The Book of Marie Page 12

  “You liked telling that story, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, “ I admitted. “Yes, I did.”

  “You’re going to make a great teacher.”

  “You believe that, don’t you?” I said.

  “Yes, I do. You’re going to be a teacher.”

  “You may be right.”

  A pause settled between us, and then she leaned forward and moved her lips over mine. Not a kiss. A touch. Then she stepped away and opened the screened door.

  “I’ll see you,” I said.

  She nodded, smiled, reached for the inside door, turned back to me.

  “Cole, don’t get mad at me if you think I start acting strange.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head. “Promise me. The person you’ve been with tonight is the person I’ve always wanted to be, but it’s not the person I am. Promise me.”

  “All right,” I said. “I promise.”

  She lifted her wrist to her face, inhaled the perfume of the orchid. “Thank you for this, for tonight.”

  “No,” I said. “Thank you.”

  ELEVEN

  At three o’clock, he awoke with the queasy feeling of illness—a sourness in his stomach and the unmistakable heat of fever on his face. By morning, he was barely able to stand, yet he forced himself to go to his kitchen and to make tea, knowing he was dehydrated from the perspiration that soaked his pajamas and bedding. The tea was good, though he only wanted a sip of it.

  He sat in his reading chair—large, cushiony, comfortable— wearing his robe, drained of energy, the tea on a sidetable beside the chair, and he wondered if the sickness was from food he had eaten the day before, or from fatigue of the writing. Possibly both. The tenderness of his body reminded him of an episode of food poisoning he had had years earlier, yet the writing had also taken its toll. In all of his experience, he had never worked with such speed or obsession. It was as though he had fallen into a swift-moving river and had been swept downstream over rapids hurling through a funnel of rocks. His body had the feel of such punishment.

  He thought of his commitment to have dinner with Tanya and Mark Berry, knew it was impossible, and he made his way to the telephone and punched their number. Tanya knew immediately that he was not well.

  My God, Cole, what’s wrong? she asked.

  Don’t know, he told her. Just sick.

  I’ll be right over.

  No, no , no, he protested. I just wanted to apologize for today.

  Unlock the front door, Cole, and then go to bed, she said. I mean it.

  Tanya—

  Damn it, Cole, quit being so noble. Do what I tell you, she ordered.

  He had drifted into sleep and hearing his name, softly spoken, jarred him awake. Tanya was sitting on the side of his bed, her hand touching his throat.

  Jesus, she said, you’re burning up.

  He nodded weakly.

  I think we need to get you to the hospital, she added.

  He shook his head, said, No.

  Damn it, Cole, you do aggravate me, she mumbled. She stood, walked away. He could hear water running in the bathroom. In a few moments she returned with a cool bathcloth. She sat again on the bed and began to wipe his face with it.

  Go home, he whispered hoarsely. It’s Christmas.

  So? she countered.

  You’ve got guests coming, he said.

  Tonight, she replied. Besides, Mark does the cooking. You know that. And before you start with that ridiculous Southern-gentleman modesty act, you should know he insisted that I come over. He knows I love you, but he also knows you’re too feeble to attack me. Anyway, I’ve given up sex, except to dream about it. I like it that way. I’m always twenty-three and my lover is always twenty-five. My skin’s as tight as a rubber glove and nothing droops, and he has muscles made of hot marble. So, unless you can offer me that, Dr. Bishop, I would advise you to keep quiet and do as I say.

  He closed his eyes in surrender.

  That’s better, she said. She folded the cloth in a rectangle and placed it across his forehead. I’m going to make you some soup, she added.

  He nodded.

  Out of a can, she said. Assuming you’ve got some. If not, I’ll go home and get it.

  In the pantry, he whispered.

  Chicken? she asked.

  He nodded again.

  He submitted to being spoon-fed. The broth of the soup—chicken and rice—was good. Even the sound of Tanya’s voice, chiding him for his disregard of health, was comforting. It was also a new experience for him. In his marriage, Holly’s reaction to his occasional illnesses had always had the aura of disgust and complaint. He had accepted it, knowing she was squeamish.

