Alice Adams - To See You Again - Stories

In early December of that year, that winter in Hilton, it suddenly snowed; one morning I woke to a white silent world, deep soft drifts everywhere, the road outside my house deeply buried in snow, the boughs of trees heavily ladened. Just after my second cup of coffee the telephone rang, and my heart leapt up, for I knew it could only be Ran.

“ Well ,” he said, and I could hear the quick inhalation of smoke. “It looks like we both will be ‘hoofing it’ this morning. Nor man nor beast could budge my car. How would it suit you if I knocked at your door in fifteen minutes or so?”

That would be the best thing in the world, I did not say. “I’ll be ready, that’s swell” is what I said.

Half an hour later he knocked at my door—the house that he had never seen inside. “Well, I can see you’re very cozy here.” He then asked, “It doesn’t bother you, living all alone?”

“Oh no, I love it, the privacy,” I lied.

“I don’t love it,” he announced, with a look almost of pain. I quickly regretted having sounded so silly and glib, but I could not say, as I wanted to, Please let me move into your house with you. I’ll pay rent, or cook and sew, clean up, make love to you. Anything.

We exchanged a small smile, and set off through the snow.

We were becoming friends, and we continued in that process, over the winter. Occasionally we diverged from talking about the weather, noting changes in the colors and shapes of trees, leaves and underbrush, the early coming of spring in the woods that surrounded our lives, and Ran would talk about Lucinda, sadly, regretfully. I became, in a limited way, his comforter. In my life I have noticed that after a time of deep sorrow the greatest comfort may come from a person you do not know well, nor much care about. (God knows, Ran did not care much about me at that time, and you may even conclude, Ms. Heffelfinger, that he never did.) When Ran died I was comforted, a little, by a silly and very ambitious young art critic, in Westport, Connecticut, whom I did not like. Anyway, our most nearly intimate conversations were about Lucinda, her taste for Victorian novels and Elizabethan songs, her dislike of almost all Southern women. He never said what she died of, not then, and I assumed sheer misery.

I did not see Ran at the parties that I sometimes went to, graduate student, poor instructor parties. And for the most part I avoided them myself, those forlorn attempts at conviviality. I worked hard preparing for my classes, I was available for conferences with students and I had begun in a secret way to do some work of my own with wood, small sculptures. There was so much wood around, cheaply available, and I was fascinated by the variety of grains, of possible shapes. Also, my obsession with Ran took up considerable time, those daydreaming, fantasizing hours.

But late one night, in early April, I did see Ran at a party, at Dr. James’s. I saw him across a very smoky room, looking handsome and sad and slightly drunk, and alone. I quickly divested myself of the philosophy instructor who was about to ask if he could take me home, and in my rush toward Ran I bumped into a sharp-cornered table, which happily he could not observe. I slowed down as I got to him, and assumed an expression of mixed surprise and pleasure, the latter at least being genuine. “ Well ,” I said, and it occurred to me that I had begun to sound like him. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He said, “Well, fancy,” and we both laughed again.

In my left hand was an empty glass that I had forgotten, but Ran noticed at once, with his Southern-hospitable-drunk instincts. “Well,” he said, “you need more than a sweetening; you’ve got to have a real drink.”

I did not—neither of us needed a drink—but of course I smiled, pleased and grateful, and I accepted a long dark glass of bourbon, barely iced. Our first drink together, and dear God, I hate to think how many others followed.

We began to talk, and in a quick excited way Ran told me about a trip that he was taking; he was leaving for Atlanta the next day, where a newly formed orchestra was to perform an early work of his. (The sad truth, as I had learned from local gossip, was that by now all Ran’s work was “early”; for many years he had produced nothing new, beyond a short suite of songs, dedicated to Lucinda and often performed by the music department’s chorus.) That night he looked, for the first time since I had known him, really happy, and, to me, most dazzlingly attractive. (A puzzle: did Ran ever know how handsome he was? Hard to miss, his good looks, but for such a deeply Presbyterian-Puritan it would have seemed a wicked thought. He certainly never dressed like a consciously handsome man.)

At last he said what I had been waiting to hear since I first spotted him across the room. He said, “Well now, don’t you think it’s high time we made our escape from here? I’ve got to get up and pack, and I wouldn’t want to deprive a young woman of her necessary rest.”

(I realize that Ran sounds silly, quoted literally, even pompous. I can only say that in his rich Southern voice, in the lightness and variety of tone, the actual effect was enchanting; certainly I was enchanted, and so was almost everyone who knew him.)

For years I have reviewed that spring night: driving home with Ran, in the scents of honeysuckle and wisteria, in his manic speeding open car. And in my mind I try to give that night a different ending, not its humiliating true one, and quite often I succeed, only thinking of flowers and scents of night. For even in a horticultural way, my memory of that whole April seems unlikely, but there it is: I remember that for several weeks all the flowers in bloom were white, dog wood and spirea, white Japanese quince, white roses, everywhere luminous blossoms.

We raced down the highway, and then Ran turned off on the white dirt road, our road, leading to both our houses. We drove fast between the arching pines, the scented tall bent cedars, raced past my house, as I had somehow known or hoped we would. And suddenly there we were in a broad graveled parking area, just down from a hugely looming house, all its areas of glass reflecting shadows, the fabled house that I had so far never visited.

“Well,” said Ran, in his characteristic tone that made everything almost, not quite, a joke. “I seem to have come a little too far—I seem to have taken you out of your way.”

I laughed lightheartedly, excitedly, imagining that now we would go inside for the obligatory nightcap that neither of us needed, and that then we would go to bed, like grownups.

But no. Ran reached toward me, and at his touch I moved closer, and we kissed, passionately. And that is exactly how we spent the next hour or so, in kissing, like steamy adolescents, although I was close to thirty and Ran must have been almost fifty, or so. We writhed against each other, both violently aroused. Once or twice I reached for him in an explicit way—well, that’s how plain girls are, aggressively sexual—and each time he stayed my hand.

(This amuses you, Ms. Heffelfinger? You find it hard to credit? In that case, it’s clear that you’ve never tangled with a small-town, Southern white Protestant, a Presbyterian conscience.)

At last, in a moment of relative disengagement, Ran looked at his watch and exclaimed, “Good Lord, it’s hours past a decent time for bed. You must forgive me, I’ll take you right along home.”

Still imagining that we were going to sleep together, as it were, I started to suggest that we stay at his house instead, my bed was so hard and narrow. Thank God I did not say that, but only smiled. I was worried about my face, which I knew at best to be unpretty, which must by now look ravaged, smeared, terrible.

Ran started his car, turned around in the driveway and headed toward my house, and for that short distance I was as happy as I have ever been, anticipating our long night hours together. He stopped the car, I in my eagerness hurrying out before he could be his usual chivalrous self and come around for me. Together we walked up to my door, and there, with a chaste kiss on my forehead, Ran murmured good night.