Lorrie Moore - Like Life

And now something was happening to him. At night, even more than before, he would push her, force her, and she was growing afraid of him. I love you , he would murmur. If only you knew how much. He’d grip her painfully at the shoulders, his mouth tight on hers, his body hurting her. In museums and galleries he quietly mocked her opinions. “You don’t know anything about art,” he would say, scornfully shaking his head, if she liked something by someone who wasn’t Rembrandt, someone he felt competitive with, someone his own age, someone who was a woman.

She began going alone, as now, whizzing around the gallery partitions and then stopping, long, in front of a piece she liked, one that pulled her in and danced a little before letting her go. She liked scenes, something with water and a boat, but she rarely found any. Mostly there was only what she called Warning Label art: Like Man , said one. Love Hates , said another.

Or she would go to a movie. A boy with a plate in his head falls in love with a girl who spurns him. He kidnaps her, feeds her, then kills her by opening up her skull to put a plate in there, too. He props her up in a chair and paints watercolors of her in the nude.

On the subway back, in the afternoon, every beggar seemed to her to have Rudy’s face, turning, leering. They would come upon her suddenly, sit next to her and belch, take out a harmonica and play an old folk tune. Or sit far away and just look. She would glance up, and every bum in the car would have his stare, persistent as pain.

She got off at Fourth Avenue and dropped her jar off at the clinic.

“We’ll telemail you the results,” said a young man in a silvery suit, a technician who eyed her warily.

“All right,” she said.

To console herself she went to a shop around the corner and tried on clothes. She and Rudy used to do this sometimes, two young poor people, posing in expensive outfits, just to show the other what they would look like if only. They would step out of the dressing rooms and curtsy and bow, exasperating the salesperson. Then they would return all the clothes to the racks, go home, make love. Once, before he left the store, Rudy pulled a formal suit off the rack and screamed, “I don’t go to these places!” That same night, in the throes of a nightmare, he had groped for the hatchet beneath him and raised it above her, his mouth open, his eyes gone. “Wake up,” she’d pleaded, and squeezed his arm until he lowered it, staring emptily at her, confusion smashed against recognition, a surface broken for air.

“COME HERE,” Rudy said, when she got home. He had made a dinner of fruit and spinach salad, plus large turkey drumsticks that had been on sale — a Caveman Special. He was a little drunk. The painting he had been working on, Mamie could see now, was of a snarling dog leaping upon a Virgin Mary, tearing at her lederhosen — not a good sign. Next to the canvas, cockroaches were smashed on the floor like maple creams.

“I’m tired, Rudy,” she said.

“Come on.” The cabbagey rot of his one bad molar drifted toward her like a cloud. She moved away from him. “After dinner I want you to go for a walk with me, then. At least.” He belched.

“All right.” She sat down at the table and he joined her. The television was on, a rerun of Lust for Life , Rudy’s favorite movie.

“What a madman, Van Gogh,” he drawled. “Shooting himself in the stomach. Any sane person would shoot themselves in the head.”

“Of course,” said Mamie, staring into the spinach leaves; orange sections lay dead on the top like goldfish. She chewed on the turkey leg, which was gamy and dry. “This is delicious, Rudy.” Any sane person would shoot themselves in the head. For dessert there was a candy bar, split in two.

They went out. It was dusk, the sun not setting as quickly as in January, when it descended fast as a window shade, but now slowing a little, a lingering, hesitant light. A black eye yellowing. They walked together down the slope toward South Brooklyn, into the streak of orange that would soon be night. They seemed somehow to be racing one another, first one of them slightly ahead, then the other. They passed the old brick row homes, the St. Thomas Aquinas Church, the station stop for the F train and the G, that train that went nowhere, it was said, because it went from Brooklyn to Queens, never to Manhattan; no one was ever on it.

They continued walking beneath the el. A train roared deafeningly above them. The streetlights grew sparse, the houses smaller, fenced and slightly collapsed, like the residents of an old folks’ home, waiting to die and staring. What stores there were were closed and dark. A skinny black Labrador in front of one of them sniffed at some bags of garbage, nuzzled them as if they were dead bodies that required turning to reveal the murder weapon, the ice pick in the back. Rudy took Mamie’s hand. Mamie could feel it — hard, scaly, chapped from turpentine, the nails ridged as seashells, the thumbs blackened by accidents on the job, dark blood underneath, growing out. “Look at your hands,” said Mamie, stopping and holding his hand under a streetlight. There was melted chocolate still on his palm, and he pulled it away self-consciously, wiped it on his coat. “You should use some lotion or something, Rudy. Your hands are going to fall off and land on the sidewalk with a big clank.”

“So don’t hold them.”

The Gowanus Canal lay ahead of them. Already the cold sour smell of it, milky with chemicals, blew onto their faces. “Where are we going, anyway?” she asked. A man in a buttonless coat approached them from the bridge, then crossed and kept walking. “This is a little weird, isn’t it, being out here at this hour?” They had come to the drawbridge over the canal and stopped. It was strange, this toxic little vein, strange to stand above it, looking down at night, in a dangerous neighborhood, as if they were in love and entitled to such adventures. Sometimes it seemed she and Rudy were two people attempting to tango, sweating and trying, long after the orchestra had grown tired, long after everyone else had gone home.

Rudy leaned his arms on the railing of the bridge, and another train roared over them, an F train, with its raspberry-pink square. “This is the highest elevated in the city,” he said, though the train was drowning him out.

Once the train had passed, Mamie murmured, “I know.” When Rudy started giving tours of Brooklyn like this, she knew something was the matter.

“Don’t you bet there are bodies in this water? Ones the papers haven’t notified us of yet? Don’t you bet that there are mobsters, and molls, and just the bodies of women that men never learned to love?”

“Rudy, what are you saying?”

“I’ll bet there are more bodies here,” he said, and for a moment Mamie could see the old familiar rage in his face, though it flew off again, like a bird, and in that moment there seemed nothing on his face at all, a station between trains, until his features pitched suddenly inward, and he began to cry into the sleeves of his coat, into his hard, gravelly hands.

“Rudy, what is it?” She stood behind him and held him, put her arms around his waist, her cheek against his back. There had been times he had consoled her this way, times when he had simply rubbed her back and connected her again to something: Those times when it seemed she’d floated off and was living far away, he had been like a medium calling her from the dead. “Here we are in the Backrub Cave,” he’d said, hovering above her, the quilt spread over them both in a small, warm hut, all the ages of childhood returning to her with his hands. Life was long enough so that you could keep relearning things, think and feel and realize again what you used to know.