table and warmed her face. I tried concentrating on that. She looked fresh and good to touch, black hair falling around the collar of the borrowed white shirt. We talked about small things. It had changed between us. But we pretended for a while that the change hadn’t happened. It didn’t quite work. It never does.
We talked softly. She learned where I was from and what I had done in college. I was content with that. But Mary leaned on the table, shirtsleeves carefully rolled back from the slim wrists, looking for more in me. I didn’t have more to give, right then. I was tired, and the scene raised faint ironic echoes of other mornings in another place. I kept hearing the voice on the telephone. And Alexander Lehman was dead.
The last thought crept over me like paralysis. She asked me what it was. I looked at the sun squares on the table. “A lot of things. That Lehman is dead. That I’m alive. And that because of these things, the sunlight looks brighter, as if I hadn’t really looked at it in a while.”
Her eyes consumed me in a deep-black gaze. “You can’t bring Lehman back to life.”
“Ashes to ashes and all that?” I asked.
“Please don’t do that with me, Chris. You know what I meant.”
I wasn’t at all sure. But I was glad to let it go. I analyzed the sun squares some more. I could feel her on the other side of the table, edgy under the cool. The silence swelled.
“Have you ever really cared for anyone?” Her voice was quiet, but the words came with the suddenness of a champagne cork bursting under pressure.
I was caught with my brains on vacation. “Yes. Once. In prep school, for a sheep. Runs in the family. I can still recall running my hands through her wool. My parents found out and transferred me to military school. When I came back at Thanksgiving, all that was left were three lamb chops and a wool sweater. I carried it for years…”
I stopped myself, unhappily. Her face had closed against me. I broke in through a silent impasse. “OK, that was tacky. I’m sorry.”
It didn’t salvage me. She was angry. “Are you always so flip?”
“I’m not flip. I just don’t go in for indecent exposure. And this morning is wrong for ‘This Is My Life.’”
She tilted stiffly back in her chair, arms folded. “Why does my asking throw you off so much?”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Just what is wrong with you? You play it cagey about your Boston trip. You can’t talk about anything personal, anything that gets close to you.”
“I’ll bet you were a psych major in college. Anyhow, my mother loves me.”
“It’s not contagious.”
I was about to lose her again. There were reasons that I didn’t need that. I reached for her arm. It felt rigid under my fingers. But she didn’t move it. “Mary, there are certain things that are personal to me. I live better that way. Maybe that makes me unfit company. It isn’t intended to.” I gathered my thoughts. “Some things I can’t cheapen by making them seminar subjects.”
“Is that what I’m asking?” Her voice was shaded by the night before, but crossed with self-control. The question came out intense and uninflected, at once.
I made patterns in the sun squares with my free hand, and thought some unhappy thoughts. She watched me and waited. Finally, I contrived an abridged version. “In Boston, four years ago, I lived with a girl. I wanted to keep her.” I felt somehow that it was slipping from me. Keeping her to myself had pushed away the finality, as if I still had her. “I knew too much about what I wanted and not enough about what she needed. What I should have understood, I saw as things she did to me.” My patterns in the sun had quickened. “It ended badly, in a fight where nothing we said was quite true or quite fair. I invited her to leave. She took me up on it.” Mary’s arm had turned under mine, her fingers touching me. I finished it. “If we ever get to the point where we really need to get
We talked softly. She learned where I was from and what I had done in college. I was content with that. But Mary leaned on the table, shirtsleeves carefully rolled back from the slim wrists, looking for more in me. I didn’t have more to give, right then. I was tired, and the scene raised faint ironic echoes of other mornings in another place. I kept hearing the voice on the telephone. And Alexander Lehman was dead.
The last thought crept over me like paralysis. She asked me what it was. I looked at the sun squares on the table. “A lot of things. That Lehman is dead. That I’m alive. And that because of these things, the sunlight looks brighter, as if I hadn’t really looked at it in a while.”
Her eyes consumed me in a deep-black gaze. “You can’t bring Lehman back to life.”
“Ashes to ashes and all that?” I asked.
“Please don’t do that with me, Chris. You know what I meant.”
I wasn’t at all sure. But I was glad to let it go. I analyzed the sun squares some more. I could feel her on the other side of the table, edgy under the cool. The silence swelled.
“Have you ever really cared for anyone?” Her voice was quiet, but the words came with the suddenness of a champagne cork bursting under pressure.
I was caught with my brains on vacation. “Yes. Once. In prep school, for a sheep. Runs in the family. I can still recall running my hands through her wool. My parents found out and transferred me to military school. When I came back at Thanksgiving, all that was left were three lamb chops and a wool sweater. I carried it for years…”
I stopped myself, unhappily. Her face had closed against me. I broke in through a silent impasse. “OK, that was tacky. I’m sorry.”
It didn’t salvage me. She was angry. “Are you always so flip?”
“I’m not flip. I just don’t go in for indecent exposure. And this morning is wrong for ‘This Is My Life.’”
She tilted stiffly back in her chair, arms folded. “Why does my asking throw you off so much?”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Just what is wrong with you? You play it cagey about your Boston trip. You can’t talk about anything personal, anything that gets close to you.”
“I’ll bet you were a psych major in college. Anyhow, my mother loves me.”
“It’s not contagious.”
I was about to lose her again. There were reasons that I didn’t need that. I reached for her arm. It felt rigid under my fingers. But she didn’t move it. “Mary, there are certain things that are personal to me. I live better that way. Maybe that makes me unfit company. It isn’t intended to.” I gathered my thoughts. “Some things I can’t cheapen by making them seminar subjects.”
“Is that what I’m asking?” Her voice was shaded by the night before, but crossed with self-control. The question came out intense and uninflected, at once.
I made patterns in the sun squares with my free hand, and thought some unhappy thoughts. She watched me and waited. Finally, I contrived an abridged version. “In Boston, four years ago, I lived with a girl. I wanted to keep her.” I felt somehow that it was slipping from me. Keeping her to myself had pushed away the finality, as if I still had her. “I knew too much about what I wanted and not enough about what she needed. What I should have understood, I saw as things she did to me.” My patterns in the sun had quickened. “It ended badly, in a fight where nothing we said was quite true or quite fair. I invited her to leave. She took me up on it.” Mary’s arm had turned under mine, her fingers touching me. I finished it. “If we ever get to the point where we really need to get
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