If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This Part 3

I say it, but who really knows?

The clock has lost its meaning. My relations.h.i.+p with time is more personal now.

Just take care of yourself, he says. I hate to have you there, alone.

I'll just take a nap.

Just don't go on the stairs.

I won't go on the stairs. I won't even go to the bathroom. I won't get up. I'll just rest.

Just take care.

Just.

It's a word we use a lot now-though in only one way that we might. As though we have lost our knowledge of the other meaning.

Just be careful. I'll just do this tiny thing. Just move my pillows a little higher up. Just don't worry. Just be good to yourself. Just take care.

If you'd just moved the d.a.m.ned fence just a foot...

It was the little note of grace that we both needed then.

I sometimes think that when I'm gone Sam will drive his car right into your well-constructed fence. I can picture it so easily: Sam behind the wheel pulling up into the drive, gunning it; and veering left. If the tables were turned, there's no doubt it's what I'd do. sometimes think that when I'm gone Sam will drive his car right into your well-constructed fence. I can picture it so easily: Sam behind the wheel pulling up into the drive, gunning it; and veering left. If the tables were turned, there's no doubt it's what I'd do.

Because who is there left to be angry at? Except you? We used up all the other obvious candidates long ago.

When he gets home, Sam climbs heavily to our room, the whiskey bottle and a gla.s.s in his hand. I have been dozing, but am now awake.

I hope he feels bad about what he did, he says.

If he were the type to feel bad, I say, speaking slowly, he wouldn't have done it in the first place. If he cared a tiny bit about us and our lives he wouldn't have acted as he did. He's indifferent to us. It had all been decided before we met. There was never any hope.

I don't tell him about these now-fading fantasies of mine. The ones that started early on. About trying to reason with you. Trying to make you believe in my life. The simple fact of my existence. I don't tell him that.

I am so close now to being entirely erased. I see things that were invisible to me before.

Sam sits there, and he drinks, a flush beginning to spread through his cheeks.

He's indifferent? he asks. Is that really what it is?

There is a universe of sorrow, wide and dark, in my husband's staring eyes. An eternity built there, constructed over time, forged gradually of the realization that this is in fact our lives. This is what we have been dealt.

It's possible, I say to him, that you were right. What you said about some folks just being bad.

But as I speak, I realize how little I want to say what I have learned. How reluctant I am to admit to Sam what indifference truly means, and has long meant to us both. I do not want to play a role in confirming that cruel universe that dwells inside my husband's eyes. But I do love him. I do. I love him very much. And so to him-if not to you-I speak the truth.

Immortalizing John Parker

IT ISN'T A NEW SENSATION. For the past many weeks, Clara Feinberg has found it harder and harder to paint human faces, her bread-and-b.u.t.ter task. Increasingly, she is struggling with what feels to her like a repugnance to the act. Though it's all very soph.o.m.oric. Her own thoughts on the subject sound to her like the voices of pretentious but earnest youngsters debating the meaning of life. For the past many weeks, Clara Feinberg has found it harder and harder to paint human faces, her bread-and-b.u.t.ter task. Increasingly, she is struggling with what feels to her like a repugnance to the act. Though it's all very soph.o.m.oric. Her own thoughts on the subject sound to her like the voices of pretentious but earnest youngsters debating the meaning of life.

It's morning-again-and Clara is perched on the side of her bed, as though undecided about whether to stand or lie back down. Her hands grip the edge of the mattress, maybe to push her up and maybe to hold her there. She can see herself in the dresser mirror-if she lets her eyes drift that way. It's not her favorite sight, not normally of particular interest to her. As drawn as she is to study others' faces, she would be perfectly happy to go through life without ever seeing her own. Not because of anything amiss about her appearance. For a seventy-year-old woman, she looks better than well, straight and a bit stern and more handsome than ever. Age suits her. But she knows too well what a face can reveal.

