Читать книгу Astonish Me - Maggie Shipstead - Страница 9

As Jacob crosses the quad, shuffling home through new snow, he is seized by a rebellious impulse to stop at a bar. Not that he doesn’t want to see Joan and the baby, and not that having a quiet beer by himself would be a crime, but the enormous obligations that have arrived abruptly (and, one could argue, prematurely) with his new status as a family man have recalibrated his sense of himself, made him ashamed of his moments of selfishness and guilt stricken whenever he feels a twinge of resentment. He wants so badly to satisfy and delight Joan in all possible ways and to be a good father to Harry that he is not certain there should be space left over for wanting a beer. Or solitude. Or freedom, which is unmistakably a thing of the past.

He has never been one to fetishize freedom, though. Since he can remember, he has pursued obligation and commitment, which is why, at twenty-four, he is already into the fourth year of his doctorate. That he is, at twenty-four, also already the father of an infant son and already married to a woman he has coveted since it first occurred to him to covet women, might not have been part of his original plan, but he can’t claim he hadn’t been an enthusiastic participant in Harry’s conception or that he hadn’t wanted to marry Joan, at least as far as he was capable of imagining marriage, since he was a high school kid desperately playing it cool.

The snow is the first serious one of the year. It settles in strips on naked tree branches, builds white doilies on the stone traceries of Gothic windows. In the summer, the façade of Green Hall is bearded with Boston ivy, and a wreath of leaves surrounds Jacob’s office window, giving the light a pleasantly verdant quality, like the inside of a tree house. But now, in late November, the vine is a withered caul of twigs, tapping and scratching at the walls. Jacob changes trajectory, heading for a dank subterranean bar he likes and away from the tiny apartment where Joan and Harry are waiting. The apartment has a demonic radiator that shrieks in defiance when Jacob tries to turn it off and incubates all the fetid baby smells and makes his hair brittle and his skin itchy. Joan, who is always cold, likes the radiator and will not let him call the super. She takes a reptilian solace in its heat, perching neatly sideways atop the flaking silver coils.

The mug of Old Style the bartender coaxes from the tap is mostly foam but is delivered with a look that discourages Jacob from complaining. He is happy, anyway, to be sitting on a stool with a ripped vinyl cover, resting his elbows on sticky Formica, gazing at pocked dartboards and a jumble of Bears and Cubs ephemera. There is a TV behind the bar, but it’s angled so only the bartender can watch. Light flickers over the ranks of bottles.

The woman Jacob was dating before—and, truthfully, during and for some time after—Joan paid her fateful visit had introduced him to this place. Liesel, a Ph.D. student in chemistry. There is one other guy at the bar: thirtyish, with a mustache, on the beefy side, sipping whiskey.

“Great place, isn’t it?” Jacob remarks. His stolen hour, now that he has committed to it, is making him expansive and giddy.

“Yeah,” the guy says, “a real hidden gem.” He has a strong Chicago accent and a plump face that suggests, in a friendly way, that bullshit would be unwelcome.

“I used to come here with an ex,” Jacob says.

“Yeah?”

“It was kind of her spot. I haven’t been here since we broke up.”

“Bad breakup?”

“It wasn’t great.” Then, wanting to clarify, Jacob adds, “I married a ballet dancer.”

At ballet dancer, the guy’s smile seems to snag on something. “Yeah?” the guy says. “Like a professional?”

Jacob nods. “Yeah.”

The fact that Joan is a dancer impresses most men and rankles most women. Was a dancer, although he has no plans to tell this stranger she is retired. When Joan was pregnant, Jacob had thought she might try to go back to ballet after the baby, but she said flatly that she couldn’t. Her career had run its course. She will teach, but she will not perform. Elaine sent them tickets to the Joffrey not long before Harry was born. On the way home, Joan had cried on the El, clasping her thin arms around her belly, but she only shook her head when Jacob said it didn’t have to be over for her. He didn’t understand, she said. She had never been that good, anyway, she said, and to keep trying would be pathetic.

There is, in this decision, a loss for Jacob he would never admit to her. For as long as he has known Joan, since they were almost children, she has lived a double life, as a dancer and as a civilian, and her retirement means she has been reduced in some essential way. He will miss seeing her onstage, displayed so beautifully at the front of all that darkness, and he will miss the mystery of her hours of class and rehearsal, her proximity to other beautiful women and to the hands of other men. He finds low-level jealously to be enlivening, pleasantly astringent.

