After a while I laid my head in his lap while he leaned against the tree trunk, read, and stroked my hair. I listened more to the tone of his voice than the actual words. I started to feel like a cat, like I wanted to rub my head against his thigh and stretch and roll in the warmth of the sun. Maybe the wine was getting to me.
“So he spends his entire worthless life searching for V.” Peter flipped the book shut and set it aside.
Usually I loved listening to him talk about books, to hear that crisp analytical tone in his voice as he lectured the class, but the more he’d read of this one, the more depressed he sounded, especially about that weird stalker character. I asked him who V was, to change his focus, and he perked up a little.
“That’s the unsolvable mystery, the unknowable question. Pynchon would never be so prosaic as to attempt to answer it.”
I rubbed my cheek against his pant leg. “Well, I didn’t ask Pynchon. I asked you.”
He was quiet for a minute while his fingers continued to sift through my hair, starting at my scalp and smoothing the strands over his thigh and down to the ground. It was hypnotic, addictive. I wanted to lie in the sun and feel him stroking my hair forever. My eyes drifted closed.
“I should say that I’m not that prosaic either, but it’s irresistible. She haunts you as you read, like a ghost drawing you through each page.” He paused again, hesitating. “When I gave it to you I thought V was you, in about fifty years.”
I laughed. “And you’re the man searching for me?”
“I don’t know. Probably. It doesn’t matter who I am. It’s about you, who you are. I still don’t even know what to call you. All your names. All your identities.”
“It’s just acting, Peter.”
“No, it’s not. A person’s actions dictate who they are. You can’t be a Democrat if you vote Republican. You can’t call yourself a vegetarian if you eat steak. And your actions, they don’t add up to one single person. I watch you, Hattie. You gossip with Portia before class, egging on all her ridiculous ideas, feeding her one bullshit line after another. You let Tommy paw you in the middle of the cafeteria while you blush and giggle. You play teacher’s pet with every single staff member I’ve talked with and they all think you’re going to major in their field. And I can’t find one hint that any of it bothers you. You say you’re just acting, but you’re fracturing yourself into a thousand pieces, and every time I see another piece, you’re gone again. You turn into someone else, a crowd of someone elses, and it makes me wonder if there’s any such thing as Hattie Hoffman. I could have hallucinated this whole affair.”
He laughed bitterly. With my eyes still closed, I reached a hand up and drew my finger along the inseam of his pants until I reached the center.
“Do you think you’re hallucinating right now?” I brushed my fingers back and forth until I felt his body respond.
“Hattie . . .” His voice sounded strangled.
“Would you like to hallucinate some more?” I reached for his pants buttons, and he grabbed my hand.
“Stop it.”
I sat up, annoyed. If I had done that to Tommy, he would have forgotten his own name, let alone any question he might have had about mine.
“What’s your problem, Peter? Why did you even want to see me today?” I demanded.
“You like it, don’t you? You like manipulating people. Does it make you happy to have Tommy panting after you? To have Portia mimicking you like some brainless clone?”
“No. That’s not how it is.”
“The first time I met you, you told me you drop an alias whenever it stops being fun. Do you have fun knowing what you’ve turned me into? I loathe myself every time I think about us.”
“I don’t want you to feel that way.”
“Said the actress.”
“I don’t like it, okay?” I shouted, then dropped my head and breathed for a second. “I used to. I used to love it, but now I just feel trapped. There’s no person, no character I can put on that takes away this empty feeling in my gut when I’m not with you. I hate it. I hate that I can’t escape it, I can’t act it away. And I go through every day miserable because all I really want is . . .”
I faltered. It wasn’t time to tell him yet.
“What? What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“God, you’re such a teacher.” I turned away from him, unbelievably frustrated. Today wasn’t going at all how I imagined. We should have been wrapped up in this quilt together, laughing, kissing, enjoying every stolen moment. Psychoanalysis should have been the last thing on his mind.
“You want to name everything, to analyze it and shove it into a little box in your head next to a million other boxes just like it. Labels and dates and a neat little synopsis for each one. Fine. I’ve got a synopsis for you. You want to know who I am? You want me to tell you something else that’s true?”
My heart was racing all of a sudden. This wasn’t the plan, but I could feel the words bubbling up in my throat. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I spun back around and gripped his hand, clinging to it, hoping and dreading what was going to happen next.