A young college student was knifed to death; her boyfriend threw himself into the path of a subway. Later, they discovered and believed a rumor that she had tried to break off the relationship. She should have known that relationships cannot be broken.
Fiction by Renée Christine Ehle, Winter 2013
(with apologies to James Schuyler)
*
It is morning. The light in my room is diffused, a grey-blue that gives what is needed but does not disturb. Although I went to bed uneasy, I slept. And now I am ready to work.
My desk, inherited from a great-aunt with impeccable taste and as careful about preservation as I am, sits beneath the window, which looks out on my back garden. It is mostly as I want it, although there are elements that may be suffering…no, but lagging, perhaps…under a modicum of neglect. Well. Such things happen.
My quiet room, my desk, my work, my simple garden. These are what give me pleasure. These are my necessities.
The grass shakes. No, that can’t be right. There are no earthquakes here, and little breeze. Trembles? The grass quivers. But the grass is no timid creature, cowering. What does it fear? Perhaps it is an optical illusion, an unsteady mix of wilted brown, residual grey-green, hesitant hoar. Perhaps it is my eyes that quiver. Leave it, then. The grass shakes.
He knocks and my pen wavers, leaving an unintelligible mark of ink on my paper. “Come in,” I say, naturally. Timothy my morning dove, my familiar, my pleasure. Yes, there is relief to see him here. He offers me coffee in my favorite mug, he offers his “Good morning, James.”
“Thank you, my dear.” He stands, perhaps looking out my window (I am blotting up the misplaced ink with a tissue).
“It’s a beautiful day. How about a walk by the river?” That’s how Timothy speaks—how about. Inelegant, but amiable. I wipe the nib of my pen on the tissue before dropping the tissue into the basket at my feet.
“I think I’d prefer to work steadily this morning. But the dogs might enjoy the exercise.” Perhaps I should not have added that last bit. It is not the walk he wants. My own wants have diminished: They are manageable now, tranquil and contained. Let me offer a smile to Timothy, encouragingly.
“How about having lunch downtown, then? We could try that new brasserie with the pretty tablecloths.”
“Oh, you tempter! But we still have some of that delicious chicken you roasted last night.” He is disappointed, I know. He may be searching for another suggestion to pull me from my work. I place my hand on his arm, lightly smooth his soft brown hairs. “My dear, I really am most interested in working today.”
He leaves then and, although I do admire the curve of his wide shoulders that he holds so proudly, I return to my notebook.
In the cold distant blue are streaks of smoke. Someone burning trash. In my youth we did that; we carried household trash to a rusted, sooty can behind the garage, lit it, watched it. We tended the trash. Tenderly. Attentively. Smoke streaks everywhere at dusk, smelling of the neighborly spirit. It’s not done any longer—the EPA. The air is cleaner now and no one talks around the garbage can at dusk. My eyes, my memory. There are no smoke streaks, only cloud strokes. Only wisps of atmospheric moisture.
Timothy has fed the dogs; I hear their metal licenses clank on the dishes. The dogs are always ravenous, always passionate. I brought them home eight, nine years ago, when they were pups and Timothy, too—he and I “in love.” We, whimsical, were going to raise them together. They raised themselves, and our whims passed like most. What is this distracting sigh that escapes me? This disappointment—is that what it is?—dropped on my back? Yet with a shrug I can let it fall; it lies useless, weightless, on the waist-high pile beside my chair.
The phone rings. There is a phone here in my room, an old white princess phone, its ring weak but jarring like a skinny old woman in tennis sweats and too much make-up. It rings a second time. It’s only a telephone. It disturbs my writing, but Timothy will answer and I’ll resume working. Timothy will answer—but it’s only a telephone call; it is good he has a life of his own. So many telephone calls recently—I sit in my room and write, and Timothy answers. I hold tight to my pen, my breath, my equanimity, which shall be my sole salvation. A third ring, and the kitchen extension is answered.
It is a kind of relief, after all, the happy murmur of Timothy’s voice, his sweet, fluid voice. His voice is what I have always loved, his kind and melodious and hesitant voice. Could I keep that, only?
From the kitchen there is an undertone of youthful delight, of risk and discovery. I remember that tone! Now, of course, we know each other so well. I say to myself that we no longer need to play flirtatious games. That we take comfort in our familiar life together. Timothy cooks our meals (I help occasionally). We sit on the porch or before a gentle fire and read, converse, touch. Surely a loving silence is better than fleeting chatter? This is our good life together, is it not?
Outside my window the grass. The faded, untrampled grass of the pond path. Creeping juniper on either side. Low arcs hover across the yard, a soft blue-green even in winter. I planted them before Timothy, when I was younger and alone and dreaming. I dreamt of yards of uninterrupted juniper, too prickly for walking but just prickly enough for seeing.
