Inukshuk (20 page)

“What?”

“I'm no weirder than you are.”

“Says you, duh.”

She walked on her knees to him and sat so her shoulder fit under his arm, the side of her head pressing his neck and shoulder. He tried hard not to think about the fact that she really had taken her pants off for him, still had no pants on, and was now sitting there with her bare knees halfway across his lap, the side of one thigh fully pressed against him. In the corner of his vision he could just make out (almost didn't dare seeing it) the white V shape of her underwear and the way it ended at the leg holes. Glanced once and again to be sure and felt her shifting beside him, tucking her legs up under her shirt and hugging both arms across before leaning firmly back beside him.

“Cold,” she said. “There. So? What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Look. Not at the TV screen. Right . . . there. Next to it. See? In that kind of shadowy area right there?”

Hoar had impaled the golf ball on Work's knife and was alternately stabbing it at the ground to fix it in place and then lifting it and nipping at it like an apple on a stick or some other kind of shish kebab. Again and again he tried. They must think it was some kind of spherical and extremely overcooked hard-boiled egg. Stabbed the knife at the ground. Bit down. Now he pressed a hand to his mouth. Gaped and held the knife and ball out for Work to see—
look, look
: Both of his front teeth had ripped out and were stuck in surface of the golf ball. Blood ran down his chin. Work pointed and laughed, tipped to the side and kept laughing, clapping and slapping his legs. Hoar shook a fist and got ready to throw the whole thing end over end, knife and ball, until Work stopped him, clamping a hand over his wrist.

“They're so funny! Oh my God!” Thomas said. “Can you see?”

 

 

And so, and so
. . . As always the feelings of most intense confluence and ongoing interference talking to her, both at the same time, conversation drawn unexpectedly into currents he didn't anticipate, tearing wide, stopping, and just as suddenly moving ahead again. On the table between them, her open phone buzzing and blinking periodically, summoning her attention, but never fully—
Oh, that's Marguerite, my sister. You remember. I'll have to call her later.... Oh, look at this, from Paul. You remember him from the group? He's just sent a link on Eavan Boland's new book—
also their drinks and gloves, her hat, and the remains of the food he'd mistakenly ordered on her insistence—
I'm not hungry, but you order something. Really! I'd know that starved-bear look anywhere. . . . You MUST eat. I'll order for you if I have to!
He'd tried, and mostly failed, to eat discreetly. He knew this was against all dating protocol: Don't order if the girl doesn't order; don't eat more than the girl; don't share her food even if she invites you to. Don't talk about your ex. But he couldn't help himself,
and anyway, maybe they were more familiar with each other than all that. Besides, he was buzzed from the beers and needed ballast if he was going to drive home; and given the prospect of another dimly lit meal of three-day old leftovers with gloomy Thomas when he was here already . . . why not?
Please
, he kept saying, motioning at his plate, fingers slick with steak juice, catsup, and chipotle mayonnaise,
help me out. Have some
. Bad signs, all of them, he was sure, and yet here she was still, across from him and nodding her head to another scratchy youth pop number of indecipherable lyrics, hanging in there. Maybe the signs didn't apply. Maybe in her case, all signs went contrary.

“I guess you could say Jane fell in love, but not in the usual sense,” he said. He glanced at his beer mug and wondered, How buzzed? The glass was tall but had seemed to him thicker than it was deep—designed to look as if it held more than it actually did. A higher than normal alcohol content? His general tendency drunk was to say too much, too fast—never anything he didn't mean or overly regretted later, but more than better judgment would have allowed. It always surprised him, afterward, to realize he'd done it again. “She was pretty radical in college. Dedicated. We had this one teacher . . . never mind. He was always calling her on it.
Remember, the fascists were idealists, too
, you know. To get her going.
Stalin, now there's a real idealist for you. Take any ideal too far, it becomes hypocrisy. Dogma
. Anyway, where your ordinary person might have seen some articles about the impacts of climate change on those little native fishing-hunting communities up in the territories and said,
Well, that's just god-awful,
and then basically forgotten about it, she couldn't. For her, it was critical. It was right now, do or die. She had to get involved.” He drank. “She had to actually
go
there. Be there.” The explanation left a lot out, of course—namely, his own part, which was probably too close and too convoluted to describe. He still doubted he could have done much to change the outcome, but he knew, too, that his worry and grief about the open-ended uncertainty of it all had turned him in ways that would have helped anyone find reasons to go.

“Huh.” She was smiling and tilting her head—a mixture of
provocation and finger wagging. He could guess what was coming. “Not unlike you with your selkies.”

“Totally different!”

“How so?”

“Sule Skerry doesn't exist anywhere. It's a made-up underwater city. Shouldn't hurt anyone else if I get stuck there now and then for a few hours. I mean, I always come back. Truth is, if I was a little more single-minded, a little more selfish or dedicated, like Jane, I might have finished the damn thing already. And better.” He popped another fry in his mouth. Drank. “But you know me. It's not just excuse making, either. I actually truly believe there are other things in the world at least as important as my
art
. I mean”—he poked a finger against the table-top in rhythm with his words—“kids, wife, work . . . these things
intrude
because they're
supposed
to intrude. They have as much right in the world, and most of the time a more legitimate claim on my attention than
poetry
. Come on. I can't see it any other way. So, whatever, maybe it's illusion or false hopes or what have you, but I always tell myself it's”—he gestured vainly—“part of the gestalt of the thing? All the going back and forth, coming in and out of the work, stopping, starting, being constantly, constantly interrupted. You know all this. And lately I've decided maybe it actually
helps
me to understand the shape-shifting parts of the narrative—selkie going from seal to man and back again—so he's like a process analogue for me and subject, both at same time. Leaving his fur hidden under a rock, finding his human lover to court and make love to, propagate the species. I mean, isn't all literature the story of transformations? Death, sex . . . just another transformation, so this is like a transformation within a transformation to achieve another transformation.” Shut up, shut up. Why wasn't she stopping him?

