Life Drawing (28 page)

T
here was an ice storm on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve and our power went out, but only briefly. The lights came back on and the clocks did too, all blinking at 12:00—as if rushing through the last tattered scrap of the year. Neither of us reset them. Neither of us stayed up to see the year out.

I visited my father the next morning. He was talkative and insistent that I take to heart what he had to say, which was something very urgent about a dog. It had run away. It had been found. Or maybe it hadn’t been found. He wasn’t agitated, just set on being sure that I—whoever I was—know this about the dog. I recognized the mood, familiar to me by then. It was as though all pieces of information he could detect in his own thoughts, any knowledge, anything that felt like knowledge, had to be conveyed. The mere presence of a near-coherent thought gave it importance now.

“I’ll be sure everyone knows,” I said. “I’ll tell everyone.”

Out in the lot, while I was brushing the latest dusting of snow
from my car, I saw the tall redheaded doctor. I reintroduced myself, knowing that he couldn’t possibly recognize me in my scarves, my wool hat; and I reminded him of my father’s predicament. “It’s been months,” I said. “There hasn’t been a sign of anything like those earlier episodes.”

Was it really impossible for him to be put back into a less confining setting?

The doctor’s demeanor showed evidence of his own months in this place. He seemed to have lost some of the enthusiasm he’d shown during the summer for the system and its rules. “It’s really difficult, I know,” he said. “But it’s not even physically possible. Those rooms have waiting lists. I’m afraid once a person’s been shifted out …”

“It’s just so sad,” I said; but I understood as I spoke that I was talking to someone who had chosen sadness for his career, who was not yet immune to it perhaps, but surely well on his way to accepting it as inevitable.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “We had no choice at the time. This happens, once in a while. We err in the direction of safety and then, unfortunately, there’s no way to correct.”

I nodded, my lips closed tight, drawn into my mouth. I felt in danger of tears, so just muttered, “Well, thanks anyway,” and turned away, trying not to notice what a miserable start I was having to the year.

When Alison’s car pulled up, midafternoon on the second, I waited to see how many women emerged—hoping for one. But the answer was two. There they both were. I didn’t want to see whether Owen hurried from the barn, so I turned my back to the windows and went to work.

Just as I was keeping my word to Owen, I was also keeping my word to Laine, though that too was difficult. I thought of myself now as staggering through the creative process, stumbling through. I continued to paint the boys though I thought the results were awful. And it made me uncomfortable, but I knew that only confirmed much of what Laine had said. I’d grown complacent over time, too willing to rely on what I knew I could do well. It had been years since my own work had really challenged me. And so I continued to slog away at this series of paintings, rarely enjoying it but convinced there must be some benefit to doing so.

I was still in the studio painting, maybe an hour after turning my back on the returning neighbors, when I heard Owen come into the house, and knew immediately that something was wrong. The volume of every motion was wrong, the door slamming, his footfall too rapid, too loud. He appeared just outside my room, his face darkened, not reddened, not flushed, but storm-darkened with emotion. He stood in the doorway staring at me.

“What? What is it?”

“The one thing I asked of you …” He stopped.

“What? What did I do?”

“Really, Gus? You’re going to play dumb?”

“I’m not playing dumb. I have no idea.”

“The one thing I asked you to do was be honest with me. Five years ago. Every minute since. That’s it. Just be fucking straight with me.”

“I don’t …”

“Please. You’ve been mooning after him all along. You’ve been in touch with him. Weeping over his wedding. Exchanging private notes. What the fuck, Gus?”

I didn’t ask him how he knew. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I said. “But really it was … nothing. And you were so upset when Laine came … I didn’t want to upset you more. I just wanted the whole subject gone.”

“Well, guess what, Gus? It isn’t gone. And you’ve really fucking done it this time.”

He slammed out of the room, out of the house. I heard the van start, heard him leave and was up on my feet in a moment, didn’t bother with a coat, barely took the time to slide my feet into boots.

I found Alison in her kitchen, sitting at the table, a cup of tea in front of her. She looked stunned at my having barged into her house. “What the hell was all of that?” I asked. “What was that scene in my living room not even two weeks ago? What is your game, Alison? I can’t believe that you told him,” I said. “Did you think that apology would also cover
this
? I can’t believe you would do that to me.”

There was a pause while she took in my presence, my words.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you mean Owen? I haven’t told Owen anything. I haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks.”

“Don’t even bother. Please. Spare me.”

“I’m not bothering, Gus. I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I haven’t told Owen a thing.”

“Then how does he know?”

“How does he know what? What?”

“How does he know that I crashed when I heard about Bill’s wedding? That Bill and I exchanged emails? That I still gave a shit? How does he know that? You’re the only person on earth who knows those things.”

Her face changed. She began to look nervous. Her cheeks flushed. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Gus. I’m afraid this is my fault.”

“I can’t believe you would do that to me. I trusted you. I was ready to let you off the hook for using my husband as bait for Nora. What was that speech for? What were you doing?”

“I didn’t do this to you. I didn’t mean to. I … I told Nora. Months and months ago. Before her visit. Before I … before she knew Owen. Or you. And then, when she came back, I …”

“You told Nora?
Nora
?”

“You have to understand … I was just … We were gossiping on the phone. She hadn’t even met you. We were just gossiping. I didn’t even use your names then. Just the neighbors. And I … I told her. It wasn’t a big thing. It wasn’t …”

“But you told her I emailed Bill. That was later. Nora had already been here. She was already panting after Owen.”

“I … I trusted her. She’s my daughter, Gus. I tell her things. We … we share confidences.”

