“Congratulations. You guys are officially New Yorkers. Now we can celebrate.”
Madeleine had almost forgotten. “Leonard,” she said. “Do you know Dan Schneider? He’s having a party tonight.”
“It’s like three blocks away,” Kelly said.
Leonard was staring into his coffee cup. Madeleine couldn’t tell if he was consulting his feelings (self-monitoring) or if his mind had stopped. “I’m not really in a party mood,” he said.
This wasn’t what Madeleine wanted to hear. She felt like celebrating. She’d just signed the lease on a Manhattan apartment and she didn’t feel like getting back on the train to New Jersey. She checked her watch. “Come on. It’s only seven-fifteen. Let’s just go for a little while.”
Leonard didn’t say yes but he didn’t say no. Madeleine got up to pay the check. While she was at the register, Leonard went outside and lit a cigarette. His smoking was getting greedier. He sucked on the filter as if it were clogged and required extra force. When she came out with Kelly, the nicotine seemed to have mollified him sufficiently that he accompanied them up Broadway without complaint.
He was quiet as they reached Schneider’s building, right in front of the Seventy-ninth Street subway station, and as they rode in the elevator up to the seventh floor. But as they came into the apartment, Leonard suddenly balked, and grabbed Madeleine’s arm.
“What?” Madeleine said.
He was looking down the hall toward the living room, which was full of people talking loudly over the music.
“I can’t deal with this,” he said.
Kelly, sensing potential trouble, kept right on going. Madeleine watched her join the knot of lightly clad bodies.
“What do you mean you can’t deal with it?”
“Too hot in here. Too many people.”
“Do you want to leave?” she said, unable to hide her exasperation.
“No,” Leonard said, “we’re here now.”
She took his hand and led him into the party, and, for a while, everything went reasonably well. People came over to say hello and congratulate them on their wedding. Leonard proved capable of maintaining conversation.
Dan Schneider, bearded and burly, but wearing an apron, approached Madeleine with a drink in his hand. “Hey, I hear we’re going to be neighbors,” he said. It was early in the evening, but his speech was already slurred. He began telling her about the neighborhood, where to shop and eat. While he was describing his favorite Chinese takeout, Leonard peeled away, disappearing into what looked like a bedroom.
There was something erotic about the atmosphere of the hot apartment. Everybody had given in to sweating visibly. A few girls were wearing tank tops braless, and Adam Vogel, sitting on the couch, was rubbing an ice cube against his neck. Dan told Madeleine to get a drink and lurched away.
Madeleine didn’t follow Leonard into the bedroom. She felt like not worrying about him for a few minutes. Instead, she joined Kelly at the drinks table, which was lined with Jim Beam bottles, Oreo cookies, glasses, and ice. “Purple Rain” was playing on the stereo.
“There’s only bourbon,” Kelly said.
“Anything.” Madeleine held out a glass. She took an Oreo and began nibbling it.
Before she even turned around, Pookie Ames descended on her from the kitchen.
“Maddy! You’re back! How was the Cape?”
“It was great,” she lied.
“It wasn’t bleak and depressing in the winter?”
Pookie wanted to see her ring, but barely looked at it when Madeleine showed her. “I can’t believe you’re married,” she said. “That is so retrograde.”
“I know!” Madeleine said.
“Where’s your boyfriend? I mean, husband?”
It was impossible to tell from Pookie’s face how much she knew.
“He’s here somewhere,” Madeleine said.
Other friends elbowed in to see her. She kept hugging people and telling them that she was moving to the city.
Pookie began telling a story. “So I’m waitressing at Dojo’s, and last night this customer calls me over and goes, ‘I think there’s a rat in my sausage.’ And I look—and there’s a tail sticking out the end. Like, the whole rat was cooked inside.”
“Oh, no!”
“And one of the perks of the job is you get to eat there for free, so.”
“That is so gross!”
“But wait. After that, I brought the rat sausage over to my manager. Because I didn’t know what to do. And he goes, ‘Tell the customer, no charge.’”
