Writers & Lovers(11)

‘They all definitely wrote more in here than I have,’ I said. ‘But I think I’m in the running for the most orgasms.’

Caleb called me on one of the phone cabinets outside the dining room. He said his friend Adam had a place I could rent cheap in Brookline. I said I might move to New York, and I told him everything, even the part about the Devil, which I’d planned to leave out.

‘Stay away from him, Casey. Write your book.’ He sounded like my mother. He never had before.

I wondered if I did, too. ‘Do I sound like Mom to you?’

‘No, you do not sound like Mom. You sound like a fool who is sabotaging an amazing opportunity. Get ahold of yourself.’

I worked on the same chapter the whole time I was there. Two months. Twelve pages. While poetry poured out of Luke. Poems about lightning bugs, bullfrogs, and, finally, a dead child. The one about the bullfrogs he taped to the seat of my banana bike. The one about the dead child he read to me early one morning, then shook in my arms for an hour afterward. I never showed him any of my novel.

His last week there he gave a reading in the library. He was nervous walking over. He gripped the pages and told me they were all for me, about me, because of me. But when he was at the podium and I was in the first row, he never looked at me. When he read a poem about eating a peach on an overturned rowboat, the peach I’d brought, the rowboat where we’d sat together, he said it was for his mother, who loved peaches. He read the poem about the dead child, and everyone wept.

He got a standing ovation, the only one I’d seen there. People leapt to their feet without thinking about it. Women flocked around him afterward, women who’d arrived in my month and women just arriving and discovering him.

On his last night, we took a walk down a road lit blue by the moon. A cow in a field lumbered beside us, the wire fence invisible. We turned down the dirt road to the lake and dropped our clothes in the grass and swam in silence toward the middle. The frogs, which had stopped their singing, resumed full throttle. We came together, cool and rubbery, and we sank as we kissed. We lay on our backs and the moon had a thick milky caul around it. It blotted out all the stars nearby. The water dripped from our raised arms back into the lake. He said we’d have to find a way into each other’s lives. He did not say how.

The next day he got in his truck and rolled down the window. He put his palm flat to his chest. ‘You’re deep in here,’ he said, and drove away.

The number he gave me rang and rang. No person. No machine. I had a week left at Red Barn, and I tried that number from the wooden phone cabinet before every meal. On my last night there I sat next to a painter. She’d arrived a few days before Luke left, and he’d introduced me. He knew her in New York. Her eyes were kind. She passed me the mashed potatoes. She said, ‘You know he’s still married, right?’





On my machine he breathes another long breath into the phone. ‘I need to see you,’ he says.

I wait at the Sunoco station. He’s late, and I sit on the cement border of a bed of garish marigolds. My legs begin to shake.

His truck slides up beside me, and he gets out, scrawnier than I remember. His hair is longer. It looks dirty. We hug. I can’t feel him. There’s churning under my skin, and my heart is going so fast that I’m not sure I’ll be able to remain conscious. He swings my banana bike into the back of the truck without comment, without recognition.

We get into the cab, our old positions.

‘This is hard, isn’t it?’

I nod.

‘I’ve just been moving very slowly,’ he says, pulling out onto Memorial Drive.

We head west to Route 2. He wants to go swimming at Walden Pond.

‘Loraine told me she told you.’ Loraine was the painter. ‘It’s only on paper, Casey. It’s not like . . . I’ve had other girlfriends and she’s had . . . other men. For all intents and purposes—’

‘Do you have a girlfriend now?’

‘No.’ He shifts into fourth too early and the truck shakes and he shifts back down. ‘Not really.’

The whole drive to Concord I want to get out of the car, but when we park and stand on the hot tar I just want to get back in. There’s an ice-cream truck rumbling in the lot and a cluster of kids with their heads slanted up to the sliding window. Their bodies are bouncing, their bathing suit butts drooping from the water and the sand. We step into a shady stand of pines and I nearly crash into Henry Thoreau. He’s in bronze, a diminutive man, the size of a twelve-year-old boy. Behind him is a replica of his cabin. The door is open. I step up into it.

It’s just one small room with an army cot to the right covered with a gray wool blanket and a sloped desk to the left, painted green. On the far wall is a brick hearth and a potbellied stove in front of it. All I can feel is the effort of reproduction. Nothing of Thoreau is here.

Luke takes my hand and tugs me to sit on the bed with him. There’s a dead spider on the blanket whose legs look woven into the wool. He would like that. It would probably end up in a poem. I take pleasure in not showing it to him.

‘We always seem to end up on a cot in a cabin in the woods.’ He smiles and looks at me in the old way and I know if I lean toward him the slightest bit he will kiss me and I won’t be able to control anything after that.

I get up and step down onto the yellow pine needles.