adored with passion, as a lover; but if you couldn’t have that, then wasn’t the next best thing to be a child beloved enough to inspire such elaborate contrivance?
“You’re quick,” is what he says. “Right, he must have mailed it several days ago.”
“I’m crazy, is what you mean. To be already convinced thatthis is only the first of these letters, that there will be more. As they say in mystery novels.” He must look baffled (he is), because she adds, “In Agatha Christie, whenever a threatening note arrives, someone says, ‘This is only the first.’ ”
“This is a threatening note?”
“Malcolm, don’t be stupid.” Her voice is gentle. He sees that she is close to tears. Well, of course she is. Her husband is in love with someone else.
“Malcolm,” she says, “you’re not the one mailing them, are you? He didn’t give them to you?”
“No,” he says, startled, truthful.
“Oh, good. That really would be more than I could stand.” She reaches for his hand and, without looking at him, leans her cheek very briefly against his wrist.
There’s been a long string of these girls. She was one of them. She had predecessors—some wives, some not—and she’s had successors.
Sitting here, sorting the bills (her husband used to insist on doing them until she finally told him it was ridiculous, she was sitting around twiddling her thumbs so much that her entire brain felt twiddly, and just give her please the goddamn bills), anticipating lunch, she’s thinking about them, this string of women, and trying to remember how she thought about it all when she was the new one. Not even yet the new one—but the upcoming one, the future one, the one beginning to be singled out. None of it had happened yet, but she could tell that the light was shining on her, flickering sometimes but getting stronger as she got closer to it. All she had to do was walk toward it; and it shone, invitingly, approving of the way she walked.
She was young and dumb, she thinks now. Ruthless. No,young. Trusting the grown-ups, and he was the leader of the grown-ups. She had not seen anyone acting upset—his wife continued to be as kind as ever—and, not seeing any hurt, it had incredibly not occurred to her that she was part of something hurtful. Everyone seemed to feel Oh, yes, of course; so she felt it too.
If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else, an older dancer said to her—such a nonchalant blend of malice and reassurance, though at the time she’d missed the malice and had not needed to be reassured.
Oh, well, if it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else , she has thought in the years since then, telegraphing her thoughts in the general direction of some new ballerina who was bumbling, pale and blank and fluttery, toward that same bright light.
“Oh, well.” It’s artifice, a performance, whether said of love or illness, before an audience or just to oneself. No one really thinks “Oh, well,” but repeated often enough, rehearsed, it can become admirable, almost believable.
This time, though, she can’t say it. She’s tried. She’s sent tokens—flowers, joke gifts, once a very old Russian cross—on opening nights. She’s hosted at dinner a couple of times, evenings that were awkward, painful, not because of her husband’s bewitchment but because of the new one’s shyness, which is so extreme that it’s a kind of encapsulation. She’s coined a name for her—he’s always liked young dancers, babies, but this one is even younger: “How goes it with the Infant?” she’s asked her husband sometimes, with a kind of hearty, almost bawdy cheer that made her shudder. “Infant does very well,” he would answer. Look, they can speak of it! They can share a joke!
Only lately, he hasn’t spoken or joked about it. “How’s the Infant?” “Fine,” he says, vaguely, as if he isn’t quite sure whichinfant she’s referring to. In the beginning he talked a lot about what
“You’re quick,” is what he says. “Right, he must have mailed it several days ago.”
“I’m crazy, is what you mean. To be already convinced thatthis is only the first of these letters, that there will be more. As they say in mystery novels.” He must look baffled (he is), because she adds, “In Agatha Christie, whenever a threatening note arrives, someone says, ‘This is only the first.’ ”
“This is a threatening note?”
“Malcolm, don’t be stupid.” Her voice is gentle. He sees that she is close to tears. Well, of course she is. Her husband is in love with someone else.
“Malcolm,” she says, “you’re not the one mailing them, are you? He didn’t give them to you?”
“No,” he says, startled, truthful.
“Oh, good. That really would be more than I could stand.” She reaches for his hand and, without looking at him, leans her cheek very briefly against his wrist.
There’s been a long string of these girls. She was one of them. She had predecessors—some wives, some not—and she’s had successors.
Sitting here, sorting the bills (her husband used to insist on doing them until she finally told him it was ridiculous, she was sitting around twiddling her thumbs so much that her entire brain felt twiddly, and just give her please the goddamn bills), anticipating lunch, she’s thinking about them, this string of women, and trying to remember how she thought about it all when she was the new one. Not even yet the new one—but the upcoming one, the future one, the one beginning to be singled out. None of it had happened yet, but she could tell that the light was shining on her, flickering sometimes but getting stronger as she got closer to it. All she had to do was walk toward it; and it shone, invitingly, approving of the way she walked.
She was young and dumb, she thinks now. Ruthless. No,young. Trusting the grown-ups, and he was the leader of the grown-ups. She had not seen anyone acting upset—his wife continued to be as kind as ever—and, not seeing any hurt, it had incredibly not occurred to her that she was part of something hurtful. Everyone seemed to feel Oh, yes, of course; so she felt it too.
If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else, an older dancer said to her—such a nonchalant blend of malice and reassurance, though at the time she’d missed the malice and had not needed to be reassured.
Oh, well, if it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else , she has thought in the years since then, telegraphing her thoughts in the general direction of some new ballerina who was bumbling, pale and blank and fluttery, toward that same bright light.
“Oh, well.” It’s artifice, a performance, whether said of love or illness, before an audience or just to oneself. No one really thinks “Oh, well,” but repeated often enough, rehearsed, it can become admirable, almost believable.
This time, though, she can’t say it. She’s tried. She’s sent tokens—flowers, joke gifts, once a very old Russian cross—on opening nights. She’s hosted at dinner a couple of times, evenings that were awkward, painful, not because of her husband’s bewitchment but because of the new one’s shyness, which is so extreme that it’s a kind of encapsulation. She’s coined a name for her—he’s always liked young dancers, babies, but this one is even younger: “How goes it with the Infant?” she’s asked her husband sometimes, with a kind of hearty, almost bawdy cheer that made her shudder. “Infant does very well,” he would answer. Look, they can speak of it! They can share a joke!
Only lately, he hasn’t spoken or joked about it. “How’s the Infant?” “Fine,” he says, vaguely, as if he isn’t quite sure whichinfant she’s referring to. In the beginning he talked a lot about what
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