“Everything? You tell her fucking everything? Of course you do. Because it never once occurs to you that she isn’t some kind of saint. Just like you’ve pretended all this time that she wasn’t trying to wreck my marriage. That little bitch. You say you know her but you still don’t get what kind of selfish, grabbing …”

“Gus, you have to leave. You can’t do this.”

“
I
have to leave?
I
have to leave? Why didn’t
you
leave? Months ago. When you said you were going to.
I
have to leave? Fuck you, Alison. You and your hypocritical daughter. Both of you, just fuck you both. You and your so-called friendship and your so-called kindness. And especially your bullshit apology.”

“Please go.”

“She’s upstairs, isn’t she? Or is she out in the barn? My husband’s barn.
My
barn. Jesus Christ. She told him, Alison. She couldn’t have him for herself, and she fucking told him, just to ruin things for me.”

I was out and heading up the stairs before she could even stand. I found Nora in the upstairs hallway. “You bitch,” I said. “You conniving little cunt.”

She didn’t say a word. I heard Alison coming, felt her hands on my shoulders. “Gus, you have to calm down,” she said.

“No, I do not.” I shook her off. “Jesus fucking Christ. How was I supposed to know you would tell her everything? How was I supposed to know that, Alison? Is that the deal? Mothers tell their daughters everything? Is that some kind of fucking rule? While you encouraged this, this slut to chase after my husband, you gave her the ammunition she needed. And then you act like it’s a part of the birth contract?”

“He was never going to …” Nora stood perfectly still, a statue speaking. “He sent me away.”

“Oh, fuck you, Nora. And thank you for that reassurance. Now that you’ve destroyed my life.”

“I’m sorry. I was … I was so upset and I thought maybe …”

“You thought it might make him leave me. What else did you think? That you deserved him more than I do? That he deserved the truth? Fuck you, Nora.” I turned to Alison. “Could you please explain to your perfect little daughter here that nobody cares what she thought or how she felt? And ask her why she has ruined the lives of two people who never did a thing but welcome her. And then, would you both just leave. Just get the fuck out of our lives!”

Down the stairs, out the door, barely crossing the hill to my own door, my own home, before bursting into sobs.

O
wen came back after three in the morning. Eleven long hours later.

I was sitting in the kitchen waiting, hoping, scared to death he would either never appear or return only to pack a bag and leave. But he sat down, across the table from me. Neither of us spoke for some time. The only thing I could think to say was
I’m sorry
, and the day had left me with an inescapable sense of how paltry an offering that would be.

“I have had some time to calm down,” he finally said. “And I have no idea where this leaves us, Gus. Just no idea. I can’t …”

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t keep the phrase in. “I fucked up. I really did. I understand that. But it wasn’t … There was nothing, Owen. Nothing.”

He looked at me, not acknowledging my words. “At first, I didn’t believe her. But there were details. Little things. I thought she was lying. At first. Because I’d really discounted this possibility. The lies. I really thought we had gotten past that part. The deceit. As humiliating as that is. How gullible I was.”

I wanted to say that we had gotten past that part. But we hadn’t. I wanted it to be true. But it wasn’t.

“I don’t expect you to believe this,” I said. “But that’s everything. What she told you. That I got upset when I heard he was remarrying. Because it opened up old wounds. That’s all. Not because I … not because I want him anymore. I don’t. And then he wrote me and I wrote back. Once. But there was nothing more. In years. All these years. I don’t expect you to believe me,” I said again.

Owen looked away, shaking his head. “The stupid part is that I do believe you. Mostly. I’m just not sure it matters. How much or how little you lied about. I suppose it does. But … not really.”

“I don’t know. It matters some. It has to matter some.”

“She begged me, you know. Begged me to admit that we have something real, me and her. Something real. That was the phrase. Just, Jesus, just this afternoon. She begged me to admit what we had. And I looked at her, Gus, and I realized what I had done to this girl. How I’ve been using her. All along. It hasn’t mattered what I’ve said to her, she’s just been assuming. Assuming and hoping. She was staring at me as if it was obvious what would happen next. And I saw this girl, this young girl I have been using, with her deer-in-the-headlights look.”

“Don’t say that. Not that.”

“But it’s true. And I was the car that was barreling toward her.”

“Jesus, Owen. You didn’t kill her.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think today,” he repeated. “And I have no fucking clue where this leaves us.”

“You aren’t going to … you don’t want to be with her?”

“Have you been listening, Gus? Have you even heard a word I just said?”

“Yes. Sort of. I don’t know. You’re worried about hurting her.”

“Well, what would any young girl think? No matter what I said to her? I played her.”

“That’s not my point.”

“What is your point?”

“Just … does it matter at all that you hurt me? Or have I forfeited that?”

He shrugged. “I was desperate. Hurt. Wanting to …”

“Be adored? Because I adore you. I adore you, Owen.”

“I was going to say, have it all. But yes. Be adored. Be adored and have that rush. That thing that happens. You know, it killed me, afterward, back then, after you told me, the big confession, and I realized how much painting you had done. All those months. For him. It was … it was almost as bad as the rest of it. All that
work you did for him. It’s why I’ve always loved that one.” He turned toward the doorway, toward the living room. “It was the first painting you did after that. I knew it wasn’t for him. All the others from the time with him …” He shook his head. “I fucking hate those paintings.”

“I always knew you would even the score,” I said. “Or the universe would.”

“I wasn’t doing that. Not consciously.”

“I don’t know, Owen. Maybe not. But I always knew I couldn’t get away with what I’d done to you. Not without paying up.”

“The universe doesn’t work that way, Gus. Evening scores. Making life fair. I thought we agreed on that long ago.”