Love Is a Canoe Page 7

  She called Sherry from the street.

  “Emily, what the hell are you up to?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Have you talked to Mom this week?”

  After her divorce, their mother had left the house in Milton where she’d brought up her daughters and cooked healthy dinners for her lawyer husband, and she’d reclaimed her existence as Rebecca Bauman. Now she taught English composition at Bates, had the sense of humor of a mid-career Joan Baez, and talked to her daughters nearly exclusively about their relationships and her academic career. She revealed almost nothing about her personal life. It was possible that she was gay, and embarrassed about it. Though both things felt wildly improbable, Sherry and Emily hoped that was the explanation. That or something like it. They both preferred to imagine that their mother hid a life better and richer than the one she shared with them.

  “Yeah.” Emily nodded. “She suspects the worst so she wants to rip Eli’s head off. I’m not sure how that’s supposed to help. Then I had to hear about all her problems with the Henry James book. She says she’s close. I know she’s lying to herself.”

  “What?” Sherry asked. Emily could hear Nancy, the other woman in the play, also talking on the phone in their shared dressing room. Sherry was always tense before a performance, and her teeth were chattering. Emily listened to her sister’s clicking teeth and remembered her mother yanking open the door to the master bathroom where Emily had thought she’d locked herself in. Her mother had found her reading Canoe and she started laughing hysterically. “Great, Emily! Keep reading! Keep dreaming! That fucking stupid book—memorize it! And pretend you can’t hear another word of this!” And then her mother ran out of the bathroom and back down to the living room to continue fighting with her husband. Emily didn’t much care for her mother’s full sentences or her sarcasm. But Emily also wasn’t forthright enough, even as a child, to tell her mother that was exactly what she had been doing.

  “Emily? I’ve really got to go. It’s true Mom will never finish that thing. Call me later, or tomorrow morning. Look, it’s probably not as bad as Mom thinks, and please stop hanging up on me! It’s just a work-wife thing which is exactly what they’re both saying. That’s all it is.”

  “Hugs with a work wife. I hate it. I hate how that stupid line is imprinted on my brain. Be ready, because I am going to call you later,” Emily said.

  “Can you hear my teeth chattering? I hate previews,” Sherry said, and hung up.

  Emily began to rush down the not-too-hot August street. She saw the fish store closing for the night. Part of her wanted to talk her way past the guy fiddling with the pull-down gate to grab up the last piece of tuna. By channeling the saleswoman in her, she could be quite good at that sort of convincing. But no, no. Too late. Move on. Her timing was just horrible lately. Driving Sherry crazy right before she had to go onstage, choosing odd ways home, obsessively attending inarguably dull lectures on subjects like the design of Byzantine coins, and avoiding her husband.

  Her handbag dragged at her shoulder. Her life felt too up in the air and here she was, buying books she already owned to weigh her down. There was something frozen that they could heat up and eat, she was sure of it. That would be fine. Some ribs that Eli had cooked for friends two weeks earlier. No. Defrosted ribs were gross. He could have them sometime when she was out. She was sure there was pasta. Probably there were some frozen beans, too.

  Her husband was really just a driven and occasionally distracted guy who had said, “You make me better,” when he’d asked her to marry him at Café Loup after they’d been together a little over a year. He told her all the time how much he loved what she had made of their lives. Still, now, knowing he was a good guy wasn’t helping. She had to believe he wasn’t up to anything with Jenny. They were just in a mental I-would-so-do-you type of affair because they were both good-looking in a similar dark-and-sexy way, and also because Roman Street had been unstoppable lately, transitioning from a cool brand with serious supply problems to talk of growth plans and distribution partnerships and a feature on Forbes.com. And what was a hug, anyway? A hug was not a kiss. And Eli was such a poor writer that she doubted he was capable of a euphemism. He wasn’t traveling anytime soon and she would just be more vigilant. She would kill whatever was growing. Somehow, they’d get past it. She would figure out a way to get them past it.