As a child, if she caught a glimpse of herself when alone, she would stick out her tongue; and to her own surprise, she does it now. It's an odd sight. An old woman making the face of a spiteful little girl. An oddly upsetting sight. She closes her lips and looks away, looks down to her feet, hanging bare and gnarled just above the floor. She still can't quite force herself to stand. Not yet. Can't quite force herself to dress, to leave the apartment, to walk among the living. Go to work, step into her studio. Smell the paint, the turpentine. Populate the blank canvases waiting there with her people, her creations.

The prospect pins her where she is.

It isn't that she has tired of studying faces. Not at all. How could she have? She still thinks daily about how it felt thirty years ago, how like learning a precious secret it had been when she first discovered her longing to sit for hours and ponder another person's features, to study their very particular texture. It was as though she had found a hidden primal drive in herself, something to align itself with hunger, thirst, s.e.xual desire, the instinct to stay alive. And this drive has never flagged.

But the paintings themselves upset her now. The act of painting them upsets her now.

She forces her eyes to her own image again, holds her face steady, drains it of what expression she can. It's this same eerie stillness she detects in her portraits now. A kind of death. Death, which used to seem so remote, now feels to Clara as though it is everywhere, like the universally disliked relative who arrives early to every gathering and shows no discernible sign of ever going home. She can sense it turning her against her own work, lurking in the notion of permanence surrounding portraiture, skulking around the very idea of catching a person at one moment and doc.u.menting them, just then. This is what death does, she thinks, stony-faced, staring right into her own eyes. Catches us all. Stops time.

"Pull yourself together," she says out loud. "You still have a living to make."

And finally, that gets Clara to her feet. She is paid preposterously well for those paintings of hers; and so this recent repugnance must be overcome; and the day, the new clients, must be faced.

As if revealing a precious secret, Katherine Parker states that she and her husband-John-have been married for fifty-one years. Not that Clara has asked. She's asked them very little since they entered the small sitting room adjacent to her studio. And when told how long they've been married, she doesn't offer up much of a reaction. Divorced herself for nearly three decades, she can think of too many reasons, good, bad, and indifferent, why people might stay married half a century to a.s.sume that she knows the appropriate response.

"We didn't make very much of our fiftieth. But then when this one came around, I realized I would like to have a portrait of John. That's the gift I want. John, immortalized."

Katherine Parker is a small woman, with suprisingly short hair, entirely white. The wrinkles that web her pouching cheeks run without a break or variation across her pale lips, as though a veil of lace has been etched into her face. When she speaks, her eyes blink rapidly, seeming to seek refocus every time. And the truth is, Clara realizes, she would rather paint her than him. It might be interesting to try to capture this topography of time and the sense of urgency that seems integral to her.

"Not of you both?" she asks.

"Oh, no. I had mine done years ago. I'd much rather be remembered that way. Young, and elegant. Not like this."

Clara nods, skipping over her own arguments with this view. The point, it turns out, isn't youth or beauty. The point is happiness. And to the extent that happiness ever came to her, it came to her late.

She looks over at John Parker on the sofa beside his wife. He hasn't spoken at all. Not a single word. Nor is his face particularly expressive. His skin has an odd smoothness to it, a yellow tinge; his eyes are round, brown, and moist.

He's dull, she thinks, that word stepping out of line, as if louder, bolder than the others in her thoughts. Sitting there, Clara recognizes this as something with which she'll now have to contend. Often, with her subjects, there's a first impression that dominates her ability to see clearly. And here is one, again. This quality of dullness she perceives will have to be continually questioned and examined. In the end she may conclude that it does define him in some way that deserves expression in the work. Or she may not. But for as long as she is painting him, she knows, she will be in a continual dialogue with this word. Dull Dull.

"Do you want your portrait painted?" she asks and he startles a bit. Then looks over at his wife. Then he nods.

"Yes," he says.

Clara sits back in her chair and begins to describe the process. How many sessions; how much time she'll need; how much warning if a session is to be missed. And then she names a very high figure, to which neither of them reacts.

"And I'll need to see you alone," she says to him, sensing in herself an annoyance with his silence.

