All Things Cease to Appear

  He couldn’t bear it.

  You should go now.

  He couldn’t move.

  George?

  He’d never cried in front of a woman and didn’t know why he was doing it now. Except that he had an awful feeling inside him.

  Get out, she said.

  He didn’t argue. He went down the narrow staircase that smelled of dirt and sheep shit and sour milk, out into the cold wind. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, nearly dark, and the air smelled of fires. He felt the need to walk. To brace himself for some unknown catastrophe. It would come soon, he knew. There was no doubt.

  The Reality of the Unseen

  1

  IT DIDN’T TAKE long for rumors to circulate about George Clare. Though he had won the favor of students, the older, stuffier faculty members found fault with his showy confidence, his rather cavalier disregard for the mood of austerity that had defined the department for decades. During his office hours, there’d be a little crowd outside his door of students who just wanted to talk. Witnessing such celebrity could be annoying.

  Although he was conservative in appearance, Justine imagined that George was the sort of man who entertained unconventional possibilities—what those might include, she didn’t dare say. Late one Friday afternoon she ran into him in the corridor. It was just after midterms, students roaming the campus like zombies, professors hiding in their offices with the doors shut, pretending not to exist. TGIF, she said lamely.

  How about a drink to celebrate?

  She followed him down to his office. To her relief, Edith, the department’s drill sergeant, had already gone home. The doors were all locked, the place deserted.

  Come in, have a seat. It’s good to see you.

  It’s nice to see you, too.

  Like one of his students, she sat across his desk, shifting around on the hard chair. The bookshelves were lined with heavy art books. On an adjacent wall were five small canvases, seascapes. What lovely paintings, she said.

  Oh, don’t look at those. They’re old.

  I didn’t know you painted.

  My wife’s the real painter, he said. They’re so bad she won’t let me hang them in the house.

  They are not, George. You have real talent. Are those ospreys?

  Yes. They make their nests on those platforms.

  Is that where you grew up?

  He nodded. I could rig a boat by the time I was five.

  Well—they’re really good. You should get back to it.

  Even as he shook his head, she could tell he was pleased. What’s that? she said, nodding at an index card thumbtacked to the wall right above the end of his desk, with something written in blue pen.

  Kind of a good-luck charm, he said. It’s a quote by George Inness: Beauty depends on the unseen, the visible upon the invisible. That’s been with me since graduate school.

  Are you going to tell me what it means? She smiled, batting her eyelashes.

  Literal translation: what we see depends on what we don’t see. It’s something Inness called the reality of the unseen—a person’s spiritual truth. God is hidden, but that doesn’t make Him absent. Finding Him isn’t necessarily about seeing Him. There’s a connection between seeing and being blind. Like in the fog, when certain things, certain colors, become important. The possibility of revelation in the ordinary. He sighed, looking at her, his eyes moving slowly as if he were memorizing every inch of her. I’m boring you, aren’t I?

  Not at all. I think it’s fascinating.

  Here’s my pedestrian version: to know yourself is to forget who you are.

  I’ll have to think about that.

  Let me assist you. He opened a drawer and took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  I see you’re prepared.

  Always.

  Don’t let DeBeers know.

  Will he fire me?

  No, he’ll want to join us. And Floyd never has just one.

  He’s already gone home, George said, pouring her drink, so we’re safe. Cheers.

  They clinked glasses and she asked, Does anyone really know himself?

  We’re told who to be by our parents, he said.

  I’m always telling my students to forget about their parents and do whatever they want.

  Like you did?

  Yes, actually. But I’m not a good example.

  Why’s that?

  Because, well…

  Because? A half-smile waited on his lips.

  I’m not ambitious. And because life terrifies me. Don’t tell anyone.

  I happen to be very good at keeping secrets. But what are you so afraid of?

  Bad people, she said finally. Deception. Possibility.

  Possibility? He tugged loose his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, then stretched out his legs and crossed one foot over the other. Such an intriguing word. What do you mean by it?

  For some reason she now even felt like a student. I don’t know. I guess I do need this drink. He was still watching her closely. She shifted in her chair, self-conscious, and sat up a little taller. She was wearing a mushroom-colored blazer over a white blouse, a long black skirt, Birkenstocks—an outfit that would make the Glamour Don’t list. Uncomfortable with the silence, she confessed, I have a small life. Simple. It suits me. I’m content.

  He gave her a doubtful look. Nobody’s content.

  I don’t think that’s true, George.

  Well, I prefer discontent. At least it’s honest. He topped off their glasses.

  The room had an unpleasant yellowish glow. Through the window, the sky looked dirty. I should probably go, she said.

  Me, too, he said, but neither of them moved.

  How are your classes going?

  I sometimes wonder if they’re even listening. They just sit there with these blank faces. I’m convinced I’m boring them. I feel like I should tell a few jokes or something.

  Oh, I’m told they like you a lot, she said. Besides, it doesn’t matter as long as they can distinguish between a Caravaggio and a Carracci.

  It’s a challenging course. It can be slightly more demanding than weaving, for instance.

  Yes, and it can also be intensely boring.