Madeleine started to enjoy herself. The bourbon was so sweet it tasted like an alcoholic form of Coke. It was nice to be around people she knew. It made her feel that the decision to move to New York was the right one. The isolation at Pilgrim Lake might have been part of the problem. She finished her drink and poured herself another.
As she turned from the bar, she noticed a decent-looking guy checking her out from across the room. She’d been feeling so nurse-like and desexualized lately that this came as a welcome surprise. She met his eyes for a moment before looking away.
Kelly came up and whispered, “Everything O.K.?”
“Leonard’s in the bedroom.”
“At least he came.”
“He’s driving me crazy.” Immediately, she felt guilty for saying this, and softened it. “He’s just really tired. It was sweet of him to come.”
Kelly leaned in again. “Dan Schneider is plying me with liquor.”
“And?”
“I’m pliable.”
For the next half hour Madeleine circulated around the party, catching up with people. She kept expecting Leonard to reappear. After another fifteen minutes, when he still hadn’t, she went to check on him.
The bedroom was full of mission furniture and Shakespeare-themed etchings. Leonard was standing by the window, talking to a guy who had his back turned. Madeleine was already through the door before she realized it was Mitchell.
There were probably people it would have been more awkward to run into with Leonard, but at that moment Madeleine couldn’t think of who they might be. Mitchell had cut off his hair and gotten even skinnier. It was hard to decide what was more shocking: his suddenly being there, the strange way he looked, or the fact that he was talking to Leonard.
“Mitchell!” she said, trying not to seem thrown. “What did you do to your hair?”
“I got a little haircut,” he answered.
“I almost didn’t recognize you. When did you get back?”
“Three days ago.”
“From India?”
But here Leonard interposed himself. “We’re sort of in the middle of a conversation,” he said with annoyance.
Madeleine shifted abruptly, as if wrong-footed by a serve. “I just came to see if you were ready to leave,” she said quietly.
“I do want to leave. But first I want to finish this conversation.”
She looked at Mitchell as if he might object. But he seemed eager to have her leave as well. And so she gave a little wave, trying to seem in command of things, and backed out of the room.
Returning to the party, she tried to resume enjoying herself. But she was too preoccupied. She wondered what Leonard and Mitchell were talking about. She worried that they were talking about her. Seeing Mitchell had stirred up an emotion that Madeleine couldn’t quite identify. It was as if she was excited and regretful at the same time.
After fifteen minutes, Leonard finally came out of the bedroom, saying he wanted to go. He didn’t meet her eyes. When she said she wanted to say goodbye to Kelly, he told her he’d wait for her outside.
Madeleine was acutely aware, as she found Kelly and thanked her again for helping find her a place, that Mitchell was still somewhere at the party. She didn’t want to talk to him alone, because her life was already complicated enough. She didn’t want to explain her situation or face his recriminations or feel whatever talking to him might make her feel. But as she was just about to l
eave, she caught sight of him and paused, and he came up to her.
“I guess I should say congratulations,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“That was kind of sudden. Your wedding.”
“It was.”
“I guess that makes you a Stage One.”
“I guess it does.”
Mitchell was wearing flip-flops and jeans with the bottoms rolled up. His feet were very white. “Did you get my letter?” he asked.
“What letter?”
“I sent you a letter. From India. At least I think I did. I was somewhat high at the time. You really didn’t get it?”
“No. What did it say?”
He was looking at her as if he didn’t believe her. It made her uncomfortable.
“I’m not sure it matters now,” he said.
Madeleine glanced toward the front door. “I have to go,” she said. “Where are you staying?”
“On Schneider’s couch.”
They stood smiling at each other for a long moment, and then suddenly Madeleine reached out and rubbed Mitchell’s head. “What did you do with your curls!” she groaned. Mitchell kept his head down while she ran her hand over the bristles on his scalp. When she stopped, he lifted his face. With his hair buzzed off, his big eyes looked even more imploring.
