Read Online All My Relations by Christopher McIlroy - Free Book Online Page A

Canyon,” she said, “we stepped to the edge, and the ground was broken in pieces as far as wecould see. We grabbed hands, clasping so tight I think we both believed we could have floated down together. “And you know what? That boy still exists, as much as you do.”
    â€œYou mean in your head. These guys are thirty-one.” Tim wiggled his fingers.
    She’d depended on him for a sense of future, Julia thought, not happy, simply tangible. But he defeated her like a TV after sign-off, a gray static buzz.
    Philip sent a letter. “Our phone calls have outlived their usefulness. Increasingly they are an obligation.”
    Julia laughed out loud at herself, pacing the floor until she gained the equanimity to sit and type:
    You will be happy to read that this letter relieves you of your duties. Please don’t call. Don’t write. The books I’ve lent you, you may keep. Their meaning to me henceforth would be deformed.
    You probably consider withholding yourself as manly, a guarding of old virtues. It is not. It is monstrous selfishness. Caring people share themselves. I feel sorry for you. The loss is to us both.
    For the record, those burdensome phone calls, as our entire association, were delightfully stimulating to me.
    Philip wore a loose gray shirt outside his pants, loafers sans socks. “Come in.” He beckoned like a hotelier. The room was unchanged, though brighter, blinds open.
    Julia handed him the envelope, which he laid on the counter.
    â€œDon’t put it aside. Read it.”
    â€œNot under this scrutiny.”
    Julia slit the envelope with her fingernail and read the letter aloud.
    Philip rubbed his face. “Quite fair,” he said. “Points well taken.” Off to the house, he said, for a packet of old manuscripts.Come with? He hadn’t invited Julia to his home before.
    â€œWill she be there?”
    â€œNo. At the shrink.”
    Driving, Philip was expansive, head dipping toward her, hand flashing. In fantasy Julia had made this journey repeatedly—rescuing Vera from another suicide attempt, supporting Philip across the threshold after her death, tipsily dousing him with champagne after Vera’s divorce. That she was actually rounding Philip’s corner she attributed to two factors. One, without a more satisfying resolution, which she would not get, she could not give up this final moment. Two, in Philip’s view she no longer existed.
    Tidiness shielded the interior of the solid brick house. Amazed at her detached curiosity, Julia searched for clues, nothing so obvious as a photo presenting itself. A pleasant scent, spicy, lingered. Philip rummaged in another room, drawers slamming. By the open French doors a curtain stirred.
    Julia stepped into a profusion of snapdragons, tiger lilies, gladiolus, trillium, red poppies, crocus, plants she hadn’t seen growing in the Southwest. Rustling trees filtered the sunlight. Cool, broad leaves slapped her thighs as each tread crunched, releasing a musky vegetable smell.
    â€œI haven’t trimmed the fruit trees. They’re looking shaggy,” Philip said. “I’ve wanted to introduce dogwood—those starburst blossoms are a vivid growing-up memory—but I suspect the climate would be too much of a shock.” He lowered himself, knees swaying, to pull a weed. “Planting the rose bushes was hell on my hands. My gloves weren’t thick enough. Beyond punctures. Lacerations.”
    He looked up at Julia. “I retreated here from our love affair. This suits me. Vera and I scarcely meet. She’s content to know I’m puttering nearby.”
    Julia saw the scene as a paperweight, an exquisitely-wrought foliation of colors, encased in glass. In the midst stood Philip,feet transfixed by long pins topped with red hair. Placidly he stooped with the watering can. It was set in Julia’s mind, the vision of what he’d chosen over her.
    Although lying still in