When he got home he took the box upstairs and sat on his bed and took all of the figures out and unwrapped them. Then he set them there on the shelf, where they belonged.
2
IT HAD SEEMED like a good idea at the time. Wanting to write. He didn’t know what the novel was going to be about but felt something pushing him to write one, some great inner force. He thought it had something to do with his mother, who from her damp, wormy confines maybe was pushing him to write it. He could almost hear her complaining: Look at your life, Abraham! A farmer? Who ever heard of a Jewish farmer! Make something of yourself! For his mother he had suffered through business school and joined a snobby accounting firm in the city. But Justine had saved him from all that. She said breaking the rules was the ultimate turn-on. You need to push yourself, she told him. Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you have to do it for the rest of your life.
On the day he quit they’d driven up to Stockbridge, her bare feet up on the dash, and poked around the Berkshires and made love under a blanket deep on the Tanglewood lawn, to the distant sounds of Mendelssohn.
His father said he had no stick-to-itiveness, but Justine saw things differently. She said he was curious and easily bored, which was true but not of her, never of her. And sometimes, when he’d make love to her with all the finesse he could muster, she called him a Renaissance man. He knew it was just Justine being romantic, but still.
So be it!
He wanted to be a novelist! He wanted to live in the country like John Cheever and sit by a window and write. He wanted to write about, well, something important. An important book that people could discuss at cocktail parties. He would be diligent and serious.
Every morning, after chores, he drove to the library to write. It was a fifteen-minute ride and there were plenty of things to notice along the dirt road from the farm, rutted, puddled, clamoring with thickets. In his rearview mirror he watched their farm grow small, the yellow house with its proud front porch and the hen house and the corn crib and the big barn where he kept the sheep and his three Jersey cows. The vegetable garden that Justine had started, around which he’d constructed a high wooden fence to keep out the deer and the foxes and the coyotes and a great many rabbits. Sometimes, he saw his wife rushing to her car with her heavy bag and her hair loose on her shoulders and her lips so pale in the morning light he could only think of turning around to kiss them. She had a warm, full body that made him feel safe. When he’d first introduced them, his father had called her A Heavy Piece of Furniture and said, when Bram asked what the hell he meant, Lots of drawers packed full of stuff. Maybe it was true, but he loved all her drawers and wanted to take his time rummaging through them.
The library was in town, a white clapboard structure across from St. James’s Church—for which, back in the early 1800s, it had been the parson’s house—and a cemetery enclosed by a creepy black fence. There were two librarians. Dagmar, a tall blonde of German descent, built like a transvestite with a homely, likable face, sat at the front desk, surreptitiously reading some bodice ripper and sneaking gumdrops from a box inside her drawer.
He worked upstairs, at the very back, in a remote carrel near a storage closet that now and again the second librarian, a Mr. Higgins, a white-haired, bespectacled man with a gimpy leg, would stagger into only to appear, minutes later, looking as if he’d been slapped around, trailing the smell of gin.
It wasn’t unusual to see the Hale boy at the large table near the window after school was out. Sometimes he had his friend with him. They would do their homework just as distractedly as boys always fulfill tasks, constantly fidgeting, dropping pencils, picking them up, sharpening them, getting a drink from the fountain. His brother would come to collect him just after five and they’d go off together. Bram knew the middle boy had enlisted and now was out of the picture. He’d dropped out of school, apparently, according to local gossip.
One afternoon, driving around on one of his source-material excursions, he saw the boy walking along the road, hitchhiking. He looked distressed, his face pale, his jaw clenched, his thumb like it could poke a hole in the air.
A pawnshop was a peculiar destination for a kid, Bram thought. He let him off there and they said their goodbyes, but the reality of the street, with its lurking addicts, a windblown prostitute on the corner, changed his mind. By then it was dark. He turned around and drove back and found the boy standing there on the curb, looking confused, frightened, his hands jammed in his pockets.
They drove back to Chosen without talking.