“Are you coming into the city again?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I might.” She glanced toward the door again. “If I do, I’ll call you. Maybe we could have lunch or something.”
There was nothing left to do but hug him. As she did, Madeleine was startled by Mitchell’s pungent smell. It felt almost too intimate to breathe it in.
Leonard was smoking in the corridor when she came out. He looked for some place to toss his cigarette but, finding none, carried it into the elevator. As the car descended, Madeleine leaned against his shoulder. She felt a little drunk. “That was fun,” she said. “Did you have a good time?”
Leonard tossed the butt on the floor, crushing it with his shoe.
“Does that mean no?”
The door opened and Leonard walked through the lobby without a word. Madeleine followed him out to the sidewalk, where she finally said, “What’s the matter with you?”
Leonard faced her. “What’s the matter with me? What do you think? I’m depressed, Madeleine. I’m suffering from depression.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? I’m not so sure you do. Otherwise you might not say stupid things like that.”
“All I did was ask you if you had a good time! God!”
“Let me tell you what happens when a person’s clinically depressed,” Leonard began in his infuriating doctorly mode. “What happens is that the brain sends out a signal that it’s dying. The depressed brain sends out this signal, and the body receives it, and after a while, the body thinks it’s dying too. And then it begins to shut down. That’s why depression hurts, Madeleine. That’s why it’s physically painful. The brain thinks it’s dying, and so the body thinks it’s dying, and then the brain registers this, and they go back and forth like that in a feedback loop.” Leonard leaned toward her. “That’s what’s happening inside me right now. That’s what’s happening to me every minute of every day. And that’s why I don’t answer when you ask me if I had a good time at the party.”
He was being hyperarticulate, but his brain was dying. Madeleine tried to take in what Leonard was saying. She felt warm from the bourbon and hot from the city. Now that they were downstairs, back on Broadway, she was disappointed to be heading home. For over a year she’d been taking care of Leonard, hoping for him to get better, and now he was worse than ever. Having just come from a party where everyone else seemed happy and healthy, she found the situation grossly unfair.
“Can’t you just go to a party for an hour without acting like you’re being tortured?”
“No, I can’t, Madeleine. That’s the problem.”
A stream of people came up the subway stairs. Madeleine and Leonard had to move aside to let them pass.
“I understand you’re depressed, Leonard. But you’re taking medication for that. Other people take medication and they’re fine.”
“So you’re saying I’m dysfunctional even for a manic-depressive.”
“I’m saying that it almost seems like you like being depressed sometimes. Like if you weren’t depressed you might not get all the attention. I’m saying that just because you’re depressed doesn’t mean you can yell at me for asking if you had a good time!”
Suddenly Leonard’s face took on a strange expression, as if he was darkly amused. “If you and I were yeast cells, you know what we’d do?”
“I don’t want to hear about yeast!” Madeleine said. “I’m sick of yeast.”
“Given the choice, a yeast cell’s ideal state is to be diploid. But if it’s in an environment with a lack of nutrients, you know what happens?”
“I don’t care!”
“The diploids break into haploids again. Solitary little haploids. Because, in a crisis, it’s easier to survive as a single cell.”
Madeleine felt tears welling in her eyes. The heat from the bourbon was no longer warm but a burning in her chest. She tried to blink away the tears, but a drop fell down one cheek. She flicked it away with her finger. “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Do you want to break us up? Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want to ruin your life,” Leonard said in a gentler tone.
“You’re not ruining it.”
“The drugs just slow the process down. But the end’s inevitable. The question is, how to turn this thing off?” He jabbed at his head with his index finger. “It’s cutting me up, and I can’t turn it off. Madeleine, listen to me. Listen. I’m not going to get better.”
Oddly, saying this seemed to satisfy him, as though he was pleased to make the situation clear.
But Madeleine insisted, “Yes you will! You just think that now because you are depressed. But that’s not what the doctor says.”
