All Things Cease to Appear (34 page)

I told you, George. The poetry reading?

She was showered and dressed, and had put on a little makeup and had dabbed tea-rose oil behind her ears. That was Justine’s idea; she’d given her the bottle as a gift. It suits you, I think, she’d said.

George looked at her, displeased. Oh, that. What about dinner?

It’s on the stove. Help yourself.

I’m not eating that, he said.

She just looked at him. Franny already ate. She’s playing with her blocks.

Out the door, her cheeks hot, flushed, her heart beating. She could feel him standing there at the screen, watching as she made her escape.

She drove a little wildly onto the interstate, the sun in her eyes. Unblinking, she stared right at it. The club was downtown, on Madison. Blinded by the low sun, she almost missed the entrance to the parking lot, already crowded with cars. It was an old stucco house with a front porch. A plaque stated its vintage, 1895, and that it was on the National Register of Historic Places. Stepping into the large, bustling entrance hall, she realized she was nervous. It had been a long time since she’d done anything on her own, without Franny, and she felt like one of those people with missing limbs who experienced pangs of dislocation. Eager for distraction, she removed her coat and scarf and pushed the scarf into the sleeve of her coat and draped that over her arm. Then she pushed her hair back behind her ears. The air smelled of coffee and perfume. Gazing over the din, she saw a lone hand beckoning her. Justine. She’d saved her a seat.

They kissed hello. I didn’t realize it would be so well attended, Catherine said.

I’m glad you could make it.

They settled into their seats. Catherine took in the room, the hundred or so faces of women eager to learn something new, mothers who’d gone to college, grandmothers, students, all ages and all kinds.

The poet was already famous, not only for her poems but also because she’d been a married woman who declared herself a lesbian. Standing there at the lectern, she was a vision of courage, vulnerability, strength. Her voice carried to the far corners of the enormous room. As she listened, Catherine felt something unlock inside of her, a part of her set free.

After the reading, they each bought a copy of her book, and stood in the long line to get them signed. In a tiny, frightened voice Catherine told her she’d liked hearing her poems. What I mean is, I’m grateful, she added.

The poet squeezed her hand and thanked her, giving Catherine the deep pleasure of acknowledgment.

Driving up to the house, she saw the light burning in his study. She’d hoped he would’ve gone to bed by now, but he stumbled out of his office like a drunk, blinking at her. How was it?

Interesting. She showed him the book.

He flipped through it casually. What does she mean by that title?
The Dream of a Common Language
?

What do you think she means, George?

I don’t have a fucking clue.

It’s a dream that we all understand each other.

He grimaced.

That women understand men and men understand women. That we share a common language.

What crap. Since when are you interested in poetry?

I’m broadening my horizons.

She’s really getting to you, isn’t she?

What?

Justine.

We’re friends, George.

Do you think she’s gay?

Gay? No. Of course not.

What makes you such an expert?

What’s that supposed to mean?

You’re not the most experienced person on earth.

So?

Something about her strikes me as rather dykish.

Why? Because she doesn’t shave her legs?

For starters, yeah.

That’s ridiculous.

He shrugged. Put it this way: how well do you really know her?

Well, I think. We’re good friends.

He stood there looking at her. It’s obvious she’s had an influence on you. I’m not convinced it’s a good one.

2

IT WASN’T THAT
he didn’t like Justine. In fact, they were good friends. He’d never been just friends with a female. Usually such relationships were confounded by sex. But he sensed that she was above all that. Plus, she was an ally at the school. George had observed a kind of casual animosity among members of the department, who held him at a distance and treated him with cool indifference. Although his position was billed as tenure-track, he would be reviewed annually and certain things would have to be in place—publications, a book—for it to be granted. His three-year contract stipulated no incremental raises—symbols of appreciation were rare—and yet he was grateful to be employed.

