The Spirit Wood (7 page)

Meg found it surprising that such a rough character as Nikos should have this fragile and complex music inside him; she wouldn't have expected it. But his closed eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side as if straining to hear and capture a distant sound, his fingers moving with certainty and assurance, all told her there was more to him than she had first imagined, or at least
something
to him she hadn't imagined. He paused at the end of the song, his head remaining bowed as if he were in deep thought or prayer, and began another, this one much slower, plaintive and even sorrowful. Leah appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb. Nikos cracked open
one eye, saw her there, continued to play with a rich, sad vigor, a song known no doubt to generations of Greeks. When it was finished Leah stirred herself, as if from a trance, and said to Meg and Peter that she had made up the bed in the master bedroom and put out fresh towels. Nikos filled their glasses again, and while they sat wondering what to do, he slapped the table loudly with satisfaction, and hoisted his glass in a toast to the next day and whatever it brought.

The wine, it must have been the wine Nikos had made—that, or the ouzo. Or both. Meg dimly remembered undressing by the bed, tossing her clothes onto the armchair. Peter, too—swiftly shedding his clothes, simply letting them fall to the floor. Not concealing himself, as he usually did. Falling instantly into a deep, still sleep; the huge bed accepting them both like a boat taking on passengers, creaking loudly, the mattress giving, then righting itself, the gnarled bedposts like masts, the canopy a spread sail—sleeping in a cool wind off the water, the curtains fluttering on the terrace doors. Peter's arm, his left arm, the bad one, was around her waist; they were nestled back to front like spoons in a drawer. She was dreaming, vividly, deeply, of a large hall, as if in a museum, only the walls were plates of glass, and the air was hot, close and damp. She was wandering around, not sure if she was lost or not, carrying in her arms, covered by flimsy cheesecloth, a new sculpture that she had just finished making. She was looking for the baking room, where the kiln was, to fire it. She was wearing her gray smock, tied loosely at the waist, but nothing else; she was vaguely annoyed with herself for having forgotten to put anything on underneath it. She told herself to be sure to hold the smock closed if anyone passed behind her; her bare feet stuck to the floor as she searched for the proper room. She had the unnerving impression that she was traveling now in an enormous, deceptive
circle; nothing seemed to change, and time was running out. The cheesecloth was absorbing moisture from the humid air, and she thought she could see, thought she could
feel,
the sculpture beneath it beginning to move. To awaken in her hands. She couldn't remember what it was she'd made. But she knew it had to be put in the fire soon. Her smock flapped open behind her, and balancing the sculpture with one hand, she reached around to hold it closed. The cheesecloth started to slip, to slide off one side, deliberately, as if it were being pulled from below. She let go of the smock, feeling it fly open again, and tried to reposition the covering. But it wouldn't go; it seemed to be caught on a snag, or a sharp point, of the sculpture. She reached under to untangle it; the cloth fell away. The statue, an exulting satyr, grinned up at her; she was holding it by its penis. The tiny organ throbbed suddenly; she could feel it, between her fingers. In disgust and horror, she threw the statue down, where it skittered across the floor. Her robe billowed open, and she felt herself being pressed from behind. She whirled around, but whatever was there remained behind her. She turned again; the statue was gone, and only the cloth lay crumpled on the shiny black floor. She was poked again, and held by her waist, drawn tightly against the ardent thing she couldn't see. There was a creaking sound—the door to the kiln room, opening?—and a gust of cold air on her legs and back. Then a warm, and insistent, presence. Holding her, pulling her backwards. Prodding. She tried to cry out, she wanted to, but her throat was too dry; she couldn't make any sound at all. She struggled to wet her lips, to catch her breath, then broke just above the surface of consciousness with the noise of her own harsh, labored breathing, and the rhythmic shift of the mattress beneath her. Rising and falling like a boat at sea, her hips in time, Peter's bad arm clutching her body as he pressed
himself against, and into, her. Grinding like a machine, relentlessly, wordlessly,
unconsciously
Meg suddenly realized, his eyes shut, his mouth set. Pushing himself deeper and harder, oblivious to everything else, pushing and straining, with a pounding regularity. Pressing deep, pulling away, pressing again, as if in his own dream he were a shackled galley slave numbly obeying the overseer's drumbeat . . .