  After the feeding, she gave him aspirin and then ran lukewarm water in the bathtub, adding baking soda to it, instructing him to soak in it. She threatened to strip him of his clothing and to drag him bodily to the tub if he resisted. In her way of goading him, she said, I hope you do. I hope you put up a fight. I need a good laugh.

  You have no shame, or dignity, he told her.

  She smiled. If you think it’d embarrass me, you’re whistling Dixie, as they say in that backward region of your upbringing. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen many times. She paused, smiled, leaned to him and whispered, On many men.

  Go home, he said again. You’re evil.

  Not yet, she replied. Where’s your laptop?

  In my office, he told her.

  She went into his office and returned with it, demanding that he open the MARIE file.

  I don’t want you to read anything else, not now, he protested.

  And you’re sick and can’t stop me, so open it, she said.

  He did as she ordered, not wanting to listen to her badgering.

  The bath temporarily revived him, or left him with the illusion of being revived. At least the water washed away the coating of perspiration and the baking soda left his skin with a cool, silky feeling. He vowed to remember the remedy, or trick.

  When he came out of the bathroom, dressed in clean pajamas and wearing his robe, he found her in the kitchen, at the table, reading from his laptop. The expression on her face was soft, almost pained.

  She looked up. Feel better? she asked.

  Some, he said. At least cleaner.

  I found your tea and made a cup for myself, she told him. Can I make one for you?

  Please, he replied.

  He moved to the table and sat and watched as she prepared the tea and talked of what he had written.

  She said she had read it twice, once quickly and once slowly, and both times she had the quaint sensation that two different people had done the reading. The quick reader wanted the adventure of the words; the slow reader wanted to savor them, to wonder about them.

  I wish I had grown up with her, she said in her admiration of Marie. As God is my witness, Cole, you can’t believe how much I was like that. Still am, I think. And I don’t mean the prom, not that. I didn’t even go to the damn thing, but now I wish I had. I wish I had been that bold.

  She laughed and gave him the tea. I wish I’d been that beautiful, she added.

  I’m sure you were, he said.

  She reached to touch his forehead. I think you’ve cooled off, she told him. Then: No, Cole, I wasn’t beautiful. I was as homely as a girl can be. I didn’t begin to blossom until my sophomore year in college, and that was after the embarrassment of braces and a nose job. Amazing, isn’t it, what a little surgery can do?

  She did a turn, like a model. I even had breast enhancement, she added. Can you tell it?

  He offered a smile, too weak to make it a chuckle. Shook his head.

  Do you think I’m like her? she asked.

  He took a swallow of his tea, thought of how Marie had been and how Tanya was. In many ways—their aggressiveness, their language, their stubbornness—they were so alike they could have been twins.

  Yes, he said. In spirit. And you bully me as much as she did.

&n
bsp; He expected a sharp-edged retort, something sassy. Instead, she said in a soft voice, Maybe that’s the only way we can tell you we love you.

  There was a pause, uncomfortable, awkward.

  She sat opposite him at the table. Did I just frighten you, Cole? she asked.

  No, he answered after a moment.

  Don’t misread me, she said. I do love you, but it’s not a dangerous thing. Believe me. I don’t yearn for you like a teenager with overactive glands, and in case you wonder, yes, I do love my husband, even if we sometimes act as though we barely know one another. Someone once told me that the perfect marriage is when two people don’t actually need one another, yet stay together because the other one is there. I believe there’s some truth in that. Or maybe it’s not truth. Maybe it’s comfort. I don’t have to worry about Mark. If I were with you, I would be as much mother as lover. You need that. You need mothering. That’s what Marie saw in you.

  You may be right, he admitted.

  I’m not going to ask you anything else about her, she said. I don’t want to know until I read it. But I don’t want you to try to write today. I want you to go back to bed. I’ll check on you later. Maybe Mark and I can drive over after dinner.

