“I thought that piece you did for Black Book was really insightful,” he said, surprising her. “The one about the new chick lit.”
“Wow, I'm, like, amazed.” So much so that she was suddenly talking like a moron. It didn't occur to her until later that he'd probably Googled her the night before, after she first called. Still, it felt good, knowing that someone besides friends and family had read it.
He asked how she'd gotten into writing, which led her to explain that Kyle had been her writing teacher.
“Huh. How long have you two been together?”
“A little over a year.”
“It's very cool of you to throw a party for him. I'd be so blown away if someone did that for me.”
“Nobody's ever thrown a surprise party for you? You don't seem like the kind of guy who's been totally deprived of female attention.”
“Not the right anybody,” he said, looking at her with an intensity that made the remark seem significant.
Once again she found herself blushing. “I guess I should be getting back,” she said, swilling the rest of her drink and rising to her feet.
“If you have any questions, just call,” he said, handing her a card.
Kyle went to his office on Monday, giving her a chance to make some calls. She sent the invitation out by e-mail at noon, and though she'd requested RSVPs by the same means, some of their friends, knowing they had separate lines, started calling her with acceptances just as he returned from campus. She had to keep her voice down and keep the conversation general while he puttered in the next room.
She was pleasantly surprised when Toby Clench called, having doubted he would come. One of Kyle's students at NYU a few years ago, he'd gone on to publish a wildly successful novel, and since then his teacher's feelings had oscillated between pride and jealousy. Kyle's own novel, published six years before, had been a critical success, but it hadn't been featured on the cover of the New York Times Book Review, as Toby's had, nor had it been optioned by Brad Pitt's production company. But Toby's meteoric debut had certainly raised Kyle's profile, because he routinely cited his mentor in interviews.
“I'll be coming in from London that afternoon,” Toby told her, “but for sure I wouldn't miss it.”
“Kyle will be so pleased,” Sabrina said. “I'll put you by someone sexy and smart.”
“I hope that means I'll be sitting next to you,” he said.
She heard Kyle's footsteps approaching the bedroom door. “We'll just have to see,” she said, lowering her voice.
Kyle appeared in the doorway as she put down the receiver. “S'up?”
“Nothing.” Her voice sounded high and false—the squawk of a seabird.
He smiled. “Need anything? I'm going out for a pack of smokes.”
“I'm fine.” How could he not notice her discomposure?
“See you in a few.”
She was relieved that he hadn't noticed anything, but after the elevator door closed behind him, she wondered if he'd always been so unobservant. In class she'd often heard him invoke Henry James's prescription for writers: “Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is lost.” He also had it on a typed index card tacked on the bulletin board over his desk.
She was pleased, though, to nab Toby for the party. That was a coup. And she'd definitely seat him next to her; after all, he'd asked. And as the hostess, she figured she was entitled to sit beside the smartest and most entertaining guy at the party. She'd loved his book. Sure, it had become fashionable to say Toby's novel was overrated—she'd heard Kyle say it—but in her opinion that was just jealousy talking.
The answering machine was a problem. She kept meaning to get the service from Verizon, but for now she turned down the volume whenever she left the bedroom, worried that Kyle might overhear something about his birthday. She kept the RSVP list in the bottom drawer of her desk. Suddenly she wondered if he ever looked through her things, or, for that matter, wondered about her life beyond the sphere of this loft. She considered the few stories he'd written since they'd been living together: The women in the stories weren't terribly complex, really. There was a recurring neurotic, mendacious, narcissist type that represented his old girlfriend. And then there was the nice girl, presumably her, who the angst-ridden protagonist struggles to be worthy of. Nice, but hardly subtle or interesting. Which said more about his lack of curiosity than it did about her. She couldn't remember the last time he'd asked her about her desires and dreams and fears. She hadn't said anything at the time, reading the last couple of stories, but he actually wasn't very good with female characters.
While Kyle was out getting cigarettes, George Brasso called to accept. “But I'd rather be having an intimate dinner with you,” he said.