When he'd finished he lay as still as death, so still she could hardly detect his breathing; Meg pulled silently away—her stomach ached where his fingers had grasped her—and struggled to make some sense of it, of her fear and confusion. But her limbs felt heavy, like damp, thick clay, and her thoughts were so troubling, fleeing, it seemed, from the present violation, that it was impossible to focus, to concentrate, to sort anything out. Already she could feel herself surrendering . . . against her will . . . to that same disturbing and defenseless sleep from which she'd just been shaken . . . or freed . . .

II

Possession

Six

I
T'S BEAUTIFUL.”

Meg didn't know what to say, and was desperately afraid she'd blush.

“No, really, it's even nicer than it appeared in the photographs. All of your work is.” The dealer's finger traced the smooth lip of the blue-glazed teapot. “The sculpture I don't have a lot of room for,” she said, glancing over at the half-dozen pieces ranged on a shelf along the wall. “I can take a couple, also on consignment, and see what happens. But with the pottery things, I'm sure we can do well. The teapots, the serving platters, the bud vase . . .”—she pressed
the tip of her Bic pen against her teeth—"they'll do fine.”

Jackie, who was building an armature at the other end of the workroom, tried to catch Meg's eye to see how things were going, but Meg resolutely looked away; she didn't trust herself not to let out a whoop of joy. And she wanted to appear completely poised and professional.

“Why don't I take with me these, let's see, ten pieces,” the dealer said, making a notation on an inventory sheet attached to her clipboard. “The terms of consignment are what I laid out in the letter last week. Is that satisfactory to you?”

Meg muttered that it was fine; the woman ripped off the inventory sheet and handed it to her, and then pushed up the sleeves of her blouse and started wrapping each piece in sheets of newspaper before placing them, quickly but expertly, into a heavy-duty cardboard carton. Meg began to help her, wrapping one of her favorite teapots in a page of supermarket coupons; as the familiar spout and lid disappeared beneath the ball of paper, she felt her pleasure at the sale—consignment, she corrected herself—diluted by a pang of . . . separation. That common-enough feeling, all the others in the co-op had experienced it, and she'd felt it herself before, when something you've created is about to go off into the world, entirely on its own, into the hands and homes of strangers. That's what she created them for, of course, but still it felt strange, and a little sad, at the moment of reckoning. She was glad when the last piece was finally stowed away and the dealer, assisted by her teenage son, had carried the carton out to her van and out of sight. Her work area looked so barren now, so stripped down.

Jackie raced over to congratulate her. “Way to go,” she said, squeezing Meg's arm and leaving a faint smudge of wet clay on the sleeve of her smock. “Now you're really in business.”

“I feel like I'm
out
of business,” said Meg, surveying the empty work table.

Jackie laughed and pushed her round, oversized glasses back up onto her nose. “
I
should be so out of business. From what I hear, she's one of the best dealers in New York—you could wind up in Bloomingdale's before you're done.”

“Bloomingdale's,” Meg exclaimed, holding one hand to her chest as if she could hardly catch her breath with imagining it. “Wait'll Peter hears the news—he'll bag teaching altogether.”

That night, she told him, and for the first time since he'd come through the door, he seemed to forget about whatever it was he was turning over and over in his mind, and pay attention to her. “That's great, honey,” he said, waking slowly to real enthusiasm. “That's terrific—how many pieces did she take?”

“Ten. She's got a gallery down in Soho, just off Canal Street, and it's apparently quite a coup to have your work exhibited—”

“Sold,” he corrected.

“
Displayed
there,” she offered as a compromise.

“So with any luck, you'll have to be turning the stuff out at an ever-increasing rate. To keep up with the constantly escalating demand.”

“I wouldn't worry about it yet.”

But Peter seemed to have embraced the notion, to be earnestly pondering ways of increasing Meg's productivity. He asked about the hours the pottery co-op was open, the availability of the wheels and kilns, the supplies, the tools. And no matter what she answered, his expression remained dubious, as if none of it was what he had hoped for.

“What are you worrying about?” she said, perplexed. “That I won't earn my keep around here?”

He smiled, and uncoiled a little. “No, I was just thinking,” he said, “of that kiln and workshop sitting vacant out on Long Island. On the estate.”

The connection didn't immediately impress her; it seemed a related, but basically irrelevant, thought. What
about
the kiln on Long Island? “I don't think I could turn out any more work than I already do, even if I had my own kiln in the kitchen,” she said.

