As She Climbed Across the Table by Jonathan Lethem Page A

far-off parade, athletes and politicians greeting crowds from garish floats. When it got dark I drove to my favorite diner, the Silver Lining, but the doors were closed. I peered in through the window. The vast, incomprehensible Greek family that ran the place was just sitting down to a pilgrim feast at the largest booth. The turkey was huge, golden, classic, and the side dishes were endless.
    When I got back to the apartment I found—surprise!—Alice clearing out the bedroom to create a painting studio.
    Alice was a terrible amateur painter. Or had been. At the start of our relationship she’d given it up. But now her dusty equipment was resurrected from the tomb of her parents’ garage. Paint-splattered easel, drop cloths, and containers of gesso and rabbit-skin glue. A thick, square mirror, edges taped. The bookshelves had been moved into the living room, to expose the north wall. A roll of fresh white duck was leaning up against thedoor frame, blocking the entrance. Alice was in the kitchen, rinsing old brushes at the tap.
    “Alice. You’re back.”
    Silence.
    “You missed the rest of your shift. Soft took over. I guess you’ll have to wait until next week.”
    Silence. Water running in the sink.
    I took a deep breath, trying to relocate my newfound, rain-washed strength.
    “Possibly there’s been a change,” I suggested. “You’re not so sure about this thing after all. You might be in over your head. Maybe you want to take a step back, get some perspective on this Lack thing.”
    Stony silence.
    “Alice?” I moved up closer behind her. She went on gently kneading the encrusted bristles back to life.
    “Maybe you’re still in love with Lack,” I said. “But feeling like you came on too strong. You’re giving him some space, so he can mull it over.”
    Silence. I felt my schemes evaporating in it.
    “Probably you’re still in love with Lack,” I said. “You’re determined, nothing’s going to stop you. You’re going to try to change yourself for him. That’s why you’re painting again all of a sudden.”
    She shook a handful of brushes dry, and gathered them in a coffee can.
    “Listen,” I said. “I’m going to change my approach. I’m going to be lighthearted from here on in. We’ll develop a lighthearted, bantering dialogue. Like an old movie. Like in
His Girl Friday
, when Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell are old flames,but she’s going to marry somebody else. He stays lighthearted. They banter. But at the same time, he’s making a very sly, very persuasive pitch for himself.”
    Silence.
    “Or if you don’t want to banter you could be like James Stewart in
Vertigo
, after he loses Kim Novak, the first time, and goes into a catatonic depression, and Barbara Bel Geddes has to try to jolly him out of it. With lighthearted banter. Because sometimes it’s just one person carrying on the lighthearted banter and the other person listening. That’s okay too.”
    I followed her into the bedroom, both of us ducking under the roll of canvas.
    “I get it. You’re not saying anything. Not a word. Why, I’ll bet you haven’t said a word since I came in here.”
    She began unrolling the canvas.
    “I notice the mirror,” I said. “I think I understand, I think I get it. You’re going to paint self-portraits again. And offer them to Lack. Get him used to you, in stages. Is that the idea? It’s very clever. If you hadn’t thought of it before now you can give me the credit.”
    Silence.
    “I get it. You’re making yourself more like Lack by not talking, right?”
    Silence that would seem to be confirmation.
    “Okay. There’s just one thing I want you to know, one thing I want to say. This is hardly lighthearted banter, I realize, but I just want to slip this in at the very start, and then I’ll run with the banter from now on. I love you, Alice. It’s important you hear that, it’s important you know.”
    The silence was like a carcass in the room with us. A rottingdefrosted