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In the store I walked up behind him and talked to his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing a green baseball cap tipped slightly to the right. “Will you come with me and see how these look?” I held up the pants. I had no idea what size they were. I had picked up the first pair I’d seen on the shelf.
“Sure. Did you know Babe Ruth had a small head for a man his size? Seven and three-eighths.” His expression didn’t change. I asked a passing saleswoman where the changing rooms were. When she pointed them out, I took his hand and pulled him behind me.
Another saleswoman stood outside the dressing rooms, but she didn’t seem surprised when we entered together. It was very narrow inside. I whipped the curtain across, dropped the pants on the floor, and turned to him. A foot apart, I could smell him for the first time. We had never been this close. Orange-and-cinnamon cologne, tobacco, a slight sourness that was already delicious.
Reaching up, I slid his cap off and kissed him. His lips were softer than I had imagined. They gave nothing yet because it was up to me now and we both knew that was necessary. I slid my arms up his back but didn’t pull him close.
He reached up and stroked the back of my head. We stared.
“Will we be friends too?” I slid a finger down one of the wrinkles alongside his mouth. It was so deep.
“It can only work that way.” He took my finger and kissed it.
“I want to lick your spine.”
Nothing else happened. We made out for a steaming minute or two, then left the dressing room smiling like lottery winners. Hugh insisted on buying the cap as a souvenir. He wore it the rest of the day as we walked around the city and deeper into each other’s lives.
Whatever bad thoughts came to my mind—his nice wife, his children—had almost no gravity. The good thoughts, the hopes, the thrilling possibilities had the weight of mountains. I knew this was the beginning of something bad for all concerned, no matter how cleverly it could be justified. I had never been with a married man although there had been ample opportunities. I believed what goes around comes around. If I did the snug dance with someone’s husband, surely the gods would find an appalling form of payback.
We stood outside a subway entrance. Our day was over. He was going back to his other life where his family waited for him and suspected nothing. We looked at each other with the increased hunger separation always brings.
“Are you going to get your dog?”
“Yup. Then I’ll walk her home and think about you.”
“I’m thinking about your family.”
He shook his head. “That does no good.”
“But I’m new to this. Sooner or later it’s going to come out.”
“Miranda, sooner or later we’re going to die. I used to think a lot about sooner or later, but you know what? Sooner suddenly became later and I realized I’d wasted too much time worrying about it, rather than living it.”
“A friend of mine asked if I would rather love or be loved. I’d rather love.”
He nodded. “Then that’s your answer. I have to go.”
We kissed; he touched my throat, then moved toward the subway steps. Halfway down them, he turned and his face lit up in the greatest smile. “Where have you been? Where have you been all this time?”
I DIDN’T HEAR from him for two days. Imagine how loud that silence was. On the third, worried and resentful, I stopped at the mailbox on my way to the store. Inside were the usual bills and advertisements, but the last envelope in the bunch was the jackpot. My name and address were written in Hugh’s handwriting. My heart started galloping.
There was a postcard inside.
A Walker Evans photograph of a tired room with only a bed and a side table with a water pitcher on top of it. The wallpaper had long since died and been consumed by the water stains everywhere. Over the bed, the slanting ceiling indicated the room probably sat right under a roof. Without the bed, it was a whore’s room in Tropic of Cancer, or one from an early Hemingway short story about living poor in Paris.
But like alchemy, the improbable whiteness of the sheets and pillow transformed it into a space of sex and infinity. A room you would go to with someone you wanted to fuck again and again. Then the two of you would fall asleep wrapped round each other. There was nothing special about the room except how carefully the bed had been made with ironed, brilliantly white sheets and cases. In those dismal surroundings, the two plumped pillows stood out like crisp clouds. The bedspread was a patchwork quilt. I could smell the staleness of the room, feel its temperature on my skin, and then the touch of whoever would take me there. Nothing was written on the postcard itself, but on a separate sheet of paper, this:
This is all I want with you now: a simple room, one light in the middle of the ceiling hanging on a long line, the kind you see in cheap apartments or hotel rooms no one ever remembers staying in. At night the sad weak light never reaches the far corners. It droops over a room full of shadows. It doesn’t care.
But for us, light doesn’t matter here. The room is clean and bright in the day. Maybe there’s a good view out the window. It is the room I want, a bed wide enough for us to lie in comfortably. Faces close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Your skin is flushed. With my finger, I trace a line from the ledge of your chin down the neck, your shoulder, arm. It makes you smile and shiver. How can you shiver when it’s so warm in here?
I want this room. I want this room with you in it, naked beside me. I don’t know where we are. Maybe by the sea. Or in the middle of a city where the noise through the window is as busy as we are.
The afternoon is ours. The evening and the night too. We’ll be tired by then but we’ll still go out and eat a huge meal. Your body will be wonderfully sore and raw. It will make you smile when we walk to the restaurant. I’ll look at you and ask if anything is wrong. You’ll say no and squeeze my arm. We’ll need this time out in the world to remind ourselves there is something else besides us today, that room, our bodies.
In a noisy restaurant we’ll talk quietly. Voices and faces smoothed by all those hours in bed. Anyone watching us will know we have been fucking. It is so obvious.
Later again in the room when nothing is needed, I want to sleep a few hours, and then wake with you pressed against my side. Maybe I’ll reach for you. Maybe I will only touch your wrist and feel your sleeping, secret pulse. The rest can wait. There’s time now.
Keep this picture with you. Put it on a table, a desk, wherever you are. If someone asks why you have it, say it’s a place where you’d be happy. Look at it and know I am waiting. Look at it again.
I walked out of my building on legs made of wet spaghetti. Out on the street, the world was the same as yesterday but it took two or three blocks to regain my bearings and recognize I was still on planet earth. When I came to, I realized I had been walking with the letter clutched tightly in both hands behind my back. To hold the joy as long as I could, I stopped where I was, closed my eyes and said aloud, “I must remember this. I must remember it as long as I live.”
Opening my eyes again, the first thing I saw was James Stillman.
My heart recognized him before any other part did. And it was calm. It said, “There he is. James is across the street.” He looked the way he had when I’d known him fifteen years before. He was unmistakable, even in the rush of people surrounding him.
He wore a suit and tie. I stood frozen in place. We stared at each other until he lifted an arm and waved to me, slowly, from side to side. The kind of exaggerated wave you give someone who is driving off in a car and you want to be sure they see you until the very last second.
Without thinking, I started out into traffic and was met by screeching brakes and angry horns. When I was halfway across, he began to walk away. By the time I reached the other side he was already far ahead. I began running, but somehow he stayed way in front of me. He went around a corner. When I got there and made the turn, he was twice as far as before. There was no way I could catch up. When I stopped he did too. He turned and did something that was pure James Stillman: He put his open hand against his forehead, then moved it down to his mouth and blew me a big kiss. Whenever we parted he would do that. He’d seen it in an old Arabian Nights film and thought it the coolest gesture—hand to the forehead, to the lips, big kiss. My Arabian Knight, back from the dead.
“I SAW A ghost and I’m in love with a married man.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“Zoe, I’m serious.”
“Married men are alwaysmore delicious than single, Miranda. That’s where the challenge is. And I’ve believed in ghosts all my life. But tell me about Mr. Married first because I’m the expert on that subject.”
We were having lunch. She had come into town for the day. Married boyfriend Hector had ended their relationship and she was at the end of her period of mourning. For weeks I’d suggested a day in the city doing girl things together to take her mind off him and finally she said yes. Now I was doubly glad to meet so I could get her input on my new twilight zones.
“The ghost was James Stillman.”
“Great! Where?”
“On the street near my apartment. He waved to me in that old way, remember?” I did the gesture and she smiled.
“A very romantic fellow, no doubt about it.”
“But Zoe, I sawhim. He looked exactly like he did in high school.”
She folded her napkin a few times and put it on the table. “Remember when we used to do the Ouija board and contacted all those old spirits, or whatever they were? My mother believed when some people die, their souls get tossed into a limbo between life and death. That’s why you can talk to them on a Ouija board or in a seance—they’re half here and half there.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Why else would you want to hang around life if it’s over for you?”
“He was so real. Solid. No ectoplasm or Caspar the Friendly Ghost, hovering a foot above the ground in a white sheet. It was James. Completely real.”
“Maybe it was. You’d have to ask an expert. Why would he come back now? Why not before?”
We didn’t talk about it much beyond that. Neither of us knew what it meant, so further discussion was pointless.
“Tell me about your new man. The alive one.”
I told her in great detail, and along the way we kept having more drinks to help us analyze my new situation.
“You know what just hit me? What if James came back as a sign to tell me not to do this?”
