The Archivist (17 page)

Clay figured it out right away. There are dozens of patients here even during these holidays, and a good many are in far worse shape than I, but I give Clay credit: he knew immediately who’d burned Hayden’s Christmas tree.

Why, he asked.

I could ask the same thing of you, I answered him.

What do you mean, he said.

Why did you put the tree in the lobby, I asked.

The Christmas tree is a symbol, he said. Of hope and goodwill. A familiar symbol of the season. Not a threat, Judith — just an ordinary object.

Bullshit, I said. It’s only familiar and ordinary to some people. I don’t have to tell you that Hayden is not a Christian institution.

He was silent.

The tree did not belong in the lobby, I said.

It’s a secular symbol, Judith. You read too much into it.

If you were Jewish you’d see it a little differently, I said.

He frowned in annoyance.

Come now. None of the other Jews here burned down the Christmas tree, he said.

None of the other Jews here had matches, I said.

That flustered him. I felt a sudden surge of pride. A manic arousal, Clay would call it. Perhaps. But I felt the Miltown lift, felt
clear
for the first time in weeks.

Yes, he said. And I want to know where you got those matches. You know they’re forbidden here.

You needn’t remind me, I said. I know the rules.

And?

I’ve had the matches for months. Since Len and Carol visited, in fact. Len is a sloppy man, he’s always scattering his things. He didn’t leave his cigarettes in my room, unfortunately. Just his matches. I’ve had ample opportunity to burn this whole place to the ground. I think you should take seriously the fact that I haven’t.

You acted on a destructive impulse, he said.

Listen, Clay. (I stood up and paced his office as I do when he angers me, to throw him off.) It’s simple — the tree didn’t belong in the lobby. Non-Christians shouldn’t be subjected to Christian symbols in public places.

You should’ve asked if the tree could be taken down, he said.

Asked? (I stopped pacing, laughed. The current still carried me.) You didn’t ask the Jews here whether they objected to your installing it. Why should I ask whether the Christians would object to my removing it?

You did more than just remove the tree, he said.

(I stood very still. The current was all at once cut off.)

The Nazis did more than just remove the Jews, I said.

He tugged on his pencil with both hands as if it were an object he could pull apart, separate into its constituent parts.

Judith, he said quietly, a bit warily. We’ve talked about this — how you must break that association, how it is not the underlying truth of your condition.

I’m not talking about my condition, I said. Why are you?

It’s what we’re here for, he answered. We need to figure out why you had to burn the Christmas tree. We need to get to the bottom of this thing.

(The Miltown settled back over me, a miasma. It’s a powerful drug. It hits me in waves throughout the day.)

This thing is bottomless, I said.

No, Clay said, it’s not. But you’re resisting.

Today I didn’t talk so much. We sat in silence for long stretches, and Clay’s face darkened, but I stopped glancing at him during the silences. I gave myself over to remembering how the tree’s flames rose and fell in a peculiar syncopation that reminded me of Monk’s playing, those lovely staccato jabs at the notes …

I burned the tree at dusk, in a fairly remote corner of the property dotted with some low scrub brush and not much else. I found a safe clearing from which the fire wouldn’t spread. The tree was small; I carried it easily on my shoulder. No one saw me. The air was very cold and there was no wind, no noise except for the crackling as each dry green branch was consumed.

I realized, sitting in Clay’s office, that the fire had calmed me as nothing but Powell’s voice ever does, here.

For whatever reason, planned or circumstantial, it was Powell who escorted me back to my room afterward.

Eight minutes to 1960. If I knew more about gematria, I would play that Kabbalists’ game with the numbers, one nine six zero, and make them come out to something good. Make them bode well for me.

As I approach the new year, I am aware mostly of a deep and wide anxiety. It is discordant with what I want to think of as my reality (
I’m getting better, I’ll be back with Matthias soon
), and thus extremely compelling.

In fact, the anxiety is the most believable thing.

Matt told me yesterday, during his visit, that tonight he would go to the Village Gate by himself, listen to Lou Donaldson’s quartet, and raise a glass exactly at twelve.

To you, he explained.