“But what if you
did
have your own place to work,” he replied, reluctant to let it drop, “with your own tools, no waiting for anyone else to finish with them, your own wheel, all the things you need? Wouldn't that be worth it?”

“Yes, I suppose,” she said, warily.

“You know, we
do
have the right to use the place in Passet Bay"—he found it hard to call it Arcadia, it sounded so pretentious—"until we get around to selling it off.” He went into the kitchen, where she heard him open the refrigerator; there was a hiss as he flipped off the top of a can, probably club soda. “It just seems a waste somehow.”

Meg studied the back of her hand; the grog, the rough particles in the wet clay, had rubbed a patch of skin red. Peter was asking her to . . . what? Commute to Long Island, to work on her pieces there? Open an assembly line? Move?

“Peter,” she said as he returned with a can—yes, club soda—and offered her a sip. “No, thanks. Peter, I'm not sure what you're getting at here. Are you saying you want me—or rather us—to move out to the house? Is that what this is all about?”

Peter smiled sheepishly and flopped back down on the sofa. “I was talking to Byron this morning, about his plans for the summer, and our plans, and it just occurred to me that instead of all of us sweating it out in Mercer, we could live like kings in Passet Bay.”

“You
already
discussed it with Byron?” she said.

“Well, I told him nothing was decided until I'd had a chance to speak with you. I was just sounding him out.” He realized he'd made a tactical mistake by bringing in Byron so soon. “It was just something I'd
been considering, hon. That it might be a very welcome change of scene, for all of us.”

Meg thought she detected a reference, however oblique, to the accident and its aftermath; the conversation was instantly transposed into a more serious key.

“We wouldn't be out there for more than a couple of months, at most,” he was saying. “I could finish my dissertation, you could get some sculpting done, Byron could get a tan—you know he's been looking as pale as a cadaver lately,” he said, hoping to coax a smile. “And Diogenes, think of Diogenes; he'd be beside himself with joy. You know how he loves the ocean.”

Meg did smile, and Peter, sensing now that his scheme might actually go over, was surprised at how relieved he felt. No, how
happy
he was; until that moment, even
he
hadn't realized how important it was to him that they go to Arcadia. Now that he knew it would just be a matter of time before Meg was persuaded to agree to the plan, he felt positively jubilant. A huge weight had fallen from his shoulders. He felt that he had wedged into place a cumbersome block of some larger design, that what he had achieved was not only right, but—and even he could not have explained it—somehow intended.

Seven

O
N THE MORNING
of their departure, Meg was unavoidably reminded of the Beverly Hillbillies: to the top of their Datsun they'd fastened two suitcases, the trunk was filled with books and papers, and a small U-Haul trailer was attached to their bumper. The day was warm but overcast, and she prayed that it wouldn't rain; she wasn't sure the suitcases were watertight. Peter took the passenger seat, and at Byron's house he leapt out to help Byron with his own bags and books; Meg maneuvered the car and trailer as close to the curb as she could manage, braking suddenly when she realized that Diogenes had been let loose and was scampering across the lawn. His head suddenly appeared in the open window, his paws pressing against the door.

“Dodger,” she said, with a laugh, “you have got to develop a greater respect for machinery.” He barked, I pushed off from the door, and ran back to where Peter and Byron were carrying one slim suitcase and two plastic shopping bags spilling over with books.

Peter unlatched the trailer doors and, pushing gently to the rear the boxes holding Meg's works in progress, along with the tools of her trade, deposited Byron's traveling library. When everything was safely stowed away, Peter took the driver's seat, and Meg waited patiently first as Diogenes was cajoled into the back
seat, and then as Byron folded himself into the cramped space, too.

“By,” Meg said, “why don't you sit up in front with Peter? That way you won't be looking at your knees the whole way.”

“That's okay,” Byron replied. “If Dodger throws up, I think by all rights it ought to be on me.”

Meg paused, then said, “You're right.”

The rain held off, but the sky remained resolutely gray and hazy. According to the radio, the sunburn index was up to seven, and the Long Island Expressway was clogged at several junctures with beach traffic—cars filled with teenagers laughing and sitting on each other's laps, towels around their necks, radios blaring. Meg thought of Peter's new red swimming trunks, the pair she'd bought him on first hearing the news of their inheritance; she had surreptitiously packed them in her own suitcase, just in case he'd considered “accidentally” leaving them behind. She knew he considered them too flamboyant to be worn in public. Meg was looking forward to seeing Peter in the suit. She found that, despite her reservations about the place and the unpleasant memories of their sole visit, she was looking forward to the summer. Ever since they'd made the decision to go, Peter had seemed happier.