He has his limits, though. During the months Joan was involved with Arslan Rusakov, Jacob had been in agony. Her other boyfriends, beginning in high school, had irritated and disgruntled but not tortured him; Joan had not appeared to be very attached to the others, had certainly not loved any of them. Then Rusakov came along and swallowed her up, and Jacob’s belief that they would end up together one day, after they’d exhausted the dubious pleasures of trying out people they didn’t love, had begun to dwindle. His mother, who has never liked Joan, made a point of phoning him long-distance when she showed up in magazines or newspapers with Rusakov, and he would go out to the newsstand to see for himself, flipping clumsily through the pages and then staring down at the photos until the guy said, Library’s down the street, buddy. Joan’s letters dwindled to a trickle, and the few she did write only made things worse.

The mustache guy signals the bartender for another drink, and the bartender, surprisingly, hops to it. “Where’d you meet?”

“High school. In Virginia.”

Jacob and his two older sisters had high IQs, and their father, a naval officer, was frequently reposted, allowing their ambitious, unmaternal mother to skip her children forward in school until they were high school freshmen at twelve and college students at sixteen. The great mercy of Jacob’s life was that he grew early (but then stopped—he is not tall) and was a reasonably handsome, affable kid, good enough at baseball and track to avoid classification as an irredeemable nerd. Joan’s locker had been across from his when they were freshmen, and she was so small, so knobby and tentative like a fawn, that at first he had hoped she was young, too.

“Excuse me,” she had said, appearing beside him on the first day while he fussed with his books and notebooks. “Do you know where room three-nineteen is?” She wore a red and blue plaid dress with a collar and a red belt and peered at him with anxious earnestness, like a tourist asking for directions in a dicey neighborhood.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s on my way. I’ll show you.”

“Are you a sophomore?” she asked as they walked. “How do you know where things are already?”

“I took a class here last year,” he said, trying to project proprietary confidence. “I got the lay of the land.”

“Lucky.” She flinched away from a group of older students. “I thought about coming down on a weekend and making sure I knew where to go, but then I thought someone would see me and think I was nuts. You probably think I’m nuts. It’s just, I have a feeling I’m going to do this wrong.”

“Do what wrong?”

“Everything. High school.”

“You’ll be fine. Just act like you’re sure you belong.” He was echoing what his sister Marion had said to him that morning. “Nobody knows any better.” He let a beat go by. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be fourteen in October. I’m a little young. When’s your birthday?”

“March,” he said, neglecting to mention that his next birthday would be his thirteenth.

“Why did you ask?”

“I was just wondering. You look young.”

“I hope I always do,” she said with unexpected vehemence. “I do ballet. I can’t be big or old.”

Jacob, who wouldn’t have minded being either of those things, said, “It might be hard to avoid getting older.”

“I know that,” she said, sharply again. She was not as meek as she had first appeared, and he liked her more for it. “It only matters how you look.”

“That’s not true,” he ventured after a moment, “in the big picture.”

He was afraid he might have offended her, or that she would think he was an annoying goody-goody, but she made a wry face. “I mean in ballet,” she said. “Which is my big picture.”

They fell into separate groups of friends—Joan’s smallness and prettiness and docility made her popular—but they chatted by their lockers and greeted each other in the halls. Their houses were not far apart, and sometimes they walked together. The ballet studio was on the way to Jacob’s house, and when he didn’t have baseball, he escorted her there, carrying her dance bag. He never went inside, and, in his imagination, the unassuming little storefront was a cloistered place of rites and mysteries. Sheer white curtains covered its front windows, and through them he caught vague, gauzy glimpses of girls in black leotards.

“Is that your brother?” Jacob heard one of Joan’s friends ask in the lunchroom.

“Basically,” Joan replied, and he felt both honored and insulted.

Her nerviness and discipline appealed to him, and he felt protective of her in a way that seemed adult and masculine and new. As the younger brother of two bossy sisters, he was used to being clucked over by girls, but Joan seemed to trust that he could take care of himself and also, as needed, her. He understood that this was a role worth cultivating. Her mother was single and worked and didn’t understand ballet or Joan. Joan’s dance teacher, Madame Tchishkoff, was of the formidable, exacting variety and offered little beyond unyielding rigor and the motivational power of perpetual, implacable disappointment. Joan’s school friends were the kind of pretty girls who clumped together to assert their collective prettiness. They were companions and accessories, not confidantes.

When Joan was lonely or distressed, it was Jacob she called, and he would take the phone from his scowling mother and retreat into the pantry, closing the flimsy door over the cord, gazing idly at the cans of soup and boxes of crackers while he listened. On the rare afternoons she didn’t have ballet, she summoned him to watch TV and help her with her homework at her house, which was always too dark and didn’t seem to have enough furniture and so felt like a hideout. Jacob’s mother would not allow a television in the house, nor did she approve of Joan’s lack of supervision or of friendships between boys and girls, and so he told her he was staying late at school.

