Another You (22 page)

She leaned against the car, dejected, sorry for herself, preoccupied with emotions he didn’t want to know about. Her feet were crossed at the ankles, her arms wrapped around her chest. She despised him, he knew.

“Where shall I take you?” he said. His voice was ashamed, small.

“Anywhere that isn’t hell,” she said.

He thought:
An actor like me deserves the melodrama
. He thought:
A week—not a few days, a week—in the Bahamas
. And who was he kidding about taking his mother? Really: Who was he kidding?

Martine, Dearest
,

Today I was chased down Madison Avenue by a bee, who must have known that in my mind I was already standing in one of the gardens in Maine. No one else was followed by a bee—only me. It made me think that while others had the pleasure of a fluttering butterfly, say, or the pleasant sight of a small bird flying up into a tree, I alone was on Earth to be annoyed by doctors at the hospital, businessmen who are incapable of understanding conclusions arrived at through the process of using common sense and who are therefore unwilling to join in with my conclusions, and then there was that damned bee, swirling about my head, intent upon making me hunch my shoulders and run. A ludicrous sight I must have been, because who among the crowd on Madison Avenue was going to suppose me running because some tiny creature was in hot pursuit?

I intended to write you an anecdote humorously mocking my vulnerabilities, but in re-reading your recent letter about the evasive answers I have in effect made you give the boys because of my long absence, I suppose I might as well assume that you see my true character all too well. Last night I sat up late in the Algonquin lobby, talking to Ethan Bedell and to Marwell Hopkins, a former professor of ours from Yale days. Ethan had brought him intentionally, to talk to me about the situation with Alice, though they had a complicated story about why Marwell happened to be in town that was thoroughly unnecessary and utterly transparent. You would think that a man who taught psychology would be capable of coming up with something better—though come to think of it, the compounding of ludicrous fact upon impossible coincidence originated with Ethan, not with Marwell. At any rate, we three agreed that we were too much the old-fashioned fellows, stuck in our ways, rarely able to go along with the crowd politically or in any other way
.

It is very difficult to write this. Marwell, it seems, is personally friendly with one of the more officious doctors at Alice’s hospital. It
seems that not only has she been cursed with this breakdown, but that a physical problem has been discovered, as well. All of this inquiring was done behind my back and would quite annoy me except for Ethan’s obvious devotion to me. It seems there may be surgery, which they expect to solve her medical problem. To get her in shape for this, they have recommended a series of two or three shocks to the system—Marwell says this is the accepted new treatment, painless, and quite effective. It seems they do not want to operate while she is in a depressed state. It appears there is uterine bleeding, and they feel they must act soon, so I am writing yet again to say that during the period when Alice is receiving the new anti-depression treatments, I will continue on at the Waldorf. It seems a difficult time to have the boys for a visit, but if you feel it is essential, I could certainly book a suite for you to stay in and would see you as much as business and hospital visits would allow
.

I gather that Alice has also been writing to you. I was under the impression she was too depressed—or perhaps I should say lethargic—to do so, but I am sure you are happy for her communications. I of course hope they reflect her progress and that they have not placed any undue burden on you. She has said very strange things to me, feeling a sort of generalized guilt and dread quite out of proportion to circumstance. I suppose she has expressed to you some of the same thoughts. At any rate, I thank you for your kindness, as apparently you have promptly replied to her letters, and that seems, according to Marwell’s doctor friend, to have been much help
.

I try to avoid a gloomy outlook, though some days it seems clear to me that slight errors on my part have resulted in rather extreme consequences. Though the boys prosper, and though you seem a pillar of strength, I must admit that my former conduct toward Alice has apparently been quite detrimental, declaring so firmly the way things should be, so I suppose I am hinting for your sympathy
.

