The weight of water - Anita Shreve [10]
I went to the bar and ordered a Rolling Rock. I was lightheaded and hollow-stomached from not having eaten anything. It seemed that every time I had thought of eating that day, I had been called to yet another assignment. I leaned against the bar and studied the menu. I was aware that Thomas was standing next to me.
“I liked your reading,” I said.
He glanced briefly at me. “Thank you,” he said quickly, in the way of a man who has no skill with compliments.
“The poem you read. It was very strong.”
His eyes flickered over my face. “It’s old work,” he said.
The barman brought my Rolling Rock, and I paid for the beer. Thomas picked up his glass, leaving a wet circle on the highly varnished surface of the bar. He took a long swallow and set the glass back down.
“This is a reading?” I asked.
“Tuesday night. Poet’s night.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You’re not alone.”
I tried to signal to the barman, so that I could order a snack.
“Thomas Janes,” he said, holding out his hand. I noticed the fingers, long and strong and pale.
He must have seen the confusion on my face.
He smiled. “No, you’ve never heard of me,” he said.
“I don’t know poetry very well,” I said lamely.
“No apologies.”
He had on a white shirt and a complicated cable-knit sweater. Dress slacks. Gray. A pair of boots. I told him my name and that I was a photographer for the Globe.
“How did you become a photographer?”
“I saw a show of AP photos once. I left the show and went out and bought a camera.”
“The baby falling from the third-story window.”
“Something like that.”
“And you’ve been taking pictures ever since.”
“It helped to put me through school.”
“You’ve seen a lot of terrible things.”
“Some. But I’ve seen wonderful things, too. I once caught the moment that a father lay down on the ice and pulled his son from a fish hole. You can see the clasped arms of the boy and the man, and the two faces with their eyes locked.”
“Where was this?”
“In Woburn.”
“It sounds familiar. Could I have seen it?”
“Possibly. The Globe bought it.”
He nodded slowly and took a long swallow of his drink. “Actually, it’s much the same, what you and I are doing,” he said.
“And what would that be?”
“Trying to stop time.”
The barman beckoned to Thomas, and he walked to a small platform at one end of the room. He leaned on a podium. The audience, to my surprise, grew quiet. There was not even the chink of glasses. Thomas pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers and said he wanted to read something he had written just that day. There were words that stayed with me: Wainscot and redolent and core-stung.
Later there were a great many glasses on the table, mugs of cut glass that refracted the dregs. There seemed to be endless circles of liquid oak. I thought that nearly half the people in the bar had come to the table to buy Thomas a drink. Thomas drank too much. I could see that even then. He stood and swayed a bit and held the table. I touched him on the elbow. He had no shame in his drunkenness. He asked me if I would help him get to his car. Already I knew that I would have to drive him home.
A sink with a rusty stain leaned along one wall. A small bed that sagged and was covered with a beige blanket stood in the center. Thomas lay on his back on the bed, which was too short for him. I removed his boots and sat on a chair by the desk. Thomas’s feet were white and smooth. His stomach was concave and made a slight hollow under his belt. One of the legs of his trousers had ridden up to expose an inch of skin above his sock. I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
When I knew that he was asleep, I slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and removed the folded piece of paper. I took it to the window, where there was a slit in the curtain. I read the poem in the street light.
After a time, I put a finger to the skin at his shin. I traced the scar on his face, and he twitched in his sleep. I put my palm on the place where his belly dipped. The heat of his skin through his shirt surprised me, as though