Студопедия — Part Two 8 страница
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Part Two 8 страница






“Should I call and have something brought up?” I said, walking across the room and sweeping the newspaper off the bed. “Some coffee, or wine?”

“If they bring it fast.” She was casting her attention around the room, memorizing it, looking for a place to sit.

“Wine’s all right?” I said.

“Yes. Though something’s happened to my enamel and wine stains my teeth now.” She showed me her lower teeth.

I sat on the edge of the bed and asked for room service. “Would you bring up two glasses of red wine, please?” I said.

“We’re all getting old,” I said when I hung up.

“The lucky ones.”

She seated herself with a purposeful lack of grace, sighed, and zipped open her travel bag. She poked around in her bag and finally withdrew her hand.

“You have any aspirin?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Damn,” said Jade.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. A mistake.

She sat slightly more erect, drawing herself away from me. “My father was killed. I was at his funeral. With my fucked-up family. I’m in my period. And I’m on a special all-protein diet to lose ten pounds.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded, as if to ask: Enough?

I waited to say something but no words came forth. I thought of offering to rub her temples and the base of her neck but that gesture was clearly not mine. And then I made the stupid, compulsive error of thinking of her in her period, of envisioning the inch of Tampax string curled in her pubic hair and that was followed by a memory of me plucking at the string with the nails of my thumb and forefinger and then wrapping the string once around my finger as if for a yo-yo loop and pulling the blood-streaked cotton tube out of her. It was not, for all of its deliberateness and detail, a welcome thought: it was enough to experience Jade in three dimensions; the pull of intimacy, even remembered intimacy, and its inevitable quick heat, practically made me squirm.

“I want to ask you about the funeral,” I said. “But I don’t know how.”

“It was terrible, terrible. You know, boring in a crazy way. I couldn’t get it through my head that that was Pappy in the jar. I think it’s crazy, cremation. Or if you’re going to do it, then let’s do it right. A bonfire. With all of us there. How am I supposed to believe the guy’s really dead? I get a goddamned phonecall, spend a few hours with a lot of hysterical drunks, and then sit on a folding chair with about fifty other people listening to organ music and staring at an urn. I don’t have any proof that anything really happened. I mean, everyone tells me he’s dead, but I’m not sure. They could have gotten those ashes anywhere.” She shrugged and hooked her finger around her gold chain.

“Fifty people,” I said.

“And a lot I didn’t know. Also unreal. Ingrid’s sloppy crowd. I like her, though. Probably for the same reason Pappy did. Her earnestness. Her sexiness. How much she cried. Mom was very cool. She seemed impatient with the whole business. Ingrid was crying so loud that it made a lot of other people cry, you know, people who might not have otherwise. But Mom leans over to me and says something like Why don’t we get a bucket of ice water and pour it over the woman’s head? She’s a strange lady, my poor mother. Lonely. Getting a little bitter, I think. Uncle Bob spoke, about Pap and growing up. It was actually quite beautiful, to tell the truth. I didn’t think Bob had it in him. But he was almost singing and I could see even from where I was sitting that he had tears in his eyes. It made me cry, but you always cry at funerals, no matter what’s said. I looked over at Mom when Uncle Bob was talking. She held on to my hand and I looked at her. I could see she fucking wanted to cry but goddamn if she was going to let herself. The tears were Ingrid’s, I suppose that’s what she was thinking, let Ingrid cry. Like Mom knew Pappy too well to cry for him. That’s how she swindles herself out of practically everything.”

“I was with Ann when she found out,” I said. I wondered if this would be the first that Jade had heard of it.

“I know. She told me.” She narrowed her eyes for a moment.

“She cried then,” I said. “A lot. I mean if that matters to you.”

We went silent for a time. We were strangers and half terrified in each other’s presence: we were seeing ghosts, both of us. How strange to be having a supernatural experience in that small hotel room. We should go out, I thought, we should be walking. But just as I was afraid to clear my throat, I was afraid to suggest anything.

There was a knock at the door. When I heard the knock I realized that Jade and I were staring at each other, quite boldly, and I had no idea how long our gazes had been locked.

