The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [283]
The wall repair took longer than he’d anticipated, and he had to get the shovel and dig up one quite large stone from beside the porch, but finally he stood back and admired his handiwork. “There you go, Bill, my friend,” he said aloud, saluting the air. “Your job done, my job done.” He cleaned some fallen leaves and bits of stick out of the area, stepping carefully around the wall. What had they died of, these four? In those days, people could die from an infected tooth. Dying young was to be expected: young, then, had another meaning.
By the time his daughter had graduated from high school, he hadn’t loved her or his wife for some time. His fingertips scratching beneath Napoleon’s ears now communicated more sincerity than all the kisses he’d planted formally on the cheeks of his wife and daughter. His wife knew that he’d done things automatically, without feeling. “Reading your rhymes like they make order of things,” she’d sneered, as, in her last days, he sat beside her bed reading poems by Yeats, or D. H. Lawrence, poems that rarely rhymed. It was clear where his daughter got her mocking ability. She’d pattern-stepped into bitterness, too. She’d complained about being named for a man (James Joyce), especially for a man whose own daughter had ended up a madwoman. But what ultra-feminine name had she wished they’d given her, what other rose would have gone better with her scuffed work boots and her black-framed glasses? He had no wand of malice; age alone had turned his wife into a failed ballerina, while genetic signals had resulted in her diabetes. He had determined nothing about his daughter’s future by naming her Joyce; it was her own doing that made her what she was. He’d provided well for them, even after he’d stopped loving them. You could will yourself to stop (as he’d done upon hearing the revelations about Matt), or you could stop slowly, point the blades of your skates inward, so to speak, so that coming to a halt was done gracefully, sometimes unnoticed by you or by others. He thought of some lines from Byron:
. . . I seek no sympathies, nor need;
The thorns which I have reap’d are of the tree
I planted: they have torn me, and I bleed:
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
There it was! The thorns and bloodshed were a bit of a cliché, but look at the poet’s real passion. To know something about oneself—that was what caused that pleasurable ache which put one in another state entirely. Too much time was lost trying to figure out other people.
There had been nights in recent years when he had sat awake, a tumbler in his hand filled with chilly Perrier (as a young man, he would have had a glass of brandy), reading to Matt. What did it mean that someone who appreciated poetry also appreciated, sexually, children? Oh, he supposed he knew that humans were “complicated,” that they clung to exteriors, that they instinctively turned away from the illustrations in Gray’s Anatomy, which offered factual information about their inner selves; why did people have no interest in the real coherence of their inner workings, the rhythms of the muscles, the—all right—poetry of the vascular system? He knew that these were the thoughts of a peculiar old man, marginalized and dismissed for years, acerbically pronounced upon by his daughter. Guileless children told the truth? They did, but not so well as poets.
On his way back to the house, he picked up the day’s mail. He found in the pile a newsletter from the A.A.R.P., a packet of coupons, a letter from a local charity, and—he almost dropped the flyer—a grainy photocopied picture:
“MISSING PERSON,” it read, and gave her age as sixteen. Last seen in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He remembered Audrey standing at his door. But could this be the same girl, if she was only sixteen? He held the page farther away, squinting. Audrey’s eyes followed him as if he