James Salter - All That Is

Now there was no longer the presence, even unseen, of another or the awareness of someone else’s moods or habits. The rooms were silent. There was only the framed photograph of her in the bedroom with its faintly Asiatic eyes, the slightly upturned nose and bowed upper lip. At night he sat reading, near his elbow a glass with ice and the amber of whiskey and its subtle aroma. Things she had said remained embedded in his memory, he knew they would not be soon covered over.

“I gave you your chance,” she had told him.

She would say nothing more. His chance, was that what it had been?

“Vivian and I have split up.”

“Ah,” Eddins said. “Sorry to hear it. When did that happen?”

“A week ago.”

“I’m really sorry. Is it permanent?”

“I think so.”

“Ah, God. We looked at you as the gilded couple, polo, private income…”

“There was no private income. Her father is, among other things, very tight-fisted. I can’t even recall if he gave us a wedding present.”

“It’s terrible. What are you going to do? Why don’t you come up to Piermont and stay with us for a while? It’s a working-class place but very nice. There’re a couple of restaurants and some bars. There’s a movie house in Nyack. From the kitchen table, well, in this case the dining table, you can look out at the river.”

“You make it sound very appealing.”

For a moment he was almost tempted, the casual and idyllic life, the old house uphill from town. He could imagine the rhythms, driving in in the brightness of morning and back out at night, sometimes late, the traffic having thinned, the clear night above the trees.

“I’ll be all right,” he said.

“You say that offhandedly but, remember, the door’s really open to you. We’ll even make a place in bed.”

They sat silent for a few moments.

“I remember your wedding,” Eddins said. “The drive through the beautiful country. The fine house. Whatever happened to the judge who liked full-chested women?”

“I haven’t seen the judge for a while,” Bowman said.

Vivian, however, happened to see the judge soon after her return, although “happened” is inexact. Judge Stump had heard the news and extended his sympathies. He invited her, not without some nervousness although he could always explain himself as being a family friend, almost an uncle, to lunch at the Red Fox. He was in a fine gray suit with his hair perfectly cut and groomed. After some polite but, as always with him, jagged conversation, he shared some news he thought she might be interested in. He was buying the Hollis house, the big one, not the nearby farmhouse, on Zulla Road. He said this looking at the tablecloth, then glancing at Vivian.

“I hate that house,” she said. “I’d hate to live in it.”

“Ah,” the wounded judge said.

“Has nothing to do with you,” said Vivian. “It’s just that I’ve never liked that house.”

“Ah. I didn’t know that.”

She spoke her mind, he knew. To some extent, that suited him. She was the most desirable woman he had ever seen. They did not often have the chance to talk, really talk. Gathering his courage, the judge said,

“Well, there are other houses…”

For a moment she was uncertain of what he was saying.

“Judge…”

“John,” he said.

“Are you …?” she began with a smile.

He was not the sort of man to smile disarmingly. He did not smile when pronouncing a sentence or stating a fee, and he wanted, in this case, to clearly show how serious he was, but nevertheless he softened his expression slightly.

“I’ve already gone through one bad marriage,” Vivian said.

The judge had gone through three, though he considered himself blameless.

“Why don’t you think about Jean Clevinger?” Vivian suggested lightly not knowing that Mrs. Clevinger, rich and very lively, had almost from their first meeting rejected the judge out of hand.

“No, no,” he protested, “Jean… we don’t have anything in common. We don’t share the really important, the deep things.”

Vivian didn’t want to hear or even guess what they were.

“I think you and I should just remain friendly,” she said rather boldly.

The judge was far from discouraged by this. He felt satisfied, he had made progress. He could be patient for a bit, now that he had at least made it known. As they rose to leave, he more or less indicated the table and their lunch and suggested,

“Between us, hm? Between us.”

Bowman told his mother the news. He hadn’t wanted to face her disappointment or questions, but it was inevitable. He’d gone home for the weekend, he couldn’t tell her on the phone.

“Vivian and I have separated,” he said.

He felt a twinge of shame, despite himself, as if admitting a failure.

“Oh, my,” Beatrice said.

“Actually, it was her idea.”

“I see. Did she give a reason? What was wrong?”

“I really don’t know the reason. We were just not right for one another.”

“She’ll come back,” Beatrice prophesied.

“I don’t think so.”

There was a silence.

“Is that everything?” his mother asked.

“Everything? I don’t know if it’s everything. Do you mean, is there another man? No. Her mother had a stroke though I’m not sure that has much to do with it. A little, maybe.”

“A stroke? She died?”

“No, she’s in Maryland with her father. Vivian’s helping take care of her.”

“Well, I’m truly sorry,” his mother said, referring to what, he didn’t know.

She was not really sorry, she felt an unworthy joy.

“I hardly knew Vivian,” she said with a tone of regret. “She never let me get close to her. Was it my fault, I wonder? Perhaps I should have tried harder.”

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

He was taking it stoically, Beatrice thought, which might have meant indifference. It would be wonderful if that were the case.

“People deceive you,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

There were things she didn’t know, of course, the letters with their red-and-blue-dashed envelope edges, letters from London, I spend hours trying to stop thinking about you . That particular, thrilling letter was still in his pocket. He kept it there so that he could take it out and read it again from time to time, on the street, if he liked, or at his desk.

“Why does mail from Europe take so long?” he asked an old agent at lunch. “The planes fly across in a matter of hours.”

“It didn’t take that long before the war,” the agent said. “A letter took four days, maybe five. You took it down to the ship before it sailed and it was in London, delivered, five days later. With airplanes, we’ve only lost a day,” he said.

The sun was finally shining in London, she wrote. She was really like a lizard, she longed to lie beside a pool with the sun on her or be a frog on a lily pad, not a big frog, just a slim green one able to swim well. She was a good swimmer, he knew—she had told him that.

She wrote lying in bed, having said no to invitations, I miss you enormously . To her, he wrote, I think of you fourteen times a day. I think only, when can I have you again? There is that half hour of waking every morning when I lie silent, bathed in thoughts of you. I can feel your eyes opening, finding me . He did not know her well enough to express the crude desire he really felt, he longed to but was not yet sure of himself. I love your body, he wanted to write, I’d like to take your clothes off quickly like unwrapping, tearing the paper from a marvelous gift. I’m thinking of you, day-dreaming, imagining. How beautiful you are. My utter darling.

In the end, he wrote these things. He was under the spell of her profile, her brilliant smile, her nakedness, and the wonderful clothes she wore in a privileged, distant world.