This time, instead of driving straight to the house, they took a short detour through the business district of Passet Bay; the center of town turned out to be not much more than a cross-hatching of streets, lined with small stores ranging from Lily Pulitzer to Video Shack. At a corner pharmacy, Byron bought a pack of cigarettes and Meg picked up some Intensive Care lotion; potting and sculpting took a heavy toll on her hands.

Approaching the house from the opposite direction, they discovered that there were no neighbors on this side, either; just the bay and the road that paralleled it.

When they stopped at the gates to the estate, Peter pressed the intercom box, announced himself, and they were buzzed through with no further communication. Byron had become rather quiet, impressed despite all the advance preparation, as they drove through the wrought-iron gates, and followed the winding drive past the trees, the patches of overgrown lawn, and up to the house itself. Leah was waiting on the front portico, in a red wrap-around skirt, and squatting on the steps beside her, his hands dangling between his knees, was a fat young man, somewhere in his twenties, wearing rumpled blue jeans and a tight black T-shirt. Peter drove the car up to the steps, and Leah came down to them; her companion slowly struggled to his feet, but remained where he was.

Peter performed the introductions, and Leah, turning slightly and gesturing toward the man behind her, said, “And this is Angelos—he helps us around the grounds.” Like a trained animal dully waiting for its cue, Angelos lumbered down the steps and, without saying anything, began to undo the ropes that held the suitcases to the roof of the car. Diogenes, never before much of a guard dog, suddenly lurched from behind Byron's legs and, with his ears flattened back, barked a warning.

“Dodger,” said Byron, surprised. “The man is helping us out.” Angelos, his hands still working at the ropes, fixed the dog with a sullen, undisturbed stare.

“I've put your friend into the room next to yours,” Leah said to Peter. “It also looks down toward the water.” Byron raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “Sounds good to me,” and they all set to unpacking the car and trailer. Angelos, as soon as he saw they were assuming the work, gradually cut back his own efforts until, by the time Peter and Byron were dragging Meg's cartons into the foyer, he had limited himself to a silent supervisory function. Meg, gathering up some ragged textbooks and paperbacks that had
spilled through the bottom of a burst bag, asked him if he was related to Nikos or Leah in any way. After some consideration, he answered, in a very slow voice, that he was “sort of a cousin.” His disconnected manner, coupled with the deliberation of his speech, made her wonder if perhaps he was slightly retarded. She wondered why nothing had been said about him earlier—and if he also lived on the estate. Once she had collected all of the books and put them into one of the cartons, he
did
hitch up his jeans, which were suspended, almost magically, underneath the huge swell of his belly, and offer to carry it in for her. His smile was moist and simple. Meg thanked him and asked him, in passing, if Nikos was away that day.

“No,” Angelos replied, a little more readily, “he's with the dogs, I guess.”

Once inside, from directly above her, like the voice of God, she heard Byron saying “Can you believe that?” His head was hanging over the balcony from the upstairs hall, and he was pointing down at the pebble mosaic. “That thing belongs in a museum.”

“It probably was,” said Peter, appearing just behind him.

“Do you know the story?” Byron asked, his voice rebounding off the walls and floor of the open space. “Unless I'm mistaken, the lady on the right, the one in the buff, is Diana, goddess of the hunt. The guy with the dogs is Actaeon, the young hunter who accidentally stumbled into the secret grotto where Diana was about to bathe. The goddess got so pissed off at his intrusion that she threw some of the sacred water into his face, which turned him into a stag. When he tried to escape, his own dogs, unaware that this was their master transformed, tore him to pieces.”

“Nice story,” Peter said, dryly.

Leah, also at the upstairs railing now, seemed as uninterested as ever. Angelos scratched himself under the arm. Diogenes, timidly venturing into the house,
spotted his master's head up above and started squirming in frenzied circles, trying to figure out how to get there. But even when he discovered the broad white staircase, he was reluctant to go up it. Instead, he sat on his haunches at the bottom, baying as if at a distant and sinister moon.