And us? I asked.

First to you, he said, to your becoming happier.

But we both knew that wasn’t the word for it.

And now I see him at the bar, quiet amidst the other revellers, alone among them, and frightened: at having to think of me.

1960

January 1

I have under my bed a copy of every Sunday Times from the start of September through the end of the year.

Len and Carol showed up this afternoon — out of the blue, looking a little the worse for wear but clearly pleased with themselves. Len was carrying a blue duffle bag.

Jesus, said Carol, surveying my room (which was a mess because I’d decided that morning to get rid of a lot of clothing I no longer wear. It amounted to several piles, not very neatly stacked). You planning a trip to the Salvation Army? Why don’t we take this stuff for you, there’s a drop-off joint around the corner from us that takes donations for the needy, especially at this time of year — no, of course it’s not a problem! Glad to do it (easing off her boots and curling up on my bed after pushing a couple of my books to one side).

And look what Lenny brought you, she finished.

He was in the middle of lighting up. One hand cupped the match held with the other hand.

Happy New Year, kiddo, he said.

The cigarette jangled at the side of his mouth as he spoke. He pushed the bag toward me with one foot.

Had to sort of smuggle this in, he added (exhaling, a grey haze around his head). Guy at the front desk said
what’s in there
, so Carol says
sheet music, I sell it
, and then we get walked over here by that same Negro who was here last time, and he kind of glances at the bag like he’s wondering, but he doesn’t say a peep. So you got lucky, I guess. No confiscations.

It occurred to me that they were both a little drunk. I looked at Carol.

What did you two do last night? I said.

Oh-h, Carol breathed. Too much.

Wasn’t a club we didn’t catch, Len said. Some great playing — I mean truly great. Must’ve been the end-of-decade thing, everybody was on a roll. Especially Lou Donaldson — terrific, what a saxophonist! He was at the Gate. Place was packed.

Did you see Matt? I said.

Matt? No. Past his bedtime. We came in just before closing. Carol’s boss knows the owner, so they let us stay. Jesus! We heard incredible music, Judy. After everyone cleared out.

He wore the happy, distracted look he gets when he’s stayed up all night for music.

So then, said Carol (taking over — she doesn’t like to lose the rhythm), we’d had a lot to drink and not much to eat so we went to the Brasserie and had steak and eggs, and by that time it’s seven-thirty so we go home and crash for maybe two hours, but we’re so used to getting up for work, we can’t ever really sleep in. So Lenny says
let’s take a drive in the country
, and I say
why not visit Judy
, and we climb into the car and in a couple of hours we’re in Centreville and there’s this wonderful little inn, did you pass it when you first came here?

My eyes must’ve scared her. She let the question drop.

So we decide to hop out and have lunch. Which of course on New Year’s Day is also a matter of a drink.

She smirked at Len.

Hair of the dog that bit us, Len said. That bartender makes a fine martini. Warmed us right up. It’s cold out there. You been outside today? — no? — well after we go, you should take a nice walk. Get the blood circulating. Put some red in those cheeks.

Jesus, Lenny, said Carol. Listen to you talking like some kind of football coach. Leave the poor girl alone, for God’s sake.

He lit another cigarette, ignoring Carol.

Now go on, open the bag, he said to me.

I opened it.

Newspapers, a deep stack smelling of ink and dust. The Sunday Times.

I knelt next to the bag and flipped through: September to now. I took one off the top. Only the important sections, all the junk removed: just as I would’ve done it myself. Len knows certain things about me. When I looked up, he was smiling, a smug, conspiratorial upturning at the corners of his mouth, not at all like his usual loose grin.

Why? I said.

What do you mean, why, he said. It’s obvious why! You need some news. I said to Carol on the way home last time, you know, we should get Judy some news. It’s ridiculous that a person should be denied the Times.

A New Yorker, Carol broke in, you specifically said that a New Yorker should not be denied —

— yeah, I did, said Len (the smug smile returning), and in September I started saving the papers. The Sunday ones. I figured they were all you really needed.

To keep things in perspective, said Carol.

Nothing like the Times for that, said Len. Except maybe a dry martini.

