All Things Cease to Appear

  It wasn’t like her to drive fast, Bram said. That’s why she loved that old Volvo—it rattled if you went over seventy. He smiled, shaking his head. I was trying to talk her into buying a new car. But she refused, said she loved that old wagon, that god-awful dirty white. It was her mother’s car. It saved her life.

  Even if she came out of the coma, he explained, she might never walk again. It remains to be seen, he said. They don’t know. It’s just too early to tell.

  God willing she’ll be all right, Catherine said. I’m going to pray for her.

  You do that, George thought.

  He went to the register and took care of the bill. In the lobby, he shook Bram’s hand. Anything you need. Just let us know what we can do.

  Later that afternoon, he drove into Albany, to the Sears, and bought his wife a dishwasher. He bought the cheapest model on the floor and paid to have it delivered and asked the salesman to make sure to put a red ribbon on it. His wife, he told him, would be getting what she wanted for Christmas.

  4

  IT RAINED all afternoon. She stayed on the couch, watching cartoons with Franny under a blanket, her body heavy, enervated, like she was sick. When she heard his car she didn’t even move. She stayed where she was. It was strange to think that Franny could protect her, but that’s how she felt.

  George appeared in the doorway, looking slightly deranged. I need to talk to you, he said.

  They went into the kitchen. He sat down at the table and took her hand. I made a mistake, he told her. He didn’t look sorry.

  She sat there waiting.

  There’s this girl, Willis Howell.

  She was conscious of her hand in his, the sweat, the stain of lies. She slowly pulled it away, as though from a loaded gun, and folded her arms across her chest.

  It was all just a big misunderstanding, he said. She’s young, a college student, impressionable. She kind of fell in love with me. Then he went on and on. It put him in a bad position. He didn’t want the girl to be hurt; she had some serious issues. She came from a wealthy New York family. Spoiled, used to getting whatever she wanted. These people think the world owes them something. She’d been in therapy her whole life. She had real problems.

  Catherine sat there trying to ascertain his guilt. I don’t know what to say, George.

  Nothing happened. You need to know that. There’s nothing going on.

  —

  HE STARTED being nice to her. Brought her flowers, wine. They sat there at the table, drinking it in silence. He gave her a present, a locket. Put our pictures in it, he said. We’re a family. We’ll always be together, no matter what.

  She tried to think. She tried to be patient.

  His eyes said, Forgive me.

  And she did. That’s how she’d been raised. That’s what the women in her family did. They got through things. They kept going.

  She went to confession, because, for some reason, everything wrong in her life seemed like her own fault.

  As the days passed they were quiet, separate, vigorously respectful. He didn’t touch her. He seemed happier, confident. Like a game they were playing, taking turns with hateful strategy, and him moving ahead.

  —

  SHE WENT to the hospital every day. It became part of her routine. The nurses showered Franny with attention. They were very kind. Justine lay there motionless, on all kinds of machines, her brown hair spread out on the pillow. Catherine sat on the bed and held her hand and talked to her. She prayed.

  She tried to occupy herself. She cleaned out the oven, reaching her arm into the dark cavern. She reorganized the linen closet, refolding all of the sheets and towels and stacking them neatly on the shelves.

  One morning, doing the laundry, she pulled a mysterious lump out of George’s pocket. It sat in her hand, brown and jumbled, like a nest. It was somebody’s hair.

  Days and weeks passed. Christmas decorations appeared in the hospital halls, silver tinsel as long as rain. I’m praying for her every day, she told Bram.

  I don’t know why this happened to her, he said. She’s too good for something like this. It’s not fair.

  One afternoon, watching George pull up in the Fiat and get out to open the garage doors, she came to fully understand the reach of her predicament. Maybe it was the physics of the moment, the particular angle at which he’d parked, but a shaft of late sunlight glinted off his bumper and exposed a shallow indentation in the metal and a flake of white paint so insignificant it might have fallen with the snow. And then he walked inside, his too-handsome face meeting her eyes, registering what she’d seen and what she knew, which secured for them both the terrible problem of their destiny.

