Ann Beattie - Another You

I am being as philosophical as possible about the good that may come of Amelia’s knowledge concerning my intimate affairs. I assume that since she is so much a woman of intelligence and good taste that both you and Alice adore her, her discretion can be counted on .

With great affection ,

M .

Dearest Martine ,

I will be honest. I, too, have more than one scenario. There are, however, only two, and I keep returning to them — not in nightmares, as you do, or even in dreams, but during the course of a day, never deciding, always in a state of conflict. In the first, I walk away from everything. One cannot truly do this, but I imagine that in cowardice I could rationalize my behavior and avoid the pain of returning to the house, let those who cursed me for a coward curse me for a coward. I could join a business venture beginning in New York, arrange through lawyers, if need be, the care of the children, their schooling. I could send you a large check, which you might cash or not, however you decided, as a thank-you for all you have done. That would be irresponsible, at the very least. Entirely deplorable. But I know deep in my heart that I am capable of doing that. In the second scenario, I return not so much to the house and children as to you, feeling that there is still the possibility that after all the malingering, and in spite of my deficiency of character you would fold me in your arms. Though Alice might be lost to me — isn’t she lost to us? — you would step forward as if out of the fog, and that fog would be the past, which would dissipate, wafting away as I stood with you in my arms. I feel that possibility within me .

You and Amelia have asked what I envision. One of the above .

M .

TONY HEMBLEY STOOD at the grave, beside the other mourners. She had asked him not to come, but when did Tony, headstrong Tony, listen to anyone, let alone a woman who had already been demonstrated to be unable to influence the way he thought about anything, herself included? What had he thought? That she’d be secretly glad to see him? Was he egotistical enough to suppose his presence might make it easier for her to endure the funeral, or just so guilty he had decided to intrude himself in a place where he had no business, perhaps even deceiving himself into thinking his presence revealed a man of good character, one who offered friendly support, who stood by in times of trouble.

Marshall was thinking: This could quite possibly have been McCallum .

She thought: Not long ago, Evie was alive; not long ago, that man standing across the grave with his scarf flung to the side like a schoolgirl’s ponytail and I were lovers .

Sonja was surprised that the sausage nurse had come to the funeral. Dressed all in black, with a black wool scarf tied to hold her black hat on her head, the woman dabbed at her eyes as the priest spoke of Evie’s many good qualities. A teenage girl stood next to her, equally fat, equally sad, a paisley scarf in shades of beige and brown draped over the shoulders of her long black coat. She stood close to her mother’s side, staring straight ahead, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for the funeral to end. Sonja had never seen the girl before she and her mother walked into the church, and she had never seen the old man in the wheelchair — at the church, or elsewhere — though she imagined it must have been the black man who had called on his behalf to inquire where the burial would take place. Marshall had taken the call; at first, he had been taken aback by the lengthy explanation the caller gave about who he was himself: a caretaker; a “student of life in our universe,” he had apparently told Marshall. Now, the black man held the handles of the wheelchair, his orange leather gloves enormously puffy, as if two small life rafts had inflated on his hands. The man was expressionless except when he bent forward to whisper to the old man, to quickly place one consoling hand on the old man’s shoulder, then withdraw to his official position. She watched them out of the corner of her eye as the priest sprinkled holy water on the grave.

As the true faith united her with the throng of the faithful on earth, your mercy may unite her with the company of the choirs of angels in heaven.…

“Who knows?” Marshall whispered, sensing her implied question as she gazed — apparently, not as subtly as she thought — at the two men. “Maybe Evie had a boyfriend.”

“Very funny,” Sonja said, with no trace of amusement. Across the grave, Tony caught her eye and would have held it, except that she looked away. Jenny Oughton stood several yards away from them, alone, her violet coat (so that was why she had had such unusually colored gloves at the hospital, Marshall was thinking) unbuttoned and whipped by the now-steady wind, a large embroidered shoulder bag hanging from her shoulder. She wore earrings that caught the sun so that Marshall had difficulty keeping his eyes off Jenny Oughton. It was as if she were signalling, flashing a message to him or, more likely, to Sonja, who had earlier raced to embrace her, obviously touched that her busy friend had found time to come, on this frigid day, not only to the church, but also to Evie’s burial.

The priest spoke, and many in the crowd blessed themselves. The sausage woman elbowed her daughter, and her daughter repeated her mother’s motions, quickly, out of time with everyone else. Her scarf fell to the ground, but when she bent to pick it up, her mother put her hand on the girl’s arm, and the girl straightened without having touched it. The sausage woman’s foot slid forward to pin it to the ground, which caused the girl further dismay. Finally, in spite of her mother’s warning, she bent forward and snatched it up from under her foot. In the sudden, strong wind, the girl found that she was holding something that looked like an unwieldy towel swept up from a clothesline in a great wind, or a huge, flapping pennant. The priest saw it in his peripheral vision and missed a beat, then began again the drone of his prayer. If looks could kill, the girl’s mother would have killed her, yet Sonja was relieved for the distraction, happy to have something to focus on so she wouldn’t think of the sadness of the occasion, and of how bereft she was, and cry.

Take away out of their hearts the spirit of rebellion, and teach them to see your good and gracious purpose.…

It was a cold March day, the ground frozen, the trees leafless. Evie had gone into the hospital in winter and she had died in winter — Evie, who so loved flowers. Sonja regretted not taking her more bouquets. She regretted passing along one of the Godzillas Tony had given her, putting it on Evie’s bedside table as if it had been her token of love to Evie, not a secondhand valentine from her lover.

She hadn’t told Evie the history of the windup toy, but she had told her about Tony, confessed the way Evie confessed to the priest, though Evie had been Sonja’s only priest, and she had spared Evie the details, spared herself the shame of making her story more specific. Just the outline: a man at work, a mistaken notion that she would go so far and then no further, followed by the mistaken impression that sleeping with Tony could remain a harmless game, having as much to do with being childishly silly, with letting go and having some fun, as with sex itself. Well: what had she really spared Evie, if she’d told her about their chasing each other through empty houses, playing hide-and-seek, going through the houses and closing the drapes or dropping the blinds as they discarded their clothes, the excitement building as the house grew darker, the potentially prying eyes of neighbors or passers by adding to the thrill? She had reassured Evie that it was something she’d done in the past — in the not-distant past, she hadn’t told her. And the end of it? She’d made it sound as if their folly had finally impressed them with their silly, risky behavior; she’d implied that she had simply seen the light one day, regained her common sense, reminded herself that her marriage to Marshall meant something. It meant, at that moment, that he was standing at her side, head bowed in prayer. He hated funerals — didn’t believe in them. He was there because of Sonja, there because he was her husband, there because he loved Evie, however much he had been cowardly in avoiding her after her stroke.