morning in her bookstore, depict a very pale, unsmiling, eyebrowless red-haired woman of indeterminate age, neither young nor old; her nose long and narrow, her eyes wary, vigilant. Except for the Queen’s excessively ornate attire, which exuded an air almost of madness, you couldn’t have guessed that this individual was a woman, female .
M of these things, as a way of not thinking of Adam’s death. Upstairs in her crooked little woodframe house at the top of North Pearl Street beside the churchyard. She couldn’t hope to sleep just yet. It was only midnight. July fifth, and the maddening fireworks silenced at last. She’d been making telephone calls, and speaking quietly over the phone, and finally she’d asked other friends to make the rest of her calls for her; and now the phone receiver lay off the hook, utterly silent as if the cord had been cut.
Middle Age: A Romance
She’d embraced him, or tried to. Stroked his grimacing face. Kissed his discolored eyelids. The body he’d become. Not Adam .
A vigil for Adam. She’d rummaged through her bureau drawers, retrieved the gift, placing it quickly on a table; not examining the documents. She’d found snapshots of Adam and herself, and several charcoal sketches she’d made of him a few years before. Evidence. He did exist. In my life . For some reason, one day she’d had an urge to sketch Adam, though she hadn’t picked up a charcoal stick in years. “My ugly mug?” Adam asked. “Hell, why?” He hadn’t really wanted to pose for Marina, sitting still in such a way was too passive for him, made him restless, but he’d given in, for Marina had prevailed upon him and he was a good-natured guy, a good sport. And maybe he’d been curious to see just how talented Marina was.
So Adam had posed for Marina, in the solarium at the rear of her house, and she’d tried, God how she’d tried to capture his likeness, his spirit; finally giving up, and putting the sketches away, though she hadn’t showed them to Adam, knowing he’d have laughed at them, and wanted to rip them up. She’d saved the sketches for they were a sign of their intimacy, hers and Adam’s; and of the highly intense, concentrated hour they’d spent on that January afternoon that would otherwise have dissolved into oblivion. (Except: Marina recalled how that evening she and Adam were officially involved in a public occasion at the Salthill Arts Council hall. An anonymous, presumably wealthy local donor had given the organization, in which Marina was an officer that year, a tall columnar sculpture in travertine marble and cherry wood, by the distinguished Ar-gentine sculpture Raul Farco, and the Arts Council had talked Adam into publicly presenting the sculpture, to an audience largely unfamiliar with Farco’s work. Adam professed to dislike events of this nature, yet, once on his feet, assured of his audience’s interest, he spoke with zest and enthusiasm, and was warmly applauded. He’d worn a bulky tweed green-heather sport coat, gray trousers that didn’t match, a midnight-blue shirt and a necktie of style and beauty, Marina suspected it must be a gift from a woman. But she wasn’t jealous.) Examining the sketches now, Marina was sharply disappointed. She had been half hoping, after the horror of Jones Point . . . But she’d failed to capture the man’s mysterious essence. You could identify this brute-looking character as Adam Berendt, but it wasn’t Adam Berendt; it was a dummy, a mannequin; a simulacrum of a middle-aged, stocky man with a creased face, balding head, and unnatural eyes, from which all youth, vigor, mystery had departed. As in the morgue he’d
J C O
lain inert. Both eyes now blind. Mouth partly open as if he had one more thing to say—but what?
Marina picked up a charcoal stick and tried to correct Adam’s likeness.
Willing herself to remember Adam as he’d been in
M of these things, as a way of not thinking of Adam’s death. Upstairs in her crooked little woodframe house at the top of North Pearl Street beside the churchyard. She couldn’t hope to sleep just yet. It was only midnight. July fifth, and the maddening fireworks silenced at last. She’d been making telephone calls, and speaking quietly over the phone, and finally she’d asked other friends to make the rest of her calls for her; and now the phone receiver lay off the hook, utterly silent as if the cord had been cut.
Middle Age: A Romance
She’d embraced him, or tried to. Stroked his grimacing face. Kissed his discolored eyelids. The body he’d become. Not Adam .
A vigil for Adam. She’d rummaged through her bureau drawers, retrieved the gift, placing it quickly on a table; not examining the documents. She’d found snapshots of Adam and herself, and several charcoal sketches she’d made of him a few years before. Evidence. He did exist. In my life . For some reason, one day she’d had an urge to sketch Adam, though she hadn’t picked up a charcoal stick in years. “My ugly mug?” Adam asked. “Hell, why?” He hadn’t really wanted to pose for Marina, sitting still in such a way was too passive for him, made him restless, but he’d given in, for Marina had prevailed upon him and he was a good-natured guy, a good sport. And maybe he’d been curious to see just how talented Marina was.
So Adam had posed for Marina, in the solarium at the rear of her house, and she’d tried, God how she’d tried to capture his likeness, his spirit; finally giving up, and putting the sketches away, though she hadn’t showed them to Adam, knowing he’d have laughed at them, and wanted to rip them up. She’d saved the sketches for they were a sign of their intimacy, hers and Adam’s; and of the highly intense, concentrated hour they’d spent on that January afternoon that would otherwise have dissolved into oblivion. (Except: Marina recalled how that evening she and Adam were officially involved in a public occasion at the Salthill Arts Council hall. An anonymous, presumably wealthy local donor had given the organization, in which Marina was an officer that year, a tall columnar sculpture in travertine marble and cherry wood, by the distinguished Ar-gentine sculpture Raul Farco, and the Arts Council had talked Adam into publicly presenting the sculpture, to an audience largely unfamiliar with Farco’s work. Adam professed to dislike events of this nature, yet, once on his feet, assured of his audience’s interest, he spoke with zest and enthusiasm, and was warmly applauded. He’d worn a bulky tweed green-heather sport coat, gray trousers that didn’t match, a midnight-blue shirt and a necktie of style and beauty, Marina suspected it must be a gift from a woman. But she wasn’t jealous.) Examining the sketches now, Marina was sharply disappointed. She had been half hoping, after the horror of Jones Point . . . But she’d failed to capture the man’s mysterious essence. You could identify this brute-looking character as Adam Berendt, but it wasn’t Adam Berendt; it was a dummy, a mannequin; a simulacrum of a middle-aged, stocky man with a creased face, balding head, and unnatural eyes, from which all youth, vigor, mystery had departed. As in the morgue he’d
J C O
lain inert. Both eyes now blind. Mouth partly open as if he had one more thing to say—but what?
Marina picked up a charcoal stick and tried to correct Adam’s likeness.
Willing herself to remember Adam as he’d been in
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