. That didn’t stop Mary. The crueler he got, the more she pursued him. She knitted him two sweaters and a pair of gloves (which he ceremoniously burned in front of her at school one day), called at least once a night, and sent him letters so drowned in Canoe cologne that our mailbox began to smell like a whore’s handkerchief. At one particularly desperate point, he halfheartedly threatened to kill her, but she shrugged and said she was already dead without him. Luckily, in the end she found someone else, and Ross vowed he would never get involved with girls again.

Why I bring all this up is that I remember the scared, trapped look he used to get whenever the phone rang at night during that time. As India and I trudged down the silent, abandoned street that morning, I felt the same “no exit” way, only a hundred times worse because of Paul’s immanence.

“Let’s go in here for a coffee, Joe. My toes just went into shock.”

It was midmorning, but because of the snow, the café was almost empty. A tired-looking old man sat with a glass of white wine in a corner, a chow dog asleep at his feet under the table.

We ordered, and the waiter, happy to have something to do, rushed behind the counter to get it.

Things were uncomfortably silent; I got so desperate for some kind of noise I was about to tell India a dumb joke, when the door opened and a big fat man came in with a dachshund right behind him. The chow took one look at them and leapt to attention, barking. The dachshund marched right over to the chow and nipped him on the leg. India gasped, but the big dog loved it. He jumped back and started hopping around, barking all the time. The dachshund took two steps forward and nipped him again. The two owners watched it all with big smiles on their faces.

India crossed her arms and shook her head. “What is this, the zoo?”

“I just noticed the dachshund’s a girl.”

India laughed. “That’s the answer. Maybe if I bite Paul, he’ll go away.”

“Or at least he’ll baric at you.”

“Yeah.” She stretched both arms over her head and, smiling, looked at me. “Joe, I’m being really stupid. I apologize. Maybe it’s my way of paying you a compliment.”