"Oh." It's a small sound that Katherine Parker makes, but an expressive one, an objection. "Is that necessary?"

"Yes, it is," Clara says. She could go into an explanation-she could talk about the relations.h.i.+p between subject and artist, she could talk about any number of things that might justify this, some real, some made up. But she prefers simply to state the condition and not discuss her reasoning. Too much in her life has had to be justified.

"Well, then," Katherine Parker says. "Then I suppose that's what we'll do."

They have only the scheduling left. This is Monday. They'll begin on Wednesday. As the Parkers leave, each shakes Clara's hand, and the wife declares herself so excited, so grateful that Clara has time for this. It's a gift she's giving herself, she says. She rarely does that. But this one is different. This will be something very special.

[image]

IF GEORGE COOPERMAN could tell this story, he would doubtless start with a description of those portraits Clara paints. A psychoa.n.a.lyst, he would sneak up on the events by walking through an exhaustive a.n.a.lysis of her work, which would lead naturally for him into an exhaustive a.n.a.lysis of her character. She paints like could tell this story, he would doubtless start with a description of those portraits Clara paints. A psychoa.n.a.lyst, he would sneak up on the events by walking through an exhaustive a.n.a.lysis of her work, which would lead naturally for him into an exhaustive a.n.a.lysis of her character. She paints like this this, he would say, she invariably sees other people in this this particular light. It doesn't matter who they are. The portraits all share these characteristics. And you see, he would say, you understand, that is because she herself is particular light. It doesn't matter who they are. The portraits all share these characteristics. And you see, he would say, you understand, that is because she herself is this this kind of woman. Her work is consistent with who she is. It is the key to who she is. It explains everything that she has ever done. That is how George Cooperman would start. kind of woman. Her work is consistent with who she is. It is the key to who she is. It explains everything that she has ever done. That is how George Cooperman would start.

If Harold Feinberg were telling this story, he would unlikely make much mention of Clara's work, largely because he's never really thought all that much about it, not the work itself, not the way she sees and re-creates the people whom she paints. And also, he still resents the work a bit, still smarts at the way it seemed to make her happier than he ever did. So, Harold would doubtless talk first about the early days of their marriage. He would say that in the beginning she had seemed very intent on having what he thought of then as a proper home. It was 1966, he would say, and things were just beginning to loosen up; but not Clara. Not then. She had her trusty copy of The Settlement Cook Book The Settlement Cook Book out and opened every night. She had her hair done once a week, so it looked more like a wig than like hair. And whatever happened afterward, whatever she later felt or said, she had wanted the children, wanted them as soon as she and Harold were wed. out and opened every night. She had her hair done once a week, so it looked more like a wig than like hair. And whatever happened afterward, whatever she later felt or said, she had wanted the children, wanted them as soon as she and Harold were wed.

Oh, and the s.e.x with her-if he'd had a couple of drinks, and odds are he would have, he would go into this-the s.e.x with her was efficient and somewhat businesslike, but not prudish. He'd been with a few prudish women in his time, and that was never her. But there was an element of practicality to the act that always left him a little unsatisfied. It was all a little too hygienic for his taste. And then he would say that maybe that had something to do with what got into him back in the seventies. All of that infamous cheating he did. He was just looking for something a little more exciting. Not that that was any kind of excuse. Just the truth. He was bored.

But the funny thing is, he would say, the thing he has thought about a lot, is that he probably wouldn't have been bored by the woman she became-after everything blew up. That was when she went a little wild. And of course that was when she started in with the painting seriously. That was when he would come by the house to pick up the children and see her in overalls and a man's unders.h.i.+rt, braless as far as he could tell, bits of paint clinging to hair. Something changed in her, he would say. Something changed, and it wasn't for the worse. Once or twice he even asked her if she would consider trying to make a go of it again, but the answer was always no. It wasn't an unusual story, he would say. At least not in the beginning. Boy meets girl. Boy cats around. Boy loses girl.