I got up. “That’s the wine, probably,” I said.

“I have to go pretty soon.”

I wanted to shake my head but I stopped myself. “It’s good to be with you,” I said.

“Like you expected?” There was a slight smirk in her voice, from shyness.

I paused, to emphasize that I wasn’t just answering out of politeness. “Yes. Like I expected.”

The wine came in a heavy glass carafe. Two wineglasses and a foil package of peanuts. I signed for it, like a man of the world, and gave the man who delivered it a dollar bill because I didn’t want to ruffle the surface of the moment by digging in my pockets for change. I placed the tray on the table next to Jade.

“Shall I pour?” I said.

“The wine’s so dark. It looks black.”

“No. It’s the light in this room.” I poured some wine into her glass and held it in front of the light. It turned bright red. “See?”

Jade nodded and took the glass from me. I wondered if she would let her fingers touch mine accidentally, but she didn’t. I was disappointed, sensually let down, because I wanted to feel her, but it was better, I knew, that we not permit ourselves coy gestures. What better way to emphasize our strangeness than to flirt?

I poured my wine and stood in front of Jade. I would have liked to propose a toast but I knew I wasn’t going to. I returned to the edge of the bed. “I’ve been trying to find you,” I said.

“I know.”

“Your family protects you from me. I asked Keith and your mother, but they wouldn’t give me a clue where you were. I sent Sammy a letter to pass on to you.”

“I know, I know, David. I know.”

“Did he?”

Jade nodded.

I waited for a moment and then I nodded, too. “You didn’t answer.”

“There was nothing to answer. They weren’t your words, or don’t you remember? You sent me someone else’s letter. Charles Dickens.”

“It was all I could say,” I said. “I don’t know why. I was afraid to send something in my own words. I needed someone else to talk for me.”

“That’s not how I remember you,” Jade said.

“All I needed was one word from you,” I said, “and I would have sent you a hundred letters. I wrote them but I didn’t send them. I didn’t know where to send them or if you wanted me to.”

Jade sipped the wine and then ran her tongue over her top teeth, to wipe them clean. Each gesture drove the flag of her reality deeper into me; each movement made it seem more certain we could never be apart.

“I want to ask you a lot of things,” she said. “And tell you things. It’s too strange. I’ve just been to my father’s funeral and I want to ask you how you’ve been doing. I can’t handle it. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“How have I been?” I asked. “You can ask that. I mean, I can tell you. It’s not very difficult because I’m just how you think of me.”

“How do you know the way I think of you?”

“OK. I didn’t mean that. I mean I’m just the way I was the last time we saw each other.”

Jade looked away and rubbed her fingers together in that nervous way people do when they’re used to reaching for a cigarette but they’ve given them up. I could see the picture she had of herself in that moment, lighting the cigarette, drawing on it and keeping the smoke in her lungs for three or four moments, and then expelling it along with her breath and a sigh.

“The last time we saw each other,” she said, “was in Chicago and you were in my house after you set it on fire. Is that how you are now, too?”

I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

She immediately consulted her wristwatch. “It’s time to go,” she said. “I’ve got twelve minutes to get eight blocks. I’ll be lucky if I make it.”

I had already hit upon my plan. I would offer to go with her to the bus station. I didn’t know where it was in New York but if it was like most cities it probably wasn’t in a safe area. I would insist. She would accept. And then I would tamper with the pace of our journey and cause her to miss her bus. But instead of offering to accompany her, I leaned forward and said, “No. Don’t go. Miss the bus. Stay. Stay with me. We haven’t talked in so long and I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again.”

She stood up and it felt as if that gesture was duplicated by a replica of her within me, displacing the blood in my mid-section and sending it in a rush to the five outermost points of my body. I forgot I was holding a wineglass and it dropped out of my hands; it landed upright but then it fell down.

Jade watched the mustard-colored carpet absorb the wine. She was nodding her head in that way that sometimes accompanies thought and sometimes means a tentative yes.

“Please,” I said, trying to impress my will on the moments as they flowed away from me, like a child lobbing stones into the sea.

She took a quick gulp of breath and then swallowed. She looked so tired and frightened. A pulse was beating in her forehead; her ears remained an astounding dark red.

