“You’ll get over it,” Simon had told her in the car. But she knew she wouldn’t. They were living out of his car. It was just three days later when Simon sold his first painting to a woman named Norma Fisk. With the money they rented a furnished room with a hot plate and a small refrigerator. She’d stare out the window all day long at the city streets. He’d give her pills that he bought on the street. Sometimes they made her feel better. Sometimes they made her sick. He’d paint constantly, as if it was the only thing that could keep him from touching her. She knew he wanted her in a sinful way and it tortured him. He would sink into a dark mood and drink and avoid her. She told him she wanted to go back to school, and he yelled and screamed. Perhaps her father had been right, he said, perhaps she was lazy and ungrateful. Get me the phone, I’m calling that orphanage. Let them deal with you. Once, he became so enraged that he packed her things in a suitcase and put her in the car. “I’m not cut out for this,” he said. “I can’t take it anymore.” She cried the whole way up the Northway, until he pulled up in front of a dreary house with a sign out front, Bard’s Children’s Home. “Out of the car, get out of the fucking car!” And she cried and screamed and twisted on the seat and then he kissed her. A surprise of moisture on her mouth. And he looked into her eyes. “Don’t you know I love you,” he said. “Can’t you see that you’re everything to me? I’d fucking die without you.”
And it was then, with his face inches from hers, that she made her first fatal mistake; she believed him.
40
THERE WAS SOMETHING heartbreaking in discovery. You had to let go of the past and that wasn’t easy, no matter how much you wanted to. Earlier in the evening, when Simon had followed Lydia to St. Vincent’s, he’d discovered that she had a whole other life outside of the tight formality of their marriage. Much to his bewilderment, they’d enlisted his nut job of a wife to man the Crisis Hotline, advising strangers on what he imagined were a variety of domestic travails; it baffled him to think that she could handle the task. Yet he’d spied her through the glass window in her little pink coat, handling the calls with apparent ease, a flush of importance on her cheeks. He had loitered for two hours in the corridor near the candy machines, drinking sour coffee and sketching people on paper towels from the men’s room. Finally, she’d emerged from the small office, accompanied by a man with a limp, and he’d known at once that it was Tim Hart, the minister from her church. Around his very own kitchen table, Simon had heard many a dewy-eyed devotee speak, in somber tones, about the man’s unfortunate disability. Unimpressed, Simon had refused to get swept up in the evangelical gusto of the New Birth Church, but had, in his guilt, donated hundreds of dollars to its discretionary fund with the blessed hope that this man of enlightened sensitivity could keep his wife on an even keel.
He had clearly done more than that. There was this look on her face, like she’d walk through fire for him. Simon unwittingly felt betrayed, even though he knew he had no right. It wasn’t like she was fucking the man.
The minister was driving a black Cutlass and Simon’s wife was inside it. They were heading into High Meadow and Simon was in an old Dodge Dart behind them. He had borrowed one of his student’s cars, explaining that his own had broken down. A predictable excuse that sufficed. It was not fast, but they would never suspect they were being followed.
They exited the interstate at Nassau, then wound their way down dark roads into High Meadow. He could not imagine where they were going now. The minister slowed down and turned onto a narrow dirt road, cutting his headlights. Simon did not turn into the street after them. Instead, he pulled into a cluster of bushes and got out and walked.
Down the road, he could see the two of them getting out of the car, walking around to the back of a house. It chilled him, seeing this. That’s my wife, he wanted to scream. That’s my fucking wife! After several minutes, Simon saw them return to the car. He ducked into some bushes and watched the car crawl down the road and turn the corner.
He waited on the dark road, unable to stop his pounding heart. Gradually, as he neared, he began to hear music coming from one of the houses. Was it La Bohème? With a sinking apprehension, he walked toward the house, knowing somehow what he would find when he got there. Her Volvo in the driveway, for instance, did not surprise him, nor did her beautiful house, which was more impressive than her description of it had been, with big windows, all lit up inside. She was just the type to waste electricity, he thought. The whole house seemed to glow from within—because of her, he thought. Her light. It was exactly the sort of house he’d imagined her in. Standing there in the dark he felt cheap and loathsome, like a Peeping Tom.
He remembered their lunch together at the museum, how she’d confided in him about the threats. It was Lydia’s church, he realized, that fanatical Reverend Tim. Why else would they come out here together in the dark?
Sweat coated his skin and he felt sick to his stomach. He did not know what he would do if they hurt Annie. He needed to see her. He needed to make sure she was all right.
Like a thief, he walked around to the back of the house. His hands felt heavy, useless. The wet grass seeped into his shoes. A chill went all through his body and for a moment he entertained the theory that he’d been marked by destiny in some way, that he was a flawed man and would perish for it.
