Last night he'd gone into his study to finish reading through Lawrence Hampton's History 453 syllabus. And after a while, distracted, he had noticed his shelf copy of A Darkness at Antietam and taken it down, the first he'd looked at it in a long time. In his hands it had felt strangely like a secondhand book, the pages no longer crisp, the binding just a little loose, the dust jacket curled at the edges, and its colors the slightest bit faded. And when he'd opened it and read passages and scenes at random, it had been painfully obvious to him why the novel had sold less than four thousand copies, why so many critics had given it unenthusiastic notices. He had set out to tell an intensely personal story of the bloodiest battle in the Civil War, the single most calamitous day of fighting in American history—September 17, 1862, on which the combined casualties of McClellan's Army of the Potomac and Lee's Army of Northern Virginia numbered 22,719 killed or wounded during twelve hours of what one Union soldier described as “a savage continual thunder.” His research had been extensive, detailed; he had chosen and developed his primary characters—four Yankee and four Reb officers and enlisted men—with care and precision; he had taken pains to create those dozen hours faithfully in all their terrible drama. Four years he had spent on the novel, more than two in the actual writing. And when he was done he'd known, of course, that his book didn't approach the genius of The Red Badge of Courage or the epic caliber of Andersonville or The Killer Angels—he simply wasn't in a class with Kantor or Shaara, much less Crane—but he had nonetheless been convinced that he had written a major novel of the Civil War. He continued to believe that even after it failed both critically and commercially, or at least he'd pretended to himself that he believed it. Last night he had admitted the truth: What he'd actually written was a minor historical adventure, technically competent but without any real depth or insight or literary merit, publishable but forgettable.
He'd known then, too, that A Darkness at Antietam was an accurate measure of its author. Once he had considered himself an above-average teacher who remained on the faculty of a small, obscure state university because he could accomplish more in a relaxed and less competitive atmosphere. Once he had considered himself ambitious, a seedbank that would eventually produce more and better historical novels. Once he had considered himself a good husband and lover, who had given Katy the best of himself in all respects. Once he had considered Dixon Mallory a successful man, a happy and secure man. But the truth was—
Mediocre writer. Mediocre teacher at a mediocre school. Mediocre husband, mediocre lover. Mediocre accomplishments in a mediocre life.
Mediocre man.
Abruptly he stopped walking. He hadn't intended to seek out the Duncan family plot, but there it was at his feet. In fact he was standing in the same place he'd stood less than one month ago; he could almost hear the droning intonations of the priest, the sounds of weeping. He stared down at Katy's grave. You could still tell that it was a new grave, but now the clods of earth were dry and cracked from the heat, and the flowers that had been placed there were decaying corpses themselves.
I'm alone, he thought.
Goddamm it, I'm all alone.
Friends, sure, more than most men had. Claudia just an hour away in Healdsburg, the two of them closer than most siblings, talk to her any time about whatever was bothering him. People at the university, Elliot … there for him, too, if he needed them.
But you can't go to your friends, your sister, your colleagues, and say to them, “Listen, I've just realized some pretty basic things about myself. I'm mediocre, I've always been mediocre, and I can't stand the thought of being mediocre for the rest of my life. Can you help me out here? Can you tell me what to do?”
Alone.
Maybe that was why he'd been drawn here today. A need to touch the part of his past that represented stability and strength: his mother, his father, Katy. Find his courage through them. Pretty pathetic, if that was it. The answers weren't in the past or with the past. And sure as hell not among the bones of his dear departed. If he found them at all, it would be inside himself—and all by himself.
ELEVEN
He asked, “Have you read this, Amy?”
“Oh, the Gay Talese book.”
“It looks interesting.”
“It's okay, I guess.”
“You prefer the political type of investigative reporting? Woodward and Bernstein?”
“Not really. No.”
“But you didn't like Thy Neighbor's Wife?”
“It's not that I didn't like it, exactly.”
“What then, exactly?”
“Well, you know, the subject matter.”
“Sure, I understand. It's difficult to relate to a subject that you've had no experience with.”
“I've had experience with it,” Amy said bitterly.
“You have?”
“You know, my parents' divorce.”
“Oh, right. I'm sorry, Amy.”
“Well, I've learned how to deal with it.”
“Of course you have.”
“Anyhow, he's a good writer. Gay Talese.”
“I think so, too. Should I buy the book?”
“Well, it's worth reading.”
“A book about sex is always worth reading.”
“If it's not just sleaze.”
“Graphic in parts, is it?”
“Not as graphic as a lot of novels.”
“Don't tell me you read sexy novels.”
“Sometimes. Don't you?”
“I confess: now and then.”
“Don't you think I'm old enough?”
“Do you think you're old enough?”
“Sure I do.”
“Then so do I. You're a mature young woman. And sex is a very important part of life, isn't it.”
“Yes.”
“Very very important,” he said.
He was leaning on the counter, casually, his face not more than eighteen inches from hers. Their eyes were locked. Amy couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to, and she didn't want to. He had gorgeous eyes, with the longest, sexiest lashes. Looking into them, up close like this, made her weak.
“Aren't you going to let me have it?”
“Let you … what?”
“The book,” he said, smiling. “I can't buy it if you don't ring it up.”
“Oh … the book.”
She had to force her gaze to the used copy of Thy Neighbor's Wife; and she was fumble-fingered when she opened it to look at the penciled price on the front endpaper. Her cheeks felt hot. He knows how I feel about him, she thought. He must know. Why else would he have started talking about sex?
It was quiet in the bookshop, so quiet she could hear the quick beat of her heart. There was nobody else there; Mr. Hallam had gone out a little while ago to run some errands. Just the two of them, alone together. It was the second time he'd come in this week, and on Monday she'd been alone in the shop, too. As if he'd been hanging around outside for just the right time to walk in.
“What's the damage, Amy?”
“Damage? Oh.” She rang up the price; the computerized register added the sales tax automatically. “Eight sixty-three,” she said.
He gave her a ten-dollar bill. His fingers brushed over her palm, seemed to linger there for an instant. It was like being touched with something electric. She could feel her nipples getting hard as she made change, as she put the dollar bill, the quarter, dime, and two pennies into his hand. Her turn to do the touching and lingering, with the same electric results. He noticed without seeming to notice. He was just so cool. Except for his eyes. There was nothing cool about his eyes.