Zoe threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake! If you’re going to feel guilty, don’t blame ghosts. I’m sure they’ve got better things to do than keep tabs on your sexual behaviour.”
“But I haven’t slept with him yet!”
“Miranda?”
Hearing my name spoken in a familiar voice, I turned and saw Doug Auerbach. He was staring at Zoe.
“Dog! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t know I was coming till yesterday. I was going to call later. I’m supposed to have lunch here with a client.”
I introduced him to Zoe and he sat down. Soon it was clear he was interested only in my oldest friend. At first she smiled and laughed politely at his jokes. When his interest hit her, she transformed into a sexy fox. I had never seen her like that. It was fascinating how deftly she handled both Doug and her new role.
Naturally I was disconcerted. Part of me was jealous, possessive. How dare they! The rest remembered Doug’s small place in my life, and Zoe’s goodness. At the appropriate moment, I “suddenly remembered” I had another appointment—and would they mind if I left?
Out on the street again looking for a cab, I felt like Charlotte Oakley, the unwanted third. I shuddered and started walking as fast as I could.
ONE AFTERNOON WHEN his family was away for the weekend, Hugh invited me to their apartment. Easy the bullterrier followed me from room to room. I had on tennis shoes, so the only noise was the tick-tick of Easy’s long toenails on the wooden floors.
This is where he lives. Where shelives. Each object had its own importance and memories. I kept looking at things and asking myself why the Oakleys had them or what they meant. It was a strange archaeology of the living. The man who could decipher it all for me sat in another room, reading the newspaper, but I wasn’t about to ask any questions. Pictures of his children, Charlotte, the family together. On a yellow sailboat, skiing, sitting beneath a large Christmas tree. This was his home, his family, his life. Why was I here? Why put faces to his stories, or see gifts brought back from trips for these people he loved? On the piano was a crystal box full of cigarettes. I picked it up and read the name Waterfordon the underside. A large red-and-white stone ball stood beside it. Crystal and stone. I stroked the cold ball and kept moving.
When I’d asked to see his home, Hugh had not hesitated a moment. They owned a house in East Hampton. The family usually went there on weekends in summer. The first time they went without Hugh, he called and told me the coast was clear. And it wasa coast of sorts; they lived on the east, I lived on the west. If I had been his wife, I would have been enraged to know another woman was in my home, looking at my life, touching it.
So why wasI here? If I was going to be with Hugh, why didn’t I work to keep his two worlds separate and be satisfied with what I had? Because I was greedy. I wanted to know as much about him as I could. That included how he lived when I wasn’t around. By seeing his apartment, I figured, I would be less afraid of what went on there.
I was right: walking through the rooms, I felt calmer seeing that only people lived here, no master race or gods, all impossibly better, stronger, and more heroic than I could ever hope to be.
As a girl, I read every fairy tale and folktale I could find. A story that began, “In an ancient time, when animals spoke the speech of men and even the trees talked together…” was my chocolate pudding. More than anything, I wished my own small world contained such magic. But growing up means learning the world has little magic, animals talk only to each other, and our years go over the tops of the mountains without many marvels ever happening.
What carried over from my childhood was the secret hope that wonders lived somewhere nearby. Dragons and pixies, Difs, Cu Chulainn, Iron Henry, and Mamadreqja, grandmother of witches… I wanted them to beand was still mesmerized by TV shows about angels, yetis, and miracles. I snatched up any copy of the National Enquirerthat headlined sheep born with Elvis’s face, or sightings of the Virgin at a souvlaki stand in Oregon. On the surface I was a briefcase and a business suit, but my heart was always looking for wings.
They were in his study waiting for me, but I wouldn’t know that until many years later. The room was large and bare except for a pine table Hugh used as a desk. It was piled with papers, books, and a computer. On the wall facing the desk were four small paintings of the same woman.
“What do you think?”
I was so involved in looking at them that I hadn’t heard him come in. “I don’t know. I don’t know if they’re fascinating or they scare me.”
“Scare you? Why?” There was no amusement in his voice.
“Who is she?”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t know. Around the time we met, a man came into the office and asked if I wanted to buy them. He didn’t know anything about them. He’d just bought a house in Mississippi and they were in the attic with a bunch of other stuff. I didn’t even haggle about the price.”
“Why do I feel like I know her?”
“Me too! There’s something very familiarabout her. None of them are signed or dated. I have no idea who the artist was. I spent a good deal of time researching. It makes them even more mysterious.”
She was young—in her twenties—and wore her hair down, but not in any special fashion that gave you an idea of the time period. She was attractive but not so much so that it would stop you for a second look.
In one picture she sat on a couch staring straight ahead. In another she was sitting in a garden looking slightly off to the right. The painter was excellent and had genuinely caught her spirit. So often I looked at paintings, even famous ones, and felt a kind of lifelessness in the work, as if beyond a certain invisible point the subject died and became a painting. Not so here.
“Hugh, do you realize that since we met, I got beat up, saw a ghost, made out in a Gap store, and now am looking at pictures of someone I’ve never seen but knowI know.”
“It’s the story of Zitterbart. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“ Zitterbartmeans “trembling beard.” It’s a German fairy tale, but not from the Brothers Grimm. There was a king named Zitterbart who got his name from the fact that whenever he grew angry, his beard shook so much his subjects could feel its breeze in the farthest corners of his kingdom. He was ferocious and whacked off people’s heads if they so much as sneezed the wrong way. But his weak spot was his daughter Senga.
“The princess was madly in love with a knight named Blasius. Zitterbart approved of a marriage between them, but one day Blasius went to battle and died while fighting another knight named Cornelts Brom.”
“Blasius and Brom? Sounds like stomach medicine.”
“Senga was shattered and swore she would kill herself at the next new moon. The king was so frightened that he had the kingdom scoured for every good-looking man and swore if any of them caught her fancy, he would permit the marriage. But no luck. All the most interesting men were brought before her, but she’d take one look and turn to the window to see if the new moon had arrived yet. Zitterbart grew more and more desperate. He sent out a decree that anyman who pleased his daughter would have her hand.
“Cornelts Brom heard about it. He’d also heard how beautiful Senga was, and he decided to have a look. The thing about Brom was, he was the plainest-looking man in the universe. His face was so forgettable people would break off conversations with him in the middle because they forgot he was there. They thought they were talking to themselves. That was why he was such a great warrior: he was essentially invisible.
“As a child he realized if he wanted to make his mark in the world he would have to excel at something, so he became the best fighter around. Plus when he was actually ina sword fight—”
“His opponents forgot he was there.”
Hugh smiled. “Exactly. But Senga wasn’t interested in great fighters, and besides, this man had killed her boyfriend! Brom was clever though and, with his forgettable face, had no problem sneaking into the city for a look at her.
“Every Tuesday the princess went with her lady-in-waiting to the marketplace to shop for food. Brom stood right next to her and watched her squeeze tomatoes, haggle over the price of cucumbers, and fill her basket.
“He instantly pitied her, and pity is a bad place for love to begin. He knew she really would kill herself because he had seen that same doomed expression of absolute hopelessness on men’s faces in battle when all they wanted was the peace of death. A special despair that comes only when people have lost the way back to their own hearts. It was Brom’s fault this had happened to Senga and he was genuinely sorry. Because he was a decent man, he swore that if it were the last thing he ever did, he would help her.
“Living outside the city were three minor devils named Nepomuk, Knud, and Gangolf. They did a good business trading wishes for parts of people’s souls. If you wanted something, you went to these little shits and said, ‘I want to be rich.’ They’d look in their ledgers and say, ‘We want your joy. Give us your ability to feel joy and we’ll make you rich.’ Most people were willing to do it too, not knowing that as soon as they did, they’d give up something much more valuable than riches.”
When he said “little shits” I laughed out loud and rubbed my hands together in expectation. He sat down next to me.
“Brom went to the devils and said he wanted to make the princess happy again. This confused them because they were sure that, with his face, he would wish to be handsome. Then they got into a fight among themselves. Nepomuk wanted Brom’s plain face because he knew that would make him vulnerable on the battlefield. Gangolf wanted his sense of humor because no fighter is ever great without the ability to laugh. Knud insisted on his fear because anyone living without fear is either a fool or dead.
“In the end, they settled for his courage. Brom didn’t hesitate: ‘Take my courage in exchange for the princess’s happiness.’ There was a large clock in the corner of their house. All three devils went over and blew on it. The clock stopped in mid tick and the deal was fixed.
“Back at the castle, the princess stopped looking for the new moon, put a hand over her heart, and started singing. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t help herself.