Justine had worked part-time for years. She taught two classes: one on Renaissance Velvet Textiles, and some dubious seminar called Craft Workshop. She was exceptionally popular with students—especially his female students. He gathered that she had a sort of Mother Hen approach, fawning and solicitous. He often saw her traipsing through the halls wrapped like a mummy in multi-textural drapery, ornaments hanging off her like a Christmas tree. More often than not, some remnant of her last meal would be in evidence, a tendril of bean sprout on her bosom after lunch, for instance, or a chocolate parenthesis on either side of her mouth. When they met each week at their usual table, she always had some arbitrary news item racking her conscience. She was the sort of person who demanded your full attention before lecturing you on an array of pressing dilemmas; her manifesto on women’s equality or lack thereof seemed to be her personal favorite. In truth, he was a little afraid of her. Lately, when he saw her on the path in front of him, walking with her cadre of forlorn friends, he’d take a circuitous route to avoid her. In their hulking wool sweaters they resembled lumpy farm animals turned out to graze. She’d be wound up in some endless scarf with her hair spilling over her shoulders and those awful baggy pants, a lump of yarn in her pocket, wooden needles sometimes sticking out like a weapon. Come to think of it, he found her a bit repugnant. But his wife thought she was a goddess.

She’d recruited Catherine into the inner circle of her women’s group. He imagined a cult of malcontent females, bitching about men and the lousy deals they’d been handed since birth. Catherine would come home from these excursions hardly recognizable, as if someone had slipped amphetamines into her tea. Her vocabulary was now peppered with words and phrases that must’ve been lifted from some pop-psych book on feminism.
I need you to listen to me,
or
My expectations of us as a couple are not being met
or
We don’t seem to be communicating.

Since the day they’d met, Catherine had always been just slightly prudish, in her wool skirts and cardigans. At first he’d found it sexy, if a tad repressed. Now, under Justine’s spell, she dressed like a prairie woman, in peasant blouses and long skirts or bulky Wranglers and flannel shirts from the army-navy store. She wore her hair in a braid, just like Justine, and had the same outdoorsy complexion. Under this free-spirited tutelage she’d abandoned her bra, and her small breasts swam around inside her outsized shirt, flaunting their rebellion.

He found this transformation disturbing. For one thing, his wife was the most superficial person on earth—superficial and gullible, not a great combination in the hands of a mastermind like Justine. Of course, Catherine saw herself as the complete opposite. Oh, she was smart all right—she’d been a very good student—but ask her to come up with her own ideas, well, that’s where she ran into trouble. Justine was the antithesis. She couldn’t leave things alone, had to keep boring into things like a fucking termite.

He hadn’t spoken to her since that night at Floyd’s—their tripping extravaganza—and when he recalled their sloppy kiss, his pathetic groping, he was frankly embarrassed. He’d been skulking around campus, trying to steer clear, when she cornered him in the cafeteria, lacquering him with her gaze. You’re avoiding me, she said.

Not at all. I’ve been busy.

They looked at each other. In this context she was the same old Justine, chunky, intuitive, savage.

About that night, he said.

No need to mention it.

He looked at her breasts, her full lips. I’m not that kind of person, Justine.

Neither am I.

Good, he said. That’s a relief.

I’m late. She smiled. See you later?

See you.

A few weeks later, he ran into her in the quad. It was raining and he let her under his umbrella. Of course she didn’t have one of her own. Not for her, practical solutions. She was too experiential.

Have you gotten my notes? she asked.

They’d piled up in his box.
Need to talk to you,
the first one said.
Kind of important!

Yes, I’m sorry—I’ve been busy.

Do you want to grab some lunch?

They went into the dining hall. Their usual table was taken, so they found one near the very back, away from the clusters of students. She took the items off her tray and organized them before her like the ingredients of some elaborate experiment.

I’m a little worried about Catherine, she said.

Worried, why?

She seems depressed.

He watched her take an enormous bite of her sandwich.

You’re right to be concerned, he said.

She looked at him, waiting.

She gets depressed a lot. It’s an illness. She’s on medication.