Before my plantings had spread, when they were still taking root in isolated clumps, Timothy came. We sat on the back porch. He was young and I already middle-aged, but he made me laugh. I made us scotch and soda. He thought of building a pond at the far side of the yard, and then he built it. Bordered it with rocks and filled it with silvery carp.
He moved in after that. We began the arduous and joysome business of making a life together, but we neglected to complete the landscaping. A path was worn from the house to the pond, but we did not design its curves or line it with slate. Sometimes I think that was our greatest mistake. The path merely interrupts my creeping juniper.
Last night I read in bed. A little Schopenhauer, a little Jane Austen, and The New York Times. On the front page of the Times, the Irish Republican Army have been resisting disarmament because they have not lost and will not perform an act of submission. A cancer researcher falsified data, leading the hapless diseased to false hope and the risk of unnecessary surgery. Another plane crashed in another ocean. A young college student was knifed to death; her boyfriend threw himself into the path of a subway. Later, they discovered and believed a rumor that she had tried to break off the relationship. She should have known that relationships cannot be broken. Bent and twisted, yes; stretched thin and out of sight; turned rancid; settled to the bottom of a stagnant pond. But relationships, once begun, exist in perpetuity.
Last night I read in bed, and Timothy came into my room. I had forgotten to thank him for making dinner, which had been delicious as usual. I put down my paper and did so. The key is courtesy, as I’ve always told Timothy. I am sorry I sometimes forget my own rule. Timothy only shrugged, but I think he was pleased.
He sat on the edge of my bed and, without looking at me once, placed his hand on my leg—even through the blanket I could feel his warmth. He stroked very lightly above my knee, one could hardly see any movement of his fingers yet I shivered, caught my silent breath, closed my eyes for just a moment. He stopped but left his hand in place. If I had been someone else, I might have shed a tear.
I looked up at Timothy, his shoulders curved over, but the moment had passed. His gaze was on my paper. He picked up the newsprint, read the headlines, first paragraphs, flipped through a few later pages. Timothy dropped the paper between his knees. Pages fell out of order, creases lost. His head and shoulders were stooped; he looked sad, and almost as old as I am feeling. He said, “Isn’t the world terrible?”
Youth feels things so. The tragedies of distant nations, rifts and deaths and manipulations among those whose lives are no nearer to us than the made-up lives on television dramas. Youth feels them as personal betrayals. “My dear…” I said, laying my hand largely and deliberately on my Schopenhauer. It could be worse, for them, for us. It has been worse for me, or perhaps I am only forgetting. So often now I feel old, or only lost.
“My dear…” I said, and somehow those two words were the wrong ones, or I took the wrong tone. Timothy bent his face to look at mine. In his eyes, in the twist of his cheek and brow, in the uneasy set of his mouth, I tried to read. I thought I discerned a question as to my meaning, but also sorrow, and disgust. I thought I caught a glimpse of his remnant desire. I’d like to believe it was a remnant of desire for me, but perhaps it was only desire. He rose from my bed and left then. I reached to give him a parting caress but his back was already across the threshold.
Timothy, oh, Timothy, how I shall miss you. Your slim, smooth body crouched over the pond, feeding the carp, talking to them. You believe in talking to animals, to plants, even to old people like me. We disagree there. I believe in lovers communicating beyond words, as we did so beautifully when you lay next to me, stretched out shin to shin, torso to torso, stroking each other’s face, hair, neck.
Talk. Talk, Timothy, is only striving. Strife. Misleading and without satisfaction. I am sorry you still desire it so after all these years.
And so these phone calls, which you answer so joyously. Perhaps I am wrong to want to hold onto our quiet life together. You are young; we have had ten good years together, but you are young and I am content with my books, a quiet back porch dinner, an occasional shared bed. Will you be happy, Timothy? Will you think of me sometimes?
You, Timothy. We. So beautiful…. But the silence is between us, and it would take so much to get across the span.
Last night Timothy left my room, left me alone with my books of romance and resignation, my news of devastation. Moonlight, or porchlight, fell unevenly across my desk, the newspaper left carelessly tented on the floor where Timothy had dropped it. I was tired. Curled on my side, I pulled the wool and patchwork blankets over my head, breathed in the heavy darkness. Time and sorrow passed but I don’t know how much.
There is silence from the kitchen now. Footsteps approach my door. I hold my breath within me and my pen tight onto the paper. A draft comes through the window. The retreating footsteps. The clink of hangers in the front closet. The whine of the dogs. The shutting of the door.
“Enjoy yourself, Timothy,” I whisper.
*
Renée Christine Ehle is a writer and educator in the Bronx, New York. She holds an MFA in Fiction from Sarah Lawrence College.