“At the same time, Brom stood in the doorway of the devils’ house, unable to move because he was afraid of everything. What he didn’t realize was that the devils had given him Senga’s fear, which was what had made her want to die. Life is full of surprises, but if you’re convinced all of them will be bad, what’s the point of going on?” Hugh jumped down from the table and, taking me in his arms, started waltzing us around the room.
“ And?”
“And what?”
“And what happened to Brom?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“ You made all that up?”
“I did.” He dipped me backward.
“What does it have to do with me?”
“When you find your way back to your own heart, amazing things happen. You see ghosts, you fall in love; anything’s possible. I was trying to think up a great end to the story that would tell you all that. But I couldn’t figure out what happened and…
“I wanted to tell a story that would convince you it’s time, Miranda. Time to let go and start trusting me. Let it happen.”
“I dotrust you. I’m just scared.” I pulled away and swept an arm in a wide arc to include his room, his home, his family. “But I’m also ready. Let’s go to my place.”
5. NEVER PET A BURNING DOG
THERE USED TO be a neighborhood dog I liked. Since I didn’t know his name, the second time he visited I started calling him Easy, after Hugh’s bullterrier. The dog didn’t seem to mind. A mixed breed, he had the color and markings of a cow—brown spot here, white there. Midsized, short haired, calm brown eyes, a real dogdog. He came by once or twice a week on his rounds. A gentleman, he invariably stood at the bottom of the porch steps and waited for me to invite him up. I was always happy to see him. When you are my age you have few visitors.
Usually I would be sitting in the rocking chair with a magazine or book or just my old woman’s thoughts. That’s one of the things I like about this house—it has a good sitting porch where whole chunks of a day can be spent daydreaming and contentedly watching this small district of the universe come and go. My house is just off Beechwood Canyon in Los Angeles. During the day most of my neighbors are away at work and their children are in school, so it is surprisingly quiet and peaceful for a street ten minutes from Hollywood Boulevard. Generally the only sounds are occasional snatches of conversation, the hiss of sprinklers or roar of a leaf blower, and the muted but constant hum and thump of traffic on the Hollywood freeway a mile away. It is a good house in which to be old. One floor, a few rooms, not much work to keep it clean. The porch has a view of a peaceful street and good-natured neighbors who wave or smile when they pass.
Whenever Easy came to visit I would give him two Oreo cookies. He knew that was the limit and even if I had the package with me, he would make no attempt to ask for more. The dog had his dignity and never begged or stared with “gimme more” eyes. I liked that. I also liked the way he sat beside me on the porch for a while after he had slowly eaten his cookies. He was my companion for a small part of his day, and we watched life’s passing parade while I’d tell him what I had been thinking. Who wants to listen to you when you are old? A sympathetic dog is better than an empty chair.
Sometimes odd things happened. Once a bird flew so low that it almost hit him. Once a child fell off its bike directly in front of us. Easy looked at me to see if these things were all right—if the world was still in order. I said, “It’s okay, nothing major,” and he went back to watching or sleeping with his head between his paws. Dogs are here to remind us life really is a simple thing. You eat, sleep, take walks, and pee when you must. That’s about all there is. They are quick to forgive trespasses and assume strangers will be kind.
After I heard that someone had poured gasoline over this dog and set it on fire, I realized I could no longer wait for you. These many years, your coming was the only thing I had left to hope for. I genuinely believed it would happen one day. Although I had no idea what would occur when we met, I’ve thought about it constantly. But after Easy was murdered I realized I had to finish this account as soon as possible because we might notmeet before I die. Whether we do or not, this diary will be here to help you. To explain where you really came from. Perhaps that knowledge will save you from some of the awful experiences I have had because not knowing my own history ruined my life.
What is important about the death of a dog when so much else has happened over the years? I can only say it brought the realization it was no longer important whether I continued living or not. I’d thought that moment had come years ago, but I was wrong. Old age arrives like the first days of fall. One afternoon you look up, or smell something in the air, and know instinctively things have changed. I suppose the same thing is true about our own death. Suddenly it’s near enough that we can smell it.
Despite that, I must continue to tell this story. Whether I am still alive or not when you read it, you must know what really happened and why.
IS IT POSSIBLE to properly describe the months right after Hugh and I first became lovers? That means describing happiness, and no words bear the weight of real joy. I can tell you about meals and weekend trips, conversations walking down a street on Block Island in August when the summer air was thick as breath because it was about to rain and the afternoon was suddenly purple everywhere.
Our hearts were always too full. But what does that mean? That each of us had our separate, impossible hopes, which we had brought along like secret extra suitcases.
His small touches on my arm, hair, hand always reminded me of a school of silvery fish that swam up, intensely curious, made contact, then fled at my slightest movement. But I was always moving towardHugh, not away, and after a while when he touched me his hand would stay.
I have never felt so loved in my life. It made me suspicious at first. Like a turtle, I kept pulling my head back into my shell because I was certain a blow was imminent. But as our bond grew stronger, I left my head out and realized how much I had been missing my whole life.
The great surprise was how quickly we understood each other. Even in the best relationships I’d had, certain things were never communicated or understood. No matter how fluent you are in a language, situations arise that stump you for ways to express exactly what needs to be said. Being with Hugh gave me the words, which in turn helped me to know myself better. Trusting him, I opened up in an entirely new way.
Sexually he was marvelous because he had had so much experience. He admitted that for years women had drifted in and out of his life like incense. His wife knew about many of these affairs but they had come to a truce about them: so long as he was discreet and never brought home any part of these other relationships, Charlotte turned a blind eye. Was theirs then only a marriage of convenience? Did she have lovers too? No. She didn’t believe in affairs and no, the marriage was strong and important.
If thatwas true, why had he allowed me to come into his apartment?
“Because I was already gone for you by then. Gone like never before. I would have done anything. I broke every one of my rules.”
“Why, Hugh? Why meafter all those other women? The way you describe some of them, they were incredible.”
“There’s never a satisfying answer to that. No matter what I say, it won’t assure you or lessen your doubts. Love is like an autistic child when it comes to giving good explanations. Sometimes we love things in others they’re not even aware of. Or they think are ridiculous. I love your purse.”
“My purse? Why?”
“I’ve never seen a woman with such a Zen purse. You keep only the most necessary or beautiful things in there. It says so much about you, all of which I cherish and admire. I love the way you put your forehead against my neck when we sleep. And how you put your arm over my shoulder when we’re walking down the street. Like two pals.”
“You aremy pal. My dearest pal. Whenever I write you a letter that’s how I’ll start it—Dearest Pal.”
What did I feel about his wife? What one would expect, made all the more difficult by a quality I liked very much in Hugh: he said only good things about Charlotte, no matter the context. From his description, she was a loving, generous woman who made life better for everyone.
Married people often feel compelled to deride their spouse to a new lover. I knew it from my friends, and particularly from Zoe’s accounts of ex-boyfriend Hector. It makes sense, but it’s neither honest nor brave. We have affairs because we’re greedy. Don’t blame that greed on someone else. People are brilliant at justifying their motives. It’s one of our ugliest talents. Hugh and I wanted each other and were willing to hurt others if it meant the survival of our relationship. There were other explanations and rationalizations, none of them true. We were simply greedy.
When did Charlotte find out about it? I think a couple of months on. Hugh never said, directly, “She knows,” but things came up in conversation that indicated she did. Strangely, the more involved we became, the more like her Ibecame in not wanting to know about his other life. In the beginning I was fascinated to know what they did together. Or what kind of woman he was married to. But one day that stopped. As best I could, I tried to shut her out of my thoughts and ignore the fact she was there.
It worked for a time, but six months on I answered the ringing phone and almost threw up when the tranquil voice on the other end said, “This is Charlotte Oakley.”
“Hello.”
“I think you know why I’m calling.”
“Yes.” I wanted a composed voice too. One that said, I’m ready for this, ready for you; nothing you say will change how I feel.
“My husband told me he was in love with you. I said I was going to call you. He made me promise not to, but some things need to be said before this goes further. I think you should know them.
“He was very frank about your relationship. I don’t know you so I can only go on what he said. Hugh loves women and has had many lovers over the years.”
“He told me.” Was thisthe tack she was going to take? Try to humiliate me by making me feel like just another of his sweeties? Something inside lightened immediately. I pushed hair off my face that had fallen there a moment before, when I sat with it hanging down, like the guilty party.
“I’m sure he has. That’s Hugh’s way. Women love my husband because he is so honest. And funny and pays so much attention that you feel like he’s your alter ego.
“What you don’tknow is his habit of choosing the same kind of woman again and again, Miranda. They’re always pretty and very intelligent. They have something to say. They do interesting things with their lives. But when you get down to the fine print in his job description, they must also be needy. Hugh wants to save you from your dragons. He’s a chivalrous man. I’m sure you need help and he’s here to give it.”