You hungry?
The boy shrugged.
That’s what I thought, Bram said, and invited him over for supper.
The kitchen was in its usual state of chaos when they walked in, Justine flushed and substantial in her big fisherman’s sweater and yoga pants, noisy clogs. A pot of water boiling on the stove, steam rising. Something baking in the oven—one of her raspberry tarts, he surmised. He introduced her to Cole, kind of a gratuitous formality, and Justine smiled and shook his hand. You need to call someone, right? Your uncle, maybe?
There were no secrets in their town and everybody knew it. You were sort of like family whether you wanted to be or not. Accustomed to following directions, Cole telephoned his uncle, turning away as if for privacy and mumbling into the receiver, but Bram suspected there was no one on the other end.
You can’t just bring him home like a stray cat, his wife whispered while feeding the dogs, their tails whacking her legs.
He looks hungry, Bram said. And so am I. He kissed her.
Well, he’s in luck, I’m making spaghetti.
When the boy hung up, she said, I hope you like spaghetti.
Yes, ma’am. I do.
You don’t have to call me ma’am. Please, call me Justine.
All right. Okay. Justine.
It’s just about done.
Here, Bram said, grabbing a bunch of junk mail off a chair. You can sit here.
He’s so cool. He was standing in front of the iguana’s hut. What’s his name?
Emerson.
Like that guy?
Bram smiled. Yeah, like that guy.
What does he eat?
Lots of greens like spinach. Basically anything green and leafy.
He’s very fond of apples, Justine added.
Cole joined Bram at the table. He was tall for his age, with a kind face and beautiful, deep-blue eyes. He stared at the empty plate.
The kitchen filled with steam as Justine strained the pasta. Do you want sauce on yours, Cole?
Yes, please. He took his napkin and carefully put it in his lap.
What grade are you in, tenth? Bram asked.
Ninth.
What’s your favorite subject?
Math, he said.
I was an accountant.
Did you like it?
No. No, I didn’t.
The boy smiled for the first time. Not full-out, just a glimmer.
Bram shrugged. What do you want to do?
Do?
You know, when you grow up.
Maybe I’ll be a farmer, he said finally.
That’s a good idea.
Like your dad, Justine said with enthusiasm, as though following in his father’s footsteps was a matter of pride. She smiled. That’s nice.
But Cole frowned. No. Not like him. I’d do things differently, he said.
Bram looked at him. I believe you would.
Justine brought over the bowl of spaghetti and meatballs and a container of Parmesan cheese. There’s salad, too, she said. And bread. And what about a drink?
This water’s fine. He took a sip of water and put the glass down. But he didn’t take any food. He just sat there.
Justine set down her fork.
The boy’s lower lip trembled slightly. Fat, slow tears ran down his cheeks. He crossed his arms over his chest, embarrassed.
Justine stood up and went to him. Hey.
I’m all right.
&n
bsp; She put her arm around him and hugged him and said, Watch out, you’re going to get me started.
He smiled, blinking, and she sat back down in her chair.
Better?
Yes, ma’am—Justine.
I bet you’re super-hungry, aren’t you?
I am, thanks.
Allow me. She took up his plate and served him a good helping. You came on a good night, she said, this happens to be my specialty. Help yourself to salad.
I will.
After they’d eaten and Bram was waiting to take him home, Justine took the boy in her arms and said, Whatever’s making you sad? It won’t last. This isn’t going to be your whole life. Things will get better, I promise. Okay?
He looked at her and nodded. Thank you for having me.
Come back anytime.
Once he’d dropped Cole off, Bram worried about what his wife had said. He wasn’t sure it was true. There was no guarantee the boy’s life would get any better. And Bram thought he probably knew it. He imagined that a boy like Cole knew his limitations.
But women saw things differently. Justine, for example, believed that good people were rewarded regardless of their circumstances. And that bad people paid in the end.
He hoped like hell she was right.