  Oh, Come Let Us Adore Him

  1

  ON CHRISTMAS DAY they gave a party and all the windows in the house fogged up. Both sets of Franny’s grandparents had come, and her aunt and uncle, and he and Eddy had also been invited as guests. Mrs. Clare introduced them to everyone and tried to make them feel like family, but it only made Cole feel like more of an outsider.

  She had on a shiny red dress. She was like the bow on a present, too pretty to throw out. The heavy beads around her neck like a noose.

  She asked Eddy to help make the drinks but he was too slow and careful, like a chemist, and people got impatient and started pouring their own. Eddy slipped Cole something strong with orange juice and started telling jokes. He knew how to make her laugh. She’d show her teeth and lean her head back a little. He had something women liked. They couldn’t resist him.

  There was a lot of food. Ham and a turkey and mashed potatoes and green beans. But it wasn’t as good as his mother’s. After they ate, Mrs. Clare clanged her glass with a fork. I have an announcement, she said. We’re going to have some music.

  Mr. Clare looked surprised and put on a fake smile. Eddy came in with his horn and stood at the far end of the room, and everybody settled down and waited politely with their hands in their laps. He brought the horn to his lips and closed his eyes and began. It was loud, the kind of thing they’d play in some royal pageant, and the guests sat up a little taller. That’s Handel, someone said. And Cole was proud of his brother.

  About halfway into it, Franny came up and pulled him into the dining room and pointed out the window. Willis was standing in the yard like somebody’s loose dog, lurking and smelling. He went through the kitchen door and got her onto the porch. What are you doing here? She was shivering, crying, maybe a little drunk. You don’t have a coat.

  I’m cold, she said. Hold me.

  All right. He held her very tight. She was a small girl, with small little bones.

  He doesn’t love me, she said.

  Yes, he does, he’s crazy about you.

  She shook her head. He used me up. And now I’m empty.

  Here, why don’t you come in? At least let me find you a coat.

  He thought he might get in trouble, bringing her inside, but it was Christmas, so he didn’t think they’d mind. He gave her a glass of water. He hadn’t seen her down at the junkyard for weeks, maybe not since October, and she seemed different, scared.

  She should know, she said. His wife. She should know who he is.

  He must have been looking at her funny, because she clarified: Catherine. She should know.

  And then Cole understood this wasn’t about Eddy. No, it had nothing to do with him.

  I’ll get Eddy, he said, but he didn’t move. He watched her take a small compact from her pocket and look at herself in the tiny mirror. She licked her finger and rubbed at the dark circles under her eyes. She sniffed loudly and ran her tongue over her teeth.

  What are you doing here? It was Mr. Clare coming into the kitchen.

  I’m here to see your wife, she said.

  That’s not happening.

  She should know about you. She should know who you are.

  By then Mr. Clare realized Cole was standing there. Get out, he said to him, and he did, but he looked back through the doorway and saw Mr. Clare push Wi
llis roughly out the door, and a minute later, from the dining-room window, he watched the car pull out of the garage and swerve down the icy road. He stood there, unable to move until the red taillights vanished.

  Back in the living room, Eddy had just finished and everyone was clapping, including Mrs. Clare, who had no idea that her husband had even left the house.

  2

  GOING UP THERE had been stupid, she knew that now, too much coke making her feel invincible. She’d stood outside, watching him and his wife, with something burning inside her. Not jealousy. An even uglier feeling, remorse. She wanted to hate him, but at the same time she wanted him to come out and hold her and tell her he was sorry. She wanted to disappear inside his big coat. She wanted him to tell her that she meant more to him than his wife and little girl. That she was who he loved, no one else.

  It was the drugs, she knew, doing this to her. The tangle of yearning inside her that wasn’t about him at all.