“I'm not sure Kyle would like that.”
“Does that mean you told him about us?”
“To tell you the truth, I forgot about us until just this minute,” she said. They'd been classmates at Yale and they'd had a fling their first year in the city.
“You've never told him?”
“A girl needs a few secrets,” she said.
“I couldn't agree more.”
She heard the elevator. “I've gotta go. Kyle's back.”
“Call me.”
Sabrina went out to make a cup of tea, and Kyle was in the kitchen, flipping through the mail. While she stood at the counter, waiting for the water to boil, he came up behind her and wrapped one arm around her waist, groping her breast with his free hand.
“What say we take a little break?” he said.
“From what?” For some reason, she wasn't really in the mood. But as he stroked her breast, she relented. “Okay,” she said, turning off the kettle and walking back to the bedroom.
“Wow,” he said when they'd finished. She was almost surprised to hear his voice, so absorbed had she been in her own orgasm. She felt a little guilty, realizing she'd been thinking about George. They'd never really had any resolution to an affair that had lasted only a few months before George went off to Paris for Newsweek. Was she keeping her options open? George had, upon his return to New York, become a mutual friend, but somehow she'd neglected to tell Kyle about their history. Then again, she wondered why he'd never asked. She'd always been afraid the sexual tension between her and George was conspicuous, but Kyle had never once commented on it, which suddenly seemed incredibly weird. Was he that unperceptive, or did he just not care?
Two hours later she found herself increasingly irritable as she waited for him to leave for his weekly department meeting. She had a lot of party-related calls to make. With each passing minute she became more agitated. Finally she went out to see what he was doing. As nonchalantly as she could, she asked about the meeting.
“Postponed,” he said cheerfully. “Haddon and Maselli are sick.”
The next day, Sabrina had to fly to D.C. She worried herself sick about the phone, then decided it was better to say something than to have Kyle pick up her phone or turn up the volume on the answering machine.
“Listen,” she said, “I've ordered this birthday present and somebody might be calling about it. That's why I turned down the volume on the machine.”
“You don't have to get me anything,” he said.
Which struck her as a silly thing to say.
“Of course I do. And you sure as hell better get me something for mine. Now promise me you'll stay away from the phone.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
The next evening, the night before the party, they stayed home and watched Le Mépris, Godard's adaptation of the Moravia novel. Kyle was in a Moravia phase.
“Do you ever get jealous?” she asked, lying on the couch with her legs in his lap.
He shrugged. “Not really. I trust you.”
“I trust you, too,” she said. “But I wouldn't want you sharing a villa in Capri with Brigitte Bardot.”
“Don't worry,” he said. “She must be in her seventies by now.”
“Wouldn't you b
e worried if I were on an island with some hunky guy?”
“Probably,” he said.
In the end, Kyle was surprised. He was expecting dinner à deux, tickled that the restaurant was named after a Henry James novel. When everyone jumped up from behind the banquettes, he was flabbergasted.
“You really didn't have any idea, did you?” she said.
“Not a clue,” he said before happily throwing himself into the scrum of his friends, many of whom had originally been her friends.
Brom, the owner, materialized at her side with a drink. “Ketel One and tonic,” he said.
“You remembered.”
“It's part of the job.”
“So I'm just another Ketel and tonic to you.”
“I wouldn't say that.”
This wasn't like her, this silly flirtatious banter. But he was cute. When they were finally seated, he leaned over and whispered in her ear that he'd be upstairs in the office if she needed anything. She nodded, then leaned toward Toby. “Do you think that a great writer, by definition, is someone who can't be surprised? Who notices everything?”
“Someone on whom nothing is lost.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you trying to decide whether Kyle's a great writer?”
“Maybe.”
“I think you know the answer to that question.”
“I do?” But he was right, of course.