Joan trusted him with her darkest secret, which was that she had not only found her mother’s diaphragm but become obsessed with checking its presence in the bathroom drawer against what her mother said she was doing on a given night and the sometimes contradictory information offered by her Filofax.

“See?” she said to Jacob once, having dragged him into the bathroom and opened a drawer with great portentousness, as though revealing the entrance to an Egyptian tomb. He saw cotton balls and shiny makeup compacts, emery boards, nail scissors with handles in the shape of a bird. “It’s gone.”

“Okay,” he said, baffled by both her emotions and the workings of a diaphragm.

“She’s doing it!” Joan told him, near tears. “With that man! His name is Rick! He works in her office.”

To Jacob, this was not information to be cried over but rather to be filed away for later consideration. Joan’s mother was a thin, brusque woman who wore neat suits and pinned her hair in elaborate updos, the mechanics of which eluded him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. He closed the drawer. Joan stared desolately at its white-painted face, its little ceramic knob in the shape of a rosebud. “It doesn’t have to bother you.”

He wished he could think of something less dumb to say, less helpless, but she nodded and folded her arms over her chest. “It feels better just to show you,” she said. “But promise you won’t tell anyone.”

He realized, with a flush of gratitude, that her standards for wisdom were pathetically low. He patted her shoulder. “I won’t.”

He liked her delicate, feline face, her long, wispy hair, her narrow hips, her duck-footed walk, the gap between the tops of her thighs when she was in tights, her small, bony hands. If his sister Marion would drive him and not tell their mother, he went to Joan’s recitals, and he liked the way she was willing to stand onstage and be looked at. Eventually, March of sophomore year, when he finally actually turned fourteen, he confessed his age, and by then they were too close for her to make much of a fuss, although he thought he detected a new and faintly patronizing undertone in the way she spoke to him, especially about her dates, which were as frequent as her ballet schedule would allow and, he gathered, relatively chaste. She seemed more interested in the public victory of securing the attention of popular and athletic boys than the private encounters that might follow.

“I can tell you anything,” she told Jacob often, which, to him, sounded less like a compliment than a command, the way his father said, You’ll make this family proud. Her confessional openness struck him, sometimes, less as a sign of intimacy between them than a smoke screen meant to keep him at a distance. She would chatter on, telling him how Barry Sauerland had offended her at the winter formal by implying that she was not his first-choice date or how Floyd Bishop had called her an icicle. She never seemed to notice that Jacob did not reciprocate her confidences, or not exactly. He confided in her about his father’s distant rigidity and his mother’s suffocating rigidity and about their clockwork marriage that, on rare occasions of malfunction, caused both to go wild with rage. But he did not talk to Joan about girls, even though he took dates to dances and sometimes to the movies, disguising his lack of a driver’s license as a lack of a car.

Just before graduation, Joan tore a ligament in her foot. She had been slated to dance in a student performance in New York, where she would be seen by the directors of companies there and from San Francisco and Chicago and everywhere, she said, but now she could only lie around her house with her foot in a cast, paralyzed with fear that she would not heal, that she would miss her chance.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Jacob said on a hot Saturday. Joan was lying on the couch with her cast propped up on a pillow, and he was sitting on the floor beside her, absently digging his fingers into the jungley olive-green pile of the carpet while they watched American Bandstand. “This is getting depressing.”

Track was over; he was officially going to Georgetown, was officially the valedictorian, could relax for the first time in his life, and his big reward was to be pressed into constant service as Joan’s footman in her mother’s austere, gloomy den. At first, he had been eager to spend long, unsupervised hours indoors with Joan, but she was so morose that it seemed inappropriate to persist in the hope that they would finally make out, if only to dispel the boredom. Instead he made sandwiches for her that she didn’t eat, poured Tab over ice, changed the channel at her bidding, and waited for the unseen filaments of her ligament to knit themselves back together. Even Joan’s mother, off for the weekend with one of Rick’s successors, was having more fun.

“I can’t go to the beach,” she snapped, pointing at her cast. “Remember?”

“You don’t have to go in the water. Let’s just get out of here. My mom will let me take the car. She’s so happy I’m leaving soon.”

“I’ll get sand in my cast.”

“We’ll put a bag over it.” An idea struck him. “I’ll carry you.”

She looked skeptical.

“I’ll put you down on a towel, and you can just lie there. It’ll be almost as good as lying on the couch all day. You’ll love it.”

“You’re not that strong.”

