J R

  —Oh, it’s Edward?

  —Edward . . . but what’s that he’s carrying?

  —It looks like a can.

  —A beer can!

  —In the living room? What in the world!

  —You, we said he was upset Stella, but . . .

  —If he could see himself . . .

  But only the wallpaper’s patient design responded to his obedient query, glancing from habit to an unfaded square of wall where no mirror had hung in some years.—It’s empty . . . he brandished the can,—I just thought I’d . . .

  —You recall the time James came home so late from the Polish legation his hand, what’s happened to Edward’s hand?

  —And his coat hem all out in the back.

  —It’s nothing it’s just an empty beer can, I came in . . .

  —Well don’t wave it around. We can smell it over here.

  —I came in the back way by the studio and picked it up on the lawn out there, just to throw it away . . .

  —We don’t care to have it seen in our trash, thank you. He’ll have to throw it out somewhere else. Did I hear Stella’s cab outside?

  —No I have a minute before it comes, I thought Edward could show me the studio? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it, and we might find that paper . . .?

  —Yes wasn’t there something we meant to tell Edward?

  —He had a telephone call this morning.

  —That was some wretched woman selling dance lessons, Anne.

  —They don’t mind how they run up our telephone bill. Why we don’t simply have it taken out . . .

  —Well it’s certainly outlived its usefulness, why we ever had it put in in the first place . . .

  —When we bought all that telephone stock Julia, I think we felt we should give them our business.

  —No I think it was the other way round, Anne. I think we decided to buy their stock because they already had our business, and if we’re having it taken out they may as well have their stock back too.

  —We might let Edward just take it in to town and sell it to someone at the Stock Exchange, I’m sure someone down there would be happy to have it. Did you see it in the drawer there Stella?

  —Where, they must have gone out. Waving that beer can, if he could have seen himself . . .

  —That hem’s out again where I mended it. I wish he could get a nice blue suit.

  —She certainly was full of questions, wasn’t she. You remember how she spread those stories about Thomas and James, about James and Nellie, that summer, she was still just a child. It all came back through that Mrs, Mrs, fat, she had part of one finger missing, who spread it all over the countryside.

  —And did you notice? I don’t think she was wearing a girdle.

  —No, it’s something about her eyes. They don’t match her face.

  —Now, the hammering, hammering . . .

  While with the effort of being contested from the other side by the robust emanation from the simmering tenderloin he’d got the door closed against its pursuit and set off on his own where Stella moved over the grown grass with the assurance of a nurse up corridors as though she’d brought the indoors with her, past the invalid trees and that horticultural Laocoön of honeysuckle, grape and roses, pausing inured at an excruciating attempt by Japanese crabapple to espalier its unpruned limbs against the studio’s shingles to call—this way . . .? and then lead on, returning his eyes to her sawing haunches rounding yew overgrown at the brick terrace that fronted the place against the lowering threat of oak. He fumbled the beer can, digging in pockets.—But it’s open . . .

  —Open? the door . . .?

  —Here . . . She thrust a thigh against the heavy door pushing it in on its hinges, showing the neatly broken pane with a thrust of her elbow, crushing glass underfoot with her entrance, asking—is there a light? and as surely finding the switch, dropping the heavy shadows of overhead beams down upon them, bringing the brooding outdoors in, paused, as he came up short behind her, apparently indifferent to the lingering collision of his free hand in its glide over the cleft from one swell to the other brushing up her waist to the elbow, where only the tremor of uncertainty in his grasp moved her on into the vacant confines of the room to murmur—it needs airing . . .

  —That’s the, it’s damp yes it’s the stone floor, he came on off balance as though trying to get around her, gesturing the beer can at chance meetings of beam and scantling that niched the walls haphazard—it used to be a barn it’s, they say it was the first wet wash laundry on Long Island it’s always been a, breaking in who would break in . . .

  —But nothing’s missing?

  —That’s not the . . .

  —Or broken . . .? she’d paused at the piano, came around to open its keyboard and tap C—they didn’t run off with this . . .

  —It’s not funny it’s, wait! behind you my phonograph, is it still there? he came toward her all motion, provoked no more than a drop of her hand to switch the thing on sending its arm moving over the turning record with an ominous assurance taken up, as she turned, by strings foreboding in a minor key.—That’s not the point! if nothing’s gone or broken it’s the idea of somebody in here somebody I’ve never, I don’t even know, it’s like finding somebody’s broken into the one place I, where nothing happens, where I work where nothing else happens can’t you understand that! he came on loudly against the rising threat of strings sundering the eaves above—do you think music is just, composing do you think it’s just writing down notes? he brandished the beer can at the studio windows—just part of, of all that out there . . .? and the strings receded quelled by plaintive oboes seeking dialogue, severed by the stab of C under her finger.

  —Is this F-sharp? she ran a finger along the stave, bent closer, struck it turning him on his heel as her left hand rose to bracket C two octaves down in tremolo.

  —No wait what are you . . .

  —All the spirit deeply dawning in, is this what you’re working on?