“I’m going to put the phone down.”
For the first time, her voice became cross. “I’m telling you something that will save allof us time and pain! If you are anything like his other girlfriends, you love him because you need him and not the other way around. You’ll fall into this relationship until you’re helpless without him. Maybe you already are. But I warn you, once it happens and he grows bored with your weakness, he’ll leave. He always has. That’s just his way. He’ll do it sweetly and it’ll seem he’s in so much pain that you’ll think it’s your fault, but it isn’t—”
“How can you say these things about your husband?”
She laughed and the tone scared me; it was relaxed, knowing. Here was a subject she knew a great deal about. Talking to me, the beginner, was amusing.
“Has he given you the Kazantzakis autobiography to read yet? Report to Greco. He will. There’s a line in there he loves: They were sparrows and I wanted to make them eagles.’”
I hung up. I had never done that before in my life. I wanted to dismiss her but couldn’t because what she said was right: I wasweak. I didneed him.
For minutes afterward, I hated Hugh and myself equally. Why couldn’t it just be an affair? I would have been content with that. Why couldn’t we just have driven our car up to that point on the road and stopped? Whose fault was it that we had gone so far?
An hour later, I was still sitting in the same chair when he called. I told him about the talk with his wife and that I didn’t want to see him again.
“Wait! Wait, Miranda! Please, you have to know something else. Did she describe our whole conversation? Did she tell you how it happened? I told her I wanted to separate.”
“ What?”
“I told her I was so in love with you that I wanted a separation.”
I took the receiver away from my ear and looked at it aghast, as if it were he. “What are you saying, Hugh? You never told me this!”
“Yes I did, but you didn’t believe it was true.”
“No, not like that you didn’t! I don’t know what’s going on. I amlike your other girlfriends. Charlotte’s right: I’m another weak little bird in your fan club. Why do you want to leave
her—”
“Because I love you!”
“You’ll leave a wife of twenty years and your kids and… Bullshit! I don’t want that responsibility. Or that guilt. I have to go.”
“No, please—”
I put the phone down.
I TRIED TO go back to life before Hugh Oakley and almost succeeded. You can create as much work for yourself as necessary. The problem is the time betweenthings, when thoughts and memories burst out of your brain like shrapnel.
I took trips to California, Boston, and London. In a dreary secondhand bookstall near the Hayward Gallery I found one of the most valuable books I’d ever seen, selling for five pounds. Any other time, I would have done somersaults. This time, tears came to my eyes because the only person I wanted to show the treasure to was Hugh Oakley.
He called constantly. If I washome, I’d force myself to let the answering machine kick in. His messages ranged from quiet to tormented. He sent letters, flowers, and tender gifts that stopped my breath. What he didn’tdo was show up at either my apartment or the store. I was grateful. The last thing I needed was to see him. He must have understood and accepted that, thank God.
I told both Zoe and Frances Hatch what had happened. They disagreed on what I should do. Zoe had had her share of married men and was even more skeptical than I about the possibility of Hugh’s leaving his wife.
“Forget it! They all say that till they know they have you back in their power. Then they get wiggly again. A married man wants the excitement and newness of a lover, combined with the comfort and peace of his family. It’s an impossible and unfaircombination. How could you ever give him both when you’ve only been in his life a few months? Someone said the first wife breaks the man in, while the second gets all the goodies, but I don’t think that’s true. Just the opposite. Even if he leaves his wife, you’ll be carrying ten tons of his guilt around on the back of your relationship until the day you die.
“Do you know the joke about the man who goes to get a new suit made? The tailor measures him and says come back in two weeks. The guy does and puts on the suit. It looks terrible. The left cuff comes down five inches too long, the lapels are completely uneven, the crotch hangs like harem pants. It’s the worst suit in the world. The guy complains but the tailor says he’s seeing it all wrong: ‘What you’ve got to do is pull up the left sleeve and hold it there with your chin. Then ooch your right shoulder up five inches so the lapels are even, put your right hand in the pocket of the pants and pull up the crotch…’ You get the idea.
“So the man does all this and ends up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But when he looks in the mirror again the suitlooks wonderful. The tailor says, That’s the new style these days.’ So the jerk buys the suit and walks out of the store wearing it.
“He’s staggering down the street like Quasimodo and passes two men. They turn around and watch him limp away. The first guy says, ‘I feel so sorry for the handicapped.’ The other says, ‘Yeah, but what a fabulous suit!’
“It’s the best metaphor I’ve ever heard for how we try to make relationships like this work. Or what we do to ourselves to make anythingimportant work. Don’t do it, Miranda. You’ve got so much going for you. You don’t need him, no matter how good you think it is.”
“But what if this is it, Zoe? What if I walk away and it turns out this was the most important relationship in my life? What if the memory’s too big and ends up crushing me?”
“If we’re lucky and find Mr. Right, seventy or eighty percent is there from the beginning. The other twenty you have to create yourself. This is a lot more than twenty percent, Miranda. But if you have to do it, then do. Just make sure to put on a helmet and learn to recognize the sound of incoming shells when they start dropping. Because they will, in clusters!”
A LETTER CAME from Hugh:
I had a dream last night and have no idea what it means. But I wanted to tell you because I think it has to do with us.
I’m in Los Angeles and need a car, so I go to a used car lot and buy an Oldsmobile 88 from the 1960s. It’s canary yellow and in good shape, especially the radio. But what’s really extraordinary is, the engine is a large potato! Someone replaced the original with this giant spud. For some wonderful reason, it works perfectly. I’m driving around L.A. in my old new car with a potato engine and feeling great. I have the only automobile in the world whose engine you could cook and eat if you were hungry.
One day I stop at a light and the engine stalls. That worries me, especially because the thing has well over a hundred thousand miles on it. So I pull into a gas station and tell the mechanic what happened. He opens the hood and isn’t surprised at what he sees. He tells me to drive it into the garage. He and another guy winch the potato out of the car and throw it on the ground. It breaks in half. I’m horrified.
Inside, like any normal tired out engine, it’s glutted with thick black oil and gunk. I ask how much it’ll cost to replace it. They say they can only put in a new, normal motor but it’s not expensive—a few hundred dollars. Right before I wake up, I can’t decide what to do. I keep thinking, Why can’t they put another potato in there. I don’t want a regular engine. What does this mean, Miranda?
“How do I know what it means, Miranda?” Frances Hatch said. “I’m not Carl Jung!
“Your boyfriend had a dream about potatoes and you’re asking meto interpret it? I’m just old. Being old doesn’t mean you know more; it means you ate enough fiber. Most of my life, people didn’t have psychiatry to rely on. If you had a bad dream, it was either something you ate last night or a vivid imagination.
“I don’t believe in interpreting dreams. You should avoid it too. Don’t worry about what Hugh’s dream says; worry about what he says when his eyes are open. If he’s not anxiety-ridden about his wife and kids, don’t you be! Are you his conscience or his lover? I think it’s great he’ll throw everything over for you. That’s the way romance should be!
“It’s arrogant to think you know what’s right. Morality is only cowardice most of the time. We don’t avoid misbehaving because it’s not proper; what we’re really afraid of is how far down it looks to the bottom. It isfar, and you may getkilled when you hit. But sometimes you survive the jump, and down there the world is a million times better than where you’re living now.”
WHEN I CALLED to say I wanted to see him, Hugh asked what had changed my mind. I said the days were dead without him and I couldn’t stand it anymore.
We met on neutral ground—a favorite restaurant—but we were out of there and back in my bed within an hour.
If I’d had any fears he would leave, they disappeared quickly. He moved into my apartment within two weeks. He brought so little with him that I worried he might be thinking of the move as a test drive: since all of his belongings were still at his place, he could always go back to them if we failed.
But one Saturday when he was at his office, the doorbell downstairs rang. A furniture store was there to deliver a big cushy chair I hadn’t ordered. When they said a Hugh Oakley had, I clapped my hands. Hugh loved reading at night but said it could only be done in a perfect chair. Now he had bought one for his new home.
Charlotte refused to let me meet their children. She was convinced I was only a blip on the screen of her husband’s Midlife Crisis. Consequently, when he came to his senses, they would reconcile and I’d be yesterday’s news. Why expose their children to further confusion?
Hugh didn’t care what she felt and was adamant about my spending time with them. I said no. They lived in a parallel universe I was not yet part of. There would be time in the future. Secretly I was petrified of what would happen when we did meet. I imagined two children glaring with fiery eyes that would melt me before I had a chance to say I would do anything to be their friend.
He missed his kids terribly, so I encouraged him to see them whenever he could. I knew in certain ways he missed Charlotte too. I was sure there were conversations and meetings going on between them that he never told me about. His emotions tacked back and forth like a sailboat in a gale.
