They settled this for good three years ago with the Marilyn Linwood understanding. Their implicit agreement, never quite put into words, established by the events as they occurred. That Arnold remained, that he continued to act the parts of husband and father, that after enough had been said nothing more was said, proved the point, which is that Linwoods come and go. In the long run they mean nothing at all.
She stands by him, that’s what it is. She never thought of it in those words. She always thought of herself as healthily selfish taking care of her interests, but it’s true, isn’t it?, she stands by him and always did. Not because he is Arnold but because once in the past she settled down to become his wife. And then the world turned into a crystal around them. She stands by him through Linwood in the same automatic way in which she stood by him in the Macomber malpractice suit, just as she’ll accompany him if he goes to Washington (selling house, severing kids from school and friends, everything) for the advancement of his career. She’ll do it, of course she will.
It’s not just that they, with their children, house, car, dog, cat, engraved checks and writing paper, have created an institution like a bank, it’s that the world is cold, lonely, and dangerous, and they need each other for shelter. This book she’s reading knows about that. Tony in his plight should appreciate how fiercely she clings. He should. Yet this makes her uneasy, for she mistrusts Edward’s book. She doesn’t know why. It nudges a certain alarm in her, a fear whose object she does not know but which seems different from the fear in the story itself, something rather in herself. She thinks, if Edward intends, through Tony or in some other way, to shake her faith in her life, well—she’ll resist, that’s all. She’ll simply resist. There are things in life the reading of no mere book can change.
THE THIRD SITTING
ONE
Susan Morrow returns to the book after a hard day’s work. Cleaning up, the vacuum cleaner, wrapping paper, gadgets and toys upstairs. An hour paying the bills and another on the phone talking to Maureen about everything except what’s on her mind.
Dorothy and Henry are skating with the Fowlers. The snow is falling, the roads could be dangerous coming back. Rosie watches television in the bedroom, keep the sound down, dear. Jeffrey on the couch: off, mutt, you know better than that. The nostalgia of pizza burns the corners of her lips.
Susan Morrow opens the box, pours the manuscript upside down on the coffee table looking for the red placemark. She puts the finished sheets face down in the box, the unread ones in a pile on the coffee table. The new pile is smaller than the used pile. Susan foresees the moment when there won’t be enough space for what should happen. She anticipates the disappointment of the end, waiting for her, already typed into that pile.
She sits with her lap pages, trying to remember. Tony Hastings lost his family to thugs in the night. Looking at the last page last night, she finds him smashing Ray Marcus’s tooth in the trailer. She remembers her righteous wrath. Before that, Tony and Bobby Andes picked up Ray in a baseball uniform and before that Tony identified Lou Bates after failing to identify Turk.
That all this was written by Edward makes her feel ashamed. She picks up the pages, prepares to go on.
Nocturnal Animals 20
There will be a trial for Ray Marcus and Lou Bates in Grant Center as soon as we get the case together. You’ll have to come back for that. Mr. Gorman, the district attorney, will be in charge. That’ll be another two months at least.
Firm at the magistrate’s hearing, answering Mr. Gorman’s questions, looking straight at Ray, who looked straight at him. Bruised face. Mister, you’re gonna be sued. No you’re not, holding firm with lawyers and juries, the American flag in the corner and the press.
He heard himself singing through the wind blasting the open windows as he drove home. Released. June on the highway, the bright young fields, rich dug earth, horses and cows plowed into the roots of what we eat with a thick shitty smell.
Sing sing sing, Christopher Columbus. I did it. His knuckles still hurt, he hadn’t noticed it at the time. There was a raw gash where the skin must have ripped on the snag end of a tooth. He enjoyed the pain for its reminding value.
Going home to a party, driving faster than ever before under the big June afternoon sky with its cool warmth bringing wind and fair weather clouds, zipping ahead of trucks and Cadillacs and Volkswagens. Without taking anything away from his love, it was time for Tony Hastings to resume his life, he sang. Having fixed what was troubling it. Touched the untouchable, knocked him cold. Released the unreleasable, smashed the bottle to let the boat out, exquisite Tony. Speedy Tony, clever about speed traps, no cops caught him today. Made it to the house with plenty of time. Naked in the shower, noticing himself, filling with hope. Two parties, in fact, the faculty party at the Furmans and the graduate student party, with a personal note from Louise Germane, “Hope you can come.” The parties were in conflict.
He put a bandaid on Ray’s last bite. Dressed for the Furman party, regretting the need to choose. The choice reduced his swelling hope, whatever that was, which he didn’t know. A desire to say something important to someone. What, to whom? He tried to adjust his expectation to the Furmans’ party. Francesca Hooton? He glanced about the house quickly before he left, smoothed the bedspread, put a clean second towel in the bathroom, then chided himself for a fool.
Malks, Arthurs, Washingtons, Garfields. Francesca Hooton was standing by the porch door, a glass in her hand, with her husband. He had forgotten she had a husband. All the guests stood around with glasses in their hands, on the screened back porch and outside on the lawn and garden in the nine o’clock June twilight. Exotic evening, light that won’t die, lights in house windows shining still, fireflies, that sort of thing. Everything reminded him of Laura. The lights and fireflies reminded him of her. Standing around with drinks.
He wished he had gone to the other party. He tried to remember what the important thing was he had wanted to tell Francesca before he discovered she had a husband. The only thing he could think of was the news they had caught Ray and he personally had slugged him. It seemed full of meaning, which all dribbled out like an untied balloon when he came out on the screened porch and saw these good friends whom he knew so well, and realized what talking would be like.
In the garden Eleanor Arthur talked about something, and as she talked she drifted slowly to the other end toward the edge of the dark ravine. He felt obliged to follow her drift. She was talking about teaching math as against teaching English, which was her job. She tried to make an argument about it. He had no wish to oppose her on this or any subject, but she was annoyed that he would not quarrel. So she tried to make an argument on why he wouldn’t take a stand on things. When he wouldn’t argue that either, she tried to make an argument, though full of sympathy, that he was still crippled by his bereavement, and when he wouldn’t oppose her on that either, though he had been telling himself all day it was no longer true, she talked about church groups, the Nature society, and sympathetic friends who were only waiting for him to ask. With his hands clasped behind his back and his head lowered thoughtfully, like a cow, or a bull, he tried grazing his way back to the door but still she remained planted like a stake to which he was tethered, until he got the idea of getting her another drink. He came back with Francesca, and then something got into him, and he told them about Ray.