“You don’t weigh anything.” He was not entirely certain he could carry her all the way from the car to the beach, but he was willing to try. Her injury made her more approachable, somehow. Not that he was afraid of her. He was just aware of her boundaries, of the prickly force field around her. Standing over her, though, while she lay hobbled and clutching her plastic cup of soda, he decided to be daring. “Stand up,” he said.

His authoritative tone seemed to surprise her. She set her drink on the carpet, swung her legs around, and, taking his outstretched hands, stood unevenly on her bare foot and her cast. He put one arm under her knees and one around her back, and then he straightened up, cradling her. The easy way she lay in his arms reminded him that she was no stranger to being carried. Jacob had met her pas de deux partner, the only boy at her studio, Gregory, son of Russian immigrant scientists, a sallow, pimply creature who was educated by private tutors to avoid the brutalizing influence of high school. Gregory, for all his apparent wimpiness, could lift Joan over his head with ease. Jacob had wondered what it would be like to lift her, to grasp her by her thighs or her waist and move her body through space as he pleased. She looked at him. Their faces were very close. “Okay, fine,” she said. “Let’s go to the beach.”

Jacob’s mother handed over the keys to her Rambler wagon with minimal admonitions. The front seat stretched out long between him and Joan, its scratchy cream upholstery radiating early summer warmth. Joan sprawled in the sun: wiry legs poking out of short shorts, bikini ties in a tantalizing bow at her nape, her face turned to her open window. The Rambler, with its big windows and long bench seats and vast carpeted launchpad of a cargo space in back, did not seem, as it usually did, like a blocky symbol of maternity but was transformed into a terrarium of sexual possibility. For weeks, Jacob had been gearing up to try something with Joan. Not because he didn’t care about their friendship but because he felt like his participation in that friendship, as it was, had become disingenuous. He wasn’t a saint or a child. He wasn’t the palace eunuch. He wasn’t her cousin, as he knew she had told one of her boyfriends. She might reject him—probably would reject him—but he needed to come clean. High school was, for all intents and purposes, over, and he needed to slough off its context. He wasn’t eager to be separated from Joan, but he was curious what would be in store for him at Georgetown, who he would be there.

They turned off the main road and bounced along a sandy lane to their usual spot, some way down the shore from the popular swimming beach. Before they’d left, Joan had rallied enough to stump around the kitchen filling a thermos with fruit punch and her mother’s vodka, and after he parked, Jacob took the towels and the ice chest and crossed the low, sharp-grassed dunes. He spread the towels out on dry sand, and then he went back to get Joan. She was standing on her good foot, leaning against the Rambler.

“I think it would make the most sense for me to ride piggyback,” she announced when he drew near. “For long-distance transport.”

He considered. He had already held her in his arms, and having her cling to his back sounded like a new and interesting variation. “Okay,” he said. “You’re the boss.” He turned around and crouched down. Nimbly for someone in a cast, she hopped aboard. As he started across the sand, he kept his eyes on the terrain in front of him, but his nerves were busily mapping her body. His hands were wrapped around the backs of her thighs. He could feel her ropy muscles under his fingers and a film of sweat. The rough plaster of her cast occasionally scraped the outside of his left calf. Her arms were around his neck, her sharp chin on his shoulder, the soft points of her small breasts against his back. The spot where the crotch of her shorts pressed against his waist was almost too potent to think about. His glasses slid down his nose, and he kept having to toss his head like a horse to keep them from sliding off. They didn’t speak until he stooped to let her dismount onto the blue-and-white-striped towel.

“Such service,” she said, sitting and smiling up at him uncertainly. She felt the pull, too. He knew she did.

He sat. She looked away, out at the surf, which was breaking sluggishly, the waves plumping up in gelatinous heaps before collapsing into exhausted white frills. He was alive with fear and need. Then she said, as though everything were normal, “The worst part about being injured is how smug my mom is about the whole thing.”

He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun. “Yeah?”

Joan nodded. “The other day she circled an ad for a typing course and left it on my pillow. I wanted to hit her.”

“You can’t do that.” He dug in the ice chest and busied himself pouring out cups of vodka punch.

“Hit her?”

“Type.”

She smiled ruefully. “With my mom, it’s like she’s missed the whole point of my entire life. I work myself to death at something that’s really actually important, and all she wants is for me to be a secretary. It’s not like I know if ballet’s going to work out, but I have to believe or else there’s no point.”

“At least,” Jacob said, trying to focus on the problem at hand, to be, in spite of everything, a good friend, “you know that what you want was your idea in the first place. My parents brainwashed me into the fine citizen I am today.”

“What do you mean? You don’t want to go to Georgetown?”

