love with. Now that she’s no longer his student, he can tell her everything, what it’s like to see that face, that shining face, not only beaming out toward the others in the seminar room, but toward him, whenever he tried to challenge her in class. She wouldn’t back down, unlike the others, who were too afraid or polite, and that was beautiful to him. The ferocity of intelligence that deepened the brown in her eyes! Not to mention the sweet and sexy husk in her voice.
But his face turned toward her? She’s not quite having it, not quite. The lavishness of attention is all a little much. She thinks it wants her essence, even though he tells her he wants nothing but to be with her, to talk about books with her. She’d prefer some mystery, some elusiveness, and—does she admit it to herself?—some hardness and indifference. A prize she has to win. She is not anyone’s prize, no gilded starling high on a shelf. Over and over she tells me, he’s not the one, he’s not the one. She is waving her hands around; we are walking down Walnut Street, heading toward Rittenhouse Square. I’m trying to nod, I’m trying to listen, to be of support to my friend. Maybe if I point out that baby in her father’s arms, she’ll be shaken out of herself and her blood pressure will go back down again. But on and on she goes, as if by resistance she becomes stronger, larger. Resistance straightens her back; resistance lifts up her chin, brings a smolder to her mouth and chin and eyes.
Months later, on a peaceful Wednesday night in spring, Denise tells me she is marrying B.
She tells it to me again, as if by doing so, she’ll vaporize the hundreds of hours I’ve spent listening to her saying no, no, no.
My face might color. Certainly the space just above my nose is so hot that it must be the color of raw meat. How could she not have betrayed a hint of their relationship during all those three-hour phone calls? I’d understand it better if she’d wandered away from me. The secrecy of it feels a little like lying. And this has been going on for, what—six months? I thought she wanted to be single.
She structures her explanation with the logic of a trial lawyer, but she’s not working too hard. She doesn’t expect me to be a hostile judge. After all, I haven’t yet lost my temper or grimaced or frowned. Would I ever lose my temper with her? Probably not, and maybe this frustrates her. This is what she wants of me, though she can’t quite say it. How would she tell a friend to get mad at her? I know she’s not getting married simply to raise my hackles, that would be flat-out absurd, but maybe my calm, accepting face is not the face she wants right now. If a friend is simply someone who says yes, everything you do is all right, well, maybe that’s not really a friend.
But maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I could also say that a real friend loves his friend enough to let her wander. He lets her drive off the road, down into the muck, if she has to. He does not push or possess. He is not bossy or parental. He waits for that friend to come back to herself, to him. He’s standing at the top of the stairs for her, with a neutral, expectant face. He takes her hand when she extends it up to him.
Denise: a woman whose heroines are Emma and Cathy. She invited me to build a fortress with her. Here I was, hefting stone columns on my back, and now she’s telling me there’s never been a house to build?
Maybe it is a relief that the dream of Famous Writer is over. Goddamn Famous Writer and everything he represented: East Hampton, literary ambition, dinners with the rich, always running around, always giving readings, sleeping with acolytes and admirers. She must have come to some revelation in Vermont. She must have seen it in his hectic face: he wasn’t a happy man. If anything, his work was a bear that was hunting him down. It lurked behind trees, it lurked outside barns in the form of a woman. It made him dial a number in
But his face turned toward her? She’s not quite having it, not quite. The lavishness of attention is all a little much. She thinks it wants her essence, even though he tells her he wants nothing but to be with her, to talk about books with her. She’d prefer some mystery, some elusiveness, and—does she admit it to herself?—some hardness and indifference. A prize she has to win. She is not anyone’s prize, no gilded starling high on a shelf. Over and over she tells me, he’s not the one, he’s not the one. She is waving her hands around; we are walking down Walnut Street, heading toward Rittenhouse Square. I’m trying to nod, I’m trying to listen, to be of support to my friend. Maybe if I point out that baby in her father’s arms, she’ll be shaken out of herself and her blood pressure will go back down again. But on and on she goes, as if by resistance she becomes stronger, larger. Resistance straightens her back; resistance lifts up her chin, brings a smolder to her mouth and chin and eyes.
Months later, on a peaceful Wednesday night in spring, Denise tells me she is marrying B.
She tells it to me again, as if by doing so, she’ll vaporize the hundreds of hours I’ve spent listening to her saying no, no, no.
My face might color. Certainly the space just above my nose is so hot that it must be the color of raw meat. How could she not have betrayed a hint of their relationship during all those three-hour phone calls? I’d understand it better if she’d wandered away from me. The secrecy of it feels a little like lying. And this has been going on for, what—six months? I thought she wanted to be single.
She structures her explanation with the logic of a trial lawyer, but she’s not working too hard. She doesn’t expect me to be a hostile judge. After all, I haven’t yet lost my temper or grimaced or frowned. Would I ever lose my temper with her? Probably not, and maybe this frustrates her. This is what she wants of me, though she can’t quite say it. How would she tell a friend to get mad at her? I know she’s not getting married simply to raise my hackles, that would be flat-out absurd, but maybe my calm, accepting face is not the face she wants right now. If a friend is simply someone who says yes, everything you do is all right, well, maybe that’s not really a friend.
But maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I could also say that a real friend loves his friend enough to let her wander. He lets her drive off the road, down into the muck, if she has to. He does not push or possess. He is not bossy or parental. He waits for that friend to come back to herself, to him. He’s standing at the top of the stairs for her, with a neutral, expectant face. He takes her hand when she extends it up to him.
Denise: a woman whose heroines are Emma and Cathy. She invited me to build a fortress with her. Here I was, hefting stone columns on my back, and now she’s telling me there’s never been a house to build?
Maybe it is a relief that the dream of Famous Writer is over. Goddamn Famous Writer and everything he represented: East Hampton, literary ambition, dinners with the rich, always running around, always giving readings, sleeping with acolytes and admirers. She must have come to some revelation in Vermont. She must have seen it in his hectic face: he wasn’t a happy man. If anything, his work was a bear that was hunting him down. It lurked behind trees, it lurked outside barns in the form of a woman. It made him dial a number in
Similar Books
