The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides [115]
Sophomore year is a long time ago now. It’s the eighties. The trees along the Hudson are green and leafy and I feel about a hundred years older. You aren’t the boy I rode this train with, Mitchell. I don’t have to feel sorry for you anymore, or go to bed with you out of affection and pity. You’re going to do all right for yourself. In fact, I need to be wary of you now. You were rather aggressive last night. Jane Austen might say “importunate.” I told you not to kiss me, but you went right on doing it. And even though, once it got going, I didn’t exactly complain (I was drunk!), I woke up this morning, at Kelly’s, feeling so guilty and confused that I decided I had to write you right away.
(The train is shaking. I hope you can read this.)
I have a boyfriend, Mitchell. I’m serious about him. I didn’t want to talk about my boyfriend last night because you always get mad when I do, and because, to be honest, I came down to the city to forget about my boyfriend for a few days. Leonard and I have been having problems lately. I can’t go into why. But it’s been hard on him, hard on me, and hard on our relationship. Anyway, if I wasn’t going out of my mind, I wouldn’t have drunk so much last night and I wouldn’t have ended up kissing you. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have wanted to. Just that I wouldn’t have done it.
It’s strange, though, because right now, part of me wants to get off at the next station and go back to New York and find you. But it’s too late for that. Your plane has probably taken off. You’re on your way to India.
Which is a good thing. Because it didn’t work out! You didn’t become the friend who wasn’t a girlfriend or a boyfriend. You became just another importunate male. So what I’m doing in this letter is proactively breaking up with you. Our relationship has always defied categorization, so I guess it makes sense if this letter does too.
Dear Mitchell,
I don’t want to see you anymore (even though we haven’t been seeing each other).
I want to start seeing other people (even though I’m already seeing someone).
I need some time for myself (even though you haven’t been taking up my time).
Okay? Do you get it now? I’m desperate. I’m taking desperate measures.
I expect to be heartbroken, not having you in my life. But I’m already confused enough about my life and my relationship without you confusing me more. I want to break up with you, as hard as that may be—and as stupid as it may sound. I’ve always been a sane person. Right now, I feel like I’m falling apart.
Have a great amazing incredible time on your trip. See all the places and sights you wanted to, have all the experiences you’re seeking. Maybe someday, at our 50th college reunion, you’ll see a wrinkled old lady come up to you with a smile, and that will be me. Maybe then you can tell me about all the things you saw in India.
Take care,
Maddy
P.S. Sept. 27
I’ve been carrying this letter around for almost a month, contemplating whether to send it or not. And I keep not sending it. I’m on Cape Cod now, up to my ears in biologists, and I may not survive.
P.P.S. Oct. 6
I just got off the phone with your mother. I realized I didn’t have an address for you. Your mother said you were “on the road” and couldn’t be reached but that you would be picking up your mail sometime at AmEx in Athens. She gave me the address. By the way, you should maybe call your parents. Your mother sounds worried.
Okay. I’m sending this.
M.
Somewhere above the taverna’s roof, in the black Greek sky, two thunderheads collided, loosing torrents of rain on the village and turning the sloping streets into waterfalls. Five minutes later, while Mitchell was reading the letter for the second time, the electricity went out.
In the darkness, he lay awake, evaluating the situation. He understood that Madeleine’s letter was a devastating