3
A COUPLE DAYS later, when he went back to work for the Clares, it felt like something had changed. Something about her wasn’t right. The house wasn’t as neat as usual, with piles of laundry, and dishes in the sink. Ashtrays full of butts, Franny’s toys all over the floor. An open vodka bottle on the counter. I’m on strike, she told him.
She went out somewhere. When Franny took her nap, he wandered around the house, feeling kind of down. She didn’t seem interested in him like she used to. Now it was just work he was there for. He looked in the cupboard for something to eat, but there wasn’t much, not even any crackers. After a while, just to feel useful, he went upstairs to check on Franny—she was curled up with her bunny, sleeping—and then lingered in the hall, deliberating, standing there at the door of his parents’ old room. For a moment, he tried pretending his mother was downstairs, cooking supper, and his father was out somewhere. But suddenly the memory was gone. And it was just him again, standing there alone in the drafty hall like somebody stuck between two worlds.
The room had a smell that was different. Her perfume, he guessed. And the damp shower smell. Under that was something else, something he couldn’t name.
Like his mother, she slept on the side near the door. There was a small jar of pills on the nightstand. He grasped the container and read the label, but didn’t know what to make of it. On a cocktail napkin she’d done a drawing of the Virgin Mary where her blue sheath turned into a river. It was pretty neat. On the other side was a list. Things I Need: leeks, milk, butter, Ajax, shoe polish, call Justine!
Sweating like a thief, he moved over to the bureau, opened the top drawer and ran his fingers through her underthings, the silk like water. The straps, the cups of her bra. He pushed his hand down his pants. After he finished, he went into the bathroom to wash his hands and dried them on her towel. For some reason he felt justified. Then he sat on the edge of the tub, trying to breathe.
Later, when Franny woke up, he gave her a snack. She said she wanted to color, so he put out her crayons and a fresh sheet of paper on the kitchen table. Then he grabbed his pack and took out his English homework. They worked together without speaking. For her age, she was a pretty good artist. He figured she took after her mother in that. She was drawing a picture of the house, he realized, with black shutters and smoke curling out of the chimney. Then she added a woman with long blond hair. At first he thought it was Catherine. But as the drawing progressed he saw the jumble of pink that looked like a sweater, and the green square that was a skirt. He saw the blue eyes with long rays for lashes. In place of the mouth was a black hole.
Who’s that, Franny?
And she wrote out a name in four bold letters: E L L A.
When Mrs. Clare came in and saw the picture she stood there a minute with her hands on her hips. Her back was turned and he couldn’t see her face. He wondered what she would do. Blinking like she’d eaten something spicy, she held it up. What a beautiful drawing, she said. Then she taped it on the refrigerator and went upstairs.
—
IT WAS MR. CLARE who drove him home. Cole noticed he hadn’t shaved and his skin looked oily, his eyes glassy. He’d loosened his necktie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. There was a joint in the ashtray, and he took a deep drag, coughed a little and then handed it to Cole. He didn’t feel like it but could tell Mr. Clare wanted him to, and refusing his boss was hard. The warm smoke rushed through him and he grinned, embarrassed.
Mr. Clare watched him closely, a look of satisfaction on his face. You have a girlfriend?
There’s this one girl.
Women, he said. They’re frustrating creatures. Don’t ever expect to get what you want, let alone what you need.
Cole hadn’t given either much thought.
When in doubt, consult the masters. He pulled a book off the back seat and handed it to him. You want to learn about women, take a look at those. That’s Courbet. I’ve marked the page.
Okay.
Take it with you.
The book was heavy on his legs. His fingers traced the edges of the binding, the cloth fabric of the cover. His hands were sweaty. Mr. Clare abruptly lowered the top and they drove in the wind, saying nothing. Cole could see the moon coming up. The sky was a little purple.