“All right,” Jade said, in a careful voice, a voice that only pronounced the words, such as you might do if you were making a recording to teach English. “I better call the bus station and see when the next bus is.”

I thought she was going for the telephone but she took the three steps separating her from the edge of the bed and sat next to me.

I didn’t want to touch her or look at her or do anything to confuse the impulse that had brought her so close to me. I looked straight ahead at the spot she’d been sitting in and I felt her weight shifting. I felt her looking at the side of my face and then she leaned over and rested her forehead on my shoulder.

I longed to return the gesture with a caress of my own, but I knew better. I knew she meant more than one thing by her touch. I was someone she used to know who she was seeing on the day of her father’s funeral. It could have meant as little as that. It could have meant even less: exhaustion, sadness, that depletion of spirit that comes when we surrender to another’s will. Ye I was sure it was otherwise. There was something specific and deliberate in her touch. She was not merely laying her head against me. There was life in her muscles, in her neck and shoulders; she was making certain not to lean on me too hard. She was touching me and holding back in a way that seemed wholly calibrated, judging where to touch me and how hard, and that meant that not only was the center of her brow touching me but all of her. It added the dimension of decision to her gesture, of measurement and risk, and that made leaning against me as intimate as touching my face or taking my hand and pressing it against her breast. Moments passed, moments and moments, and it felt as if the whole of her being was concentrated in that stretch of brow that homed in on me, just as the entirety of a singer seems concentrated in her mouth as she hits her highest note.

I couldn’t put my arm around her without causing her to move her head, so I reached over and laid my hand on her leg, just above the knee. I laid it flat, without closing or even curling my fingers, so it wouldn’t seem as if I were trying to take possession of her, or even hold her.

I took measured breaths and tried to ignore my mind’s chaotic bursts of speculation and joy, but even so I was trembling.

Jade lifted her head and leaned away from me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have known I couldn’t touch you.” I pulled my hand away from her, but I continued to quiver. I stood up and walked to the window. I felt my heart pounding, felt it at the back of my throat, in my stomach, the tip of my penis, my legs. I leaned against the window and looked out. Moving above me was a piece of the black and gray nighttime sky. It could all end here, I thought, my life, all life, it wouldn’t matter. And the thought seemed so reasonable and did such justice to the wildness of my feelings that I almost said it aloud.

“Are you going to make trouble for yourself by coming here?” Jade asked.

“No.”

“But you’re not supposed to see any of us. You’re on parole. I’ll bet no one knows you’re here.”

“It doesn’t matter. No one will find out. I’ve been gone some of Friday and today. The weekend doesn’t count.”

She looked at me skeptically but didn’t want to pursue the thought: she had inherited from Ann the stylized belief that the best way to be for someone is not to show much concern over what they do.

“You know who I met on the plane coming out here?” I said. “Stuart Neihardt.”

Jade shrugged.

“You don’t remember him. He was in my class at Hyde Park High. He works for a dentist now and he’s in New York having gold teeth made.”

Jade nodded. She suspected I was inviting her to make an ironic remark about Neihardt and she wouldn’t do it. She was either too close to other people to make fun of them, or too far above them to bother: it depended on her mood.

“He remembers us,” I said. “He has this really sick grief over people he knew who were happy together. He was super lonely and got to hate all of us who weren’t. It was strange hearing about us from him. I never think about him so it was weird being remembered.”

“I don’t remember that name. What does he look like?”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t think you knew him. But he said ridiculous things about us. He said he looked in your blouse when you were leaning over some exhibit at the science fair.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“It made me fantastically jealous. I grabbed his lip and twisted it.”

Jade winced. “God, David. You’re so violent and crazy.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are. You don’t know it but you are.”