  You don’t have to do that, he said. If I need you, I’ll call.

  She stood, walked around the table, leaned to kiss him on top of the head. Merry Christmas, she whispered.

  Merry Christmas, he replied. Then, remembering the gifts he had bought, but had not wrapped, said, That shopping bag on the counter, the one from Paige’s. Take it. It’s for you and Mark.

  Damn it, Cole, I told you—

  I’m sick, he said. Don’t raise your voice to me.

  She went to the counter and took the bag and opened it and removed the tie and the cameo. He saw her pull the cameo to her face, saw her press it gently against her cheek, saw her smile.

  Before he returned to bed, he went into his office and selected another of the letters from Marie. He stood at his desk and read it, saying the words aloud, but in a voice so subdued he could not hear himself.

  Cole,

  I know I am supposed to understand dying. It is part of my profession, still it is a mystery to me. Two weeks ago, a young woman came into our hospital with mild discomfort. The discomfort was advanced ovarian cancer and it was necessary to operate on her.

  I couldn’t save her, Cole. I couldn’t. I tried, but I failed. I saw her die, saw the last faint pulsebeat that pumped through her body. Saw her muscles give up whatever energy the cancer had left in her. Maybe you don’t know it, but when a person dies, their muscles want to keep trying. There’s a scientific reason for it, of course, but you would never understand it, and, to be truthful, I think there’s more to it than that. The muscles are in the habit of living. They don’t know how to give up, and they can’t, until the heart quits feeding them.

  I believed I saw her soul rise up out of her, up from the steam of the blood.

  I believed I felt it slither coolly pass my face. I even looked up to see if I could watch it escaping the room.

  I believed I was that woman, or maybe it was nothing more than sensing that she reached out to touch me as her soul left her. What was it, Cole? A touch of forgiveness, or a kind of ethereal tag? Did she say in that touch, “Now you have it?” It being the cancer.

  I know I will see other people die. I’m not God.

  But I will never forget her. Never. She was an indigent, as helpless as anyone I have ever known. I was her last hope, and I failed her as everyone else had failed her.

  This is what one of the nurses said to me later: “She’s better off.”

  Is she, Cole?

  Maybe.

  Maybe the dying of the past is relief.

  Send me a letter. Tell me the dying is not my fault. Tell me you care for me.

  He had written to her immediately, saying the dying was not her fault, saying he cared for her, saying he had wept at her words.

  There were demons in his dreams, in the fever of his sleep. Swimming, grotesque faces, cackling voices making mockery. In the heat of the fever, the images swirled, danced wildly, rushed up to him, spun away. And then a snow fell over his sleep-seeing, blinding white, and out of the snow he saw the faces of his brother Toby and of his father and mother. Their faces were like bubbles of colorful lights floating in the snow, falling to the ground, disappearing. And from the snow, a flame appeared, grew rapidly into an inferno, but it did not melt the snow.

  In the leap of dreams, he was in a room having nothing but a bed in it. A child, a black child, was on the bed, not moving, and around him there was a gathering of adults, moaning, their faces carrying pain. He could hear a woman’s mournful whisper—He gone, he gone…—and then he saw an old man—his dark skin leathery, his hair white, his yellowed eyes watery—reach out his hand to touch the boy’s face, could hear the old man say, Jesus be here, Jesus be in my hand. Jesus touching him. Jesus be bringing him back. And the chest of the boy moved. A great cry went up from the gathering. Praise Jesus! a man shouted.

  His eyes snapped open. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest. His body was again lathered in perspiration. He pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed. His mind seemed electrified, and then the memory began to speak to him.

  Marie.

  Marie telling him about the tall black boy he had seen on the day he drove to her house, following the dare by his teammates.

  His name was Moses, Marie had said. He had been raised from the dead.

  Weeks into their friendship, after becoming comfortable in her presence, he had confessed about the drive-by and of seeing the boy, of wondering who he was, of speeding away.

  Marie had been greatly amused. She had asked, Were you jealous?