She dipped a fry and ate it. “
Good
sex, maybe.”

“All sex is good.”

She laughed. “Coleridge.
No such thing as a bad poem
. Remember? Only good poems.”

He shook his head. He'd forgotten that—her use of the word
remember,
common with one or two other members of the group. As
if there were some presumed pact between them that they were continually at study and had memorized every book under the sun and needed only to remind one another of passages by saying
Remember?
to call it up, bring it all back. Always something vaguely embarrassing and pretentious-seeming to him about it. But also genuine in her, not chiding or show-offy. Sincere enough that he was willing to let himself be swept along.

“No,” he said. “
Remind
me.”

“It's in his . . . oh, I forget where he says it actually. But for him, for a poem to
be
a poem, it must be good. Therefore, if it's not good, it's just not a poem. Doesn't achieve poem-ness and therefore doesn't exist. Handy, no? A poem-like-object.”

“Well, if you could remove subjectivity from the equation. Sure.” He snapped his fingers. “Poof. There goes—”

“All the language poets.”

He nodded. “Makes a certain amount of sense.”

“For poetry. Not sex, alas. Bad sex is, sadly, still sex, as I suspect bad poems are mostly still poems, just badly. Believe me, I know whereof I speak, on both accounts . . . and—”

“Maybe not. Maybe it's—”

“Now John, I'm afraid you'll hate me for it, but I really must go.”

“So fast?”

“Fast! So must you, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Right. Sure. Just . . .”

“I told you it'd be a short night. One drink. Somehow, you got me to two. Now let's pay and you can walk me out.
Uno momento,
” she said, and slid from the booth.

“Where're you—”

“Be right back.”

He settled against the booth and eyed the beer left in his mug, wondering again, How buzzed? Well, the important thing—they'd met, they'd talked, spent time together . . . it could happen again. It
would
happen again. A beginning of sorts. A rebeginning. And probably for the best if nothing more happened tonight. Still, though he didn't want to (as if it were another omen to circumnavigate), he
couldn't help but imagine the picture he must now make from the server's perspective—lonesome middle-aged guy, stranded with the detritus of drinks and his solitary dinner, flushed from beer and talk, and probably in the middle of trying to do something icky with the lady in the white fur hat. She'd probably been waiting for just this moment to circle in and get them out of here. Collect her tip and seat the next customers.

“Anything else tonight, or can I . . .”

He smiled. “Just the check.”

And when she'd gone again, he flipped open his phone to see if there had been a call from Thomas, a voice message:
Dad, where the hell are you? Hello! It's a school night!
But no. Not surprisingly, there was nothing. Thomas would be in his room, drawing or goofing around on the computer and likely unconscious of the hour altogether. He'd have to call from the car. Say,
Sorry for the delay, kiddo. Busy day. You should go ahead and start something on your own to eat. Doubt I'll have time for it.

There came a subtle modulation in the tone and lighting of Pearle's—more rose-tinted and darker; happy hour shifting over to dinner hour, he supposed—and someone had changed the music channel to jazz. This was taking too long. What was she doing anyway?
Uno momento
. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, waiting, and was happily surprised (relieved?) when he knew to look up and refocus at exactly the right moment—that walk, those eyes on his as she approached.

“Sorry for the wait,” she said, showing him her phone by way of explanation. “Shall we?”

He nodded, stood, remembering as he did the gum adhered to his khakis. “Hey, check this out,” he said, turning and pointing at it for her to see. “Can you believe?”

“Is that from here?”

He shook his head. “School.”

“Use white vinegar,” she said. “Soak it.”

He offered her his arm, which she slapped at once and didn't take.

“Are you nuts? Do you think we're the only people in the world?”

And outside, sheltered from the wind between her Escalade and the SUV parked alongside it, the sudden rush of her mouth on his, her arms going around him, her hair blown in his face, the smell of perfume trapped in her coat collar distilled by the surrounding cold and isolated in his senses. He couldn't stop himself. Couldn't even be sure who was leading, who was following. “Oh my God, Moira, I have wanted this for so long. . . .” Her mouth on his, her breath in his throat. Sounds of their coats hissing together, snow compacting underfoot. Absurd to attempt intimacy this bundled up—he could barely feel her through all the layers of clothing between them. “Jesus God, you have no idea how much,” he said.

“Yes, but I'm getting the picture, though,” she said. And after another moment: “Oh, John. It's always so complicated, isn't it? Why so complicated?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But then again . . .” Touched her nose. “You,” he said, and touched his own nose, “me. What could be simpler?”

“You really
do
think we're the only people in the world.”

“How else should I . . . I mean, how else
could
I think of it, and still be standing here with you? I mean, I'm assuming, with your marriage and whatever, you've got your reasons, your story, and I'm more than open to hearing about all of it, as much as you want to share anyway. Just . . . seems to me like that's up to you.”

She didn't answer immediately. Sighed once and smiled. Pressed suddenly closer and turned her face so her cheek was against his. “Of course, John. And I promise. Another time, you can hear the whole sordid tale of woe.”

He waited for more. Stared at the light on the snow-blown pavement, the dirty half-melted and refrozen snowbanks, tire tracks in ice and snow, everywhere the desolate glitter of orange-blue sodium lights on frozen asphalt. This was not a place in which to linger. Not a place in which anyone was trying to entice you to spend a single extra moment and definitely not a place to attempt romance. Things he could say now but didn't know how to choose from:
We can take our time. No rush, no pressure. I'm here for you, not going anywhere; whatever it takes to make you comfortable, just say
. . . .

She was laughing.