“I’m not. What I feel, it isn’t violence or craziness. I don’t like violence, and craziness is sad and boring and frightening. I was with a lot of crazy people, you know, and was treated like one, too. I mean there were times when I wondered if I was insane, and then for a long while I wanted to be crazy, just for a way to be, a way to have it make sense being there. Something to occupy me, make me less the person I was, who was in so much pain, and more like some other person, someone unknown, whom I could watch. But I wasn’t crazy. That was the thing. I wasn’t crazy at all, though I know that’s the best way to prove you are, saying you’re not. All it took for me to get out—I don’t know why it took me so long to catch on—all it took was pretending I was changing, that I was starting to feel differently about myself and—” I paused for a moment, to give her a chance to diminish her attention if she wanted to “—about you. All it took was pretending that I was getting over you, that was all.” I was sitting next to her again.

“I don’t know why I call the people there crazy,” I said. “It’s not what they are. It’s a habit, a way of thinking about Rockville and keeping myself separate. You know what it is? All of us have two minds, a private one, which is usually strange, I guess, and symbolic, and a public one, a social one. Most of us stream back and forth between those two minds, drifting around in our private self and then coming forward into the public self whenever we need to. But sometimes you get a little slow making the transition, you drag out the private part of your life and people know you’re doing it. They almost always catch on, knowing that someone is standing before them thinking about things that can’t be shared, like the one monkey that knows where a freshwater pond is. And sometimes the public mind is such a total bummer and the private self is alive with beauty and danger and secrets and things that don’t make any sense but that repeat and repeat and demand to be listened to, and you find it harder and harder to come forward. The pathway between those two states of mind suddenly seems very steep, a hell of a lot of work and not really worth it. Then I think it becomes a matter of what side of the great divide you get caught on. Some people get stuck on the public, approved side and they’re all right, for what it’s worth. And some people get stuck on the completely strange and private side of the divide, and that’s what we call crazy and its not really completely wrong to call it that but it doesn’t say it as it truly is. It’s more like a lack of mobility, a transportation problem, getting stuck, being the us we are in private but not stopping, like those kids you’d know who would continue to curse and point and say the secret things even in school or in front of your parents. They wouldn’t know when to stop; they wouldn’t be the way people wanted them to be. And the thing that made it so terrible for us is that they’d be getting knocked out for doing things that we ourselves did—but we knew when not to do them, we could actually pretend we never ever did that kind of thing, and when it came down to the sticking point, we’d kick them in the ass just as hard as anyone else.”

“Like you and me,” said Jade. “How we used to be.”

“What do you mean? Crazy?”

“Living in our own world. Believing what we felt was separate from everything else. We couldn’t do anything except be together and nothing else was real.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s crazy. And you just said it was, even you.”

“No,” I said, “not when we both believe it. Crazy people are alone and no one understands what they mean. But that’s not our way. We both know and it makes complete sense. It’s not crazy when you both believe it, when you make it true by living it. And other people believe it, too, remember. Believe it about us. Everyone who knows us, sees us together. We have that effect.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“Don’t talk about it as if it were still happening. It’s not. It’s a long time ago.”

“A long time ago. But now I’m with you and it doesn’t seem that long. I think I could forget all the time in between.”

Jade shook her head and lowered her eyes; her fingers were spread out on her lap, the thumbnails touching, the fingers rising and lowering. “Don’t,” she said. “You don’t know who you’re talking to. You’re walking in air.”

“I know you,” I said, and the statement took on a weight far greater than I expected, as if the simple claim had within it an emotional magnetism that attracted everything that was unknown, unspoken, everything that was vague and hoped for and dreaded as well. I told her that I knew her and the atmosphere between us became as charged as if I’d finally gotten the courage to lean over and kiss her. Yet I had no choice but to come more and more forward, like someone pursuing a ghost: either the vision would recede into light and dust or it would take on weight and substance.

“You don’t know me,” Jade said, finally. “You just remember me.”

“No. You can’t call it remembering. You remember something that’s past, over, but if you want to call it remembering, then I remember you the way you remember how to walk if you’re bedridden. I mean it’s not just looking back, it’s returning.”

“To being crazy together?”

“It wouldn’t matter.”

“To you.”

“To me.”

Jade closed her eyes and shook her head, as if to dislodge an image. “I don’t know what we’re talking about,” she said. “We shouldn’t. It’s painful, isn’t it?”

“For me?”

“That’s what I’m thinking—for you. It must be.”

“No. You?”