His uncle’s house was empty, and he remembered that Eddy was taking Rainer back to the doctor’s and Vida had gone along. He went up to the attic, opened the book to the marked page and was astonished. It was a painting of a woman—below the waist. Her legs were splayed and you could see right down to her butt, below a black mound of hair and her dark slit. The painting was called The Origin of the World. Though he knew the birth canal was around there, he wondered why the artist had called it that. He didn’t like the painting and he didn’t like that Mr. Clare had given it to him, and he closed the book and shoved it under his bed. He realized he was very stoned and a little out of his mind and he hated Mr. Clare for making him feel like this, and for the weird thing that was suddenly between them.
He didn’t go back to the farm for a few days. He couldn’t seem to leave his room. Eddy brought soup and toast up on a tray and read him comics and told him dirty jokes. Rainer even hauled himself up the stairs and put his heavy hand on his forehead. You got a fever, boy.
He’ll be all right, Eddy said.
The days passed slowly and he was glad to be left alone. He watched the window shades flutter and the sunlight move across the walls. He could feel himself transforming. He was thin and white, his hands were too big, his legs and feet too long. He couldn’t control his thoughts and had jags when he cried like a girl.
A few days later Mrs. Clare showed up at his uncle’s, standing there on the porch with a plate of cookies when he got downstairs.
Franny misses you.
I’ve been sick, he said.
Here, I made you these.
He took the cookies and thanked her and watched her drive away, then went back to bed. He figured if he slept some more he’d wake up and everything would be normal again, like it was before his mother had gone, before those strange people had moved into his house.
Part 3
Things Heard and Seen
1
THE WEATHER turned grim those last weeks of November, and the sky was an oppressive gray. Snow piled up on the glass table and metal chairs on the patio. The narrow road remained as pristine as cake frosting, save for the intermittent tracks of deer and rabbits, and no lights burned in the great houses of Chosen. Only rugged locals and country folk stayed on. She was one of them now.
They drove to Connecticut for Thanksgiving. Her in-laws had a cocktail party for close friends, the women in bright dresses with match
ing pumps, the men in plaid pants and blazers. They were heavy smokers; the living room filled with a gauzy haze. Through the large picture window she could see the water, the beach flat and bare. She would have liked to go out there into the fresh air, away from these people, but they’d think it was rude. His parents were intimidating. Under her grosgrain hairband, his mother would look at Catherine like she was nowhere near good enough. This shouldn’t surprise her, though; George did the same thing.
Early on, his mother had done the calculations and saw her only child’s marriage in a new light. Poor George had done the noble thing, the Christian thing. Once, just after they were married, they’d all gone to church together. She could remember George in the back seat of his father’s Mercedes, suddenly a boy again in his too-snug suit, his tie askew, turned away from her, separate, as she tried to keep up conversation with his gardenia-fragranced mother. After mass, standing next to him in the parking lot with his parents’ doting friends, she felt self-conscious in her crummy maternity dress, her old scuffed flats; the dress she’d finally settled on at Penney’s looked cheap, and she would’ve been better off saving the money and sewing one herself. Her in-laws’ fancy church and strategic do-gooding were relentlessly off-putting. For her, religion was a quiet thing. Her faith was all her own. God was her confidant, her hope. In His eyes, she was her true self, nothing more, nothing less. She was the person George would never see.
Such things were complicated, she’d come to realize. She couldn’t discuss her faith with George, because she knew he’d mock her and make her feel stupid, and there was a certain irony to that, because faith was the very thing keeping her married to him.
—
THEIR LAUGHTER BROUGHT her back into the room. They were telling stories about George when he was young. Making fun of him. It was something his family enjoyed doing, belittling their son for their own amusement. Of course, he couldn’t see it. Or at least pretended he didn’t. They were talking about how in high school he’d idolized his cousin Henri, who turned out to be a first-class homo, and they didn’t know what had been worse for his parents, the fact that he’d drowned or that he was gay. She watched George’s face, for once nuanced with shame, and she felt sorry that he’d grown up here with these awful, heartless people.