In Clara's mind, the story begins in January 1979 with George Cooperman giving her a lift to pick up her car. It begins with the odd realization that she might as well be sitting in the front seat of her own Volvo station wagon rather than his, that the cars are identical inside. Though she remembers then that in her own car she wouldn't be in the pa.s.senger seat, not anymore, because since the separation in November, she has always been the driver and never the pa.s.senger when in her own car. This is where she used to sit when she was married to Harold.

It starts then for her with this odd mixture of familiarity and unfamiliarity, with a chain of thoughts set off by a particular shade of beige, and by the sensation of being back on the pa.s.senger side of a vehicle-riding shotgun, in the dead man's seat, the wife's place-and by the oddness of it being George Cooperman and not Harold at the wheel of the car, beside her, driving to the garage where she has had snow tires put on her car, though it's probably silly this late in the season, another ch.o.r.e that got lost in the mess of the marital collapse.

It starts there, and then it s.h.i.+fts very quickly into discomfort, the scene being almost almost something she knows so intimately. It's that unbidden intimacy that slips in and unsettles her. George has pulled into the wide oil-stained drive outside the garage and they are facing each other to say goodbye. She notices the precise shade of brown of his eyes. She sees how his upper lip is so much thinner than the lower. She understands exactly how she would paint that lip. Having known him for so many years, she is learning too much about him, in only seconds. As though she is seeing him for the first time now. something she knows so intimately. It's that unbidden intimacy that slips in and unsettles her. George has pulled into the wide oil-stained drive outside the garage and they are facing each other to say goodbye. She notices the precise shade of brown of his eyes. She sees how his upper lip is so much thinner than the lower. She understands exactly how she would paint that lip. Having known him for so many years, she is learning too much about him, in only seconds. As though she is seeing him for the first time now.

She hears herself mention Janet's name. I'll call Janet in the morning I'll call Janet in the morning, she says. And he says, I'll let her know I'll let her know. And as he speaks, she notices the different tones of darkness in his mouth. He asks her if she wants him to wait and be sure her car is ready, just to be certain she won't be left here alone in this sketchy part of town. But she says that she's already called and checked. The car is ready. She says, Thank you, though Thank you, though and opens her door and feels the coldness of the air outside. and opens her door and feels the coldness of the air outside. Here Here, he says, reaching over. Don't forget this Don't forget this. And he hands her the pocketbook she's left in the car.

[image]

AS CLARA MAKES her way down Locust Street, after meeting the Parkers, she thinks glumly about the husband, John, about his silence and his evocation of that word her way down Locust Street, after meeting the Parkers, she thinks glumly about the husband, John, about his silence and his evocation of that word dull dull. The truth is, she isn't relis.h.i.+ng the job. He doesn't seem like a very interesting subject, to her. But then maybe n.o.body would at this time.

It's a familiar route from the studio home, one she can walk with her mind entirely occupied, one she suspects she could walk in her sleep. Clara has lived for well over twenty years in her town house off Rittenhouse Square. After the children moved out to college, first Daniel, then Ellie, she spent a few years on her own in the big house out in Bryn Mawr. But it never felt like her own home, even then. It belonged to them all, to Clara, Harold, Daniel, and Ellie; to them and to the way their lives had unfolded there, intricately wound together, then pulled apart, in small and larger ways.

Family life. Looking back, it seems like a dance, a four-person minuet comprised of steps toward and steps away, approaches and retreats, ending, finally, with each of them standing entirely alone. By the time she was the sole occupant, the big, cold fieldstone house was more museum than home to her. Even the rooms themselves bore names that no longer applied. Harold's study. The playroom. The au pair's bathroom. Phrases, like old photographs, offering remnants of a different time, relics and evidence.

When she left, she took almost nothing. The children could have whatever they wanted. Goodwill could have the rest. A few boxes of papers, alb.u.ms, some keepsakes from her own childhood, her mother's candlesticks, her father's pocketknife. Her own paintings, of course. Even the ones she no longer liked. That was all. It didn't occur to her until after the move, everything long gone, that she might have offered Harold a pick at what he wanted. But when it did occur to her, the thought came without regret. Harold wasn't her problem anymore.