“Sure. Did you know Babe Ruth had a small head for a man his size? Seven and three-eighths.” His expression didn’t change. I asked a passing saleswoman where the changing rooms were. When she pointed them out, I took his hand and pulled him behind me.
Another saleswoman stood outside the dressing rooms, but she didn’t seem surprised when we entered together. It was very narrow inside. I whipped the curtain across, dropped the pants on the floor, and turned to him. A foot apart, I could smell him for the first time. We had never been this close. Orange-and-cinnamon cologne, tobacco, a slight sourness that was already delicious.
Reaching up, I slid his cap off and kissed him. His lips were softer than I had imagined. They gave nothing yet because it was up to me now and we both knew that was necessary. I slid my arms up his back but didn’t pull him close.
He reached up and stroked the back of my head. We stared.
“Will we be friends too?” I slid a finger down one of the wrinkles alongside his mouth. It was so deep.
“It can only work that way.” He took my finger and kissed it.
“I want to lick your spine.”
Nothing else happened. We made out for a steaming minute or two, then left the dressing room smiling like lottery winners. Hugh insisted on buying the cap as a souvenir. He wore it the rest of the day as we walked around the city and deeper into each other’s lives.
Whatever bad thoughts came to my mind—his nice wife, his children—had almost no gravity. The good thoughts, the hopes, the thrilling possibilities had the weight of mountains. I knew this was the beginning of something bad for all concerned, no matter how cleverly it could be justified. I had never been with a married man although there had been ample opportunities. I believed what goes around comes around. If I did the snug dance with someone’s husband, surely the gods would find an appalling form of payback.
We stood outside a subway entrance. Our day was over. He was going back to his other life where his family waited for him and suspected nothing. We looked at each other with the increased hunger separation always brings.
“Are you going to get your dog?”
“Yup. Then I’ll walk her home and think about you.”
“I’m thinking about your family.”
He shook his head. “That does no good.”
“But I’m new to this. Sooner or later it’s going to come out.”
“Miranda, sooner or later we’re going to die. I used to think a lot about sooner or later, but you know what? Sooner suddenly became later and I realized I’d wasted too much time worrying about it, rather than living it.”
“A friend of mine asked if I would rather love or be loved. I’d rather love.”
He nodded. “Then that’s your answer. I have to go.”
We kissed; he touched my throat, then moved toward the subway steps. Halfway down them, he turned and his face lit up in the greatest smile. “Where have you been? Where have you been all this time?”
I DIDN’T HEAR from him for two days. Imagine how loud that silence was. On the third, worried and resentful, I stopped at the mailbox on my way to the store. Inside were the usual bills and advertisements, but the last envelope in the bunch was the jackpot. My name and address were written in Hugh’s handwriting. My heart started galloping.
There was a postcard inside.
A Walker Evans photograph of a tired room with only a bed and a side table with a water pitcher on top of it. The wallpaper had long since died and been consumed by the water stains everywhere. Over the bed, the slanting ceiling indicated the room probably sat right under a roof. Without the bed, it was a whore’s room in Tropic of Cancer, or one from an early Hemingway short story about living poor in Paris.
But like alchemy, the improbable whiteness of the sheets and pillow transformed it into a space of sex and infinity. A room you would go to with someone you wanted to fuck again and again. Then the two of you would fall asleep wrapped round each other. There was nothing special about the room except how carefully the bed had been made with ironed, brilliantly white sheets and cases. In those dismal surroundings, the two plumped pillows stood out like crisp clouds. The bedspread was a patchwork quilt. I could smell the staleness of the room, feel its temperature on my skin, and then the touch of whoever would take me there. Nothing was written on the postcard itself, but on a separate sheet of paper, this:
This is all I want with you now: a simple room, one light in the middle of the ceiling hanging on a long line, the kind you see in cheap apartments or hotel rooms no one ever remembers staying in. At night the sad weak light never reaches the far corners. It droops over a room full of shadows. It doesn’t care.
But for us, light doesn’t matter here. The room is clean and bright in the day. Maybe there’s a good view out the window. It is the room I want, a bed wide enough for us to lie in comfortably. Faces close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Your skin is flushed. With my finger, I trace a line from the ledge of your chin down the neck, your shoulder, arm. It makes you smile and shiver. How can you shiver when it’s so warm in here?
I want this room. I want this room with you in it, naked beside me. I don’t know where we are. Maybe by the sea. Or in the middle of a city where the noise through the window is as busy as we are.
The afternoon is ours. The evening and the night too. We’ll be tired by then but we’ll still go out and eat a huge meal. Your body will be wonderfully sore and raw. It will make you smile when we walk to the restaurant. I’ll look at you and ask if anything is wrong. You’ll say no and squeeze my arm. We’ll need this time out in the world to remind ourselves there is something else besides us today, that room, our bodies.
In a noisy restaurant we’ll talk quietly. Voices and faces smoothed by all those hours in bed. Anyone watching us will know we have been fucking. It is so obvious.
Later again in the room when nothing is needed, I want to sleep a few hours, and then wake with you pressed against my side. Maybe I’ll reach for you. Maybe I will only touch your wrist and feel your sleeping, secret pulse. The rest can wait. There’s time now.
Keep this picture with you. Put it on a table, a desk, wherever you are. If someone asks why you have it, say it’s a place where you’d be happy. Look at it and know I am waiting. Look at it again.
I walked out of my building on legs made of wet spaghetti. Out on the street, the world was the same as yesterday but it took two or three blocks to regain my bearings and recognize I was still on planet earth. When I came to, I realized I had been walking with the letter clutched tightly in both hands behind my back. To hold the joy as long as I could, I stopped where I was, closed my eyes and said aloud, “I must remember this. I must remember it as long as I live.”
Opening my eyes again, the first thing I saw was James Stillman.
My heart recognized him before any other part did. And it was calm. It said, “There he is. James is across the street.” He looked the way he had when I’d known him fifteen years before. He was unmistakable, even in the rush of people surrounding him.
He wore a suit and tie. I stood frozen in place. We stared at each other until he lifted an arm and waved to me, slowly, from side to side. The kind of exaggerated wave you give someone who is driving off in a car and you want to be sure they see you until the very last second.
Without thinking, I started out into traffic and was met by screeching brakes and angry horns. When I was halfway across, he began to walk away. By the time I reached the other side he was already far ahead. I began running, but somehow he stayed way in front of me. He went around a corner. When I got there and made the turn, he was twice as far as before. There was no way I could catch up. When I stopped he did too. He turned and did something that was pure James Stillman: He put his open hand against his forehead, then moved it down to his mouth and blew me a big kiss. Whenever we parted he would do that. He’d seen it in an old Arabian Nights film and thought it the coolest gesture—hand to the forehead, to the lips, big kiss. My Arabian Knight, back from the dead.
“I SAW A ghost and I’m in love with a married man.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“Zoe, I’m serious.”
“Married men are alwaysmore delicious than single, Miranda. That’s where the challenge is. And I’ve believed in ghosts all my life. But tell me about Mr. Married first because I’m the expert on that subject.”
We were having lunch. She had come into town for the day. Married boyfriend Hector had ended their relationship and she was at the end of her period of mourning. For weeks I’d suggested a day in the city doing girl things together to take her mind off him and finally she said yes. Now I was doubly glad to meet so I could get her input on my new twilight zones.
“The ghost was James Stillman.”
“Great! Where?”
“On the street near my apartment. He waved to me in that old way, remember?” I did the gesture and she smiled.
“A very romantic fellow, no doubt about it.”
“But Zoe, I sawhim. He looked exactly like he did in high school.”
She folded her napkin a few times and put it on the table. “Remember when we used to do the Ouija board and contacted all those old spirits, or whatever they were? My mother believed when some people die, their souls get tossed into a limbo between life and death. That’s why you can talk to them on a Ouija board or in a seance—they’re half here and half there.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Why else would you want to hang around life if it’s over for you?”
“He was so real. Solid. No ectoplasm or Caspar the Friendly Ghost, hovering a foot above the ground in a white sheet. It was James. Completely real.”
“Maybe it was. You’d have to ask an expert. Why would he come back now? Why not before?”
We didn’t talk about it much beyond that. Neither of us knew what it meant, so further discussion was pointless.
“Tell me about your new man. The alive one.”
I told her in great detail, and along the way we kept having more drinks to help us analyze my new situation.
“You know what just hit me? What if James came back as a sign to tell me not to do this?”
Zoe threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake! If you’re going to feel guilty, don’t blame ghosts. I’m sure they’ve got better things to do than keep tabs on your sexual behaviour.”