  —It’s no it’s nothing! he pulled the pages from the rack—it’s just, it’s nothing . . . and left her standing, the strings patterning their descent in the slope of her shoulders to remain there, as she bent to close the keyboard, in the remnant of a shrug.

  —They told me you’ve been teaching Edward, is it . . .

  —Well I’m not! he’d dropped the pages in a chair behind him, sat on its arm clutching the beer can—I was but I’m not I, something just happened something as stupid as this, this breaking in here . . . he withdrew his foot abruptly, raised his eyes to her ankles’ approaching amble, turn and pass toward a bull’s eyed door beyond the fireplace.

  —What’s in there . . . she found the switch and snapped it, peering through.

  —Nothing just, just papers, programs old scores what’s . . .

  —Uncle James’? he worked over here?

  —Well he, of course he did yes I, because it’s one place it’s the one place an idea can be left here you can walk out and close the door and leave it here unfinished the most, the wildest secret fantasy and it stays on here by itself in that balance between, the balance between destruction and and realization until . . .

  —He said this? Uncle James?

  —What?

  —From him, it just sounds quite romantic . . . she’d snapped the room beyond back into darkness and came from behind him with that ease of drift that brought his eyes up once she’d passed,—his music’s always so . . .

  —Well why why shouldn’t he have said that something like that he, that he could come back the next day a week a month later he could open the door and find it here this same unfinished vision here just like he’d left it, this same awful balance waiting undisturbed just like he’d left it here to, to tip it and, the gray days I’ve come in here and built a fire to shut it all out so I could work those summers I, I haven’t even seen you since those summers . . .

  —You can’t stay here though can you . . . she turned from the empty black of the fireplace—working? You couldn’t
stay anyhow . . .

  —What?

  —With no heat here?

  —With, here? I, I don’t know I . . .

  —And if you’ve . . .

  —I said I don’t know! he was up, took the steps after her she’d turned toward the stairs as counterpoint wove the strings toward extinction,—Stella . . .

  —What happened.

  —That you, just that you’re really standing right here in . . .

  —No your music . . . she turned her head, caught his breath on her cheek—what happened to . . .

  —No that’s what I was trying to find something like the, like Beethoven took Egmont his incidental music for Egmont I tried to, I found that long poem of Tennyson’s Locksley Hall of Tennyson’s I remembered it from school and I’ve been trying to work out something like, it’s something like an operatic suite that part you picked up there that line, those lines that open trust me cousin, the whole current of my being sets to, is that what you . . .

  —No just that record, I thought something had happened to it.

  —What the, that? that record?

  —What happened. It just stopped.

  —That it’s nothing it’s just a practice record it’s, that’s where the solo comes in the D-minor concerto without the piano part I thought you meant my, what I’m working on I . . .

  —I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it.

  —Well why shouldn’t I! what’s, why shouldn’t I talk about it . . .

  —I don’t really know, Edward. What’s up there.

  —The what?

  —Up there, upstairs . . .

  —Up, what! did you hear something?

  —No, no I just meant what’s up there . . . she nodded up to shadows where the strings lurked again in ambush for their solo antagonist—up on that balcony . . .

  —Nothing just, just the same things papers, old letters scores piano rolls wait . . . he came after her, after the mounting insinuation of her thighs’ rise, rest, and rise in the ravening ease of her climb caught that suddenly off balance where she stopped half turned on the landing and he caught at the rail, at her waist where he’d run head on and a hand of hers caught his with the beer can and steadied him, held him off there with no way to know if her glance had missed the knotted length of rubber stretched like a dead thing on the stair.—Wait! wait if, if somebody’s up there . . . he stooped to snatch the thing up and force it into the beer can’s cleft crowding her on,—if they just did it . . .

  —Did what Edward, if who . . .

  —No no broke in I mean if, if they just broke in and they’re still up here, hiding . . .

  —Don’t be silly there’s no one . . . she paused at the top, thrust aside with her foot a packet of letters tied with a shoelace to push the door opening off the balcony,—it would be hopeless wouldn’t it . . .

  —No what’s, what . . .

  —All these papers, to start looking for any they need for this estate in all this . . . she passed through without pausing her glance at the bed’s faded coverlet ripped half to the floor, turning up to the skylight—do you sleep up here too?

  —Too . . .? the can quivered at her back,—sometimes yes I, all the times I’ve tried to imagine what it would be like but I, it’s still like you’re not really here all the times I’ve been working when I’ve thought about you when I, even when I try not to I do Stella what you saw on the piano down there in the dark of, those lines I even thought I’d play that how she turned her, her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs . . .

  —Edward . . . her turn that close dropped his eyes to the sighing fall of her breast against his wrist there,—I don’t . . .

  —All the spirit deeply dawning in the, the dark of hazel eyes that’s why I, what I’ve always remembered your eyes when you smiled I’ve always remembered your smile but your, how sad your eyes are when you smile that’s why I, what I’m working on that’s why it’s . . .

  —You’ll let me hear it won’t you, when it’s finished? She brushed past him for the door where the strings rose again, gaily framing an empty trap in the eaves beyond,—it sounds charming . . .

  —Charming is that all you, old-fashioned is that what you mean old-fashioned? Is . . .