She shook her head. “It’s different for me. I’m not a part of this, not in the same way. You’ve been trying to hold on to what we had and I let it go. It’s one of those things when you drop it, it doesn’t bounce back, it just falls away, and falls and falls.”

“But inside.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you drop it, us, it falls but it falls inside you, so no matter how far away it seems, it still is there, close. We’re sealed, tighter than space capsules. We can’t really forget anything.”

“Oh, I think about you,” she said, in a voice that was meant to be casual.

“I think about you all the time,” I said. “When I was in that fucking hospital, and at my parents’, and now in my own apartment.”

“Where do you live?”

“Fifty-three eighteen Kimbark. Two and a half rooms. Second floor.”

Jade nodded. “Kimbark,” she said. “I miss the old neighborhood. We’re lucky to be from there, believe me. Especially when you come east. They really give you hell for being a midwesterner out here, but it helps if you’re from Hyde Park. You can keep up with things.”

“Like what?”

“Talk.” She shrugged. “Stuff. Is the Medici Coffeehouse still open?”

“I think so.”

“Good. When I was in Chicago last time they were saying it might close.”

“When was that? When were you in Chicago?”

“In the winter. The worst time. Worse than Vermont.”

“This winter?”

Jade nodded.

“But I was there!” I almost stood up.

“I know. I was there with a friend. I thought about calling you. I really did. I almost called your parents to find you. I dropped the dime in the phone but I changed my mind. When I hung up, the dime didn’t come back. Scared me.”

“You should have. It’s so terrible that this is the first time we see each other. Your father’s funeral.”

“It fits,” she said. And then, “Sorry. That was stupid. Anyhow, I said I was with a friend. It wouldn’t have worked out very well.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. I mean it would be worth it. I’d see you under any circumstances.”

“We were on our way to California, Santa Barbara, her home town. So we stopped to see mine.”

“Susan.”

“What?”

“Her name is Susan. Keith told me about her. Your friend.”

Jade was silent, shrugged, her lips pressed tight, jaw tightened: she’d learned the silent warnings people give who don’t want to be asked certain questions. She had heard more than she could bear about Susan, about being with a woman and loving her. But the stab of jealousy I felt sunk into dead tissue: I’d bled the wounds a thousand times already and there was nothing more to feel and certainly nothing to say.

“Did you go to your house?” I asked.

Jade nodded. “Yes. It was hard but I owed it. It was a good thing, though. It didn’t look as bad in person as it does in dreams. In dreams it’s still on fire—just a little, like out of one window, or on the roof, but burning, always. It was good to see it as it really is. Have you?”

“For me it’s the opposite. It looks so much like it used to. It makes it harder, as if the whole thing comes close to never having happened. You know how it is when you play an event over and over in your mind and you see all the things that could have happened that would have made everything so different?”

We went toward the silence, sitting close to each other.

“I wanted to write to you when you were in the hospital,” Jade said, looking away from me. “To see how you were, you know, and tell you where I was going. But everything was so confusing, then. And I thought I might make trouble for you. There was no right thing to do, for me. It seemed wrong to write you after what happened and it felt wrong not to. I don’t approve, you know, I don’t approve of letting things drift. I hate that. But—” and then her voice broke, with a soft, furry click, and the color came rushing into her face. She lowered her head and hunched her shoulders.

I took her hand. No. I laid my hand on top of hers and then, one at a time, I curled my fingers around the heel of her hand until they touched the outer border of her palm. “Tell me,” I said.

“I feel so alone,” she whispered. She’d begun to cry.

“You’re not. I’m with you. I’m always with you.”

Suddenly we were no longer next to each other. Jade was standing, walking across the room, seating herself in the armchair and blotting her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I’m in my senior year at Stoughton,” she said, crossing her legs. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Next five months I’m going…” she trailed off for a moment; her tears had left a web of moisture on her voice. “Next five months is all independent study. I’ve got two pregnant golden retrievers, one blind. They’re both going to drop their pups in a few more days and I’m going to study how the litters develop, how the ones with the blind mother do compared to the ones with the normal mother. Then do a paper and that’s it.”

“Then you’ll be through with school?”

“Just about.”