“But I haven’t slept with him yet!”
“Miranda?”
Hearing my name spoken in a familiar voice, I turned and saw Doug Auerbach. He was staring at Zoe.
“Dog! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t know I was coming till yesterday. I was going to call later. I’m supposed to have lunch here with a client.”
I introduced him to Zoe and he sat down. Soon it was clear he was interested only in my oldest friend. At first she smiled and laughed politely at his jokes. When his interest hit her, she transformed into a sexy fox. I had never seen her like that. It was fascinating how deftly she handled both Doug and her new role.
Naturally I was disconcerted. Part of me was jealous, possessive. How dare they! The rest remembered Doug’s small place in my life, and Zoe’s goodness. At the appropriate moment, I “suddenly remembered” I had another appointment—and would they mind if I left?
Out on the street again looking for a cab, I felt like Charlotte Oakley, the unwanted third. I shuddered and started walking as fast as I could.
ONE AFTERNOON WHEN his family was away for the weekend, Hugh invited me to their apartment. Easy the bullterrier followed me from room to room. I had on tennis shoes, so the only noise was the tick-tick of Easy’s long toenails on the wooden floors.
This is where he lives. Where shelives. Each object had its own importance and memories. I kept looking at things and asking myself why the Oakleys had them or what they meant. It was a strange archaeology of the living. The man who could decipher it all for me sat in another room, reading the newspaper, but I wasn’t about to ask any questions. Pictures of his children, Charlotte, the family together. On a yellow sailboat, skiing, sitting beneath a large Christmas tree. This was his home, his family, his life. Why was I here? Why put faces to his stories, or see gifts brought back from trips for these people he loved? On the piano was a crystal box full of cigarettes. I picked it up and read the name Waterfordon the underside. A large red-and-white stone ball stood beside it. Crystal and stone. I stroked the cold ball and kept moving.
When I’d asked to see his home, Hugh had not hesitated a moment. They owned a house in East Hampton. The family usually went there on weekends in summer. The first time they went without Hugh, he called and told me the coast was clear. And it wasa coast of sorts; they lived on the east, I lived on the west. If I had been his wife, I would have been enraged to know another woman was in my home, looking at my life, touching it.
So why wasI here? If I was going to be with Hugh, why didn’t I work to keep his two worlds separate and be satisfied with what I had? Because I was greedy. I wanted to know as much about him as I could. That included how he lived when I wasn’t around. By seeing his apartment, I figured, I would be less afraid of what went on there.
I was right: walking through the rooms, I felt calmer seeing that only people lived here, no master race or gods, all impossibly better, stronger, and more heroic than I could ever hope to be.
As a girl, I read every fairy tale and folktale I could find. A story that began, “In an ancient time, when animals spoke the speech of men and even the trees talked together…” was my chocolate pudding. More than anything, I wished my own small world contained such magic. But growing up means learning the world has little magic, animals talk only to each other, and our years go over the tops of the mountains without many marvels ever happening.
What carried over from my childhood was the secret hope that wonders lived somewhere nearby. Dragons and pixies, Difs, Cu Chulainn, Iron Henry, and Mamadreqja, grandmother of witches… I wanted them to beand was still mesmerized by TV shows about angels, yetis, and miracles. I snatched up any copy of the National Enquirerthat headlined sheep born with Elvis’s face, or sightings of the Virgin at a souvlaki stand in Oregon. On the surface I was a briefcase and a business suit, but my heart was always looking for wings.
They were in his study waiting for me, but I wouldn’t know that until many years later. The room was large and bare except for a pine table Hugh used as a desk. It was piled with papers, books, and a computer. On the wall facing the desk were four small paintings of the same woman.
“What do you think?”
I was so involved in looking at them that I hadn’t heard him come in. “I don’t know. I don’t know if they’re fascinating or they scare me.”
“Scare you? Why?” There was no amusement in his voice.
“Who is she?”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t know. Around the time we met, a man came into the office and asked if I wanted to buy them. He didn’t know anything about them. He’d just bought a house in Mississippi and they were in the attic with a bunch of other stuff. I didn’t even haggle about the price.”
“Why do I feel like I know her?”
“Me too! There’s something very familiarabout her. None of them are signed or dated. I have no idea who the artist was. I spent a good deal of time researching. It makes them even more mysterious.”
She was young—in her twenties—and wore her hair down, but not in any special fashion that gave you an idea of the time period. She was attractive but not so much so that it would stop you for a second look.
In one picture she sat on a couch staring straight ahead. In another she was sitting in a garden looking slightly off to the right. The painter was excellent and had genuinely caught her spirit. So often I looked at paintings, even famous ones, and felt a kind of lifelessness in the work, as if beyond a certain invisible point the subject died and became a painting. Not so here.
“Hugh, do you realize that since we met, I got beat up, saw a ghost, made out in a Gap store, and now am looking at pictures of someone I’ve never seen but knowI know.”
“It’s the story of Zitterbart. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“ Zitterbartmeans “trembling beard.” It’s a German fairy tale, but not from the Brothers Grimm. There was a king named Zitterbart who got his name from the fact that whenever he grew angry, his beard shook so much his subjects could feel its breeze in the farthest corners of his kingdom. He was ferocious and whacked off people’s heads if they so much as sneezed the wrong way. But his weak spot was his daughter Senga.
“The princess was madly in love with a knight named Blasius. Zitterbart approved of a marriage between them, but one day Blasius went to battle and died while fighting another knight named Cornelts Brom.”
“Blasius and Brom? Sounds like stomach medicine.”
“Senga was shattered and swore she would kill herself at the next new moon. The king was so frightened that he had the kingdom scoured for every good-looking man and swore if any of them caught her fancy, he would permit the marriage. But no luck. All the most interesting men were brought before her, but she’d take one look and turn to the window to see if the new moon had arrived yet. Zitterbart grew more and more desperate. He sent out a decree that anyman who pleased his daughter would have her hand.
“Cornelts Brom heard about it. He’d also heard how beautiful Senga was, and he decided to have a look. The thing about Brom was, he was the plainest-looking man in the universe. His face was so forgettable people would break off conversations with him in the middle because they forgot he was there. They thought they were talking to themselves. That was why he was such a great warrior: he was essentially invisible.
“As a child he realized if he wanted to make his mark in the world he would have to excel at something, so he became the best fighter around. Plus when he was actually ina sword fight—”
“His opponents forgot he was there.”
Hugh smiled. “Exactly. But Senga wasn’t interested in great fighters, and besides, this man had killed her boyfriend! Brom was clever though and, with his forgettable face, had no problem sneaking into the city for a look at her.
“Every Tuesday the princess went with her lady-in-waiting to the marketplace to shop for food. Brom stood right next to her and watched her squeeze tomatoes, haggle over the price of cucumbers, and fill her basket.
“He instantly pitied her, and pity is a bad place for love to begin. He knew she really would kill herself because he had seen that same doomed expression of absolute hopelessness on men’s faces in battle when all they wanted was the peace of death. A special despair that comes only when people have lost the way back to their own hearts. It was Brom’s fault this had happened to Senga and he was genuinely sorry. Because he was a decent man, he swore that if it were the last thing he ever did, he would help her.
“Living outside the city were three minor devils named Nepomuk, Knud, and Gangolf. They did a good business trading wishes for parts of people’s souls. If you wanted something, you went to these little shits and said, ‘I want to be rich.’ They’d look in their ledgers and say, ‘We want your joy. Give us your ability to feel joy and we’ll make you rich.’ Most people were willing to do it too, not knowing that as soon as they did, they’d give up something much more valuable than riches.”
When he said “little shits” I laughed out loud and rubbed my hands together in expectation. He sat down next to me.
“Brom went to the devils and said he wanted to make the princess happy again. This confused them because they were sure that, with his face, he would wish to be handsome. Then they got into a fight among themselves. Nepomuk wanted Brom’s plain face because he knew that would make him vulnerable on the battlefield. Gangolf wanted his sense of humor because no fighter is ever great without the ability to laugh. Knud insisted on his fear because anyone living without fear is either a fool or dead.
“In the end, they settled for his courage. Brom didn’t hesitate: ‘Take my courage in exchange for the princess’s happiness.’ There was a large clock in the corner of their house. All three devils went over and blew on it. The clock stopped in mid tick and the deal was fixed.
“Back at the castle, the princess stopped looking for the new moon, put a hand over her heart, and started singing. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t help herself.
“At the same time, Brom stood in the doorway of the devils’ house, unable to move because he was afraid of everything. What he didn’t realize was that the devils had given him Senga’s fear, which was what had made her want to die. Life is full of surprises, but if you’re convinced all of them will be bad, what’s the point of going on?” Hugh jumped down from the table and, taking me in his arms, started waltzing us around the room.