The deck ran across the back of the house and he stepped up onto it. The blinds had been pulled down over a large picture window, but he could easily see through the slits. He knew Annie was unaware of this, and he would never be able to tell her. He saw a family room off the kitchen. The TV was on, and he stood there for a moment watching it flash, thinking distantly of his own home and the dark mood that washed through it like a sloppy watercolor. Annie came into the room, suddenly. To his relief, she looked content in a white bathrobe and bare feet. She sat down on the couch. The only thing between her and him was the cold glass of the window, and he put his hand upon it as if upon her back. Her hair was wet, scattered across the green pillow like twigs in the grass. She picked up the newspaper and began to read. She was extraordinary, he thought. This woman whom, with his own hands, he had vigorously explored. This woman whom he had begun to love.
A day passed and he hadn’t left his house. “What’s wrong with you?” his wife asked that morning.
“Touch of the flu,” he told her.
Lydia scowled. “You’re never sick.”
“I am now.”
“You have a class this morning.”
“I’ve canceled it.”
She bristled slightly, buttoning her blouse. “I’m going to work. I haven’t fed the dogs.”
“I’ll do it. And Lydia, I’d like you to come directly home after work.” A smiled eased across her face. “What for?”
“I’d like to spend some time with you.”
“Really?”
“Is that so surprising? A husband wanting to spend some time with his wife?”
This made her laugh. “Sorry, old man. I’ve got plans.”
He could hear her galloping down the stairs. I’ve lost her, he thought. “Lydia!” he called out. “Just a moment. Lydia!”
But she was already out the door.
Standing at the window, he watched her get into her car. She’d put a bumper sticker on the rear bumper: BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, CHOOSE LIFE. The sticker embarrassed him. He didn’t like bumper stickers or the people who used them. He didn’t like people blasting their opinions all over the place. And since when did his wife have any opinions. The idea that she was so shamelessly involved with that minister gave him the creeps.
Should he tell Annie, he wondered. Should he warn her? He could forbid Lydia to see Reverend Tim, he thought. He could threaten her. Lock her up in the house. Commit her to Blackwell.
The phone rang, trilling through the house. It was the museum curator’s secretary, a young man with an Australian accent. “Just checking up on you, Mr. Haas. How are the paintings coming?”
“Quite fine,” Simon told
him. “Don’t you worry, you’ll have what you want.” And they would. Yes. They’d have their lousy paintings and they would make him famous once again. But for what? For what, for whom, he did not know. Annie, maybe. Yes, he thought, perhaps he was painting for her.
He hung up on the man and left the house at once. The brisk morning air smacked his face and he gathered his skimpy coat around himself. The sun was still weak, the sky a fresh bruise. He walked into the woods, the dogs loping at his heels then scattering among the fallen limbs and hills of dead leaves. He walked and walked for over an hour, hearing the rushing of the lake. It suddenly occurred to him that he was alone; the dogs had vanished, and he did not hear them barking. Disoriented, he searched the black trees, looking for landmarks. There were none. He was completely lost. His eyes began to tear and his throat went dry. Trudging uselessly in one direction, he roamed through the stifling maze of his past where it was so dark, and he was so lost, that there seemed no escape. One poor decision after another, constructed out of flimsy, dishonorable intentions. For a moment he was overcome, and dropped to his knees in the cold leaves and wept.
The sound of a gunshot broke open the air. He heard his dogs barking wildly and remembered that it was hunting season. It was dangerous to be walking in the woods. Slowly, he got to his feet and started toward their noise, grateful that at last he would find his way home.
41
LYDIA PARKED in the visitors’ lot just inside the main gates. The man in the little white booth gave her a map and she found the registrar’s office easily. The campus seemed quiet, students scattered on benches here and there across the quad. It was a bright windy day and she took her time, walking slowly behind a group of girls in bright ski jackets, eavesdropping on their conversation about a class they were taking. They were so pretty and smart, smelling like flowers, strolling along as if they didn’t have a care in the world. An old anger surged through her body and she quickened her pace.
Luckily the registrar’s office was quiet, and the woman behind the counter looked nice. Lydia went up to her and explained her situation. The woman behind the counter had her hair pulled back in a tight bun and was wearing a pin that might have been made by her daughter or son, constructed out of cardboard and a safety pin. The woman frowned, pursing her lips. “The semester started over a month ago. I’m afraid that class is closed.”
“Do you have any idea who I am?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
“I’m Lydia Haas.”
The woman in the registrar’s office looked perturbed, then embarrassed. “Of course, Mrs. Haas. Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you. Let me see what I can do.”