I see. This news, he was sure, came as a blow. It wasn’t something she could pin on him.

She’s getting very thin. Have you noticed?

Indeed he had. She has self-destructive tendencies, he said. More than once he’d heard her in the bathroom, making herself throw up, but he didn’t mention this now.

She says things at our meetings.

What sort of things?

Things about you.

Well, he said. That’s hardly surprising. She has delusions, I think. Paranoia. She has issues with trust.

But Justine wasn’t buying it, her expression a mixture of disgust and condemnation. You have an answer for everything, don’t you, George?

Look, he said, mustering a benign tolerance. You know what they say about moving. There’s an adjustment period. She misses New York, her friends there. As good as you’ve been to her, it’s just not the same for her here.

He could tell she was hurt. After all, there was nobody like her—such brilliance, sophistication, integrity! How could his impressionable wife need anyone else! Don’t take this the wrong way, Justine, but you’re the one I’m worried about.

She raised her eyes questioningly. Me?

You seem…

What?
Her tone was indignant.

Forgive me—he lowered his voice, as though admitting a secret no one else could ever know—but you seem a tad obsessed with my wife.

That’s ridiculous. We’re friends. Friends look out for each other.

He only smiled.

Annoyed, she glanced at her watch. Look, I’ve got a class. But this feels unresolved.

This? He touched her hand. This?

She pulled away. She looked off a minute. She thinks you’re fucking around.

He said nothing; just waited.

Is it true?

Of course it’s not! He shook his head as if he were deeply insulted. Catherine is the love of my life, he said, watching her flinch. Why would I do something like that?

Justine looked annoyed and possibly insulted. She stood up and gathered her things. I don’t know, George, why would you?

—

THE FOLLOWING MORNING,
as he was standing at the mirror tying his tie, Catherine proposed a marriage counselor. We’re obviously not communicating, she said. Maybe it will help. Justine thought it might.

I refuse to speak to some stranger about a problem I don’t think we have. He walked over and put his arms around her. We’re fine, Catherine. We just need to spend more time together.

She stood there frowning at him. I hardly see you anymore, George.

That’s what I’m saying. Look, see if you can get Cole tonight. I’m taking you out.

They went to the Blue Plate, a bustling café famous for its wholesome American cuisine, meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, pot roast, tuna casserole. Not exactly the place for a sexy date, but it was exactly her speed. She ordered the trout, the least fattening dish on the menu, and pushed the almonds off to the side. Using her knife like a scalpel, she deboned the fish, her movements irritatingly self-conscious. It occurred to him, slobbering over his Bolognese, that he despised her.

How to undo what had already been done? he wondered, then answered simply: I’ll leave her.

He smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand. This place is great.

After dinner they walked through town. As they passed the window of Blake’s, he happened to glimpse the shiny evil of Willis’s hair. She was standing at the bar with Eddy Hale and the son of a bitch had his hand on her ass.

George? Catherine was staring at him.

Let’s get a drink.

Now?

Why not? He took her hand. Come on, it’ll be fun.

They pushed through the crowd to the other end of the bar, where he could watch Willis without being seen. It was a townie joint and he was grateful that he didn’t see anyone from the college. Over his wife’s shoulder and through the interstices between bodies, he watched his lover and the boy. Eddy had friends, knew people, and they were all telling jokes, their laughter bouncing off the tin ceiling. While his wife nursed her spritzer, he downed two shots of vodka, and the next time he looked up Willis had disappeared; her boyfriend was still at the bar.

Need to pee, he told his wife. Try not to let anyone pick you up. She laughed, and he felt magnanimous as he walked to the back of the bar. Willis was waiting at the door to the ladies’ room, her back toward him, and when the bathroom became free he pushed in behind her and locked the door.

What are you doing? Get off me or I’ll scream!

But he pushed her back against the tiles and tugged down her underpants and filled her up right there, wedging her up on the sink, and she bit his hand. You’re sick, she said. We’re done.

He left her there, fixing her face in the mirror.