“No, I do. But I’m not sure I wanted to be skipped ahead and put in extra classes and all that. I don’t know. It’s done. I get to leave home early, so I should be grateful.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Joan said, her mouth red from the punch, “how you’re supposed to know if you’re really feeling what you think you’re feeling. Like how do we know everybody sees colors the same way, you know? Do we all feel ‘happy’ the same way?”

Jacob shrugged.

“In ballet,” she went on, “when something’s really beautiful, I feel a lot, but not happy or sad, really. Just a feeling. With goose bumps. I like it.” After a moment, she sighed and rolled onto her stomach, resting her forehead on her arms. “If I can’t dance, I know I won’t die, but it feels like I will.”

He rolled over onto his stomach, too. “It’ll work out.”

She turned her head so they were looking at each other. “You’re the only person who takes care of me. You think I don’t notice, but I do.” Her punch-stained mouth was as inviting as red velvet.

Later he would not believe that he had simply scooted across his towel and put his mouth on her red one, lunged at her, really. The desire was so pure it set his teeth on edge. He pushed her over onto her back with an insistence he didn’t know he was capable of. Her arms went up around his neck; her hands clasped the back of his head; he sprawled across her. Some seconds passed before he became aware that her hands had dropped to his chest and were pushing at him. He lifted his face slowly, unwillingly.

She looked stricken, panicked. “I can’t,” she said.

His frustration produced an abrupt and furious certainty that he had been cruelly wronged. “What do you mean you can’t?” he demanded. “Of course you can.”

She shook her head, opened her mouth, but said nothing.

He couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You’re a selfish tease, and I’m sick of it.”

She sat up. Her small face was hard, knowing. “Oh, I see. You’re not really my friend. You were just hoping to get some all this time. Didn’t you have anything better to do? Isn’t there someone else you could follow around? You’re such a kid.”

“No one cares about you like I do,” he said. The core of his anger had gone cool, and he felt an appalling flicker of the remorse that would follow. “I’m the one who takes care of you. You said so yourself. But what does that get me? Nothing.”

“What does that get you?” she repeated. “What do you think it should get you, Jacob?” She flopped flat onto her back, limp, legs apart. “Here you go. Here’s the grand prize. Buffet’s open. Help yourself. Go ahead.”

He looked down at her and couldn’t help but consider kissing her again. Instead, he wrapped his arms over his head and pulled his knees to his chest. In the past, when he had imagined kissing her, his worst-case scenario—also his most likely scenario—had ended with humiliation. He would plant an exploratory kiss; she would balk, embarrassed; he would be humiliated. He had not anticipated the lunge, the greedy engine driving him through the kiss toward more and more. “What’s wrong with me?” She didn’t say anything. He looked at her. “Really. What’s wrong with me? You go out with other guys. I know you like me more than them, but you let them kiss you.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” she said. “Usually.” Whatever debt might have been between them had been erased, or reversed, by the word tease. She owed him no explanation for why she didn’t love him the way he wanted her to. “Let’s just forget about this. Let’s go home.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she said. “Let’s forget about it.” But when he extended his hand to help her up, she waved him off.

“You’ll get sand in your cast.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go to the beach,” she said and set off over the dunes.

They saw each other that summer but not often. Jacob was scrupulously respectful. Joan made a show of joking about all the girls he would get in college. Georgetown had gone coed the previous year. There was malice to the way she showered him with affectionate mockery, but he endured it, thinking about how he would leave in August and get some perspective. That would be a relief. Their friendship was no longer a thing in itself. They were warily circling a different thing, something that might exist or might not.

Then he left and heard nothing from her, and for a time he thought their relationship, whatever it was, might have run its course. He missed her, but he also felt a self-congratulatory satisfaction in having outgrown her. He learned to play racquetball. He drank beer. He decided on psychology, much to the disappointment of his mother, who had been pushing for medicine. He dated a girl named Sarah and lost his virginity to her. Everything was fine, and then, late one night, drunk, he wrote his first letter to Joan.

THE DOOR OPENS and a woman comes into the bar on a burst of cold air. She is bundled in a sheepskin jacket with epaulettes of snow and a purple scarf. An ear-flapped lumberjack hat is pulled low on her brow. She stops short. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, staring at Jacob from between hat and scarf like a knight peering out of a suit of armor.

“Liesel?” he says. “Is that you under there?”

In answer, she unwraps her scarf from around her broad, shrewd milkmaid’s face. “Ta da,” she says. Before he can process what is happening, she goes and kisses the mustache guy on the lips. The guy raises his glass at Jacob.

Liesel pats the guy on his beefy pectoral. “This is my boyfriend, Ray.”