The woman behind the counter disappeared through the door behind her. Of course, Mrs. Haas. Forgive me. Lydia waited for nearly fifteen minutes. Finally, and with hasty impertinence, the woman returned, offering Lydia a stack of papers that needed to be filled out. “You’re welcome to audit the class,” the woman told her, “but the professor will not be required to submit a grade.”
“Is there a charge?”
“No, no charge for spouses of faculty members. The class meets in Hillard. Monday through Thursday, at noon.”
Lydia forced a smile. She left the building quickly and ran all the way to her car. Driving home she had an intense craving for prunes, and she pulled into Brewster’s and purchased a canister and ate them quickly, spitting the pits out her window. When she got home she had to run into the house to use the bathroom, and she was in there for quite some time. She got into bed in her clothes, pulling the covers up to her chin, and stared out the window, watching the trees dancing in the wind. She lay there all afternoon and into the evening. She saw no reason to get up for anything.
When she woke in the dark room, her husband was shuffling in, wearing some kind of costume. At first she thought she was dreaming. She could see that he was drunk, stumbling around, spilling his drink on the carpet. He went into the bathroom and urinated, then washed his hands. She sat up in the bed and watched him as he began to undress.
“What’s that you’re wearing, Simon?”
“A costume. From fucking Shakespeare. I stole it from the Theater Department.”
“What for?”
“What for?” He grimaced. “Fucking Halloween, that’s what for.”
“Oh, I see.”
“There was a party.”
“I’m sorry I missed it.”
“You didn’t miss anything.”
The wind had picked up and she could hear her chimes clanging on the porch. He sat down heavily on the bed and wiped his face with his hands.
“I see you’ve had some whiskey.”
He nodded. “More than some.”
She stood up in the dim room and took off his shoes and socks. Then she helped him back onto his pillow. Swiftly, he fell into a deep sleep. It was almost midnight. His face in sleep looked boyish and vulnerable and she had the most intense desire to slap it. For a moment she indulged in a fantasy of slapping his face over and over again, one cheek and then the other, alternating until they were bright red. It made her a little wet, thinking about it, and she began to undress, slowly, sleepily, then stood naked beside the bed, feeling the thrill of a draft, hearing the rain beating on the roof then running through the gutters like hundreds of coins. Her heart was beating fast and she did not know what she would do next. She did not know what she would do to calm herself down. She took his hand and wriggled it, trying to rouse him, but he did not wake up. She sat down beside him thinking Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, and put his hand on her breast, molding it around the circle of flesh, and still he did not wake. She took his fingers in her own and squeezed her nipple like a cow’s teat until it hurt, until she gasped out loud, until the sweat prickled her neck like thousands of tiny pins and her eyes began to tear and still he did not wake up. She picked up her pillow and put it down softly over his face like a cloud and thought, How easy this is. How perfectly simple, letting the picture of his inevitable suffering fill her head, his struggling, his twisting and turning under her hands, his squirming feet.
Feeling the pressure, Simon coughed and turned onto his side, powerfully, knocking the pillow to the floor, and the idea, entertaining as it was, flew out of her head.
Exhausted, she crept into bed and lay on her stomach, turning away from his sour breath, and went to sleep, hating him slightly less than before.
Lydia did not tell her husband that she would be taking Annie’s class. In fact, she said very little to her husband, as little as possible. With him painting again more intensely than ever, perhaps he was relieved. Anyway, he was too busy to take notice.
Too busy fucking Annie Knowles.
That morning she dressed for work as usual, but paid special attention to her hair and makeup. She even sprayed a little cologne on her neck. She hoped Simon would notice, but he scarcely looked up from his bowl of oatmeal. At eleven-thirty she left work and drove to the college. Reverend Tim had given her some special pills for her nerves and she took them now to calm down. She parked in visitor parking, wanting to keep her little secret from Simon. Well, he would find out soon enough, she guessed. She bought herself a cup of coffee in the little café on campus, and waited until it was time to go to the class. The classroom was located in a small octagonal building just a short distance from where her husband taught his classes in the art building. Walking toward the door, she swallowed hard, her throat parched from nerves. It had been ten years since she’d been inside a classroom. She hadn’t been much of a student, and she had never liked the other girls, the vicious scrutiny of the nuns. So when Simon had put an end to her education, convincing her that life on the road with an artist would teach her everything she needed to know, she hadn’t argued. Years later, after they’d moved to High Meadow and he’d gotten the job at St. Catherine’s, he suddenly became eager for her to know more. Simon Haas needed a smart wife. “Your ignorance is an embarrassment,” he’d told her once when he was drunk. He’d b
een the one who’d sent for the application for the high school equivalency exam. He’d helped her study. And when she’d passed, he’d bought her the Mercedes.