“Oh.”
The tale played out to the syncopated rhythms of the jazz ensemble, in between songs, and later on the Metro home. Not that I wanted the details, but my questions enabled her to sketch out an outline, and the matter over, he was never mentioned again. They had met in grad school at RISD, and apparently this Matthew was touched by the gods, some kind of creative genius, the most brilliant architect ever, and the first love of her life. They moved in together, made plans, but they were just a couple of kids. Months go by, and she told me that he wigs out for some reason and just leaves, and a long time goes by before Sita gets over him. I was surprised that she was bringing up this old flame to Sam at my funeral.
The cat rose to his feet and hissed indignantly. “You’ve no room to talk, mate. Considering your own checkered past these many centuries.”
“True, but still. Some decorum after all. The flowers haven’t yet begun to wilt, and the guests are still attacking the canapés downstairs.”
“You fink you’re the only one wif a broken heart?” Harpo turned his back to me and lay down in the striped sunshine.
Matthew was an architect, like Jack, but there the similarity ends. Where Jack was a dreamer, Matthew was a doer. He had a harder edge, more competitive, downright vicious at times, but he was head of the class, bound for glory at one of the big design firms in New York. We hooked up that first semester and moved in together that first year of school. I loved his manic energy and single-mindedness, and everything started out exciting and dangerous. And Matthew was a creative genius, but some demons often live side by side in such people. His was jealousy. The last few months he grew paranoid about everything I did. One of my partners in a collaborative project was just a nice, friendly boy, and we spent a lot of time together working on a design for a new model for public housing, but Matthew accused me of actually sleeping with this harmless boy, which was ridiculous, and despite my protests, he never truly believed my innocence. I would never do such a thing. And then one night, over the same old argument, Matthew hit me. “Tell me the truth,” he said, and I said, “But it’s only you,” and he hit me with the back of his hand. Have you ever been struck by someone you loved? There was the pain—yes, he drew blood from my lip—but the shock reverberated down to my soul. And the absurdity of the moment, all this because he chose not to trust me. He struck me just once, but that was the end. Somehow I finished up the semester, but that May I packed up all my things and went back to my parents in Chicago.
At first I thought of just going home for the summer. Take some time off and mend. Get over the heartbreak of losing my first love. And what could be safer, more natural than home, for my parents to take care of me while I do nothing, like when I was a child? Do you know your brother’s favorite, Bachelard? Somewhere he writes, “All the summers of our childhood bear witness to ‘the eternal summer.’ ” That’s what I longed for, what I needed. Another June, another eternal summer stretching out before me and a chance to recover. Centuries of June, life by life, bring the promise of another beginning.
But it did not turn out the way I had planned. Oh, my parents were extraordinary, just angels, really. They understood my anguish and allowed me this retreat, and for the first few weeks, everything was more or less fine. I would take a book and lie in the sun all afternoon, often as not falling asleep rather than reading. And that after lying in all morning long, waking late, and wandering around the old house like a zombie in pajamas. And then after doing nothing more strenuous than sunbathing, I would go to bed early, say nine o’clock, and sleep again for twelve or fourteen hours. My little sibs left me alone, went to their summer jobs, out to movies and so on, and they tried, too, to get some life into me, but I turned down all their offers for a night out. I was just so tired all of the time.