Alison Lurie: The Nowhere City

Reaching up into the tree, Paul pulled down the largest, reddest peach he could see. After all, it had been stupid expecting Katherine to appreciate those plaster cows and artificial flowers. The thick stalks of the heliconia snapped readily, and soon he had a whole armload of them, brilliantly red and yellow and green.

Coming into the kitchen out of the sun, Paul could see nothing for a moment. Blinking, he opened cupboards, looking for a vase for the flowers, but could not find one, though he had unpacked the crates himself. Katherine would solve all that soon, but meanwhile—Impatiently he slammed the doors shut, took the mop out of the tin pail by the back door, and crammed the flowers into the pail (forgetting, in his hurry, to add any water).

Holding his offerings, he went into the bedroom. Here again he could not see at first; he had the blind sensation that comes when one enters a darkened movie theater.

“Katherine?” His eyes adjusted; she lay looking at him, speechless and sleepless. “Katherine, look what I brought you to eat: a peach off our own tree in the back yard.”

“No thank you, darling. I’m not hungry.”

“But look how beautiful it is. Don’t you just want to taste it?”

Katherine shut her beautiful pale lips more firmly, and shook her head: the face of Persephone, he thought, offered food in hell.

“Katherine, darling.” Holding the pail, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You picked all those flowers,” Katherine said accusingly; she was by nature a conservationist.

“No I didn’t; there’s lots more. The yard’s full of them. Besides, what good are they doing out there? I want them in here, where you can see them.” He laid his hand on her lank, silky hair, stroking it down.

“That was a nice thought,” Katherine said. She turned her head and looked at the pail of flowers, which Paul had put on the bedside table.

“I’m a nice guy,” he replied, stroking her hair.

“My head hurts so, so much.”

“I know.”

Katherine sighed, and stretched out; Paul continued to smooth down her hair, across her neck and shoulders.

“Oh, that’s nice. So relaxing ... Mm ... I think I could go to sleep now,” she murmured presently. “I’m very tired. Paul; you know, Paul, I couldn’t sleep at all on the plane.”

Paul did not feel tired. “Let me put you to sleep,” he said meaningfully. He felt Katherine’s shoulders first stiffen, then go passive under his fingers. “You know I haven’t seen you for six months,” he added. “I mean, six weeks. I guess it feels like six months,” he explained.

“I know.” Katherine smiled a faintly acquiescent little smile from under her arm. Paul began rapidly taking off his clothes.

“I love you so much, Katherine,” he apologized.

“Yes.” Katherine reached up and touched his arm. He put his hand on hers; their eyes met for a second. Then, burning, with one sock still on, he flung himself on top of her.

“Thank you,” he said after a while, and rolled over. It was darker in the room now. Night falls quickly in Los Angeles, as in the desert which it once was.

“That’s all right,” Katherine replied in a small voice. “I mean, you’re welcome. Really.” She paused, and went on, “But I’m sick. You know.” There was a silence. Paul did not admit that he knew.

“It was the altitude,” Katherine continued. “When I decided to take the jet, I didn’t realize that the difference in altitude would be so much greater. I think that’s why I feel it so much, because of course jets fly so much higher than ordinary planes.”

“That doesn’t make any difference; the cabin is always pressurized,” Paul said.

“Pressurized?”

“Mm.” He yawned, sleepy himself now. “Well, see, the air in the cabin of a jet, or any big plane, is maintained at constant pressure after it leaves the ground. Has to be, or you couldn’t breathe at all. The atmosphere is too thin up there.” He yawned again.

Katherine gave Paul a look which, even in the dim room, he recognized. “You mean that I shouldn’t be having a sinus attack now at all,” she said. “It’s all imaginary.”

“I didn’t say that. I—” He sighed. Somehow whenever Katherine was sick she always managed to put him in the wrong, to make him feel guilty. It was Paul’s belief that one of the causes of his wife’s sinusitis was his wife’s imagination, but he knew from experience that all hell broke loose when he expressed this view. “I know it really hurts,” he said. “You always get sick when you go on a plane.”

“I suppose in a way it’s partly psychological,” Katherine said; she would sometimes admit this if she were not accused of it. “I mean, even though I do have the kind of bone structure that predisposes me to get sinus infections—” (she ran her long, delicate forefinger down the bridge of her long, delicate, turned-up nose)—“still and all, I don’t always have them. I mean, I do always have some postnasal drainage, but there usually isn’t much pain. It gets worse when I’m overtired or upset about something, because of course my resistance is lowered when I’m tired, or frightened.”

“Frightened of planes?” Paul asked sleepily, looking up at his wife as she bent towards him in the darkening room. He deeply disliked being reminded that from behind that calm, lovely face, down into the round, lovely white throat, damp mucus was continually dripping.

“Of course not. Well, I suppose there is some natural anxiety. Travelling always makes me nervous. I don’t like new places. Paul, you know, I don’t like Los Angeles. It’s going to be awful.” Katherine’s voice rose higher.

“Kathy,” Paul said, reaching up and putting his arms around her. He pulled her down on to his chest. “Don’t worry so. It’s only another city.”

“No, it’s not. It’s more peculiar. Look at all those weird freak people we saw at the airport, those dressed-up little girls, and that old woman with the orange hair, and that man who had practically nothing on but bathing-trunks. And the houses. Everything’s so exaggerated, so unnatural. I don’t like lilies or whatever they are growing at this time of year, or peaches. I’d be afraid to eat one, really.” She laughed.

“Silly. You’ve only just come,” Paul protested. “You’ve hardly seen anything of Los Angeles. Really, you mustn’t be so prejudiced. You mustn’t be put off by its reputation back East. This is a city like any other city. Thousands of people live here and work here at ordinary jobs.”

“Well, I’m afraid of them too,” she said, half seriously now. “I think how I’ll have to meet them and they’ll all look at me and say, ‘Who’s she? What’s her excuse for existing?’ It’s all very well for you. You have a reason for being here; you have a job and an office and something to do. But I’m just nothing here. Nobody knows me or wants me around, and I’m really rather nervous.” Katherine laughed again, but not happily; it was too dark now for Paul to see her face.

“I want you.” As he said this, it occurred to Paul that he also did so in another sense.

“Yes. But that isn’t it. ... I don’t want to depend on somebody else’s emotions. I need—”

“Katherine,” Paul whispered. He rolled over on to his side, pulling her with him, pulling at her nightgown. “I’ve missed you so much, you know.”

“Mm.” Her arms lay slack around him; for some moments there was no further response. Then Katherine gave a faint moan, or croak, like something dying at the bottom of a well.

“Am I hurting you?” Paul said, pausing.

“A little. Never mind.”

At these words, and the tone in which they were said, Paul felt all desire leave him, to be replaced by something like despair. “You should have told me,” he said, falling back on the bed away from Katherine.