  —Oh a bit perhaps, but . . .

  —It doesn’t matter no I just said you wouldn’t understand anyhow if you couldn’t even . . .

  —But I’ve never heard it, how could . . .

  —I said it doesn’t matter! he plunged after her jamming the bubbled knot into the beer can as she gained the stairs,—that’s why you laughed isn’t it why you’re laughing at me you’re not even laughing, you . . .

  —Edward please, you’re not being . . .

  —What I’m not being what, I said you wouldn’t understand it anyhow that’s why I, what it’s about that’s what this is about if you’ll listen . . .

  —I can’t stay now Edward, my . . .

  —Why not because you don’t want to hear it, because that’s what it’s about that, when you married that . . .

  —But . . . she paused as he broke from the foot of the stairs behind her—you, you’ve never met him Edward, what ever could have given you the . . .

  —What given me the what I, those summers when we . . .

  —But Edward really what ever could have given you the idea that I . . .

  —Why couldn’t it! he came on as the strings sounded now in gashes from the eaves above them—that’s why you, why you’re smiling you just smiled it’s not even a smile it’s just, that last summer once when we all went swimming up on the mountain that stream with the deep pool where we, where you went to the one above it you went up there alone to wash your hair I thought you’d just, I came up to bring you something a towel or something you were taking off your bathing suit and I, I can still, that night I couldn’t sleep that night and I can still . . .

  —But, is that all? Above them the strings withdrew for a long-due trouncing by the solo, filling the space around her with the presence of empty sound.—And Edward after all, you’ve grown up since then haven’t you and . . .

  —There! you, there it’s not even a smile no you let people try to do something they can’t you know all the time they can’t you let them try anyhow you just watch and, and then when it’s too late and you smile that sad smile and it’s still in your eyes that you knew all the time that’s why it’s wait, wait where . . .

  —My cab’s out there Edward, I . . .

  —Your what? what’s . . .

  —My cab, I called a cab for the next train and it’s . . .

  —Cab you didn’t tell me you called a cab wait . . .

  —I can’t, really . . .

  —No but, wait wait I’ll ride over with you . . . he came still clutching the beer can, crowding her for the front door, leading her the way so anyone watching might have thought it was she pursuing him over the grown grass, through light ending the day with a lustrous quality that brought to vivid life the yellows in what green remained past the crucified crabapple and torment of honeysuckle, grape and rose, toward the drive where he got the cab’s door opened for her, stared at the can in his hand and then jammed it in the corner of the seat starting to follow.

  —But Edward . . .

  —No wait . . .! Behind them, in exultant pursuit of its routed enemy, the orchestra burst full tilt from the studio—wait let me run back and turn that off just a second, wait . . .

  —But driver . . .

  —You wait a second now lady, you’ll wait two hours for the next train.

  —All right . . . The door slammed with the cab’s lurch,—hurry then. Hurry . . . And she was swept down that arboreal veterans’ ward, its splintered inmates staggered at parade rest for her plunge out the hedge, flung round the corner past the scarred pepperidge tree and hurled up the open highway in the careering interior teeming with static the entire way to the station where he turned to indicate the can couched in the corner of the seat.

  —You don’t want to leave
something like that in my cab, lady . . .

  The only trash basket in sight was one metal and smashed flat, the only voice one spilling urgency from the radio of a police car parked emptily by. Unseen now, unpursued, she rose to the elevated platform with steps as ponderous as the concrete stairs that took her to the top but one, and there stopped dead. He’d looked at her full before he’d turned away, before her voice brought him round again, books and papers disheveled under one arm wrapped outside with the Turf Guide and appearing in his shoulders’ sag to grow heavier each slow step toward her.—Hello Stella . . . He stopped out of reach.

  —Jack? She paused, and took the last step up.—How are you.

  —Stella Bast . . . his arm fell from a gesture of wellbeing—I’m, as you see . . .

  —Yes it’s, it’s Stella Angel now I . . .

  —Way it’s supposed to be Stella, honest oaf get half the kingdom too?

  —But what . . .

  —Old king having trouble with his price earnings ratio offers his beautiful daughter and half his kingdom for somebody to straighten things out, the halfbaked prince botches it some honest oaf crawls out of the woodwork gets the production lines humming and taps the old king for . . .

  —Jack please he, he just died and . . .

  —And you’re on the next train out.

  —Why would you say that.

  —Just figured you’d done it Stella, put him out of action and . . .

  —It was my father who died Jack he, you’re still drinking aren’t you . . .

  —And you? been out here to a party? He was staring at the thing in her hand, its contents dangling—or you the new Miss Rheingold . . .

  The platform shuddered with a train going through in the wrong direction and a tremor lingered in her frame, turning away, following its lights receding as though desperate to lose distinction among lights signifying nothing but motion, movement itself stilled by distance spreading to overwhelm the eye with the vacancy of punctuation on a wordless page. She reached an empty trash bin and dropped the can clattering into it.—I’d forgotten what you could be like.

  —Tried to myself but I gave that up too. I said some cruel things to you then didn’t I Stella.