“You see? Everyone is doing quite well. Our independence is—I don’t know what to call it. Staggering. I think I’m turning into a Keith; I can’t believe how seldom we need each other.”
“What school does Jade go to?”
“David.”
“OK. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t ask.”
“That’s right.”
“I can’t exactly help it.”
“How convenient.”
“It’s not that.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just don’t want you to ask. I don’t want you to hint or pry. I don’t want you poking around or trying to trick me or playing on my thoroughly mixed feelings about you. It’s…it’s very likely that if I did tell you about Jade you wouldn’t feel very good about it. But you must realize that, don’t you?”
I felt her words like a blow to the face. Injury and humiliation. The helplessness of my circumstances never failed to astonish me; the life of constant emotional peril never lost its peculiar terror. I felt abruptly close to tears. Here at last with Ann, I realized I was only half capable of listening to her. If the deliberate meanness of the sudden mystery she’d created could cause me such pain, where did I ever get the idea that I could listen rationally to the truth?
10
It was understood that my life was not to be discussed. It was, after all, only a mass of loneliness and the least attractive kind of solitude, whereas Ann’s was alive with struggle and readjustment.
I had always been more than eager to extend myself and show avid interest in every detail of Ann’s life—her first sexual encounter (a young doorman in her parents’ apartment house), what she did with the money she made from the first story she sold to The New Yorker, why she got the willies whenever she shopped at Marshall Field, and the gauzy waking dreams she had when she was stoned and listening to Vivaldi, some of which inspired her to write haikus onto notecards, notecards that would end up in the trash but not before I was given a chance to read them. I never felt neglected or taken too lightly. In a world filled with people, in a house bursting with visitors, she had chosen to lay out the pieces of her life (delicately, artfully, coyly) in front of me. It was my reactions she courted, my fledgling sensibilities she had selected to interpret the mysteries of her character. I felt immensely privileged; I was certain there were things she told me that no one else knew—she confided in me not so much the depth of her private thoughts as their tone. Hugh and others might have known her secrets in more detail, but I was given a chance to learn the exact pitch in which she spoke to herself.
There was nothing about her, nothing that she said (or didn’t say) that struck me as anything less than vital. And I didn’t study Ann because I was in love with her daughter. I didn’t devote myself to understanding Ann as a way of foreseeing the future of my lover’s character. I don’t think it ever really occurred to me that Jade was going to be like Ann, any more than I thought I would be like Arthur or Rose. Ann was unique, unduplicatable, wry, secure, haughty, vulnerable, and so explicitly calculating that her every word and gesture, in my eyes at least, was incandescent with significance.
That afternoon and into the evening we talked about her life alone in New York. Until it went bankrupt, her family had run a charity called the United States Foundling Homes, a kind of combination orphanage and vocational school that would have seemed more at home in a Dickens novel than in the sunny USA. It was Ann’s father who sped the dissolution of the Foundling Homes—he awarded himself a salary high enough to verge on embezzlement—but it turned out to be fortunate for Ann because it was the recently dead Mr. Ramsey’s money she lived on now. Her legacy afforded her $850 a month, and she talked about living on a finite sum, of buying her clothes in thrift shops, pilfering sugar from restaurants, and of living with a general overall material pessimism that turned out to be justified—though $850 every month seemed like a more than adequate sum to me, Ann claimed that she never made it through a month with anything left over. “I haven’t eaten on the last day of a month since I moved here.” We talked about the prices of things, of shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue and then taking the bus down to the “Jewish Lower East Side” to see if she could find something similar, of sitting in the stratosphere in Carnegie Hall, and having to keep up her payments to Blue Cross. (I interjected that my father’s lover had been hospitalized for weeks and that I hated to think what her bills were, but Ann let it pass without a curious tilt of her head.) She talked about the price of typing paper, the price of ribbons, the cost of Xeroxing and postage, and I said I was glad she was writing again.
“I’m glad too,” she said. “I’ve gotten close to selling two of them to The New Yorker. They send a very sweet rejection letter. Full of encouragement and such. I would be encouraged, too, if they hadn’t grabbed what I sent them twenty-five years ago. It’s true what they say about early success: it is a jinx.”
“That’s a comfort to me, at least,” I said.
“One of the little quote unquote literary magazines printed a story of mine last month. But no money. Enough glory to stuff a hummingbird, but they didn’t even refund my postage.”
“Still,” I said, “it’s great to be published. What magazine? Do you have a copy? Let me see it.”
“No. I don’t want to. It’s not a very good magazine. I don’t know why I sent them a story. And it’s a terrible story. I did it all wrong. From now on, once The New Yorker turns a story down I’m going to either redo it or throw it away. They publish stories that are written the way I want to write.”
“I’d still like to read the story.”
“But I’m not going to show it to you. I don’t even know if I kept my copy of the magazine. They send one copy, by the way.”
“Can you at least tell me what it’s about?” I asked.
“OK. You finally asked the right question. The title of the story is ‘Meyer’ and it’s about you.”
I felt a nervous laugh hatch at the top of my throat but I held it down. I suppose I thought she was just making fun of me, but Ann’s only form of deception was omission. I covered my mouth with my hand, sick with triumph, electric with hope.
Evening. Ann asked me if I wanted to go out for supper.
“I’ve got a date at nine thirty,” she said. “But it’s decidedly not for dinner. I never invite men over to cook for them.”
“I’ll buy you dinner if we go to a place I can afford,” I said.
Ann left me in the front of her apartment while she went to her room to dress. Though the apartment had only two real rooms, her bedroom was separated from the front by a long hall and I felt quite alone. I paced. I looked through one of the hanging prisms in the west windows, trying to catch the flat red rays of the sinking sun. I looked at the books in her shelves, noticed her compact little stereo set and her two dozen records: Vivaldi, Bach, Joni Mitchell, the Beatles, the Fauré Requiem. The small table in front of the sofa had a few issues of The Village Voice and an old paperback copy of To the Lighthouse. I tried to absorb the facts of that room. Who was she when she’d chosen that little Chinese flowered rug? How had she come to purchase those distinctly non-Butterfieldian director’s chairs? Where did she sit when she read my letters? Where did Jade sit? Did human presence leave a kind of dust in its wake? Did the sound of Jade’s voice hang like little threads of spider weavings in the corners of the high ceiling? Were strands of her hair curled beneath the sofa cushion? If I were a bloodhound or a werewolf, wouldn’t I be able to taste her presence, drink it in through my omniverous sense organs, even if it had been months since she’d last breathed in this room?