He still doesn’t look up. “Then it must still be there.”
“But it isn’t.”
Finally he looks up.
“Well, maybe it folded itself into a paper airplane and flew out the window. Emma, what is wrong with you this morning?”
“Those pills didn’t work.”
He puts down the manuscript and looks at her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking concerned. “You should have told me earlier. You must be exhausted. Don’t worry about the notes; they’ll turn up.”
Of course they will. It’s only a page of notes. Anyway, Charles will fix the chapter. He’s been so helpful with the book. Emma feels silly. For getting so upset. And she’s so tired, almost too tired to care.
“Why don’t you knock off and take a nap?”
Emma does. She crawls back into bed with her clothes on and shuts her eyes. The bed is so soft and the sounds of the city so lulling. Charles is here and she can sleep.
43
Portia’s memorial service is at the Dartmouth Club. Charles has been asked to speak, of course. He leaves Emma early in the morning and takes a cab back to the apartment. He takes the book with him. It’s a cloudy morning with a chill in the air. As the cab crawls through traffic, he tries to compose a speech of some kind, but images of that day- walking down the rickety steps, the low gray sky — crowd his mind.
It’s strange to arrive at his own building as a visitor. The apartment feels eerily calm, as if everyone had left in a hurry, and his office is a mess, correspondence piling up, tangled bedding spilling off the couch. He carefully locks the manuscript in his desk.
In the kitchen he makes himself a cup of strong black coffee and then spikes it with Scotch. It was Portia who introduced him to the pleasures of an early morning spike- climbing into the battered rowboat, the cold water seeping into his socks, the cry of a distant bird.
The master bedroom looks perfect, like a page out of an Anne Turner catalog-except that the tulips on Anne’s night table are limp and have dropped most of their petals. In the bathroom, he looks for something to lessen the sense of dread-he can’t take the Xanax he’s giving Emma; it makes him too groggy. He opens the medicine chest. The sparkling shelves look like a magazine ad: shiny tweezers, opaque glass jars, Q-Tips, and cotton balls. It’s all so fucking artful and antiseptic. He sweeps his hand over a shelf, knocking everything down onto the counter in a spray of broken glass and spilled mouthwash and witch hazel.
After putting on a dark wool suit, Charles decides to walk down to the Dartmouth Club. The exercise will clear his head and calm him down. He goes only a few blocks before he starts to sweat. The sun has come out and burned away the morning chill, the day is turning out to be unseasonably warm and humid. Can it really be late November? “Winter feels like summer and summer feels like hell,” Portia had said. “The day is coming when the living will envy the dead.” He wishes he’d worn a lighter suit; the scarf around his neck is itchy; he’s dazed. The sun is blinding, glinting off metallic surfaces, and he didn’t bring sunglasses. Some-where below Columbus Circle he ducks into a discount pharmacy. The place is huge and assaultive. He grabs the first pair of sun-glasses off the rack, tosses the cashier a twenty-dollar bill and walks out.
The sunglasses help-soften the sharp edges, a barrier from the world. It’s getting late and he still has no idea what he’ll say. He needs to sit and organize his thoughts. There’s a small plaza in front of an office tower; he sits on a hard bench. There are so many people everywhere, they’re all around him, moving; he’s fidgety, can’t concentrate- the squeak of the oarlocks, the flat gray of the water, the pine trees rising from the shore.
There’s no shade in the bleak little plaza and his heart is pounding in his chest and his mouth is parched. There’s a man dressed like a clown handing out flyers, he has Bozo hair and a red plastic nose. He turns and gives Charles a grotesque smile. Charles looks away. Sitting on a bench across from him is a young woman reading a book. Charles squints to make out the title: Jane Eyre. The girl is oblivious to the world, her lips parted; she looks a little like Emma, with a wide brow, large eyes, and that intense concentration. She reaches up and brushes a lock of hair from her face- climbing out of the boat, their slow silent walk across the shore, his foot on the weathered gray step, a cold breeze on the back of his neck…
Charles shudders and stands up. People stream by him as if he isn’t there. He walks to a pay phone on the corner and dials Emma’s number. There’s a lot of traffic and he has a hard time hearing the ringing over the rumble and honking. When Emma finally picks up, she sounds half asleep.
“It’s me,” he says.
“Where are you?”
“What are we doing, Emma?”
Charles looks out at the people rushing by. They’re so filled with purpose, as if it all mattered. Why are they all moving so quickly?
“Should you go away, Emma?”
“Go away?”
“Just leave New York. Today.”
A cab with its radio blaring stops at the light.
“I’m sorry, Charles, I can’t hear you.”
“Leave today.”
“I can’t hear you.”
The light changes and the cab speeds off.
“I don’t feel well, Emma.”
Charles thinks he might throw up. He needs water.
“You miss Portia.”
“Yes.”
Charles presses his cheek against the cool metal of the booth.
“I love you, Emma.”
There’s a long pause.
“Do you really?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so tired, Charles.”
“I have to get to the service.”
“Are you coming down here after?”
A well-dressed middle-aged woman stands nearby, waiting for the phone. Does she recognize him? Of course she does. Charles straightens up.
“Charles, are you there?”
“I’ll come down after the service.”
It’s getting late. He races east and then down Vanderbilt Avenue to the club. He goes into the men’s room and is shocked at how cheap and ridiculous the sunglasses look. He takes them off. His eyes are bloodshot. He takes a long drink of water, cupping his palm under the faucet.
The memorial service has already begun. He slips into the hall, a wood-paneled room with a vaulted ceiling. An old man is reading a Rilke poem. A murmur goes around the room as Charles makes his way up to a front pew. Who are all these people? What can they tell? He forces himself to take deep breaths. Why the hell do they have the heat on in this weather? He’s suffocating. His suit chafes and he has to piss. Why didn’t he piss when he was in the men’s room? And then he hears the old man say his name and he realizes everyone is waiting for him to go up and say something about Portia.
He gets up to walk to the front of the room- the splintering sound as the wood gives way and her body tumbles over backward, her mouth struggling to form words, her head banging on the rock, her body falling, falling. Listening, afraid to breathe. Should he go down there, down to the lake, make sure she’s dead?
He can’t raise his eyes from the lectern, doesn’t want to see the faces staring up at him. He has to say something. How long has he been standing here in silence? It doesn’t look right. They’re all waiting and the room is so still. Someone coughs and he looks up-a woman in the back row, a handkerchief to her mouth, vaguely familiar, her face filled not with suspicion but with sympathy, sympathy for his loss. He was closer to Portia than any of them. That’s what they’re all thinking. And they’re right.
“When I think of Portia,” he begins, “one memory above all others comes back to me. It was my first year at Dartmouth. I hated the place. All those rich kids. Of course I knew who Portia Damron was, but she didn’t teach freshmen. It was a Saturday night in the depths of January, and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I decided to drive over to the next town where there was a roadside bar that looked welcoming. The place was dark and nobody in there looked like they had a trust fund. I sat down and ordered a Scotch. Down at the far end of the bar I noticed Portia.”