The Bryn Mawr house had been done up in a somber, traditional style, the new bride following the old rules. But Clara drenched the place on Spruce Street with color, so it was giddy with color, as though all that mattered was a sensation of abundance. Too much. Too bright. It hardly looked like the home of a well-respected artist. Certainly not of the creator of the careful, muted portraits for which Clara was becoming known. No. It looked more like the set of a children's television show.

"G.o.d, it's like a paint store threw up," Ellie said the first time she visited, and then apologized. "I shouldn't have said that. I just don't think I'd be able to sleep in this. That's all I meant."

"To each her own," Clara said. "It doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks. I find it cheers me up."

But now, as she enters her home, Clara herself finds all that imposed cheerfulness jarring. She stands still in her doorway for a few moments-as though there's an obvious next move to make and she just can't remember what it is. This is a familiar sensation, since George's death. She waits and nothing comes to mind. Nothing ever comes to mind. It is the sensation of absence, she knows, disguised as an impulse to act. There isn't a d.a.m.ned thing to do, except see it for the trick it is.

She hasn't eaten all day, and decides to make herself a tuna sandwich-the perfect, semiconscious kind of task. The body moving almost on its own. Bread in the toaster. Can opener from the drawer. Simple, simple, simple. Drain the tuna of its water in the sink. Take out a bowl. Find the mayonnaise, and check the expiration date. Unscrew the lid. Look for a lemon, and throw out the decidedly shriveled one in the fridge. Just enough thought required. The brain occupied, but not challenged in any real sense.

This is the best way to get through these days, she knows. Stay active. But not too active. Stay busy. But not frenetic. She is familiar with the routine. George Cooperman, old friend, lover too, isn't her first loss. Not by any means. This isn't even the first time she's lost George Cooperman, though now, of course, he can't come back. Still, she well understands that grief must take her as its plaything for a while-like a kitten with a mouse. A hopeless matchup.

Clara Feinberg doesn't believe in G.o.d; she never has. She believes in time. Omnipotent, surely. Friend and foe both, as deities of all religions seem to be. Determining everything about one's life, from the sudden absence of a man like George to the expiration date on a jar of mayonnaise. For now, time will be an ally of a kind, she knows. At the very least, it will soon take care of this sense of disbelief, this punch to the gut when she thinks of George and remembers again that he's died. Given time, she knows, that will fade. A day, a day, another day, another day, and soon, she'll be used to the idea. She won't like it, but at least she will know it without having to keep remembering again.

She slices the sandwich from corner to corner, and corner to corner again, four triangles on the plate; then she brings it into the other room, over to the window, and she stares outside. Snow is falling, the first snowfall of the season, not yet sticking on the ground. It isn't quite dark, but it will be soon.

She's always loved this time of day. George also loved this time of day. Some of their best hours together had been pa.s.sed sitting in this room, her living room, both of them reading, waiting for the sun to drop from view, the daylight to fade, staying there, in that early darkness together, not switching on a lamp, not yet. Tacitly agreeing to fight the evening off. Fight every ending off. Live within all transitions for every possible second. But then, as true darkness fell, they would be forced to look up from their books, forced into conversation, into each other's company.

It had all been a great big tease, she understands now. Fighting off the moment of conversation had been like fighting off an o.r.g.a.s.m, the delay designed to increase the pleasure.

A streetlight comes on. Clara waits to see how long it will take another to join it. A minute pa.s.ses, two minutes. Nothing. They must have different levels of sensitivity, she thinks. They must believe different things about what darkness is.

When she leans back against the window gla.s.s, she feels the cold there and also the heat of the radiator below, on her thighs, on her rear. At this moment, there is a perfect absence of consensus in the world. The streetlights busily debating among themselves over definitions of night and day, while these parts of her own home argue over whether she should be warmed or chilled.

It's close to ludicrous, of course. Imagining things things in conversation. in conversation.

Things having arguments. But it's true that she sees the world around her as animated-spirited. Nothing truly dead. Nothing truly dead, except the dead.