  Emily was now basically counting the minutes until Sherry’s play was over so she could call her and learn more about Jenny and try to figure out what to do. Since Sherry had gone to Amherst with Jenny, she knew the woman’s awful history and Sherry owed Emily the truth about whatever she’d left out when she had first introduced Jenny to Eli at that pie contest, over a year ago. So what if Eli had won the contest and, as a gesture of celebration, hired Jenny on the spot. It had all been funny and festive at the time and even Emily had gotten drunk enough to stay up singing “We Are the Champions” over and over with Jenny and her sister and Eli.

  Jenny had started working for Eli a few weeks later and he had been less stressed ever since. Eli needed an awful lot of people around him to keep his business going. And Jenny, the hot little work wife, she was a blessing. Until everything that had made Emily act supportive when she first met Jenny began to feel very wrong. So yes, Sherry had no right to be angry at Emily for constantly hanging up on her, considering how badly Sherry had fucked up Emily’s life. Well. If not exactly fucked it up directly, then Sherry had certainly set the goddamned bike wheels in motion.

  Peter Herman, early September 2011

  Maddie Narayan drove up Peter Herman’s driveway in her brand-new, black Mercedes station wagon. She got out and wrapped a purple shawl around her shoulders. Though it was early September and still warm at dusk, it would grow cool within the hour. Peter watched her.

  “You’re always so well prepared,” he called out.

  “That is my welcome?”

  “Sorry. Good trip?” Peter came down to meet her.

  His front porch faced a small field of mown grass. Beyond that, behind Maddie’s car, there was the longish driveway, lined on both sides with sugar maples. His blue painted-steel mailbox was just visible at the point where the driveway met Lakeview Road.

  She met him on the brick path to the house and he reached out to kiss her. She smelled mostly of lemon and her hair was shiny and black, cut above her shoulders so it bounced as she walked. She smiled and jutted her sharp chin up at him.

  “It was a good trip. Anjulee is so beautiful and glowing that I could not keep myself from crying. When the baby comes it will be very healthy.”

  “I’m glad. I would love to meet her someday. And your house is okay?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. She had come from her house outside Hudson, thirty-five minutes away.

  “Yes, of course. Why would it not be?”

  “It’s just—a neglected house…”

  “Peter. Please.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. She was soft in the belly and shorter than him, but her black hair was splayed out, and when she stared up at him he did find that he loved looking into her familiar black eyes.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about the wonders of the city of San Francisco?”

  “Now that really is a terrific place,” she said. She held his shoulders and continued to look up at him without blinking.

  He loved how sharp she was, this proper, middle-aged woman who never contracted a word. So sharp and proper! He knew that wasn’t right, though. To love how a person was, rather than to just love the person. He’d written an essay and lectured on it a few times a quarter century ago. But he quickly discovered that people didn’t like the idea, because it was too honest and therefore, too brutal. So he stopped talking about it. When he was questioned about the essay, he admitted the underlying truth within the concept eluded him. Then he’d wait a beat and say, “Put another way: I know I wrote it, but I’m not so sure I understood what I meant when I was done.” That al
ways got a laugh.

  “Wait,” he said now. On a chair on the porch were a bunch of poppies and cornflowers he’d bought from Jo at Country Gardeners Florist in town. He held them up to her.

  “See?” he asked, and kissed her again.

  She said, “My favorites.”

  “I hope they’ll brighten your neglected house. Let’s go on the back porch.”

  She followed him through the front rooms but then stopped in his kitchen. He looked back at her. It was bad, this thing he did where he was appraising and cold and distanced himself from people. And Maddie could make him happy. She was always smart in conversation and she liked to rub up against him. She could be funny, too. She was even able to be self-effacing about her proper ways.

  “I will make tea,” she said. “It will take a few minutes.”

