Real Life(61)

“We’re talking about books,” she says suggestively. “Big books.”

Yngve’s expression grows more curious, and he says in a loud whisper, “I love big books.”

Emma is not sure what to make of this. Wallace laughs. Lukas says, by way of explanation, “He’s not lying, actually. He loves the Russians. And Muir, for some reason.”

Emma frowns. Thom looks up with renewed interest.

“Russians? I’m writing a critical analysis on Russian literature,” he says. “All the infidelity.” The word makes Cole and Vincent flinch. Wallace watches it happen, the slow play of their features, the gathering of tension and cessation of movement on their faces. “The Russians, you know, and their morality. Very strict.”

Yngve nods, but because of what he knows of the situation, he squirms uncomfortably.

“Yes, dear, very nice,” Emma says. “Very strict, yes.”

“Some think that Tolstoy—”

“Are we going sailing today?” Miller asks Yngve.

“Do you want to? We can.”

“I’d like to go sailing,” Emma says.

“Me too,” says Lukas.

“Do you want to come, Wallace? We can get a big boat,” Yngve says. The thought of spending the day on the water beneath the sun, all that churning makes him want to vomit. What he wants is to crawl into the cool darkness of his bedroom and sleep for an eternity or more.

“No, no, it’s fine. I think I’ll stick close to home.”

There is a look of disappointment on Miller’s face, but Wallace cannot rise to it. He cannot bring himself to spend more time outside in the world. He wants to sink down and down, hide himself.

“That’s too bad,” Yngve says. “We’d have a lot of fun with you along.”

“You have to,” Emma says, pulling on his arm. He gives her a look that he hopes is apologetic and pathetic enough. He’s had enough of people and enough of the world. He’s had it. He’s full up. He can’t bear it a moment longer. He can’t go on this way, with them.

“I can’t,” he says. “I better get going.” It’s just like Friday. The days are repeating themselves. He kisses Emma’s cheek.

“I’ll go too,” Miller says.

Wallace wants to scream. He does not know if he can stand to relive the entire weekend. He does not know how he will survive this folding back of time upon itself. But he does not scream. He tamps it down.

“But we’re sailing,” Yngve says, trying to extract the promise before Miller is gone from the table.

“We’re sailing. At three, maybe.”

“Okay, I’ll call ahead for the boat.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Yngve.”

“Of course,” Yngve says, waving him off. Wallace is already leaving the table, and Miller lopes up beside him. When they turn the corner, away from their friends, Miller reaches for his hand. Wallace lets him take it.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Wallace says. “But I’m tired and want to go home. I want to be alone, if that’s okay.”

“It’s okay,” Miller says. “I’m sorry about what Vincent said.”

“I had it coming,” Wallace says, looking down the street ahead of them. Miller squeezes his hand in a gesture that Wallace assumes is meant to comfort him, to bring some sort of reassurance. What is Miller trying to assure him of with this gesture? What is he trying to smooth or fix?

“You didn’t,” Miller says. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Who ever deserves anything?” Wallace asks.

“Come on.”

“No,” Wallace says. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“I cannot have this conversation a single time more, Miller.” Wallace stops abruptly. He takes his hand away. “I can’t. I’m not angry. I’m not mad. But I cannot have this conversation again.”

“Wallace.”

“No, Miller. I can’t.” It is perhaps the truest thing he has said all morning. The refusal to go forward, to repeat the pattern, to let himself be folded up into this language that robs the world of all its honesty. He does not want to get swallowed up by it again, by this way of looking at things without looking at them, by this oblique shadow-speak. Just because you say you’re sorry, or you say that someone doesn’t deserve something, does not erase the facts of what has or has not happened, or who has or has not acted. Wallace is tired.

“Can’t what?” Miller asks. “What can’t you do? You don’t want to talk to me? Fine. You don’t want to be around me, fine. Go. Okay. Fine.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

That he wants to be alone. That he does not want to speak to anyone. That he does not want to be around anyone. That the world has worn him down. That he would like nothing more than to slip out of his life and into the next. That he is terrified, afraid. That he wants to lie down here and never move again. What he means is that he does not know what he wants, only that it is not this, the way forward paved with words they’ve already said and things they’ve already done. What he wants is to break it all open and try again.