[image]

ARGUABLY, IT BEGAN when Clara kept the Coopermans in the divorce. The house, the car, the dog, the children-for the most part-and the Coopermans, who said there was no real decision to be made. Not after what Harold had done to her. He was no great loss to them. when Clara kept the Coopermans in the divorce. The house, the car, the dog, the children-for the most part-and the Coopermans, who said there was no real decision to be made. Not after what Harold had done to her. He was no great loss to them.

Janet had been particularly vehement on the subject. She called him a cad and a scoundrel and a bounder. She swore that she would never speak to him again, unless of course it was to tell him what she thought. Clara, listening in their living room, sipping none too judiciously at her scotch, had found herself irritated by the vocabulary with which Janet dispensed her loyalty. Janet sounded to her as though she had stepped out of some drawing room comedy.

Harold was not a bounder bounder. Harold was not a cad cad.

"He's an a.s.shole," Clara said. "He's a p.r.i.c.k."

It had felt important to her at the time. This wasn't some dinner-theater Noel Coward production, for G.o.d's sake; this was her actual life. It deserved a coa.r.s.e kind of discourse to match the coa.r.s.eness of events. "He f.u.c.ked all those other women," she said. "f.u.c.ked them for years and is f.u.c.king them still. And not just strangers, but women I know. He's a s.h.i.+t."

It was only a small annoyance, but it heralded more to come. Maybe it was inevitable, Janet still living the life that the four of them had shared. Married, with children. Married to George. Stability personified, George. No shattered hearts to sweep up and throw away in the Cooperman home.

[image]

WEDNESDAY MORNING, the Parkers arrive on time, and without Clara having to prompt her, Katherine Parker volunteers a hesitant "Well, I suppose I have to go." She'll be just down the street, she says. She'll shop a bit. She may have some coffee. She'll be back in two hours. She looks at her small silver watch more than once. She blinks toward her husband, and then at Clara. She lists a few more things she may do during this time. She finally leaves. the Parkers arrive on time, and without Clara having to prompt her, Katherine Parker volunteers a hesitant "Well, I suppose I have to go." She'll be just down the street, she says. She'll shop a bit. She may have some coffee. She'll be back in two hours. She looks at her small silver watch more than once. She blinks toward her husband, and then at Clara. She lists a few more things she may do during this time. She finally leaves.

It's now time to get to work.

Clara has already decided that she'll be d.a.m.ned if she's going to try to make John Parker speak. If it's his habit to be silent, she'll paint him silent, then. And she'll even view his silence as a relief. It's often the most trying part of her profession-the chatter, as she thinks of it. Portraitists and hairdressers, both are expected to talk about irrelevancies when they should be concentrating.

In thirty years of doing this, Clara has not befriended a single subject. Not really. Nor has she painted her own family or friends. She never drew George, much less attempted a full portrait-not even a sketch, for which she's now glad. She never drew him and she has no photographs of him, and the degree to which he exists only in her memories comforts her. Nothing left of their history, outside herself.

In the studio, she seats John Parker on the red velvet armchair. "I'll just be sketching odds and ends," she says. "You don't have to sit still. Not today. I may take some photographs as well."

His hands are resting on the arms of the chair, loose, not gripping. And his head is turned away, so she sees him from a three-quarter view. Clara spends some time, fifteen minutes or so, trying to understand the nature of the line that runs from his jaw down his neck, across his shoulder, and then through his left arm. It's oddly difficult. There's a sense of elongation to him that she hadn't noticed on Monday, and it's hard to capture without exaggerating it.

"The woman who brought me here... ?"

It startles her. He's still looking away.

"Yes. Your wife."

"Yes. My wife," he says. "That's right. We've been married more than fifty years." Clara waits to hear more, but nothing comes. He s.h.i.+fts slightly, so that one hand falls away from the chair arm. After a moment, she gives up on the exchange and decides to start acquainting herself with his face. The smooth skin, the pointy chin. A small, round nose.

The word isn't dull dull.