  She knew some of those people from the inn. A couple of the men had tried to get to her. One pinched her ass when she walked by. It was humiliating. And that woman with the ferocious laugh always gypped her with the tip.

  When he saw her there in the kitchen, he gave her this perturbed look, like she was a stranger. Some nuisance. He’d shoved her into the car and slammed the door like she was the criminal. Someone who needed to be put away.

  Driving her to the inn, he said he’d reconnected with his wife. They were trying to make things work, for Franny’s sake. Only days before, she’d seen the happy couple in town, all dressed up. Even the little girl, in tights and Mary Janes. They were going to church, she saw, as they walked through the gate, soaking up the approval of strangers.

  He was over her, rehabilitated; he no longer needed her services.

  He pulled up to the barn and they sat there for a minute. You could hear the wind. The clock ticking on the dashboard. She didn’t say anything but she felt things—so many things. Mostly she felt sad.

  How old are you?

  Nineteen. I’m mature for my age.

  What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you in school?

  Because I went a little crazy.

  He looked at her. She could still feel the thing between them.

  Goodbye, Willis, he said, finally. Take care of yourself.

  She saw in his face that he didn’t love her. Love had never been part of this. She knew as much, of course she did. She’d known it all along.

  She got out and watched him drive away. For a moment she couldn’t move. She was shivering, her teeth chattering, and her throat was a little sore. She felt almost like a little girl. Like everything else in her life was just pretending.

  She could hear the horses in the field. They knew her sorrow. They understood how he’d tricked her, twisted everything around to make it seem like she was the sick one, a sick girl with problems, and he was doing the right thing in letting her go.

  Part 4

  Because

  BECAUSE SHE KNOWS HIM, she knows what he is, and because she’s known it all along, she just couldn’t bring herself to admit to it. She even knew about the dissertation, since she’d read it in secret and seen its flaws, and days after his defense, which never actually happened, she’d found Warren Shelby’s letter and wishy-washy encouragement that George should revise and resubmit it. But it wasn’t until much later, after they’d moved and she’d wasted so much energy telling everyone how smart he was and how great the new job was, that she realized he was an impersonator in his costume of academia, how every morning he inspected the shirts she’d ironed, holding up each on its hanger like a curator, and when he found the slightest wrinkle he’d yank it off and iron it again himself, standing there at the ironing board in his undershorts, making her watch, then lead her around by the wrist and point out all the expectations he had that weren’t being met, the dust on the bureau, the fingerprints, it simply wasn’t acceptable, this was a small town where people didn’t bother to call first, so you always had to be ready. The time she saw him with the girl, he’d told her he was going for a run, and she’d been cooking something, a challenging recipe that called for shallots, and in a happy mood she took the scenic route past the inn and they were standing there by the barn, the girl with black hair that looked like a mistake, something crossed out in ink, waving a cigarette around and blowing out smoke as if to blow him away. They were fighting, that was obvious, and she was crying, and Catherine drove right by, didn’t even slow down, just went about her business, gliding through the aisles of Hack’s with her purchases, and everything kept going on like that and then came Christmas with all the presents, her new dishwasher, his proud parents beaming at him in the starched white shirts, the perfectly shabby jacket, the wire spectacles—and thinking, Poor George with such a neurotic, washed-out wife with no fashion sense or sophistication, dried up like an old fig, how good of him to stand by her! Because his parents never liked her, not from the start, his mother’s disdain like poison—and her own parents, timid, provincial, her mother’s tag-sale roots and bookkeeper-spread, her father’s gravel pit, white dust thick as flour, their ranch house on the cul-de-sac, the sad, unfinished houses, the developer a crook, the empty lots overgrown with weeds, the room she’d shared with Agnes, the green plaid walls, her mother had picked the paper, she’d never liked it. This was nothing like George’s house with his mother’s pretty things and inviting meanness, her accent exaggerated so their friends would consider her superior, all of them gin drinkers and heavy smokers, listening to his father bragging about his stores, the big signs on the interstate, the discounts, they were the gold standard in furniture, they could be generous, but it felt like charity. And because she knows about George’s women, not just the girl at the inn but also the others there’d been all along, and because she has never trusted him, not since the very beginning, and because people knew and never said anything, they didn’t want to hurt her, even though this hurt her more—because he’d made a sucker of her. I want to separate, she practices saying while making the beds. We’re no longer compatible, vacuuming the living room. I no longer love you, cleaning his study. I have never loved you, emptying the ashtrays. I loathe and abhor you, I want a divorce!