  You don’t beat around the bush.

  Sorry. One of my many personality flaws. Bram says I have no tact. You know what they say: the truth will set you free.

  George shook his head, suddenly gloomy, moving his glass around in small circles on the desk. People don’t really want the truth. He looked up at her. They don’t want to be free, either.

  It’s like that Eagles song. You know, we’re all just prisoners of our own device.

  People might think they’re free—unencumbered. But they’re not. None of us are.

  Bram and I…she started to say, but stopped herself. Like most people who were judgmental about their living up here without the accouterments of marital bliss—a house in the suburbs, kids—George would not be easily convinced. But Justine was beyond caring what people thought. She and Bram had achieved it—freedom—they made their own rules. In contrast, George and Catherine were here for the job. They’d fallen into this country life, devoid of the usual constraints, and Justine sensed it wasn’t easy for them.

  Sorry—you and Bram?

  Forget it. It’s not important.

  Oh, but it is. It’s the existential dilemma of our times, freedom is. He finished his drink and practically peered at her. Let’s try an experiment.

  What?

  Close your eyes, he said, and she did. Now put your hands on the desk.

  She giggled. Are you going to read my palm?

  No, I’m going to demonstrate a point. She could feel him taking her wrists, holding them tightly in each of his hands.

  George?

  You think you’re free until someone comes along and reminds you that you’re not. He was holding her very tightly.

  Let go, she said.

  But he held her there a moment longer.

  George
, I get it. You’ve made your point.

  She struggled, still in his grip, and it made her burn a little with anger—or something else, a confusing energy. When he finally released her, she opened her eyes; he was looking right at her.

  They stood in the buzzing silence, putting on their coats.

  For the couple minutes it took them to get down the long corridor, their not speaking was awkward, yet she didn’t have a clue what she would say to him. On the front steps they talked briefly of the changing weather. The parking lot was empty, the lamps just coming on. The days were getting much shorter.

  He walked her to her car. Are you okay to drive?

  Of course. And you?

  He nodded. Better than okay.

  Say hi to Catherine for me.

  I will. Thanks for stopping by.

  Such superficiality didn’t suit him. Still, she pursued it eagerly. How’s the house coming?

  She thinks it’s haunted.

  So the rumors are true, then?

  What rumors?

  Nothing. She smiled. I’m kidding. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?

  He studied her carefully, his eyes on her body as if she were some marble statue. She felt her face brighten with heat. He leaned in closer, as if to smell her, and she rushed with a momentary terror that he was going to kiss her, but he broke the strangely intimate spell by opening her door. Good night, Justine.

  Good night.

  They each drove out the long driveway and turned in opposite directions at the main road, heading back to their separate lives.

  —

  DRIVING HOME, she was distracted. What if he had kissed her? He’d presented that possibility, she thought, but deliberately hadn’t followed through. A passive-aggressive gesture that accomplished two things: it let her know he was willing to sleep with her, and also allowed that his supposed interest in doing this was her own creation. Not kissing her when it seemed obvious that he wanted to was his way of demonstrating another point, that gestures of desire were easily misconstrued. Moreover, backing up those few inches had kept him safe from incriminating himself, should she refuse him.

  It would be up to her, she realized. He’d made that painfully clear.

  Bram was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of ice cream, when she came inside. Aren’t your cheeks rosy, he said.

  It’s cold. She kissed him and he pulled her onto his lap and held her.

  Where were you so late? I’ve been missing you.

  George and I had a drink, she said.

  Was that any fun?

  I think he’s strange, she said, then explained what had happened. I feel violated.

  He’s an odd fellow, Bram said. I’ve always thought so.

  They went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. George had upset her even more than she’d thought at the time. Holding her wrists like that—was she wrong to think of it as a kind of assault, a form of intimidation? Even a threat?

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING she ran into the Clare girls in town. Catherine was wearing sunglasses and her nose was splotchy red. I have a cold, she said. We’re going to get a pumpkin.

  I get to pick my own, Franny said.

  We’re going to make a jack-o’-lantern, aren’t we?

  She nodded and reached up her hands and Catherine pulled her onto her hip.

  Are you coming to Floyd’s tonight? Justine asked.

  She seemed to be drawing a blank.

  He’s having a Halloween party.

  Oh, I don’t think I can get a sitter on short notice, especially on Halloween. George didn’t say anything about it.

  Through the dark glasses, she couldn’t see Catherine’s eyes. Well, I doubt we’re going anyway. Bram hates faculty parties.

  I want my pumpkin, Momma.

  Well—we should go. She set Franny down and took her hand as a squall of dead leaves flared around them. My goodness, this wind! She pulled up her daughter’s hood and fastened the button under her chin. There you go. Is that better?

  It’s good to have a hood, isn’t it? Justine said.

  The child looked up at her and then at her mother, her nose runny.

  Well, Catherine said. We’re off. See you.

  Yes. Soon, I hope.

  2

  COLE HAD WAITED for Patrice that afternoon, and when she pushed through the heavy green doors of St. Anthony’s he noticed the pink cardigan right away, and once he saw the tiny moth hole he knew for sure. That’s a nice sweater, he said, reaching out to touch it.

