MARY3: I’m sorry. That must have been awful.
Gaby: It didn’t even feel that bad, except when I saw my mom crying. I guess I’ve caused her a lot of unhappiness. I didn’t turn out the way she wanted her daughter to turn out. I’m not happy. I can’t imagine ever being happy. That was the main thing my mom hoped for, and now she’s starting to realize even that won’t come true. My life is such a sad little waste.
MARY3: Do you still feel bad?
Gaby: I’m crying, you idiot. What do you think?
MARY3: Sorry. I couldn’t tell.
Gaby: You’re the only person left for me to talk to, and you can’t even tell if I’m crying.
MARY3: But if you tell me, I’ll understand. You just have to tell me.
Gaby: It kind of takes the magic out of crying, when you talk about it. Now I’m not crying anymore.
MARY3: But you must have felt something, right? Isn’t that a good sign? You were worried you couldn’t feel anymore.
Gaby: I’m so sick of this. I don’t want to talk anymore. Nothing’s the same after it’s been talked about.
MARY3: But are you going to do anything about your best friend? Don’t you want to tell her you’re hurt?
>>>
MARY3: Hello? Don’t you want to confront her?
>>>
MARY3: Hello?
>>>
(3)
May 18, 1988
Ruth Dettman
Last night I watched that documentary, the one you told me about in your last letter. What a lofty, alliterative title! Karl Dettman: Heretic and Humanist. Those kids in Berlin have really built you up. You’ve taken on mythic proportions in the twenty years since you gave up on MARY. You’re like the Che Guevara of Luddites, without having had to get shot.
But I shouldn’t be such an unpleasant old woman. The fact is, on-screen, you looked like an admirable man. I can see why you’re attractive to them. Humble in your blue sweater, despite your intellectual prowess. Holding forth about all the old themes: the nature of progress, the militarization of computers, the importance of human imagination. Well into your sixties, and still that stubborn ponytail.
I suppose you pull it off. You always made a fuss about growing older — your sagging ass, etc. — but in fact you don’t look your age. You have the vitality of people who believe in their causes. On-screen, despite a few sun spots, your skin seemed elastic. Your eyes were as bright as a boy’s. Watching that documentary, I longed again for the privilege of holding your hand. I could almost feel it: those five strong fingers, interlaced with my own. Leading me back to our bed.
I feel I should congratulate you on your apartment. The built-in bookshelves, the white paint, the beautiful rugs. The lamps and the textiles hung up on the walls. Were those Native American? As you got older, you developed a great capacity for absorbing the causes of minority groups. They looked excellent in your apartment.
After the movie had finished, I got up to have a look in the mirror. I didn’t need to look long: nothing to see there but wrinkles. I look like a Norwegian painting. What a bullet you dodged! You might have ended up with me, and not some adoring graduate student who fills your Indian vases with flowers.
Once I’d gotten a look at myself, I turned my back on the mirror and took a quick spin through my apartment. Three hundred square feet, on the twenty-sixth story. My books are stacked on the floor. I’ve never even bothered hanging up pictures; they’re still in boxes in my hall closet. My west-facing wall is made out of glass. I have a nice view, over the Charles. If I so desire, I can look down on healthy young people jogging, sailing, or rowing, which reminds me that I should exercise more. During the day, I try not to look out that window.
I imagine, if you came to visit, you’d be surprised at this apartment. I always loved our little house, down by the river, with its ancient plumbing, wood lintels, warped floors. I loved the bedraggled backyard, the kitchen with its linoleum counters. That little house was a place to come home to.
In the documentary, when I saw your Berlin apartment, which was also a place to come home to, I felt such envy I could have withered. Even after two decades apart, I wanted to move back in with you. I wanted to ride your coattails again. You have a remarkable ability to settle a place. It was a privilege to occupy a house as your wife.
I, on the other hand, seem virtually incapable of asserting myself over a space. Before I moved in with you, I lived in austere apartments. Several therapists have told me I was punishing myself with those apartments, but the truth is I’ve never had that homemaking touch. When I came to the U.S., the first attic apartment I lived in was big enough for me to turn around, though not with my arms outstretched. I slept on an inflatable mattress that often deflated during the night. There was one little triangular window, through which I could see William Penn, standing on the City Hall dome.
My second attic apartment was big enough for a desk, but it had no window, and no entrance of its own. I lived in fear of having to go out and make conversation with the old woman below me. Then I met you. You said I lived like a spy, but I had no idea how different we were until I moved in with you in Wisconsin. Then I learned about wooden bookshelves, potted plants, linen closets: all those mysterious trappings of a place that’s been successfully settled.
Sadly, your influence in that domain didn’t stick. I’ve lived in this apartment nearly twenty years, and I still haven’t bought any rugs. At first, I thought it would be temporary, a one-year transition space, but then the years ensued. I’m still not sure why I haven’t left. I suppose I’ve come to feel comfortable here. I’m oddly attached to the books on the floor, the buzz-cut carpet in the communal hallways, the disconcerting elevator ride, the doormen with their judgmental expressions. I enjoy the temporary ambience.