As the dessert plates were being cleared, she thought it was only proper to go up and thank Brom for everything. He rose from behind his desk when she appeared in the doorway. It would seem quite wonderful later, when she recalled the moment, that he hadn't even hesitated. He'd just walked right over and taken her by the shoulders and kissed her so violently that her lips felt bruised the next day. Standing in front of the mirror that morning, she studied her swollen lips and wondered if Kyle would even notice.
As it turned out, he did eventually ask about the hickey on her collarbone, but by then it was too late.
2008
Reunion
The early-morning silence of the graveyard is broken by the approach of a car. I duck behind a stone as the sound of the engine rises toward the gate and falls away among the streets of the town. Sitting on a flat marble slab, Tory continues cutting pieces of masking tape, which she attaches to the back of her hand. The cemetery grass is brown and worn, as if it has been grazed by sheep. The last shreds of morning haze cling to the old stones, which tilt at eccentric angles.
I stand up again but remain hunched, feeling conspicuous among the squat headstones, while Tory seems right at home, though she has warned me this is illegal. The old cemetery is surrounded by the town; although it is wooded and on a rise, I feel exposed. A seagull cruises overhead with an inquisitive squawk. My eyes are dry and itchy from waking too early.
“Stretch this as tight as you can across the face of the stone,” she says, holding out a big sheet of newsprint from the tablet we picked up at a hobby store last night. I kneel as Tory directs me to raise and lower the paper until finally it's just where she wants it; then she secures it with masking tape and rubs the crayon across the paper. Crayons, drawing tablets, masking tape. I find it strange that we have come to visit the dead with children's art supplies. “Not too hard,” she says. White, archaic letters rise to the surface of the paper. The letters gradually become words. HERE LYES emerges, then BODY OF. I think of it as ghostwriting. The inscription states the facts: name, age and parents. The stone is a triptych, the outer tablets bearing images of a grinning skeleton on one side and Father Time on the other. A skull appears under Tory's crayon, then ribs. “This guy was very rich,” she says. “The stonework's amazing. Look at these details—you can even see the anklebones on Father Time.” Tory nods toward the tablet of newsprint. “Give it a try,” she says.
I stalk the uneven avenues for a likely stone. In the corner near the savings bank, I find one dated 1698, with the name NATHANIEL MATHER. A winged skull presides over the inscription: AN AGED PERSON WHO HAD BEEN BUT NINETEEN WINTERS IN THE WORLD. I sit down on the grass and touch the stone. What does it mean? I once read about a disease that accelerates the aging process so rapidly that its victims die of old age in their teens. Or is it just a metaphor—a young man worn down by troubles?
“Michael, come here,” Tory calls.
I get to my feet and look around. “Where are you,” I ask in a loud whisper.
“Over here.” She raises her hand and waves from behind a cluster of stones. I watch the cemetery gate as another car passes, then scuttle over.
“Look at this.” She points to a lichen-covered stone. The engraving has a crude, homemade look. THE CHILDREN OF CHARLES AND SARAH … The surname is unreadable. EMILY, TWO YEARS. CHARLES, SEVEN MONTHS. ETHAN.
“There's no age for Ethan,” I say.
Tory looks up at me. She doesn't say anything at first. She holds the crayon like a cigarette and touches it to her lips as she stares at me. Finally she says, “He died in childbirth.” She says this as if she holds me responsible.
“Where are the witches?” I ask.
“They didn't bury them in the cemetery. This is hallowed ground. They put the witches in unmarked graves on Gallows Hill in Salem Village.”
“I wanted to rub a witch's stone.”
“You can do the guy who sentenced them to death. Judge Hathorne's right over there. That would be a good one for you to get. A fellow pillar of the legal profession.” Tory is on her third rubbing of the children's stone. The first two were black. This one's red. I pick a stone near hers, keeping an eye on the entrance.
“There was one man named Giles Corry, who refused to confess or to implicate anyone as a witch, so they put a beam on his chest and started piling rocks on top to force a confession. But he refused to speak. They piled more rocks on. His ribs broke and finally he died.”