  —

  THE NEW YEAR comes with sunrise, waking her from sleep. Gradually, it registers in her mind that George is not in bed. She sits up, listening intently, but the house is silent. She doesn’t like not knowing where he is. A little frightened, she pulls on her robe and hurries into the hall, past the door of her sleeping daughter, and down the stairs, momentarily bewitched by a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror, the sunlight floating all around her, making rainbows on the ceiling, and in her eyes a dazzling clarity, as if confronting another version of herself, one who is more mature, composed, courageous—who can get her out of this place.

  She finds him in his study, his back to the door, an open bottle of bourbon on the desk, a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

  George? He doesn’t answer. Are you all right?

  Why wouldn’t I be?

  It’s then that she sees the blood. Drops splattered on the floor.

  You’re hurt.

  Yes.

  What happened to you?

  I cut myself.

  Doing what?

  He turns around in his chair and looks at her. She can see the towel around his hand, soaked through with blood. His eyes are glassy and mean. He stares at her a long minute, deciding something. Go back to bed, he says. No one in their right mind should be up this early.

  —

  ON VALENTINE’S DAY it snows all afternoon. She and Franny cut pink hearts out of construction paper, then paste on doilies and candy hearts. It’s important to tell people you love them, she advises Franny.

  They drop the cards off at the Hale boys’ house in town. That’s when she asks Eddy and he says, sure, he can take her. He touches her shoulder. You’ll be okay.

  Read this, she says, handing Cole his card. I mean every w
ord of it.

  —

  GEORGE FORGETS Valentine’s Day. He comes home empty-handed. She doesn’t make an issue of it. He’s tired, overworked, complaining about all his administrative responsibilities and how the students want so much.

  It’s a stupid holiday anyway, she thinks.

  But Franny cries and carries on. George goes out and comes back an hour later with candy hearts for Franny and a glittery card. These are for you, he then says, and hands Catherine a heart-shaped box full of chocolates. Happy now?

  She looks at his unshaven face, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the tricky glint in his eye like broken glass.

  She doesn’t answer and goes upstairs, sits on the edge of the tub and opens the box. The smell whirls up. She begins. One after another, dropping the wrappers on the floor, little brown scraps of ridged paper that remind her of chestnuts. The sticky caramel and chunky nougat coat her throat. After a while she doesn’t even taste them.

  He finds her later, over the toilet.

  What’s the matter? What are you doing?

  I’m throwing up my marriage, is all she can think to say.

  —

  NOW THAT it’s here, this day, it’s harder than she thought. At quarter to seven, once he’s in the shower, she hurries out to her car. As she’s pulling out, he trips down the front steps in his bathrobe, shaving cream on his face. I have an appointment, she shouts. You’ll have her all day.

  But I have to—

  She doesn’t hang around to hear him complain, her tires skidding on the slippery road.

  She drives into town and parks by the café, where Eddy’s waiting as they’d planned. When she gets into his truck he says, You okay?

  She nods. Thank you for this. I didn’t know who else to ask.

  They don’t talk on the highway to Albany, where they cross the bridge and she can see the buildings, the train yard with its long black trains, the smokestacks near the port. It’s a clinic downtown, on Lark Street. The nurse takes her hand and he waits for her outside.