look at her, and Kathy kept an inscrutable smile on her face, somehow thrilled by all the mess and frenzy of this unexpected change, this flight from San Francisco. But it was a good-natured leaving. Kathy had waved to her from the tarmac, brown suede gloves in her hand, that green-apple-colored kerchief wrapped so tightly around her head, and Eli had not looked back but moved resolutely through the rain, hat-first. It was these two, of course, who had invited Denise to all the seders. And here she had forgotten it.
Denise remembered Kathy’s smile, her wave in the mist of the airport. Had Kathy known? Surely not; she would have said something. She would have found a way out of having that awkward breakfast. What had he told her? What excuse could he possibly have provided for doing the unthinkable—switching not just advisers or courses of study but
programs,
slowing his Ph.D. process by two years—and all to move to England, across the world? Denise could imagine no scene in their bright dining room that might end with Kathy patting his hand and agreeing. She could only see a wife bewildered by her husband’s insanity. Because of course he couldn’t tell her the real reason for his flight: his sudden and strained love affair with Denise.
It had surprised them both, standing there on the overlook six years before, looking down at that broken body. Broken, twisted, with his legs curled in one direction and his head facing the wrong way, flattened and bloody on a rock. Arms out, hands in loose fists among the seaweed. People were running around and screaming below, but they kept at a distance because a snake was in the rocks, apparently, stiffly terrified beside the body. Denise could not see the snake, only the body lit by torches and the women’s faces streaked with tears as they were held back. Her hand crept along the wall until it touched another’s—Eli’s. He grabbed her hand and held it tight, and she looked up into his eyes. In each pupil, a little torch flickered. She read there:
I
understand, Denise, I’m the only one who understands.
Kathy left on a boat the next day, waving to them in the hot, pale air, and when the boat was far enough away, Eli told Denise to meet him down the beach in a few hours. He walked away; she was confused. Suddenly, she couldn’t stand being alone there in the hot sun. Her studies could not console her, nor her books; and even the image of her old lover Carlos’s lips, which she used to love so dearly, meant nothing now.
It’s not enough, it’s not enough.
So she did as Eli said. That afternoon, while the other astronomers slept, she made her way down the jungle path to the beach, where she found him waiting in the shade of a frangipani, nervous, as serious as death. They made love in an old stone hut on a spit, sun flowing through the keyhole in a chesspiece of light, only because it seemed the most natural thing to do. Life was in crisis, somehow; this was the shelter. She simply did as Eli said. They kept their eyes closed when they were together— kissing, lying beside each other—which made the time so different from their afternoons arguing at the college, standing in the shining hallways with cups of coffee, staring at each other, shouting. Eyes closed; this was a secret they kept even from themselves. In the hut, on the plane. And when Denise arrived back home, when her mother greeted her at the terminal with a bouquet of white roses, she was able to tell the woman that it had worked. The trick, the deal: Denise had forgotten all about Carlos, her old lover. Her mother was so pleased.
Denise very quickly brought it to an end. Not consciously, not intentionally; but somehow she found ways in their long hours together in class, under the telescope, to avoid moments alone with him. They had not spoken, on the island, like lovers—they’d made no admissions, no promises or confessions to each other; it was simply that they understood, they were the only ones who
Denise remembered Kathy’s smile, her wave in the mist of the airport. Had Kathy known? Surely not; she would have said something. She would have found a way out of having that awkward breakfast. What had he told her? What excuse could he possibly have provided for doing the unthinkable—switching not just advisers or courses of study but
programs,
slowing his Ph.D. process by two years—and all to move to England, across the world? Denise could imagine no scene in their bright dining room that might end with Kathy patting his hand and agreeing. She could only see a wife bewildered by her husband’s insanity. Because of course he couldn’t tell her the real reason for his flight: his sudden and strained love affair with Denise.
It had surprised them both, standing there on the overlook six years before, looking down at that broken body. Broken, twisted, with his legs curled in one direction and his head facing the wrong way, flattened and bloody on a rock. Arms out, hands in loose fists among the seaweed. People were running around and screaming below, but they kept at a distance because a snake was in the rocks, apparently, stiffly terrified beside the body. Denise could not see the snake, only the body lit by torches and the women’s faces streaked with tears as they were held back. Her hand crept along the wall until it touched another’s—Eli’s. He grabbed her hand and held it tight, and she looked up into his eyes. In each pupil, a little torch flickered. She read there:
I
understand, Denise, I’m the only one who understands.
Kathy left on a boat the next day, waving to them in the hot, pale air, and when the boat was far enough away, Eli told Denise to meet him down the beach in a few hours. He walked away; she was confused. Suddenly, she couldn’t stand being alone there in the hot sun. Her studies could not console her, nor her books; and even the image of her old lover Carlos’s lips, which she used to love so dearly, meant nothing now.
It’s not enough, it’s not enough.
So she did as Eli said. That afternoon, while the other astronomers slept, she made her way down the jungle path to the beach, where she found him waiting in the shade of a frangipani, nervous, as serious as death. They made love in an old stone hut on a spit, sun flowing through the keyhole in a chesspiece of light, only because it seemed the most natural thing to do. Life was in crisis, somehow; this was the shelter. She simply did as Eli said. They kept their eyes closed when they were together— kissing, lying beside each other—which made the time so different from their afternoons arguing at the college, standing in the shining hallways with cups of coffee, staring at each other, shouting. Eyes closed; this was a secret they kept even from themselves. In the hut, on the plane. And when Denise arrived back home, when her mother greeted her at the terminal with a bouquet of white roses, she was able to tell the woman that it had worked. The trick, the deal: Denise had forgotten all about Carlos, her old lover. Her mother was so pleased.
Denise very quickly brought it to an end. Not consciously, not intentionally; but somehow she found ways in their long hours together in class, under the telescope, to avoid moments alone with him. They had not spoken, on the island, like lovers—they’d made no admissions, no promises or confessions to each other; it was simply that they understood, they were the only ones who
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