  He had replied, Jealous? Of what? I was just curious.

  Now, sitting on his bedside, the story flooded back to him, the same as his dream, only clearer: the dying child, the family, the old preacher man—there to fling prayers around because it was his duty, what he was good at doing, or so it seemed. Still, there was something different about the old man. He had not said a prayer; he had made a declaration, and the boy had begun breathing again.

  In the hazy window-light of the room—reflections of moon on snow—he thought again of Marie and of Moses.

  Marie had learned of Moses because she wanted to a do an essay about Jovita’s children for a contest offering a scholarship. Jovita had balked, saying she did not want anything written about her children, or about her.

  He remembered Marie saying, So I asked her to tell me the best story she knew, the one thing she remembered more than all others. She was ironing one of my father’s shirts and for the longest time, she didn’t say anything, but I knew she was thinking. I could see it in her eyes. And then she said, Moses being raised from the dead. I asked her what she was talking about and she told me. It was when Moses was a small boy and became ill and the doctor said he would probably die, so they called the family together and also had the preacher there. As they were waiting around his bed, he stopped breathing and the mother began to cry out that he was dead. But the preacher put his hand on Moses’ face and said, Jesus be here, Jesus be in my hand. Jesus touching him. Jesus be bringing him back.

  Marie had vowed those were the exact words used in Jovita’s description of it, the same words he had heard in his dream. She had vowed also that Moses had started breathing again.

  He had thought it was a made-up story, one of Marie’s cruel exaggerations about the South. He remembered chiding her for making fun of Jovita, remembered also that Marie had become incensed over his accusation, remembered her response: Damn it, Cole Bishop, don’t you ever say anything like that to me again. I would never insult her, not in an eternity of time. I was just telling you something I thought you would understand, but I’m wrong. You’re a redneck. You know nothing about the wonder of things, and you never will.

  It had taken an hour to calm her, to guide her back to the story of
Moses.

  She wanted to meet him, she had finally admitted, and Jovita had explained that he went to the school for blacks and worked part-time at a black funeral home named Higginbottom’s.

  Marie had gone to the funeral home, had met Moses, had somehow talked him into helping her teach Jovita’s children.

  That’s what he was doing with me when you saw us, she had said. It was a great afternoon. He’s smart, Cole. Smarter than you. Maybe even smarter than me. He just hasn’t had the same chances we’ve had. The kids loved him. But that was the only time he was there. Jovita stopped letting her children come to my class, and I had to tell him. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. He didn’t say anything. He just turned around and walked away, back into the funeral home.

  He looked at the clock on his bedside stand. A digital blink made the time 7:33, and it confused him. He did not know he had slept so long. He wondered if Tanya—or his sisters—had tried to call him. He had not heard a ringing, but he had had hearing loss over the past five years and it was possible his sleep had been too deep to be jarred awake.

  He pushed himself from his bed and went into his bathroom and cupped cold water in his hands and rubbed it over his face and eyes, and then he went into his kitchen and checked his answering machine. He had been right about sleeping through the ringing of the telephone. There were two calls—one from Amy, one from Rachel. Both wished him a Merry Christmas. Both teased about not answering their call, both suggested he must be having Christmas dinner with some lonely and desperate woman. Both ended their call with the same warning, as though they had rehearsed it: Remember your age.

  There was no call from Tanya, but it was not a surprise. She had guests, was probably serving the dinner of leg of lamb. It would be good to be there, enjoying the noise of merriment. His own house was as quiet as a wake and without lights on his sparsely decorated tree, it had a somber, depressing mood.

  Next year, he would have lights, he thought.

  He made a single piece of toast and reheated the soup Tanya had prepared, leaving the leftover in a plastic container in the refrigerator. It was not lamb, but it satisfied his taste, and, he guessed, was good for him. The fever that had overwhelmed him in the morning seemed to have cooled slightly and he was not as exhausted as he had been. The sleep, he decided. Even with the wildness of the dreams, the sleep had helped.