  He went out to the back porch, turned on the sconces on either side of the kitchen door and leaned on the porch rail. He looked in at Maddie. They were near enough to speak, but they didn’t. She hadn’t known Lisa well, though they had met when Lisa got sick, when they needed an adviser. Maddie had been a financial administrator who worked for different museums in New York. But she had moved up to her country house when she split with her husband, James, who was North American CFO of an India-based steel company, the sort of hard-nosed man Peter sometimes saw on television, in the first-row seats at Yankees games. He had left her for a very young woman, a McKinsey consultant. Maddie had taken money and their Hudson Valley country house. He remained in their apartment on Riverside Drive. Their divorce was nearly final.

  “Will you sit with me?” Maddie asked, after she’d come out with a tray.

  She settled herself in a wicker chair and put the tray on a low table between them. She sat back. She had a habit of drawing her arms inside her shawl if she wasn’t using her hands. Peter liked that—its economy charmed him.

  “I am only back here for a day but it feels like a week,” she said.

  “But if you truly settled here the days wouldn’t feel so long.”

  “That is nonsense. Savor the freezing weather that will come? I do not think so.”

  “I would love to build you fires.” He tried not to sound tentative.

  “I do not want to stay here, Peter. I want to go. We could build fires in San Francisco.”

  Peter didn’t speak. He took a mug of tea and sipped at it. He would have liked some scotch, but Maddie frowned when he drank. Everyone seemed to. He looked out at the dark lake. Maddie made a noise in her throat. She said, “Why will you not admit that you are tired of having people ask you to go for a paddle with them in the lake? I would hate it.”

  “That never really happens.”

  “It happens all the time. I have been with you twice when it happened! Remember at Gilmor glassworks? That was awful.”

  “They were just tourists. And it’s not my fault that Jessie Gilmor still likes to poke fun at me. It’s good for her business.”

  “It was not funny. Having our picture taken with tourists was not funny.”

  “And at Pantomime’s.” He smiled.

  “Yes, there, too! You think Arthur is your friend but look at what he does each time we are in the store! That is not protecting and caring for a neighbor.”

  “No,” Peter said. “I suppose it isn’t. But there’s not much business up here. We do what we can to take care of each other.”

  “Take care of each other? You think they want you around. But you are wrong. Henry wants to make improvements at the inn. He wants to be free to try again to expand to Hudson. Maybe even down to Rhinebeck.”

  “So that’s what you two talk about at your lunches?” Peter frowned and stood up again. “It’s impossible to make it in Hudson. The gossip from the antique-store people kills you before you can even open your doors. Henry should know that by now.”

  “Henry is friendly with those people. Why should he not try? And what do you think we talk about if not our plans? You sound paranoid and not very supportive of your friend.”

  “Please, Maddie. I don’t know why you can’t take it easy on me.”

  “I am trying!” She shook her head and looked away from him. “I am sorry. It is because life was so nice and new on the West Coast and here everything is the same.”

  Peter took her hand and said, “Do you want to eat? I could make us some soup and toast?”

  “Soup from a can? I have good food in the car. I returned home and before I knew what was happening I found myself cooking for you.” She smiled up at him. She said, “I will bring it in.”

  But Peter kept her hand. He kissed the tips of her fingers. He ran his other hand up the length of her arm and around to her breast. He heard her breath change.

  She said, “I do not like pushing you. But when I leave here and see the whole world I cannot help but return and want to take you along with me back into it! I am going to sell my house this fall for sure. Then I will go to San Francisco and all I can do is dream of what fun we could have there. You could write! You could, you know. It is being here that paralyzes you.”

  “Can’t you leave that alone?” Peter pulled away and waved his hands in front of him. “Really, we should have fun together. Not argue all the time.”

  “I do not believe you want me to leave anything alone.”

  He said, “I’m happy just being here.”

  “I do not believe that. I cannot be here with you, watching you growing old and doing nothing. I do not enjoy being so harsh but the situation demands it.”