“ And?”
“And what?”
“And what happened to Brom?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“ You made all that up?”
“I did.” He dipped me backward.
“What does it have to do with me?”
“When you find your way back to your own heart, amazing things happen. You see ghosts, you fall in love; anything’s possible. I was trying to think up a great end to the story that would tell you all that. But I couldn’t figure out what happened and…
“I wanted to tell a story that would convince you it’s time, Miranda. Time to let go and start trusting me. Let it happen.”
“I dotrust you. I’m just scared.” I pulled away and swept an arm in a wide arc to include his room, his home, his family. “But I’m also ready. Let’s go to my place.”
5. NEVER PET A BURNING DOG
THERE USED TO be a neighborhood dog I liked. Since I didn’t know his name, the second time he visited I started calling him Easy, after Hugh’s bullterrier. The dog didn’t seem to mind. A mixed breed, he had the color and markings of a cow—brown spot here, white there. Midsized, short haired, calm brown eyes, a real dogdog. He came by once or twice a week on his rounds. A gentleman, he invariably stood at the bottom of the porch steps and waited for me to invite him up. I was always happy to see him. When you are my age you have few visitors.
Usually I would be sitting in the rocking chair with a magazine or book or just my old woman’s thoughts. That’s one of the things I like about this house—it has a good sitting porch where whole chunks of a day can be spent daydreaming and contentedly watching this small district of the universe come and go. My house is just off Beechwood Canyon in Los Angeles. During the day most of my neighbors are away at work and their children are in school, so it is surprisingly quiet and peaceful for a street ten minutes from Hollywood Boulevard. Generally the only sounds are occasional snatches of conversation, the hiss of sprinklers or roar of a leaf blower, and the muted but constant hum and thump of traffic on the Hollywood freeway a mile away. It is a good house in which to be old. One floor, a few rooms, not much work to keep it clean. The porch has a view of a peaceful street and good-natured neighbors who wave or smile when they pass.
Whenever Easy came to visit I would give him two Oreo cookies. He knew that was the limit and even if I had the package with me, he would make no attempt to ask for more. The dog had his dignity and never begged or stared with “gimme more” eyes. I liked that. I also liked the way he sat beside me on the porch for a while after he had slowly eaten his cookies. He was my companion for a small part of his day, and we watched life’s passing parade while I’d tell him what I had been thinking. Who wants to listen to you when you are old? A sympathetic dog is better than an empty chair.
Sometimes odd things happened. Once a bird flew so low that it almost hit him. Once a child fell off its bike directly in front of us. Easy looked at me to see if these things were all right—if the world was still in order. I said, “It’s okay, nothing major,” and he went back to watching or sleeping with his head between his paws. Dogs are here to remind us life really is a simple thing. You eat, sleep, take walks, and pee when you must. That’s about all there is. They are quick to forgive trespasses and assume strangers will be kind.
After I heard that someone had poured gasoline over this dog and set it on fire, I realized I could no longer wait for you. These many years, your coming was the only thing I had left to hope for. I genuinely believed it would happen one day. Although I had no idea what would occur when we met, I’ve thought about it constantly. But after Easy was murdered I realized I had to finish this account as soon as possible because we might notmeet before I die. Whether we do or not, this diary will be here to help you. To explain where you really came from. Perhaps that knowledge will save you from some of the awful experiences I have had because not knowing my own history ruined my life.
What is important about the death of a dog when so much else has happened over the years? I can only say it brought the realization it was no longer important whether I continued living or not. I’d thought that moment had come years ago, but I was wrong. Old age arrives like the first days of fall. One afternoon you look up, or smell something in the air, and know instinctively things have changed. I suppose the same thing is true about our own death. Suddenly it’s near enough that we can smell it.
Despite that, I must continue to tell this story. Whether I am still alive or not when you read it, you must know what really happened and why.
IS IT POSSIBLE to properly describe the months right after Hugh and I first became lovers? That means describing happiness, and no words bear the weight of real joy. I can tell you about meals and weekend trips, conversations walking down a street on Block Island in August when the summer air was thick as breath because it was about to rain and the afternoon was suddenly purple everywhere.
Our hearts were always too full. But what does that mean? That each of us had our separate, impossible hopes, which we had brought along like secret extra suitcases.
His small touches on my arm, hair, hand always reminded me of a school of silvery fish that swam up, intensely curious, made contact, then fled at my slightest movement. But I was always moving towardHugh, not away, and after a while when he touched me his hand would stay.
I have never felt so loved in my life. It made me suspicious at first. Like a turtle, I kept pulling my head back into my shell because I was certain a blow was imminent. But as our bond grew stronger, I left my head out and realized how much I had been missing my whole life.
The great surprise was how quickly we understood each other. Even in the best relationships I’d had, certain things were never communicated or understood. No matter how fluent you are in a language, situations arise that stump you for ways to express exactly what needs to be said. Being with Hugh gave me the words, which in turn helped me to know myself better. Trusting him, I opened up in an entirely new way.
Sexually he was marvelous because he had had so much experience. He admitted that for years women had drifted in and out of his life like incense. His wife knew about many of these affairs but they had come to a truce about them: so long as he was discreet and never brought home any part of these other relationships, Charlotte turned a blind eye. Was theirs then only a marriage of convenience? Did she have lovers too? No. She didn’t believe in affairs and no, the marriage was strong and important.
If thatwas true, why had he allowed me to come into his apartment?
“Because I was already gone for you by then. Gone like never before. I would have done anything. I broke every one of my rules.”
“Why, Hugh? Why meafter all those other women? The way you describe some of them, they were incredible.”
“There’s never a satisfying answer to that. No matter what I say, it won’t assure you or lessen your doubts. Love is like an autistic child when it comes to giving good explanations. Sometimes we love things in others they’re not even aware of. Or they think are ridiculous. I love your purse.”
“My purse? Why?”
“I’ve never seen a woman with such a Zen purse. You keep only the most necessary or beautiful things in there. It says so much about you, all of which I cherish and admire. I love the way you put your forehead against my neck when we sleep. And how you put your arm over my shoulder when we’re walking down the street. Like two pals.”
“You aremy pal. My dearest pal. Whenever I write you a letter that’s how I’ll start it—Dearest Pal.”
What did I feel about his wife? What one would expect, made all the more difficult by a quality I liked very much in Hugh: he said only good things about Charlotte, no matter the context. From his description, she was a loving, generous woman who made life better for everyone.
Married people often feel compelled to deride their spouse to a new lover. I knew it from my friends, and particularly from Zoe’s accounts of ex-boyfriend Hector. It makes sense, but it’s neither honest nor brave. We have affairs because we’re greedy. Don’t blame that greed on someone else. People are brilliant at justifying their motives. It’s one of our ugliest talents. Hugh and I wanted each other and were willing to hurt others if it meant the survival of our relationship. There were other explanations and rationalizations, none of them true. We were simply greedy.
When did Charlotte find out about it? I think a couple of months on. Hugh never said, directly, “She knows,” but things came up in conversation that indicated she did. Strangely, the more involved we became, the more like her Ibecame in not wanting to know about his other life. In the beginning I was fascinated to know what they did together. Or what kind of woman he was married to. But one day that stopped. As best I could, I tried to shut her out of my thoughts and ignore the fact she was there.
It worked for a time, but six months on I answered the ringing phone and almost threw up when the tranquil voice on the other end said, “This is Charlotte Oakley.”
“Hello.”
“I think you know why I’m calling.”
“Yes.” I wanted a composed voice too. One that said, I’m ready for this, ready for you; nothing you say will change how I feel.
“My husband told me he was in love with you. I said I was going to call you. He made me promise not to, but some things need to be said before this goes further. I think you should know them.
“He was very frank about your relationship. I don’t know you so I can only go on what he said. Hugh loves women and has had many lovers over the years.”
“He told me.” Was thisthe tack she was going to take? Try to humiliate me by making me feel like just another of his sweeties? Something inside lightened immediately. I pushed hair off my face that had fallen there a moment before, when I sat with it hanging down, like the guilty party.
“I’m sure he has. That’s Hugh’s way. Women love my husband because he is so honest. And funny and pays so much attention that you feel like he’s your alter ego.
“What you don’tknow is his habit of choosing the same kind of woman again and again, Miranda. They’re always pretty and very intelligent. They have something to say. They do interesting things with their lives. But when you get down to the fine print in his job description, they must also be needy. Hugh wants to save you from your dragons. He’s a chivalrous man. I’m sure you need help and he’s here to give it.”
“I’m going to put the phone down.”