“That's a lovely story,” I say.
Tory's a little morbid these days. But she says this grave rubbing is something she's been doing since she was a kid. This is the first time we've come up here. Though we've been living together in New York for over a year, Tory hasn't been eager to come home for a visit. Her parents separated shortly before she and I moved into our little apartment. Her mother hung on to the house, but things are strained between her and Tory. I suspect Ginny's unable to live up to the high standards that Tory sets for those she loves, although I'm not sure, because we seldom talk about it. Tory is furious with her father for leaving with another woman; yet she also seems to blame her mother for letting him do so, for not being the kind of woman that no man would ever walk out on.
Shortly after we arrived, Tory gave her mother a lesson in makeup. Ginny submitted patiently as Tory demonstrated the uses of blush and mascara. Ginny has the skin of a tennis player and the hair of a swimmer; the makeup seemed to disappear without a trace moments after it was applied. Later, Tory worked on her mother's taxes; Ginny has an antiques shop that was operated for years on the principle of losing money to write off her husband's taxes. But with the division of property hung up in the courts and two years' worth of taxes due on the house, Ginny now is faced with the new and baffling imperative of making money.
The family, sans patriarch, has ostensibly gathered for Bunny's graduation. There are four sisters, spread over ten years, all conspicuously blond. Carol, her new husband, Jim, and her daughter by a former marriage are here from California. Carol's pregnant. Jim's a Christian. Under his tutelage, Carol has been born again. She is the eldest, and, according to Tory, she has been exemplary, doing all of the stupid and illegal things that her younger sisters might've been tempted to do. Bunny, who just turned twenty-four, is able to seem merely adventurous by comparison. She started Radcliffe but dropped out to marry a cocaine dealer. When the marriage broke up, she moved back in with her parents. In two days she'll graduate from a local state school, where she's dating a married professor twice her age. Tory is the third child. Mary, the youngest, still lives at home and mostly is into ca
rs and boys. I'm not sure whether she likes the boys because they have cars, or the cars because the boys have them. She speaks confidently about horsepower, engine displacement, biceps and pectorals. She doesn't think much of me—I drive a Toyota and wear a thirty-eight regular. Last night at the supper table she noticed me long enough to ask if I would make a lot of money now that I've graduated from law school.
This family reunion might be the last one in the old house. Ginny can't afford to keep it. I'd love to live in a house like this one, an old post-and-beam saltbox core that has been added to in various directions over the last couple hundred years, jammed with primitive furnishings of scarred, fragrant wood; crude iron implements; cloudy bull's-eyed blue-green glass. I like the outbuildings, the sagging, disused stables and greenhouse; even the pool, cracked and covered over with a green scum, has the aspect of an ornamental pond.
I grew up in houses that were vague, standardized descendants of those in this neighborhood. Since arriving yesterday I've conceived an indeterminate fantasy of saving the old homestead with my legal skills, distinctly featuring the gratitude of this family of attractive females.
But for several weeks now I have felt helpless in the face of Tory's medical problems. She has been bleeding erratically. Her gynecologist in New York has several hypotheses. In two days she will check into Mass General for tests, and I'll drive back to New York to start an associateship at Cravath, Swaine & Moore.
On the way home from the cemetery, we stop at a package store, where Tory waits in the car. A red Camaro is idling in the parking lot, heavy metal blasting from the open windows. Inside the store, a kid with an Iron Maiden T-shirt hefts three cases of beer up to the counter. His denim jacket has the sleeves ripped out, BILLY embroidered above one pocket, HEAVY CHEVY over the other. He asks for three bottles of Jose Cuervo tequila. The clerk checks his ID doubtfully. “Frank Sweeney?” he says.
“Yeah, right,” the kid says. The clerk sighs and hands the ID back. Coming out of the store, I spot Mary, Tory's younger sister, inside the Camaro. She waves. The kid with the ID is loading the stuff in the trunk.