trace of moisture in his old friend’s eyes.
That was Arch for you, of course, heart on his sleeve, aching for everyone else in the world. He’d always been that way. If there’d have been a Most Decent award in high school Arch would have gotten it, hands down.
“‘A year, ten years from now, / I’ll remember this…not why, only that we / were here like this together.’” Arch was reciting now, waving his hand like an orchestra conductor’s to mark the lines.
“And what is that?” Deal said.
“A poem,” Arch said. “By Adrienne Rich. About this couple who’ve been having their troubles.”
Deal lifted his eyebrows. “Sounds cheery.”
“The point she’s trying to make,” Arch said, “they’re going to get through it. It’s a bad time, but they’re going to make it, talk about it together years from now.”
Deal nodded. “It would be nice to think so,” he said.
Arch watched him a moment, his enthusiasm seeming to ebb. “Yeah, what do I know?” he said. “Me, the grizzled bachelor…” He lifted his hand, began again in a softer voice this time, “…‘but there’s got to be somebody / Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married / all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear / and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!’”
Deal glanced at him. “Adrienne Rich again?”
Arch laughed. “Hardly. That’s Gregory Corso. They had slightly different esthetics.”
Deal thought about it a moment. “Maybe that’s the problem with Janice and me,” he said. “Maybe our esthetics don’t mesh anymore. Maybe I should take that up with her shrink.”
“Like she says, Deal. One step at a time. At least she’s back in town, right?”
Deal took a deep breath, as if that might drive out the ache in his chest. What Arch said made sense, if you looked at the matter logically. But if love were a matter of logic, there’d be a hell of a lot fewer problems in the world, wouldn’t there?
If he were able to turn a clear mind upon the matter, he might want to suggest to Janice that she take a flying leap at the moon while he went on about his life. But that was assuming he could look at her and not feel the same goddamned tidal-strength pull in his gut that he’d felt since the day they’d met. And even if he could drown it out, there was the tiny matter of their daughter, Isabel, wasn’t there? Didn’t he owe it to his daughter as well, to go along with his estranged wife and her one-step-at-a-time notions?
And of course, there was the guilt that never really left him, the nagging, irrational voice that insisted that all the terrible things that had befallen them were, in the final analysis, Deal’s fault. Janice might have always been wrapped a little tight, but as Arch had made clear, who could blame her for buckling under the stress: two different attempts on her life, and either one of them could have taken Isabel as well. Crazed men who wanted Deal, but didn’t care who else got in the way. The first time, she’d nearly been drowned by a psychopath who tried to make her miscarry, the second time, after Isabel’s birth, it had been fire—you’d have to look close to notice, but the scars from the many skin grafts were still there, and in Janice’s mind they were a lot larger than life.
Two different teams of psychiatrists had attempted a diagnosis of her condition—the abrupt mood swings into depression, despair, and anger, the inability to cope with what she called her “former life.” The best the doctors had come up with was to describe it as a form of post-traumatic stress reaction, not unlike that experienced by combat veterans, a psychological distress that endured long after any signs of physical trauma had vanished. Be patient, they advised him, endlessly. Offer love and support. It had taken a long time for such complex symptoms to manifest themselves, they were not going to go away overnight. Logical, perhaps. But to
That was Arch for you, of course, heart on his sleeve, aching for everyone else in the world. He’d always been that way. If there’d have been a Most Decent award in high school Arch would have gotten it, hands down.
“‘A year, ten years from now, / I’ll remember this…not why, only that we / were here like this together.’” Arch was reciting now, waving his hand like an orchestra conductor’s to mark the lines.
“And what is that?” Deal said.
“A poem,” Arch said. “By Adrienne Rich. About this couple who’ve been having their troubles.”
Deal lifted his eyebrows. “Sounds cheery.”
“The point she’s trying to make,” Arch said, “they’re going to get through it. It’s a bad time, but they’re going to make it, talk about it together years from now.”
Deal nodded. “It would be nice to think so,” he said.
Arch watched him a moment, his enthusiasm seeming to ebb. “Yeah, what do I know?” he said. “Me, the grizzled bachelor…” He lifted his hand, began again in a softer voice this time, “…‘but there’s got to be somebody / Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married / all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear / and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!’”
Deal glanced at him. “Adrienne Rich again?”
Arch laughed. “Hardly. That’s Gregory Corso. They had slightly different esthetics.”
Deal thought about it a moment. “Maybe that’s the problem with Janice and me,” he said. “Maybe our esthetics don’t mesh anymore. Maybe I should take that up with her shrink.”
“Like she says, Deal. One step at a time. At least she’s back in town, right?”
Deal took a deep breath, as if that might drive out the ache in his chest. What Arch said made sense, if you looked at the matter logically. But if love were a matter of logic, there’d be a hell of a lot fewer problems in the world, wouldn’t there?
If he were able to turn a clear mind upon the matter, he might want to suggest to Janice that she take a flying leap at the moon while he went on about his life. But that was assuming he could look at her and not feel the same goddamned tidal-strength pull in his gut that he’d felt since the day they’d met. And even if he could drown it out, there was the tiny matter of their daughter, Isabel, wasn’t there? Didn’t he owe it to his daughter as well, to go along with his estranged wife and her one-step-at-a-time notions?
And of course, there was the guilt that never really left him, the nagging, irrational voice that insisted that all the terrible things that had befallen them were, in the final analysis, Deal’s fault. Janice might have always been wrapped a little tight, but as Arch had made clear, who could blame her for buckling under the stress: two different attempts on her life, and either one of them could have taken Isabel as well. Crazed men who wanted Deal, but didn’t care who else got in the way. The first time, she’d nearly been drowned by a psychopath who tried to make her miscarry, the second time, after Isabel’s birth, it had been fire—you’d have to look close to notice, but the scars from the many skin grafts were still there, and in Janice’s mind they were a lot larger than life.
Two different teams of psychiatrists had attempted a diagnosis of her condition—the abrupt mood swings into depression, despair, and anger, the inability to cope with what she called her “former life.” The best the doctors had come up with was to describe it as a form of post-traumatic stress reaction, not unlike that experienced by combat veterans, a psychological distress that endured long after any signs of physical trauma had vanished. Be patient, they advised him, endlessly. Offer love and support. It had taken a long time for such complex symptoms to manifest themselves, they were not going to go away overnight. Logical, perhaps. But to
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