For the first time, her voice became cross. “I’m telling you something that will save allof us time and pain! If you are anything like his other girlfriends, you love him because you need him and not the other way around. You’ll fall into this relationship until you’re helpless without him. Maybe you already are. But I warn you, once it happens and he grows bored with your weakness, he’ll leave. He always has. That’s just his way. He’ll do it sweetly and it’ll seem he’s in so much pain that you’ll think it’s your fault, but it isn’t—”
“How can you say these things about your husband?”
She laughed and the tone scared me; it was relaxed, knowing. Here was a subject she knew a great deal about. Talking to me, the beginner, was amusing.
“Has he given you the Kazantzakis autobiography to read yet? Report to Greco. He will. There’s a line in there he loves: They were sparrows and I wanted to make them eagles.’”
I hung up. I had never done that before in my life. I wanted to dismiss her but couldn’t because what she said was right: I wasweak. I didneed him.
For minutes afterward, I hated Hugh and myself equally. Why couldn’t it just be an affair? I would have been content with that. Why couldn’t we just have driven our car up to that point on the road and stopped? Whose fault was it that we had gone so far?
An hour later, I was still sitting in the same chair when he called. I told him about the talk with his wife and that I didn’t want to see him again.
“Wait! Wait, Miranda! Please, you have to know something else. Did she describe our whole conversation? Did she tell you how it happened? I told her I wanted to separate.”
“ What?”
“I told her I was so in love with you that I wanted a separation.”
I took the receiver away from my ear and looked at it aghast, as if it were he. “What are you saying, Hugh? You never told me this!”
“Yes I did, but you didn’t believe it was true.”
“No, not like that you didn’t! I don’t know what’s going on. I amlike your other girlfriends. Charlotte’s right: I’m another weak little bird in your fan club. Why do you want to leave
her—”
“Because I love you!”
“You’ll leave a wife of twenty years and your kids and… Bullshit! I don’t want that responsibility. Or that guilt. I have to go.”
“No, please—”
I put the phone down.
I TRIED TO go back to life before Hugh Oakley and almost succeeded. You can create as much work for yourself as necessary. The problem is the time betweenthings, when thoughts and memories burst out of your brain like shrapnel.
I took trips to California, Boston, and London. In a dreary secondhand bookstall near the Hayward Gallery I found one of the most valuable books I’d ever seen, selling for five pounds. Any other time, I would have done somersaults. This time, tears came to my eyes because the only person I wanted to show the treasure to was Hugh Oakley.
He called constantly. If I washome, I’d force myself to let the answering machine kick in. His messages ranged from quiet to tormented. He sent letters, flowers, and tender gifts that stopped my breath. What he didn’tdo was show up at either my apartment or the store. I was grateful. The last thing I needed was to see him. He must have understood and accepted that, thank God.
I told both Zoe and Frances Hatch what had happened. They disagreed on what I should do. Zoe had had her share of married men and was even more skeptical than I about the possibility of Hugh’s leaving his wife.
“Forget it! They all say that till they know they have you back in their power. Then they get wiggly again. A married man wants the excitement and newness of a lover, combined with the comfort and peace of his family. It’s an impossible and unfaircombination. How could you ever give him both when you’ve only been in his life a few months? Someone said the first wife breaks the man in, while the second gets all the goodies, but I don’t think that’s true. Just the opposite. Even if he leaves his wife, you’ll be carrying ten tons of his guilt around on the back of your relationship until the day you die.
“Do you know the joke about the man who goes to get a new suit made? The tailor measures him and says come back in two weeks. The guy does and puts on the suit. It looks terrible. The left cuff comes down five inches too long, the lapels are completely uneven, the crotch hangs like harem pants. It’s the worst suit in the world. The guy complains but the tailor says he’s seeing it all wrong: ‘What you’ve got to do is pull up the left sleeve and hold it there with your chin. Then ooch your right shoulder up five inches so the lapels are even, put your right hand in the pocket of the pants and pull up the crotch…’ You get the idea.
“So the man does all this and ends up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But when he looks in the mirror again the suitlooks wonderful. The tailor says, That’s the new style these days.’ So the jerk buys the suit and walks out of the store wearing it.
“He’s staggering down the street like Quasimodo and passes two men. They turn around and watch him limp away. The first guy says, ‘I feel so sorry for the handicapped.’ The other says, ‘Yeah, but what a fabulous suit!’
“It’s the best metaphor I’ve ever heard for how we try to make relationships like this work. Or what we do to ourselves to make anythingimportant work. Don’t do it, Miranda. You’ve got so much going for you. You don’t need him, no matter how good you think it is.”
“But what if this is it, Zoe? What if I walk away and it turns out this was the most important relationship in my life? What if the memory’s too big and ends up crushing me?”
“If we’re lucky and find Mr. Right, seventy or eighty percent is there from the beginning. The other twenty you have to create yourself. This is a lot more than twenty percent, Miranda. But if you have to do it, then do. Just make sure to put on a helmet and learn to recognize the sound of incoming shells when they start dropping. Because they will, in clusters!”
A LETTER CAME from Hugh:
I had a dream last night and have no idea what it means. But I wanted to tell you because I think it has to do with us.
I’m in Los Angeles and need a car, so I go to a used car lot and buy an Oldsmobile 88 from the 1960s. It’s canary yellow and in good shape, especially the radio. But what’s really extraordinary is, the engine is a large potato! Someone replaced the original with this giant spud. For some wonderful reason, it works perfectly. I’m driving around L.A. in my old new car with a potato engine and feeling great. I have the only automobile in the world whose engine you could cook and eat if you were hungry.
One day I stop at a light and the engine stalls. That worries me, especially because the thing has well over a hundred thousand miles on it. So I pull into a gas station and tell the mechanic what happened. He opens the hood and isn’t surprised at what he sees. He tells me to drive it into the garage. He and another guy winch the potato out of the car and throw it on the ground. It breaks in half. I’m horrified.
Inside, like any normal tired out engine, it’s glutted with thick black oil and gunk. I ask how much it’ll cost to replace it. They say they can only put in a new, normal motor but it’s not expensive—a few hundred dollars. Right before I wake up, I can’t decide what to do. I keep thinking, Why can’t they put another potato in there. I don’t want a regular engine. What does this mean, Miranda?
“How do I know what it means, Miranda?” Frances Hatch said. “I’m not Carl Jung!
“Your boyfriend had a dream about potatoes and you’re asking meto interpret it? I’m just old. Being old doesn’t mean you know more; it means you ate enough fiber. Most of my life, people didn’t have psychiatry to rely on. If you had a bad dream, it was either something you ate last night or a vivid imagination.
“I don’t believe in interpreting dreams. You should avoid it too. Don’t worry about what Hugh’s dream says; worry about what he says when his eyes are open. If he’s not anxiety-ridden about his wife and kids, don’t you be! Are you his conscience or his lover? I think it’s great he’ll throw everything over for you. That’s the way romance should be!
“It’s arrogant to think you know what’s right. Morality is only cowardice most of the time. We don’t avoid misbehaving because it’s not proper; what we’re really afraid of is how far down it looks to the bottom. It isfar, and you may getkilled when you hit. But sometimes you survive the jump, and down there the world is a million times better than where you’re living now.”
WHEN I CALLED to say I wanted to see him, Hugh asked what had changed my mind. I said the days were dead without him and I couldn’t stand it anymore.
We met on neutral ground—a favorite restaurant—but we were out of there and back in my bed within an hour.
If I’d had any fears he would leave, they disappeared quickly. He moved into my apartment within two weeks. He brought so little with him that I worried he might be thinking of the move as a test drive: since all of his belongings were still at his place, he could always go back to them if we failed.
But one Saturday when he was at his office, the doorbell downstairs rang. A furniture store was there to deliver a big cushy chair I hadn’t ordered. When they said a Hugh Oakley had, I clapped my hands. Hugh loved reading at night but said it could only be done in a perfect chair. Now he had bought one for his new home.
Charlotte refused to let me meet their children. She was convinced I was only a blip on the screen of her husband’s Midlife Crisis. Consequently, when he came to his senses, they would reconcile and I’d be yesterday’s news. Why expose their children to further confusion?
Hugh didn’t care what she felt and was adamant about my spending time with them. I said no. They lived in a parallel universe I was not yet part of. There would be time in the future. Secretly I was petrified of what would happen when we did meet. I imagined two children glaring with fiery eyes that would melt me before I had a chance to say I would do anything to be their friend.
He missed his kids terribly, so I encouraged him to see them whenever he could. I knew in certain ways he missed Charlotte too. I was sure there were conversations and meetings going on between them that he never told me about. His emotions tacked back and forth like a sailboat in a gale.