“Did I?”
“Didn’t you? Everyone who straight out of college took a money job, you were mad at all of them.”
“God, I was insufferable about it.”
“It just wasn’t what you wanted.”
“No, I had big unrealistic and delusional dreams. Shakespeare and Chekhov.”
“I should never have said that.”
“I said worse things, Kyle. About you and God, your boyfriend God. How are things with God?”
“He’s fine.”
“Tell him I need a job. Or if he could just send cash, that would do.” This admission seemed to cost her. She dipped her head, continuing her search for stray bottles behind the bed.
“I’ll do that.”
“Your wife seems nice,” she said, abrupt.
He felt an interior panic rise up and threaten to annihilate him. She was right to mention Van. But it left him adrift, two selves. He turned and looked at the door, knowing he should go now, before he broke down in front of her, or before he evaporated entirely. Those were the choices, as far as he understood them. He needed to leave.
For once Alison misunderstood; she seemed to feel that she had crossed a line and needed to make amends. She put her hand up, palm forward, which she meant as an apology, or a request, but which momentarily seemed to imbue her with a mythic grace.
“No, come on, Kyle, don’t go away,” she said. “I just meant . . . well, you love her, right?”
“Of course I love her.”
“That’s great, then.”
“Yes, it is.”
She cringed. That judgmental harshness had reappeared in his tone. But there was no way to apologize for it without taking back the certainty of his declaration of love for Van. “She’s great. She’s incredible. She has a terrific job at a firm downtown. What she really wants to do is public advocacy, but she needs litigation experience first.”
“So she’s a lawyer?”
“A litigator. That is, yes, she’s a junior associate.” God, had he just repeated himself? This whole situation was intolerable. Why had he come up here?
“You’re still going to Ecuador, though? Or Honduras? I can’t remember. Someplace where you could get away with pidgin Spanish. That’s what you said, after you had to give up on the Navajo Nation because the language was so hard. Remember? All we could ever figure out how to say was ‘I love you.’” She had meant that one to come out lightly. When it didn’t, she flailed. “Anyway . . .”
A bolt of rage sliced through him. Whatever he was doing, or not doing, with his life was none of her business anymore; she was in no position to question his choices, or speak to him about his dreams. She rejected those dreams long ago by insisting that her own dreams would be paramount for her. Acting! The most self-indulgent, narcissistic choice imaginable for someone with her strength of mind and will. She was built for a life of service. But she wanted to be an actor, as if that would be God’s choice for anyone. Acting. On television.
“Kyle? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You just kind of went away there.”
“No. I’m here.” And now he was ashamed of himself, still judging her choices like this. He had no right. But it was impossible to apologize for something he hadn’t even said. Their lives were so divided, there wasn’t even air between them. She was watching him, her eyes alert, curious. She nodded with that new sadness.
“Well. I hope you do go to South America. Or the Navajo Nation. Wherever. I thought that was a great idea.”
Alison pushed the empty wine bottles onto the top of a bookshelf under the back window. It was only five or six feet away, but it struck him like a blow. This short interview was ending.
“Alison.”
She was crying, and trying not to; she had turned away from him specifically so that he couldn’t see it. But she caught herself with a stern little shake and cut him off. “Anyway, I’m glad that I got to see you, because I do want to say that I’m really happy for you,” she announced. “That it’s all working out for you.” She stopped talking and didn’t try again. The silence which rose between them and filled this foreign bedroom could not have been more complete.
Kyle glanced over at the open doorway. With one fluid gesture he pivoted on his right foot, reached for the door, closed it, and locked it.
Alison lifted her head, startled by the swish of the closing door, or perhaps the tiny ping of the lock falling into place. Kyle looked at her. Her mouth parted open, then closed. She looked down, and ran her right hand along the edge of the bookshelf, a delicate move, no move at all really, except in its direction, which was toward him. He waited. He knew her, still; he knew that she was not going to be able to stand this as long as he could. It had been their pattern for six years.