She reached out and put her hands around his neck. She’d been so happy only a little while ago, feeling that their life was finally turning around. But now it all seemed like a cruel joke, the apartment, Columbia, everything. They stood at the subway entrance, one of those hugging, crying couples in New York, ignored by everyone passing by, granted perfect privacy in the middle of a teeming city on a hot summer night. Madeleine said nothing because she didn’t know what to say. Even “I love you” seemed inadequate. She’d said this to Leonard so many times in situations like this that she was worried it was losing its power.
But she should have said it, anyway. She should have kept her arms around Leonard’s neck and refused to let go, because, as soon as she stopped hugging him, with swift decisiveness, Leonard turned and fled down the steps of the subway. At first Madeleine was too surprised to react. But then she ran after him. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she didn’t see him. She ran past the token booth toward the other exit. She thought Leonard had climbed back up to the street, until she caught sight of him on the other side of the turnstiles, walking toward the tracks. As she dug into her pocketbook for change to buy a token, she felt the rumble of an approaching train. Wind was moving through the subway tunnel, kicking up pieces of litter. Realizing that Leonard must have jumped the turnstile, Madeleine decided to follow. She ran and leapt over the barrier. Two nearby teenagers laughed, seeing her do this, an Upper-East-Side-looking woman, in a dress. The train’s lights appeared in the tunnel. Leonard had reached the edge of the platform. The train was roaring into the station and Madeleine, running, could see that she was too late.
And then the train slowed and stopped. Leonard was still there, waiting for it.
Madeleine reached him. She called his name.
Leonard turned and looked at her, his eyes vacant. He reached out and placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders. In a soft voice edged with pity, with sadness, Leonard said, “I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee.??
?
And then he pushed her back, not gently, and jumped onto the train before the doors closed. He didn’t turn back to look at her through the window. The train began to move, at first slowly enough that it seemed Madeleine might be able to stop it with her hand—stop everything, what Leonard had just said, his shoving her, and her lack of resistance, her collaboration—but soon accelerating beyond her power to arrest it or to lie to herself; and now all the litter on the platform was swirling and the train wheels were screeching and the lights inside the car were blinking on and off, like the lights on a broken chandelier, or the cells in a dying brain, as the train disappeared into the darkness.
The Bachelorette’s Survival Kit
There were a lot of things to admire about the Quakers. They had no clerical hierarchy. They recited no creed, tolerated no sermons. They’d established equality between the sexes in their Meetings as early as the 1600s. Just about every American social movement you could think of had been supported and often spearheaded by the Quakers, from abolition, to women’s rights, to temperance (O.K., one mistake), to civil rights, to environmentalism. The Society of Friends met in simple spaces. They sat in silence, waiting for the Light. They were in America but not of America. They refused to fight America’s wars. When the U.S. government had interned Japanese citizens during World War II, the Quakers had strongly opposed the move, and had come out to wave goodbye as the Japanese families were boarded onto trains. The Quakers had a saying: “Truth from any source.” They were ecumenical and nonjudgmental, allowing agnostics and even atheists to attend their Yearly Meetings. It was this spirit of inclusiveness, no doubt, that led the small group of worshippers at the Friends Meeting House, in Prettybrook, to make room for Mitchell when he began to appear on hot July summer mornings.
The Meeting House stood at the end of a gravel road just beyond the Prettybrook Battlefield. A simple structure of hand-laid stones, with a white wooden porch and a single chimney, the building hadn’t changed from the date of its construction—1753, according to the plaque—save for the addition of electric lights and a heating system. The bulletin board outside bore a flyer for an antinuke march, a plea to petition the government on behalf of Mumia Abu-Jamal, convicted of murder the previous year, and assorted pamphlets on Quakerism. The oak-paneled interior was filled with wooden benches set in opposing sections, so that worshippers faced one another. Light issued from masked dormers above a beautifully carpentered, curved ceiling of gray wooden slats.