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Authors: Patrick McGrath
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the light and a taxi driver screamed insults at us out the window of his cab. The death of urban civility was one of my preoccupations at the time. I saw it as another symptom of the city’s deepening malaise.
—Ed, that may all be true but it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I feel like I’m dealing with a—
I couldn’t finish the sentence. I was going to say
paranoid hysteric.
—Relax. It’s good for you.
But at times I was starting to wonder if I hadn’t made a mistake, and once or twice I even thought of the quiet years with Barb with nostalgia. And regarding Barb, there was a new development, not a happy one, and it did nothing to improve my state of mind. The last time I’d seen her she’d told me there was something wrong with her. She had to go into the hospital for a few tests.
We’d been sitting in the kitchen of her small rented house in Atlantic City, not far from the beach. I was alarmed. She was lethargic. There was puffiness around her eyes. Her skin was sickly looking. She’d lost weight. Wearily she pushed a hand through her hair.
—What about Howard?
—He’ll go to my mother’s.
I thought of Queenie Mulcahy with her cigarettes and her gin, and her phlegmy cough, and her endless stories about her life as a showgirl—
—He could stay with us, I said.
—What about Constance?
Barb summoned for this question a spark of friendly malice.
—She’d like to get to know him, I said.
—That’s not what I heard.
She gazed at me with lifted eyebrows and the ghost of a smile. For a second she was her old self. How do women know these things about one another? I told her it was time Constance and Howard met. Barb shouldn’t worry. It would all be fine.
—Your funeral, she said.
She wasn’t the type to try to protect her boy from life’s complications. She knew, too, what sort of a boy he was, nothing if not self-sufficient. So I called him in from the yard.
We were to meet Iris and the doctor off the train at Penn Station. Tarpaulins hung like great dirty curtains obscuring the high spaces of the roof from view. We picked our way through heaps of planks and scaffolding. There was dust in the air and the place was raucous with shouting men and jackhammers. Constance was tense. She could barely speak to me. Her anxiety about the wedding was aggravated by the prospect of her father’s arrival. She’d spent the previous night in my apartment. She’d paced the floor, twisting her hands together as I sat reading. I understood how difficult this was for her. She was a high-strung immature young woman about to take a large step into the unknown with a man she’d known for less than a year. Also, her father, that stern and bitter man, whom she felt she’d always disappointed, would be watching her. She stopped pacing and stared at me.
—Aren’t you frantic? she cried.
I had her sit on my lap and I put my arms around her. She clung to me like a child.
—No.
—But why not?
How was I to tell her that my impulse to protect and nourish her was as vital for my own welfare as it was for hers? I didn’t think she could understand this yet. My love was grounded as much in moral conviction as it was in affection and desire, but she didn’t know me very well. She didn’t know what she had in me. She was very young. I asked her to trust me.
—I don’t think I can, she whispered.
It was starting to get dark outside but we didn’t turn the lamps on. I put my book down. She sat on the floor beside the chesterfield, and as the shadows gathered around us she reached up and slipped her hand in mine. We sat in silence. She gripped my hand tight. She grew calm at last. I wanted her to feel that she’d never be exposed to danger again, not as long as I was there. I couldn’t explain what I was afraid of, but I feared for her, and that was why I was marrying her. If I didn’t do this I felt I had no business being around her. I didn’t know what more I could offer her.
I saw
—Ed, that may all be true but it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I feel like I’m dealing with a—
I couldn’t finish the sentence. I was going to say
paranoid hysteric.
—Relax. It’s good for you.
But at times I was starting to wonder if I hadn’t made a mistake, and once or twice I even thought of the quiet years with Barb with nostalgia. And regarding Barb, there was a new development, not a happy one, and it did nothing to improve my state of mind. The last time I’d seen her she’d told me there was something wrong with her. She had to go into the hospital for a few tests.
We’d been sitting in the kitchen of her small rented house in Atlantic City, not far from the beach. I was alarmed. She was lethargic. There was puffiness around her eyes. Her skin was sickly looking. She’d lost weight. Wearily she pushed a hand through her hair.
—What about Howard?
—He’ll go to my mother’s.
I thought of Queenie Mulcahy with her cigarettes and her gin, and her phlegmy cough, and her endless stories about her life as a showgirl—
—He could stay with us, I said.
—What about Constance?
Barb summoned for this question a spark of friendly malice.
—She’d like to get to know him, I said.
—That’s not what I heard.
She gazed at me with lifted eyebrows and the ghost of a smile. For a second she was her old self. How do women know these things about one another? I told her it was time Constance and Howard met. Barb shouldn’t worry. It would all be fine.
—Your funeral, she said.
She wasn’t the type to try to protect her boy from life’s complications. She knew, too, what sort of a boy he was, nothing if not self-sufficient. So I called him in from the yard.
We were to meet Iris and the doctor off the train at Penn Station. Tarpaulins hung like great dirty curtains obscuring the high spaces of the roof from view. We picked our way through heaps of planks and scaffolding. There was dust in the air and the place was raucous with shouting men and jackhammers. Constance was tense. She could barely speak to me. Her anxiety about the wedding was aggravated by the prospect of her father’s arrival. She’d spent the previous night in my apartment. She’d paced the floor, twisting her hands together as I sat reading. I understood how difficult this was for her. She was a high-strung immature young woman about to take a large step into the unknown with a man she’d known for less than a year. Also, her father, that stern and bitter man, whom she felt she’d always disappointed, would be watching her. She stopped pacing and stared at me.
—Aren’t you frantic? she cried.
I had her sit on my lap and I put my arms around her. She clung to me like a child.
—No.
—But why not?
How was I to tell her that my impulse to protect and nourish her was as vital for my own welfare as it was for hers? I didn’t think she could understand this yet. My love was grounded as much in moral conviction as it was in affection and desire, but she didn’t know me very well. She didn’t know what she had in me. She was very young. I asked her to trust me.
—I don’t think I can, she whispered.
It was starting to get dark outside but we didn’t turn the lamps on. I put my book down. She sat on the floor beside the chesterfield, and as the shadows gathered around us she reached up and slipped her hand in mine. We sat in silence. She gripped my hand tight. She grew calm at last. I wanted her to feel that she’d never be exposed to danger again, not as long as I was there. I couldn’t explain what I was afraid of, but I feared for her, and that was why I was marrying her. If I didn’t do this I felt I had no business being around her. I didn’t know what more I could offer her.
I saw
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