“Hey,” Jacob says.

“Ray, this is my ex-boyfriend, Jacob.”

“Yeah,” Ray says, “I’d guessed.”

“Really?” Liesel looks between them. “How?”

“He said he was married to a ballet dancer.”

“Do you tell everyone?” Liesel asks Jacob with scorn and amusement. “You should get cards printed up and go around tossing them in people’s laps on the El. Anyway, I thought I got custody of this place.”

“I wanted a beer,” he said. “It’s too cold to walk anywhere else.”

They have not spoken much for a year, not since he dumped her, which he had only done because, perplexingly, she had not dumped him after he told her about Joan’s pregnancy. She takes off her jacket and turns it inside out over a barstool; snow drips off it onto the floor. The bartender sets a beer in front of her.

Her wispy blond hair, recently and unwisely cut to chin length, lies limp against her head, but the cold has flushed her cheeks and lips in a way that makes him think of sex. He chides himself for being so predictably horny, like a lab subject responding to stimuli. Since Harry’s birth, Joan has not been interested in sex, but, for Jacob, the relentlessness and insistence of the baby’s physical being draws constant attention to bodies and skin and nakedness and his own maturity and virility. He finds himself getting turned on in the most inappropriate situations, such as by a pissed-off ex, in front of her boyfriend.

Liesel doesn’t attract him as strongly as Joan, but he likes her looks, which are ruddy and earthy. She had tried to couch their breakup as a rejection of her appearance. Sorry I’m not a ballerina, she’d said, bending the last word into a long, sarcastic sine wave.

“What do you do, Ray?” he asks.

“I’m a cop.” Ray smiles.

Liesel leans against him, and he wraps an arm around her waist and tucks his fingers into her pocket. “No more academics for me,” she says. “I can’t take all the narcissism and insecurity.”

“Fair enough,” Jacob says.

“Really, though, what are you doing out drinking all by yourself?” Liesel asks.

He has no answer, of course, beyond his simple desire to be drinking and by himself and not at home. But to say this would suggest discontentment. One of Jacob’s greatest fears is that his life will not appear intentional. Had he subconsciously wanted to run into Liesel? Maybe. But only to use her as a reminder that he is happy. “I was supposed to meet a colleague, but I’m afraid I’m being stood up.”

“A colleague,” Liesel says, imitating his haughty tone. “How unfortunate.”

It is, Jacob realizes, time to leave. “I should go.”

“Great running into you.” Liesel smiles. “Here in my favorite bar. What a coincidence.”

When he opens the door, piled-up snow falls inside. “Nice move!” calls the bartender. But there is nothing Jacob can do. He clambers out into the cold, wedging the door closed behind him as best he can. The stairs are buried under a ramp of powder, and he climbs carefully, clinging to the frigid handrail, probing for each step. At the top, in a streetlamp’s soft orange circle, he pauses, enjoying the cold, which settles on his body like a weight. He turns for home.

A BLAST OF heat strikes him when he opens the door, and he strips off his coat before he even takes the key out of the lock. Joan is sitting on the floor with her back against the hissing radiator and her legs open in a wide V around the blanket where Harry is sitting upright, unsupported, in a diaper and a University of Chicago T-shirt, studying an assortment of rattles strewn around his plump legs. They turn to look at Jacob, Joan with the absorbed, private smile she gets around the baby, Harry with grave hesitation that turns to open-mouthed delight, showing his gums and two bottom teeth.

“Hello, sweethearts,” Jacob says, tugging his sweater over his head and stepping on the heels of his boots to pry them off.

When he stoops to kiss Joan’s cheek, he slides his hand down the neck of her shirt. She gave up on breast-feeding as abruptly and conclusively as she had quit dancing, even when the doctor said she should keep trying. Jacob suspects she had simply disliked it. Her breasts are bigger than they were before Harry but still no more than gentle hillocks on her chest, self-supporting, nothing pendulous. She looks up at him, not lusty, mildly amused. He tweaks her nipple. “Knock it off, they’re sore.”

“Do you know how many times we’ve had sex?” he asks her. “Ever?”

“I’m not keeping a tally.”

“Thirty-six. Eight when you came to visit. Twenty-one when you were pregnant. Seven since the baby.” He lies down on the floor, curved on his side, his body closing the wedge of her legs, penning Harry in, who cranes around to look at him and tips over.

“Oops,” Joan says to the baby. Harry sweeps his limbs like four oars.

Jacob smoothes Harry’s spider silk over his scalp. “It’s not that many, is all I’m saying.”

“There’s no hurry. You’ll have plenty of time to get bored with me.”