  “We should eat,” he said. It was finally dark.

  “I will go and get the hamper from the car,” she said. “Tomorrow morning we can drive to my house and swim in the pool. I want to use it before I lose it.”

  The phone rang inside the house and Peter made no move to answer it.

  “Shall I?” Maddie smiled and went into the house.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Peter called after her. Though he knew that if the caller was his daughter, Belinda, it could. He needed to bring Belinda and Maddie together for a dinner. He was being slow about it and Belinda was growing impatient. He knew his daughter would be happier and worry less about him once she met his girlfriend. Again, his inactivity made him seem thoughtless.

  “No,” Maddie said, a moment later. “I will not bring him to the phone unless you tell me what you are calling about.” She was quiet, listening. Then he heard her say, “Hold, please.”

  She returned to the porch and said, “It is a woman from your publishing house, called Stella Petrovic. She says she is sorry to call in the evening but she has had trouble getting you to answer during the day and did not want to leave a message. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “Wow.” Peter hunched over, so he could feel the lower half of his belly surge against his belt buckle. “I haven’t had a call from LRB in forever.”

  “So? Do you want to talk to her? She is waiting.”

  “No, I won’t talk to her just now.” He turned away and hid his smile. He didn’t want Maddie to hear the simpering tone he tended to use with anyone connected to LRB. He said, “Take the number, won’t you? I will talk with her but not now. I can’t speak with her this evening is all.”

  They had sex after dinner in the big four-poster bed that he’d used for nearly his entire adult life. Maddie was slow with sex, slow and good. She was entirely different than she was in conversation. She was never cool with him or detached, the way Lisa had been. Peter meant no disrespect to Lisa, but he was a little crazy for Maddie when they were in bed. She held him tightly before falling asleep first, as she did on most nights when they were together. Then she turned away and curled in on herself. Peter listened to her even breathing. The bedroom was quiet, though light spilled in from the moon reflecting on the lake.

  He knew he was supposed to do his homework and begin to try to imagine leaving Millerton and moving to San Francisco. He knew he was supposed to ask Maddie to help him structure the sale of his interest in the inn to Henry for an a
ppropriate sum, pay off the lingering debts that haunted him when he drove around Millerton, sell or rent his house, and start the next portion of his life.

  Instead, he thought about a different kind of night. A hospital dusk. Almost nine o’clock and still there was light, last July.

  Lisa was lying on her side, staring at him, as he sat in his chair. She said, “You remember. I was poor when I met you.”

  At that point, when Lisa talked, he didn’t know whether he was listening to the drugs, the evil tau proteins that were the heart of Pick’s, or the woman he knew. He no longer tried to divine the difference.

  “Yes, I remember.” Though she had never been poor. He rearranged the carnations he’d brought. Stupid flowers that made them both happy but couldn’t do anything to fight the hospital odor.

  “Something I need to tell you,” Lisa said.

  “Another secret?” Peter covered his head with his hands. He couldn’t stand more revelations. “Let’s wait. There’s no rush.”

  “It’s okay. I know how much you loved me. It’s okay. I forgive you.”

  “Forgive me?”

  “For giving me less than all of you.”

  “Lisa, please.”

  “Is Belinda on her way?” she asked, turning so she looked up at the yellow ceiling.

  “You saw her this morning. But yes, she’s on her way.”

  “You weren’t ever really, truly in love with me.”

  “Lisa. That’s not fair. I always was.” He wondered at how, as he lost sight of her, he also lost his ability to be honest with himself. But it couldn’t matter. Not now.

  “Sometimes. Not always.”

  “Sometimes?” he asked. “Isn’t sometimes good enough?”

  She allowed him to hold her hands and they were both still. He was sickened by her eagerness to destroy the story of their lives.

  “Be honest for us both, now. We were happy. Is enough.” She stopped speaking and fell asleep.