Alice Adams - To See You Again - Stories

The three of them with their drinks sit on the rear terrace and speculate further about who broke in. Mary has her own idea. “Lots of times the cops won’t even come because they’re afraid of finding their own kids there,” she says. “Cops’ kids are the worst of all.” Mary has been a social worker.

Cynthia and Roger give this some thought; certainly it is possible. But Mary is such a sad woman, a reminder of old age and loneliness, like a cool fall wind, that they often have to force themselves to be nice, especially Roger, who over the years has grown tired of her evident relish for disaster. She is not glad that they were broken into, really; but she is glad that something has happened, something to animate their conversation and to create a momentary closeness between the three of them. Perceiving this, Cynthia finds it more sad than tiresome.

“I would never have believed that it could look like this again,” Mary repeats, on leaving. And then, a little brighter, “Of course there’s that table base. They really smashed that good, didn’t they now.”

As she frequently does, Cynthia has brought some work up with her: a stack of manuscripts, which, after lunch, she takes into the guest room, where by long-standing habit she usually works. She soon becomes absorbed in her manuscripts—or, rather, in a single manuscript, which strikes her as being exciting; so often she has a sense of lonely wasted effort, of words that are important to one person alone.

At some point in the afternoon she walks through the living room, and she sees that Roger, who is sitting on the floor beside the table that was wrecked, has accomplished a minor miracle: the broken pieces of stone have been fitted together so that the table base looks almost exactly as it did before, only perhaps somewhat older—now it is lined with age, and no less beautiful. Seeing this, how hard and skillfully he has worked, Cynthia is filled with affection for him. She is moved, as she has been before, by his love for his beautiful house. And at the same time, quite irrationally (she thinks), she is envious of the time he spends on it, his total devotion.

And so everything is almost done, and that Saturday night is spent as they often spend Saturday nights up there: good food and wine, some joints, and love, and a lot of sleep.

The next day is balmy, caressingly warm. In the meadow the tall green grasses bend to a slight breeze; chipmunks and tiny birds scamper across the outcroppings of rock, among clusters of trees. A day and a scene that would seem to deny the possibility of evil, of pollution, decay, corruption and misery.

They lunch on the rear terrace, above the noisily rushing river that is still too cold for swimming.

Then, out of nowhere, Roger says, “I’ll bet it was those Mexicans.”

At first Cynthia does not know what he is talking about, although a premonitory chill, like the onset of fall, informs her that this could be the start of one of their less fortunate conversations. False innocent (now she has remembered), she asks, “Mexicans?”

“You know, that noisy group having a picnic. They probably cased the place and then decided to come back. Mad because I ran them off.”

Of course Cynthia remembers the Mexicans, picnicking on the riverbank, on Roger’s property—in their bright clothes, making a lot of noise as they splashed their hands in the rushing cold river water, as they unwrapped and passed around their food. Still, Cynthia felt bad when Roger went over to tell them to leave; a coward, she hid in the house, not wanting to watch their departure. And of course it is possible that being sent off made those people mad, and they came back to desecrate the house. But Cynthia does not believe it.

After dinner Roger goes back to his table, the finishing touches.

Watching him, looking up from time to time as she fails to concentrate on her book, Cynthia has a sudden and curious perception, which is: Roger has actually enjoyed everything about this break-in—the dramatic suspense of the drive up, the speculations as to what they would find, wondering about who had perpetrated this misdeed. Even, looking back, she feels that he was slightly disappointed that it wasn’t worse. He is the proud rescuer of his house, like a man who has restored his wife’s honor.

A few minutes later this view seems somewhat unfair—or not entirely true. But as it retreats from her mind another, simpler thought enters, a single sentence: I cannot marry Roger, or his house.

And that is true: in the middle of the night Cynthia, unable to sleep, knows that she can’t marry Roger, and for the moment that knowledge makes her feel lonesome, bereft of love, homeless.

And guilty: in her mind she begins to explain herself to the sleeping Roger, who lightly snores beside her. “It’s not just your insisting that the Mexicans ripped you off,” she says, “although I didn’t like that. It’s just that we are too different, and for us to get along I’d have to become more like you, more concerned with owning and taking care of things, better at cleaning up.”

At that moment, as though in answer to another, as yet unspoken thought of Cynthia’s, Roger murmurs, “Caroline.”

Cynthia’s musings take on another tone. “You really don’t know who I am,” she says. “You just keep getting married because you can’t tell women apart; they are just adjuncts to you, and keepers of your house. Well, I’m sure you’ll find another, a Clara, maybe, who will be a lot better at it than I am.”

At last she falls asleep, and wakes to bright morning sunlight on her face. She has just been dreaming of her own flat, on Liberty Street, the ferns and the sunlight there, her cats, the mess. And as she vividly remembers her decision, or revelation of the night before, she wonders how it took her so long to come to; of course she can’t marry Roger. And she wonders too how at first that knowledge could have made her feel lonely—homeless, even—when she has a perfectly good place of her own, good friends, great cats.

Roger is already up—not there. She looks at her watch: nine o’clock. She gets up and goes into the kitchen, where there is a note from Roger; he has gone to the hardware store, the plumber, the sheriff’s office. Relieved (she is still not quite ready for the next conversation with Roger), Cynthia makes coffee, and then, as though with a plan, she begins to wander about the house, coffee cup in hand. Perhaps, in her way, she is saying goodbye to the house?

An instinct of some sort leads her to a small corner table, near the bookcases, and there she finds what it is amazing that she did not notice before: a black notebook that is embossed in gilt, “St. Christopher’s School.” Roger himself went to that expensive, ultraconservative school, in the hills of the East Bay, and at first Cynthia thinks, Oh, an old notebook of Roger’s. But the book is new, and it must be twenty years since Roger left St. Christopher’s.

Several realizations come to Cynthia at once, the first being that there is a train to San Francisco at ten-thirty; they have often talked about taking the train, she and Roger—how beautiful it would be, over mountains and valleys, as opposed to the dullness of the drive by car.

And so Cynthia writes a note, which she attaches to the incriminating notebook. “Dear R., Isn’t this hard evidence for my theory about drunk kids? Rich drunk kids at that. I’m taking the train, I hope you won’t mind. Let’s talk in S.F.C.”

Fifteen minutes later, small overnight bag in hand, and sack of manuscripts, she is up on the highway, walking fast toward town, toward the train and the beautiful trip, going home.