He walked over to the window, gazed out, turned back to Carol (still on the bed, curled up in her usual ball).

So, he said, let’s hit the road, Carol. We got a drive ahead of us, remember?

Yeah, said Carol (unwinding stretching standing; suddenly looking small and tired, her blond-grey hair limp, her eyelids blue-tinged, puffy).

And I need a good cup of coffee, Len said. Let’s go back to that inn, I can tell they make it strong there.

In a fast minute Carol took the papers from the bag, stuffed my discarded clothing inside, and slid the papers under my bed. She knows how to straighten things up no matter what shape she’s in.

I could say nothing, could think of no words.

They stood before me like two boastful truants.

We’ll bring more, said Len. Only not right away. I hate to drive in winter, you’ll have to wait til spring but we promise another batch, a big one just like this —

— if you’re still here, that is, added Carol (in the voice of one saying what must be said).

Oh yes, Len said. Of course. So we’ll just wait and see.

He lit up again. Carol pulled on her boots and tossed Len his coat.

Guess you’ll need to keep it a secret, Len said. The Times, I mean. You know, I think a dose of the real world is good for everybody, I don’t see why they —

— never mind, Carol said (taking his arm, propelling him doorward), it’s not ours to figure. So bye now Judy, you take care.

Powell was right there, waiting, when Carol opened the door. Like he knew I needed him to take them away. I saw in his eyes that he understood about the newspapers, he wouldn’t tell Clay.

I looked directly into those dark brown eyes.

Thanks, I said. Really.

Len and Carol thought I was saying it to them.

And I closed the door, and an image of Matt’s face flew from nowhere into my head like a lost bird wheeling and plunging across the spaces there. And for the first time in weeks I wept, the tears carrying off the silt of these months, leaving me empty and dry as any stripped bed.

February 3

I’ve read the papers. Everything, even the fashion pages, the recipes, the ads.

I don’t like the skirts they show this season, the way they stop at the knee — an absurd length that flatters nobody.

I haven’t missed the clothes I gave away. Each day I wear the same things: dark wool sweaters, skirts cut on the narrow side, or pants. Cream-colored shirts cut full. No prints, no patterns.

When Matt visits I wear my blue cashmere cardigan and my pale yellow blouse. Colors he likes.

I don’t miss my pearls either, I’m glad I gave them away. Pearls are useless here. This is not asceticism, it’s the Miltown, which makes me tired of too many stimulations.

Matt hasn’t asked about the pearls, but if he does I’ll tell him the truth.

Within me, truth assumes so many shapes that I find relief in objects, which have certainty. Pearls, books, record players. Newspapers.

I have in my possession Manhattan: the smudge and smell of the New York Times. It took me a long day to read all fifteen papers. I started at dawn and didn’t stop until dinnertime, and it was only when I went to wash my hands before eating that I saw how I’d actually absorbed what I was reading, through my inked fingers.

I’ve had to be careful not to mention to Matt or Clay any of the news I’ve read. Sometimes I ask Clay questions about what’s happening in the world, and then I compare his answers with the newspaper accounts. This has yielded (as he would say) interesting disparities.

But my latest information is now at least a month old.

I can tell what Matt is focused on — now more than ever: reviews of books and music, some art shows, the occasional poetry reading. He has little to say about world news. I’m sure he knows what’s going on, but he doesn’t want me to think about it.

I’m not sure what he wants me to be thinking about.

I almost asked him if he’d heard LeRoi Jones read at Corinth Books, but I caught myself. Matt seldom goes to such things. He prefers reading about them. But he didn’t mention that particular event, even though it had a little write-up in the arts section, so I suspect he’s being selective — taking care to avoid anything too reminiscent of me. Staying with what he can bear.

He comes and he goes, each week, and after he leaves I’m numb, not so much depressed as simply empty. We embrace at the end, we kiss one another, and I can’t feel anything. But after Matt leaves, there’s always another moment when suddenly I’m back in his arms, their pressure and warmth around me are absolutely real, and it’s like imagining — in complete, faithful detail — a missing limb’s sensation. As if it were really there.