“I won’t get bored.”

“Also,” Joan says, “I still feel—I don’t know—off. I mean in my body. I did when I was pregnant, too. I don’t feel like myself. I don’t feel sexy. I feel strange.”

Jacob does ordinary, utilitarian things with his body: eat, drink, sleep, walk, jog, swim occasionally, have sex if the opportunity presents itself. He doesn’t do any of these things with unusual finesse or grace or stringency. Joan talks about her body as though it were her primary stake in the living world, an entity capable of moods separate from her own. Jacob wants her to say that both she and her body want him, that she is looking forward to a lifetime of sex with only him. But begging for reassurance is unattractive, unmanly, something he can permit himself only in tiny, rationed bursts. Joan’s father left when she was a baby and never came back, and Jacob thinks, psychoanalytically speaking, she should be the one to worry about him leaving. It’s worrisome that she doesn’t seem to worry. In fact, in all the time he’s known her, he can’t remember her ever seeming as relaxed as she does when she’s home with the baby.

Harry curls his toes and claps his feet together like two scoops.

“I like how he gestures with his feet,” Jacob comments, giving up the subject of sex. “I should start doing that. Just wave them around when I want to make a point.”

Harry pushes out his legs and, rolling sideways, swivels up to a sitting position. He flaps in celebration. Gently, Joan grasps his hands, and Harry pumps his torso and bows his legs and is suddenly, startlingly upright, balanced on those gesticulating feet. His diaper hulas for balance. He has been doing this for a week. Seven months is early for a baby to stand—Jacob knows this even though infancy isn’t his field. His dissertation is on the identification of gifted children, but he is wary of getting attached to the idea of Harry being gifted, of inadvertently pushing the boy or making him feel like a disappointment.

“Do you want to show Daddy?” Joan asks Harry. “Do you want to show him what you can do?” She releases the baby’s hands, and for a breathless moment he balances on his own, feet spread wide like a surfer’s. Then he flexes at the waist and falls onto his padded butt.

Jacob picks Harry up under the arms, turns him around, and looks into his face. “You,” he says. “We’re going to have to watch you.” Joan had asked him to name the baby, bestowed complete power on him to do so, and he had chosen Harold after his grandfather who died early in Joan’s pregnancy.

Joan stands and goes to their tiny kitchen nook to warm up some formula. She is wearing poufy harem pants, thick socks, and that thin, soft shirt he wants to put his hands in. “Is there anything to eat?” he asks.

“Formula, bananas, and cereal.”

“You didn’t go to the store?”

“It was too cold.”

Jacob eases down on his back, bringing Harry with him to lie on his chest. “Mommy thinks because she can live on bananas, so can everyone else,” he tells the baby. Harry grasps his shirt with both hands and squints drowsily, coming down from the thrill of standing. The old chestnut is true: Jacob has always liked babies, but the love he feels for his own is an epiphany, shocking in its irreversibility. Even so, as he watches Harry’s tiny fingers crab at his shirt, he can’t help but wistfully consider, again, the early end to his bachelorhood. When Joan had come to see him the previous summer and hopped so briskly into his bed, it had seemed to vindicate his long-held conviction that his stock would rise steadily the further he got from high school. Finally holding Joan’s naked body, he had felt tenderness and love, but he had also, distinctly, felt the primal triumph of the sower of wild oats.

“Guess who I ran into?” Jacob says in a low voice, not wanting to interfere with Harry’s wind-down.

“Who?”

“Liesel.”

Joan appears from the kitchen, dribbling formula from a baby bottle onto the inside of her wrist and licking it off. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

She picks Harry up, uncovering a baby-sized patch of sweat on Jacob’s shirt. “It’s a thousand degrees in here,” he says.

“Mmm.” She settles cross-legged on the couch with a towel over her shoulder and the baby reclining against her arm. Idly, Jacob turns a rattle over in his fingers, watching her, wanting her to look at him. Her contentment is wrapped so tightly around Harry that he can never be certain it extends to him, too.

He gets up and goes, without much optimism, to search for dinner. As he does most nights, he pours out a bowl of cornflakes. The last of the milk is not quite enough to cover them. “Do you think you’d be able to make a grocery run tomorrow?” he says, sitting beside her on the couch and wiping a dirty spoon on his shirt. “I’m not asking for a steak dinner. Just soup or something. Something I can heat up.”

“Sure.” She raises her eyebrows at Harry and makes her lips into an O, mirroring his face as he suckles the bottle.

“You know, never mind. I’ll go myself.”

“Suit yourself.”

He wants to pinch her, to hide Harry behind his back, to say something that will amaze her. Instead, he says, casually, “I think Liesel still has a thing for me.”

