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Nan Leslie
reads
Posturing
in Real Audio format.
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Along the cliffs of Acadia, on any given summer evening, mist
seeps in off the ocean and the world becomes ash and cool and calm but for the beating
surf against the island. Pine permeates the air, scrub brush and violin players sit side by side, an event
orchestrated by my husband, whose great passion lies between us febrile, dipping his third cup into the punch bowl, a whitewash for
the landscape. His newest design appears to sprout from the craggy earth, a study in minimalism crossed with shadings of
Belluschi: the fieldstone walls, the copper roof. We are surrounded by colleagues—his—for I do not have any, nor wish to, and I hear a metronome ticking, pacing the words that fall from
their mouths in weighty paragraphs, most evoking intelligent thought, even if they are, like him, driven. A fork tune vibrates,
cutting off the Professor before he can close his point. A throat clears, and Frank begins, “Thank you all for coming.
Virginia and I (with this he encircles my waist in a show of unison) are happy to be settled
in our home. A toast. The vision has become reality.”
“Where do you get your inspiration?” questions the wife of
the Professor, leading my husband off to some quiet corner where he can pontificate on the art of architecture to his heart's desire,
greatly pleased with his ability to still, after all these years, capture the ear of an
attractive woman.
The vision. For all the years I yearned and saved and
yearned, I am empty. It is magnificent: our home, our little piece of mutual fund
paradise; it is all, even more, than I visualized. But now that I stand on polished white oak floors and feel the quiet
simplicity of my surroundings, I want to run into the forest that surrounds us, lie down on a bed of pine needles and gaze up at
the star lit sky that here, on the island, burns brighter than the sun.
“Dodging your guests?” Miles’s voice is not accusatory. He
begins as he always does, with a verbal Ping Pong game that we will fall into
naturally, as if the distance between us had never happened. I watch him enter the house. Of course he’s changed: a
poet’s face, filled with new creases, his hair thinned to a cap of silver-streaked lemon, unsettling me like the first cold front that
blows down from the North, though the air today is gentle.
“Hello again.” I manage a smile and hold out both my hands,
turn my cheek to be kissed.
“How long has it been?” He looks hesitant, as if his coming
here might be a mistake.
“Twenty years, at least.”
“The last time I saw you, you were up to your ankles in mud.
The garden. Remember?”
“The last time I saw you, you were building an empire. Have
you?”
“A small one, I think. You're still so beautiful.”
“For an older woman.”
“Come sit by me. I want to hear all your news.”
“I’d rather walk.”
We walk the path that follows the cliffs. The Atlantic froths at its crest, pounding giant rock formations and leaving smooth
egg-shaped stones the color of clay canyons on the beach. Under the water they gleam with iron ores, but once dry, they become
ordinary, like the millions of others that line the shore.
“How have you
been—really?” he asks, linking his arm to
mine.
“Why?”
“Because two decades later it appears we’re exactly where
we left off—only older. How are the kids?”
“Grown and gone. Jackie’s a nurse practitioner and
Jason—well—Jason is Jason.”
“He never came back?”
“No. He sends us postcards, letters. His missionary work
takes him up into the mountains of Santo Domingo. He says he’s happy.”
“How did Frank handle it?”
“Like he always does. He blames me. How about you? Did
you marry?”
“Once. Briefly. No children.”
“Oh, Miles. You always said you would have a bunch.”
“Only with the right woman.”
He stares into my eyes until they mist, and I think of some
visceral place, some unknown corner where men speak with God, and I wait to be
fulfilled. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“I almost didn’t. In my mind you were still...” He takes out his
wallet and shows me a picture, creased at the corners. I barely recognize myself. Was I ever that happy? “Did we do the right
thing?”
“I don't know. The reason you gave me then doesn’t seem to
matter much anymore. Children grow up, go on with their own lives, despite what we may
or may not choose for ourselves.”
I nod, but I’m thinking there’s something sad about a
vulnerable woman. I find a flat boulder and lie back resting on my elbows. He follows, lying
on his side, and I don’t have to look hard to see what it is I want most, and I want to laugh at the
uncertainty of life.