Here I find myself at the point in the letter when my thoughts usually turn to nature—in fact, the verdant world of the property in Maine, the roses, the lilacs. That beauty has certainly been no consolation to Alice, and now I wonder: though you move among it, is its loveliness important to you, or do you nurture the roses as
you nurture the boys? What I mean is, when things are a mixture of duty and pleasure, how does one truly feel about one’s actions?

Martine, without Alice at my side I do not know how I can return to Maine. It may be that we will have to be elsewhere, let the house go, the gardens. It is filled with memories that cannot be risen above, connected inextricably with the cruel blow of the baby’s death. What is it like for you to be there? Do you feel as estranged as Alice does, as I now increasingly feel, and are you just soldiering it out? I will brace myself for your reply. Meanwhile, as always, my inadequate but deeply felt thanks
.

With affection
,
M
.

11

CAFé LUXE
, painted dark green inside, with exposed pipes painted black and tin ceilings painted pale pink, had been opened the summer before by a professor denied tenure. The waiters and waitresses—perhaps in mourning over the college’s bad decision—dressed in black: shirts, pants, shoes. One of the waitresses even had black polish on her long fingernails. Sonja sometimes went to Café Luxe with clients, because they played classical music late in the afternoon. Marshall rarely went there, though, because there were too many students who might want to talk to him, but he felt the sudden need for a café au lait as he drove by, and a car was pulling out of a parking place right in front of the building. He parked and went in, waiting behind one other customer who was ordering something to take out. He flipped through an Italian fashion magazine, looking at all the models in black, who were only slightly skinnier and more abject looking than the waitresses picking up their orders. “Café au lait to go, please,” he said, when the customer in front of him turned to leave.

“Hey, how’s it going?” the blond man said.

The man looked familiar. Someone who worked in the library?

“Not ruining your café au lait with two-percent milk, I hope.” The blond man smiled.

The cop. Worse than a student who wanted to talk, it was the cop. He stuck out his hand to shake hands with Marshall, calling over his shoulder, “Hey Sharon, float some cream on my friend’s coffee. He just went off his diet.”

Sharon looked skeptical. She turned a nozzle, and hot milk squirted noisily into a tin cup.

“You know, I’m not really a very curious fellow,” the blond cop said. “I have to force myself to keep on my toes in the curiosity department. What I mean is, I lack certain instincts I ought to have, so sometimes I just zero in on details. To overcome my lack of natural curiosity, so to speak.”

Marshall nodded. The cop seemed sincere. Slightly apologetic, almost.

“Wife doing okay?” the cop asked.

“Yeah,” Marshall said. “Quite a shock. All of it.”

“Caffeine to soothe the pain,” the cop said.

“Absolutely,” Marshall said.

“Great place here,” the cop said. “Makes me happen to find myself in the neighborhood.”

Marshall nodded.

“Orchids,” the cop said, pointing to two orchids blooming on tall thin stems.

“Very nice,” Marshall said.

“Wife likes orchids,” the cop said.

“No,” Marshall said. “Roses. She likes roses.”

“Mine,” the cop said. He tapped his wedding ring. “My wife,” the cop said. “Brought her in here last weekend, she decided she wanted an orchid like that one. Owner sells them. Not inexpensive.”

Marshall nodded.

“Sort of the giraffes of flowers,” the cop said. “Does that sound like an accurate description, Professor?” He smiled at Marshall, who was pulling out his wallet to pay the waitress. He waited while Marshall pocketed his change, then walked ahead of him and held open the door. “I don’t really care what anybody does with a lost hour or so,” the cop said. “Just in case you were worrying.”

Marshall’s heart missed a beat. Was the inquisition about to start all over again?

The cop shrugged. “You don’t look like you believe me,” the cop said. “I want to tell you, though. I lose track of time myself. Half an hour, an hour—you’re not looking at your watch, how do you know?”

A redhead in a black Toyota rolled down the window and said, “Come
on
.”

“I take longer than she likes,” the cop said. He stuck out his hand. “And so, farewell,” he said. Instead of continuing toward the Toyota,
though, he stood on the sidewalk grinning, watching Marshall all the way to his car.

