Another Marvelous Thing Read Free

original word for everyone. She is methodical, hardworking, and does not fall asleep in restaurants. How I contrast to Grey is another matter, a matter about which I know nothing. I am considerably older and perhaps I appeal to some father longing in my mistress. Billy says Grey is a genius—a thrilling quality but not one that has any real relevance to life with another person. He wishes, according to his wife, that he were the conductor of a symphony orchestra and for this reason he is given musical scores, tickets, and batons for his birthday. He has studied Russian and can sing Russian songs. He is passionately interested in the natural sciences and also wishes he were a forest ranger.
    â€œHe sounds so charming,” I say, “that I can’t imagine why you would want to know someone like me.” Billy’s response to this is pure silence.
    I hunt for signs of him on Billy—jewelry, marks, phrases. I know that he reads astronomy books for pleasure, enjoys crosscountry skiing, and likes to travel. Billy says she loves him, but she also says she loves to read the works of Cardinal Aidan Gasquet, the historian of monastic life.
    â€œIf you love him so much,” I say, taking a page from her book, “why are you hanging around with me?”
    â€œHanging around,” repeats Billy in a bored monotone.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI am large and contain multitudes,” she says, quoting a line from Walt Whitman.
    This particular conversation took place en route to a cottage in Vermont which I had rented for five days when both Grey and Vera happened to be out of town at the same time on business.
    I remember clearly with what happy anticipation I presented the idea of this cottage to her.
    â€œGuess what?” I said.
    â€œYou’re pregnant,” said Billy.
    â€œI have rented a little cottage for us, in Vermont. For a week when Grey and Vera are away on their long trips. We can go there and watch the leaves turn.”
    â€œThe leaves have already turned and fallen off,” said Billy faintly. She looked away and didn’t speak for some time.
    â€œWe don’t have to go, Billy,” I said. “I only sent the check yesterday. I can cancel it.”
    There appeared to be tears in my mistress’ eyes.
    â€œNo,” she said. “Don’t do that. I’ll split it with you.”
    â€œYou don’t seem pleased,” I said.
    â€œBeing pleased doesn’t strike me as the appropriate response to the idea of sneaking off to a love nest with your lover,” said Billy.
    â€œWhat is the appropriate response?” I said.
    â€œOh,” Billy said, her voice now blithe, “sorrow, guilt, horror, anticipation.”
    Well, she can run but she can’t hide. My mistress is given away from time to time by her own expressions. No matter how hard she tries to suppress the visible evidence of what she feels, she is not always successful. Her eyes turn color, becoming dark and rather smoky. This is as good as a plain declaration of love. Billy’s mental life, her grumpiness, her irritability, her crotchets are like static that, from time to time, give way to a clear signal, just as you often hit a pure band of music on a car radio after turning the dial through a lot of chaotic squawk.
    In French movies of a certain period, the lovers are seen leaving the woman’s apartment or house. His car is parked on an attractive side street. She is carrying a leather valise and is wearing a silk scarf around her neck. He is carrying the wicker basket she has packed with their picnic lunch. They will have the sort of food lovers have for lunch in these movies: a roasted chicken, a bottle of champagne, and a goat cheese wrapped up in leaves. Needless to say, when Billy and I finally left to go to bur love nest, no such sight presented itself to me. First of all, she met me around the corner from my garage after a number of squabbles about whose car to take.