“It’s not too late,” he leans in to me with the familiar,
comforting smell of pipe tobacco and mint, fingering my hair.
“It is.” I try to sit up, but he holds me down with his hands
planted firmly on my shoulders.
“Let me ask you something. Why are you still here?”
“It’s where I live.”
“Yes, but why are you still with him?”
“Why does anyone stay? I’m comfortable with my life.”
“Liar. You’ve given up wanting. You’re settling for what’s
left.”
“We’d better head back. We’ll be missed.” I stand up and
this time he doesn’t object. We walk side by side, our shoulders touching, his step slowed to match mine, and I know that night I
will dream. I will close my eyes and fall into a vacuum, hear his voice hushed in the split-second before awakening, a sudden
aching, obe d’amore.
We climb the steps that lead from a cliff walk to the patio,
and with each step I feel like I’m falling backwards. The guests have already formed
little cliques. College professors to the left, successful capitalists to the right. They nod politely at our
approach, toss small-talk in my direction as I head for the bar and the bottle of Absolut that will set fire to my nerves.
My husband draws me back to the present, his hands
touching my bare arm. Soft baby hands. They are his and now they are mine. My burden to keep. “Share a bottle with me.” He
pops open yet another bottle of Brut to celebrate our success. “The party’s going well, I think. Must be trying for you: all these
business associates, clients. I know how you hate these things.” He whispers the last part in my ear, finishing with a kiss to my ear
lobe. He looks as though he’s having a good time. His dress shirt is open at the neck, crumbs dot his cashmere sweater; his face is
set to a grin, designed to make me comfortable. How strange I must look, outfitted in my gypsy
skirt and pheasant blouse, ears of corn embroidered at the sleeves by an Indian woman I met at the
annual Schemitzun Festival of the Manshantucket Pequot Tribal Nation. Frank waits for an introduction.
“Miles, my husband, Frank. Miles and I took a life drawing
class together years ago.” A long breath escapes me.
Frank looks puzzled, as if a long lost friend has materialized
out of nowhere. I down my drink in one long swallow and excuse myself to find
another. At the bar I watch them together: Frank so sure of himself—Miles, self-deprecating with a dry sense of humor
that takes time to interpret. They maneuver for position when I return. One on either side.
“So, are you an artist?” Frank gives Miles polite but
unimportant treatment.
“No, thank God. The world has enough artists.” Frank
agrees.
I want to say something to stop them, but I’m frozen. They
don’t belong together.
“I’m a businessman. I own an insurance company,” Miles
offers.
“Insurance.” Frank frowns.
“Underwriters. We insure professionals. Architects, for
example.” Miles says this with a poker face, but I know he’s baiting Frank.
I jump in before things get uncomfortable. Frank won’t get
the joke. It’s not his brand. “Stop your teasing. Miles is in automobile
insurance—high risk.”
“The money’s good if you can collect.” He tries again to
reach Frank, but he’s already shifted his attention to a structural engineer.
“Nice to meet you,” Frank shakes his hand once more and
heads over to the more important guest. I breathe a sigh of relief, though so much time
has passed, it seems silly. The men in my life, the one that stayed and the one that left. The physical pain of
being: defined by that lump at the back of the throat, the burning that follows, the broken rib that protects the heart.
The party is winding down. The buffet table is bare, except
for a stray olive. The guests are flushed in the face, talking at a high pitch. Dozens
of scented candles are burning the last of their fuel and I have managed to set fire to my nerves. I search out
Miles and find him in the back yard that overlooks the ocean, moon half-full, mist rising up from Lower Beach, the crash of the
rollers.
“Avoiding the guests?” I ask.
“They all seem to be your husband’s friends.”
“It’s true. I don't like parties.”
“I’m glad I came.”
“What will you do now? Will you sell the business?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. It’s time.”
“I’m not like you, always substituting.”
He pulls me to him, a proper good-bye hug, but I know it is
much more.
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