“I go to Roosevelt.”

Jade made a face.

“I hardly go. But I have to be enrolled. I have to do a lot to show I’m back in the swim of things.”

“Swim of things? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It’s my parole officer’s phrase. Or maybe my mother’s. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For remembering what doesn’t sound like me, not forgetting.”

“I remember. We were sweet together.”

“We were,” I said.

“I know. It’s a once in a lifetime thing. I hate to think it but I bet it’s true. It’s too bad for us that our once in a lifetime happened when we were too young to handle it.”

“Probably no one handles it very well. I mean it’s big, isn’t it? It’s like an emergency. All the rules are canceled.”

“Are they? Ever? I know that’s what we used to think, all that living in our own world stuff. But we were young. We’re still young but we were really young then. I don’t want to talk about it, anyhow. All that arrogance, craziness, and what it led up to. When I think about it. All the stuff that you said and I believed. I don’t even remember all the stuff I said and made you believe. I’m not blaming it on you. But it makes me feel strange to hear about it, like someone telling you everything you said when you were drunk.”

“I haven’t changed,” I said.

“There’s no way, it’s impossible.”

“There’s nothing I said then that I couldn’t say now. I want to, to tell the truth. But I’m afraid. Not of exposing myself because I know that you know I love you—”

“I don’t know that. How can I know that?”

“I love you. I still love you. I love you.”

“It’s an idea. You’ve held on to it.”

“No. It’s real. It’s the only real thing. It stands by itself and it hasn’t changed. Don’t be afraid. You don’t have to do anything about it.”

“It’s not that. It’s just I know it can’t be true. It’s been too long and too much has changed.”

“I haven’t changed.”

“Then you need to believe that,” Jade said. She folded her hands onto her lap and then squeezed them together so tightly that the color left them for a moment. “You need to pick the thread up where it was broken. Maybe as a way of forgiving yourself for what happened. At the end.”

“No.”

“You don’t love me, David. I never came to see you.”

“You couldn’t.”

“I never wrote you.”

“You couldn’t.”

“But when you got out. Then.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s something that can’t be changed.”

“It can be.”

“No.”

“When you give your love to other people. When you find out you can feel the same way about them.”

“I didn’t give love to anyone else.”

“But when you try to.”

“No. Never. There’s one girl, a sculptor, I see her now and then. I just fell into it through friends but we don’t try, we don’t touch.”

Jade shook her head.

“You’re all I care about,” I said. “No. And me. The person I am when I’m with you, the way I see myself and know myself. That person who lives only when I’m with you.”

I stood up. The blood came up into my skull like a wave splashing on the shore. The room softened, moved a little; I didn’t know why I was on my feet. I was touching my shirt, poking my fingers in the spaces in between the buttons, discovering the little pool of sweat that had gathered in my chest’s hollow. “We’re together again,” I said. I heard my voice as if it came from another part of the room, perceived it with a kind of woozy clarity: its texture, timbre, its faintly hypnotic monotone.

“I may as well tell you,” Jade said. Teasing?

“What?”

“I knew it would be too late to catch that bus. I was counting on you asking me to stay. For a while.”

I nodded. I walked toward her. The room was so small. I was already next to her, but I still needed to move. I stepped back, forward, and then, finally, down on my knees. Kneeling before her broke open a deep, unexpected store of feeling; I felt it spreading within me like warm gel. I took her hands and held them on her lap.

“Is this all right? “I asked.

She fixed her eyes onto mine. I could see her sinking into her feelings and she knew she held the silence between us—a silence that sung in perfect pitch—could hold it forever and I would not interrupt it, would not lose faith and question it. I held on to her and her pulse was so powerful that I felt its reverberations in her hand.







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Обзор компонентов Multisim Компоненты – это основа любой схемы, это все элементы, из которых она состоит. Multisim оперирует с двумя категориями...

Принципы резекции желудка по типу Бильрот 1, Бильрот 2; операция Гофмейстера-Финстерера. Гастрэктомия Резекция желудка – удаление части желудка: а) дистальная – удаляют 2/3 желудка б) проксимальная – удаляют 95% желудка. Показания...

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