Approaching his office, Marshall quickly registered that the door was open. Fear seized his stomach: more police awaiting him? He didn’t trust that the door could be ajar without anyone’s being inside, felt sure every space he inhabited was now going to be turned into a free-for-all, whether it was Cheryl Lanier’s hallway, or his home, or his office, not believing the wedge of sunlight slanting across the corridor could wash through an empty room that contained no unpleasant surprises. That would be too much to ask: that he be allowed to walk into a sunlit room and sink down in his chair, with no further problems awaiting him. Or was it Cheryl Lanier—the initial messenger of the bad news that had started him on this exhausting routine he might never extricate himself from? Cheryl, of course. And the moment he saw her he would do what he should have done all along: draw back from the situation; apologize for some of his admittedly strange reactions; ask her—no: instruct her—to say nothing of his going to her apartment, to say nothing of the ride he’d given her to Dover, to please not keep him posted on Livan Baker’s state of mind, because he did not want to be compromised, and he had had enough of Livan’s and McCallum’s, and even Cheryl’s, largely self-inflicted problems. His house was a mess: furniture overturned, blood on the walls, specks of blood everywhere, so he had no idea how Tony Hembley could have reported the house was essentially fine. People were crawling all over it, measuring bloodstains; for God’s sake, they’d sent the carpet-cleaning service away—his house was filled with unfriendly cops who stood staring at him like bulls staring at a matador, the blood-spattered walls having made them more frustrated and angrier, more reluctant to budge.

It was not Cheryl Lanier in his office, but Sophia Androcelli, sitting with her pleated skirt tucked between two large mounds of knees, reading from a spiral notebook. She registered no embarrassment at occupying his chair; she looked up as if she was slightly surprised and dismayed to see him—this girl who, he immediately understood, had come as Cheryl’s messenger, just as Cheryl had once approached him as Livan Baker’s. If she was slightly dismayed to see
him, he was more dismayed to see her: if Cheryl had been there, he could have revealed how perturbed and imposed upon he felt and begun the process of his own salvation by laying down the new ground rules, but Sophia Androcelli’s presence did him no good at all. That was why he simply looked at her, disappointed and vaguely bothered by her existence, saying nothing. For the first few seconds she met his eyes but said nothing, either. Then she ripped two pages out of a notebook and held them out to him, planting her Doc Martens on the floor astride the backpack as she rocked forward to look him directly in the eyes. Mickey Mouse stared up her pleated skirt from the red leather backpack dropped in front of his chair, and Marshall thought:
Yes, this has all been pretty Mickey Mouse
. Mickey Mouse except for McCallum’s wife’s version of let’s-turn-Marshall-and-Sonja’s-house into Frontierland.

“Just one thing before I go,” she said, picking up one strap of the backpack with a sweep of her hand (the nerve! not even saying “Hello,” let alone “Excuse me,” as she rose from his chair!). “Cheryl thought I’d be a good person to talk to you and explain more than she explained in the note, but while I was waiting for you, I realized that even though you’re a good lecturer and you’ve always been perfectly fine toward me, the bottom line is that I don’t trust you. I think Cheryl made a big mistake getting involved with you, and personally, I’m glad it’s over.”

“You waited here to express your dislike of me and to hand me two pieces of paper?” he said.

“Buildings and grounds was waxing your floor; I said I had an appointment with you, you must be late. Somebody making minimum wage apparently didn’t care to argue the point. At first I was going to sit at your desk and write you a note of my own, telling you what you’d done wrong, but before I’d even begun, it seemed like wasted effort. Because you condescend to people, you know? The look you get on your face when you start using ‘Ms.’ very histrionically. The ‘Ms. Lanier, Ms. Androcelli’ stuff, while at least the guys in the class you like get the respect of being addressed by just their last name. The minimalist approach to male bonding. The secret society wink.”