“Really? Why?”

“Is it such a mystery? I’m a catch. Was a catch.”

“No, I meant why do you think that?”

“Oh. I don’t know—I could just tell.”

Finally she looks at him, perplexed. “Jacob, are you trying to make me jealous?”

He watches Harry work at the bottle, his small hands coming up to caress it as Joan holds it. “Yes. I am. I’m sorry. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” she says. “It’s just not necessary.”

“Here, give him to me.”

She passes Harry and the bottle to him without disconnecting one from the other and drapes the towel over his shoulder. He wants her to watch the two of them at the same time, to see that they are part of the same picture. “Maybe,” he says, “it’s just that when you want someone for so long, and then you get that person magically out of nowhere, you have trouble believing it’s for real.”

She smiles at him, brightly, the way she does when she is nervous, and the creeping in of her old skittishness reassures him more than anything she could say. “I think you miss the crush,” she says. “I’m probably a letdown because life is still life. Just with less suspense, and a baby.”

“You’re not a letdown,” he says, brushing Harry’s powdery cheek with a finger. “I’d rather have you than wish for you.”

The exact mechanism by which Joan became pregnant is something that bothers him from time to time. She had said she was on the pill, and then, later, when he’d asked how this could have happened, she said something about having had a stomach flu right before she came to see him, and maybe the pill doesn’t work when you throw it up. He can’t think of a reason why she would have done it on purpose.

He says, “But I worry that you’re not happy. Sometimes it feels like you’re a fugitive hiding out here, like you’re in the witness protection program. I keep thinking I’m going to come home and find a note. That’s the new suspense.”

Her feet burrow under his thigh, always seeking warmth. “I’m happy.”

He is not sure he believes her. “Good,” he says, patting the tops of her feet. “I’m glad.”

December 10, 1970

Dear Joan,

Well, I’ve been drinking. I should say that right away. I was at a party with the girl I’ve been seeing (yes, I’ve been seeing a girl), and we walked along the river, and then I told her I was feeling sick, which is true but really I wanted to come back here to my room and write you a letter. I wonder if I’ll see you when I’m home for Christmas. Where are you? I’m sending this to your mom’s house, but I don’t even know if you’re there. I hope you’re dancing, wherever you are. If you’re taking a typing class, please quit immediately.

Joan. About the day at the beach. I’m sorry. I was a jackass. I’m sorry for what I said and for acting like I had earned some sort of right to kiss you. My friendship isn’t contingent on kissing, I promise. But I’m not sorry for the actual kiss. I have always wanted to kiss you. Maybe you knew that. Maybe I should have told you sooner and not let it build up.

I think we might end up together, Joan. Do you think I’m insane? Does the idea horrify you? You kissed me back at first, for a second. You didn’t say why you stopped. Then I was a jackass. That day, before, I said you were lucky because you’d decided for yourself what you wanted out of life and I hadn’t. But that wasn’t true. I realized later I’d decided for myself that I want you. Will you please just consider that I’m the right one? Just consider it. Don’t decide now. Consider it, I don’t know, forever. Or at least until it happens.

I am going to have one more little bit of whiskey, and then I am going to mail this. And in the morning I’ll probably regret everything, but it’ll be too late.

Love,

Jacob

January 20, 1971

Dear Jacob,

I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. As you probably realized, I didn’t go home for Christmas. I’ve been in San Francisco—did my mother tell you? Madame Tchishkoff helped me get a spot as an apprentice here. I’m so relieved. My foot is basically better, and the city is beautiful. My dancing has improved a lot, I think. I hope. Anyway, I didn’t get your letter for a while, and then I didn’t know how to write back. I still don’t, but I am. The long and short of it is that I adore you. I told you I know you took care of me. I don’t know if I said that I was grateful, but I am. I’ve never really had romantic feelings for you, exactly, though. I knew you felt a little differently. Maybe it was selfish of me to just let things go on. I was afraid of you bringing it up or trying something, and when you did, I didn’t know what to do. You’d think I would have decided in advance, but I couldn’t decide. Then when it happened, it felt like too much. I think you want too much from me. Does that make sense? I can’t put things into words the way you can. Is it enough to say that I’m confused? Maybe things will change. Some people seem to know themselves. I don’t feel that I do.

But I would like us to write, even if it’s (still) selfish of me. I miss you. You are my best friend by miles and miles. Is that okay? I wish there were some way for people not to want things from each other. But now you have my address. Write me back and tell me about how brilliant everyone at Georgetown thinks you are. (Tell me about the girl, too.)

Much love,

Joan