understood. And now Denise acted almost practically, living around the secret, the way a family in a war-torn land might live around a hole in the floor. Of course she could see the pain in Eli’s face, but it began to anger her, how obvious he was. She would come to dinner at the Spivaks, and every time Kathy left the room he would turn quickly to face her, staring, those eyes wide and full of meaning—but meaning what? That they had shared a little portion of death, of love? What was there to discuss?
One night, months after the boy’s death, he finally caught her alone. She heard a knock on the door and it was Eli in a trench coat, hair glistening with fog, whispering that he’d come over to talk. He had driven across Berkeley, late at night, to talk with her. He cleared his throat and she knew he had been practicing this in the car, that he had left Kathy alone with some excuse and practiced a speech in the car all this way. Denise had practiced nothing; she had stuffed the whole event—the broken body, the frangipani, the chesspiece of light—behind her sweaters in the closet. If she let him speak now, so prepared, he might convince her. So she interrupted him with a hand in the air.
“We don’t need to have this conversation,” she said.
“Listen, I want to say I’m sorry. I was so confused….”
She held the door halfway closed, talking in the narrow space. “I’m not, don’t worry.”
Eli shuddered, cold, “Denise, you were in shock. I don’t know…. I know I shouldn’t have done that. But I wanted to tell you….”
So this was the beginning of his speech. Apology, and then some rare admission. “We don’t need to have this conversation,” she repeated, feeling she had struck upon a phrase that might save her. Then she added: “I can’t afford it.”
He got almost angry, whispering, “Listen to me, listen to me….”
She shook her head without looking at him. “I’m the expert on this one. I’m the expert on married men. Go home, please,” she said. “Please.” Eli didn’t move, but stood there silently, as if he knew this was his great chance, that this was the only time they would speak of this while they were young, and so he stood there. She understood, as he must have, that it was just a crisis on an island, that they would not fall in love, that they would be fine; still some perfect combination of words might alter them both, open them to a terrible adventure. She could see his mind already searching for those words, tossing its net, catching them one by one. She could not let it happen; she could not bear it. So she talked through the moment. She killed it: “We don’t need to have this conversation. I’m fine. We’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Then Denise closed the door on him, turned off the light, walked to her kitchen to sit down at the table and put her hand over her mouth. She heard a car start up and drive away.
Two torches flickering in his pupils.
She sat there for a long time, hot and stiff in that placid light, before the sobs broke through her fingers.
The image that came to Denise’s mind, however, six years later at Swift’s party, was not Eli filled with longing in her doorway, or his checkered hat in the airport fog, or even some moment of him sunburnt and smiling on the island, lying on the beach with sand stuck to his naked body as he held her hand. He did not come to her that way. The moment the student mentioned his name, the man she saw was Eli as he had been when she first met him. It was after the male grad students had visited her on that awful “field trip" of theirs, after they had stood gazing awkwardly at her, shaking her hand, and left in a group full of nervous laughter. It was after they were gone, when she stood up to close the door, worried and upset, that Eli suddenly appeared in the hallway. “Are you Denise?” he asked, grinning. “The comet girl?” He gave her a few quick words of advice about Swift,
One night, months after the boy’s death, he finally caught her alone. She heard a knock on the door and it was Eli in a trench coat, hair glistening with fog, whispering that he’d come over to talk. He had driven across Berkeley, late at night, to talk with her. He cleared his throat and she knew he had been practicing this in the car, that he had left Kathy alone with some excuse and practiced a speech in the car all this way. Denise had practiced nothing; she had stuffed the whole event—the broken body, the frangipani, the chesspiece of light—behind her sweaters in the closet. If she let him speak now, so prepared, he might convince her. So she interrupted him with a hand in the air.
“We don’t need to have this conversation,” she said.
“Listen, I want to say I’m sorry. I was so confused….”
She held the door halfway closed, talking in the narrow space. “I’m not, don’t worry.”
Eli shuddered, cold, “Denise, you were in shock. I don’t know…. I know I shouldn’t have done that. But I wanted to tell you….”
So this was the beginning of his speech. Apology, and then some rare admission. “We don’t need to have this conversation,” she repeated, feeling she had struck upon a phrase that might save her. Then she added: “I can’t afford it.”
He got almost angry, whispering, “Listen to me, listen to me….”
She shook her head without looking at him. “I’m the expert on this one. I’m the expert on married men. Go home, please,” she said. “Please.” Eli didn’t move, but stood there silently, as if he knew this was his great chance, that this was the only time they would speak of this while they were young, and so he stood there. She understood, as he must have, that it was just a crisis on an island, that they would not fall in love, that they would be fine; still some perfect combination of words might alter them both, open them to a terrible adventure. She could see his mind already searching for those words, tossing its net, catching them one by one. She could not let it happen; she could not bear it. So she talked through the moment. She killed it: “We don’t need to have this conversation. I’m fine. We’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Then Denise closed the door on him, turned off the light, walked to her kitchen to sit down at the table and put her hand over her mouth. She heard a car start up and drive away.
Two torches flickering in his pupils.
She sat there for a long time, hot and stiff in that placid light, before the sobs broke through her fingers.
The image that came to Denise’s mind, however, six years later at Swift’s party, was not Eli filled with longing in her doorway, or his checkered hat in the airport fog, or even some moment of him sunburnt and smiling on the island, lying on the beach with sand stuck to his naked body as he held her hand. He did not come to her that way. The moment the student mentioned his name, the man she saw was Eli as he had been when she first met him. It was after the male grad students had visited her on that awful “field trip" of theirs, after they had stood gazing awkwardly at her, shaking her hand, and left in a group full of nervous laughter. It was after they were gone, when she stood up to close the door, worried and upset, that Eli suddenly appeared in the hallway. “Are you Denise?” he asked, grinning. “The comet girl?” He gave her a few quick words of advice about Swift,
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