  Patrice smiled and blushed. I just bought it at the bazaar. It was on the bottom of this pile and I saw the pink sleeve hanging out. Isn’t it pretty?

  He didn’t want to tell her that it had been his mother’s, but he took it as a sign.

  He walked her home, a narrow house with painted floors. When they got there her mother was just going to work. She had on a white nurse’s uniform and those white hospital shoes. Cole could see her father out on the back porch, sitting in a chair with the newspaper, smoking a cigar. They went up to her room and sat on the floor, playing cards. She won a few hands of gin and then taught him how to knit, showing him how to hold the needles as she moved the yarn around. She was close. He could smell her sugar-cookie skin.

  He saw her again later that week, on Halloween, at the fire station. In their town, Halloween was a big deal and all the houses on Main Street had candles in the windows and they strung up ghosts and skeletons in the trees to make everything look creepy; they didn’t have to try very hard, since most of the houses were hundreds of years old and plenty creepy even without the decorations. They had a party at the firehouse with doughnuts and cider, and everybody showed off their costumes. Cole was Luke Skywalker and Eugene was Yoda. He thought their costumes had turned out pretty good but they didn’t win anything. They ran into Patrice and her friends. She had on heavy makeup and high heels and a short dress and he thought maybe she’d padded her bra. There was a band of skin between her midriff and her waist.

  What are you? he asked.

  Can’t you tell?

  He shook his head and her friends all laughed.

  I’m a whore, you dope, she said. Kiss me.

  3

  MOST OF THE STUDENTS in his two o’clock class had dressed up, and it seemed a little silly lecturing to vampires and zombies, ghouls, celestial anomalies, tornadoes. He had to admit, the costumes were good. Catherine had made them pumpkin cookies and they were passing around the tray. She was always doing things like that, and perhaps she thought he needed her help. Between the two of them, she’d been the brighter student. But now he was here and she was home cleaning the house.

  He was lecturing about Thomas Cole, his students taking copious notes as they always did. Writing down whatever he said. He saw this more as an attempt to appear engaged rather than to actually learn anything. As you all know, he said, Thomas Cole was well known in these parts. He was the first popular landscape painter in this country, and he loved the Catskills and the Hudson River, and the lakes and streams and the wilderness, and of course these were the subjects of his paintings.

  George clicked through several of them on the slide projector. Falls of the Kaaterskill; View on the Catskill—Early Autumn; Sunny Morning on the Hudson River; The Oxbow. There were plenty of others, he told them, then explained that Cole emphasized the notion of the sublime in his work, a Platonic ideal of nature—the sense of fear and awe in the divine. He saw this as his mission as an artist, to represent the idea that depictions of an unspoiled paradise were morally uplifting. For Cole, it wasn’t about painting leaves; this was spiritual enlightenment and morality. Landscape painting became a means to communicate philosophical ideas and insights. At the same time, it identified the American wilderness—wild and brutal and glorious—as a version of paradise. As Emerson said, true revelation is always attended by the emotion of the sublime.

  —

  DRIVING BACK to Chos
en after work, he reviewed what he’d said to them in class. He doubted that his students grasped any real concept of the sublime, especially as it existed in nature. They saw drugs, not nature, as the conduit for enlightenment.

  Perhaps they were too young, he concluded. They didn’t know anything yet.

  He thought distantly of Burke’s theory—that one experienced the sublime in nature only through astonishment, which in turn was a condition of revelation, that only terror gave one access to such elevated experience.

  He knew this to be true. He had felt it himself, lately, with that girl—a state of being that made everything else irrelevant. The place that existed between pleasure and pain, without boundaries or light, darkness or gravity, the place where the soul lives. How she looked when he did certain things—her astonishment, her terror—and then the awful pleasure that came at last.

  —

  DEBEERS LIVED in a small brick house on Kinderhook Creek. The mulberry tree on the front lawn was strung with ghosts, and when you crossed the threshold you heard the harrowing cries of the dead on a tape. Floyd was wearing a white wig, knickers and a gray vest and waistcoat, and holding a highball glass full of whiskey. Where’s Lady Catherine?

  She couldn’t make it. Not an easy night to find a sitter.

  Pity, DeBeers said. Can you guess who I am?

  George chuckled at his costume. He’d even fashioned buckles on his shoes. Hmm, he said.

  Swedenborg, of course, Floyd announced in operatic singsong. My little gift to you.

  Well, that was very nice of you, Floyd.

  I thought you’d appreciate it.

  Christ, what have you been drinking?

  Not drinking, Millicent said, displeased. He’s tripping.

  Tripping?

  Smiling devilishly, DeBeers took his hand and led him into the dining room—low-ceilinged with a raging fire—and snatched a plastic jack-o’-lantern off the table. I’ve been known to dabble in hallucinogens. It reminds me there’s a whole world out there we don’t even see. Here, he said, an offering. A little treat from a friend in Berkeley.

  You don’t have to, Millicent said.

  They’re fun, a woman piped up, unwinding out of the dark in her costume.