All of that is the past, Joan thinks, now that it is late spring, Memorial Day weekend. On Tuesday, she will call Volkmann, tell her about Words, send her the book. There, on the limestone island, is the copy for Volkmann, and in a box tied with a red ribbon, the copy she will give Martin tonight at the dinner she planned, reservations at eight. He will have questions when she tells him about the book’s existence: when did she write it, why did she keep it a secret, why didn’t she send it to Volkmann immediately when she finished. Those questions, and more, each resisting the simple answers he prefers, each answer containing a universe of truths, like a pea, next to another pea, next to another pea, in a pod.
She will not blame Martin, though she will want to, and has in the past. There is nothing now to gain by stating explicitly she wrote secretly because he had invaded her privacy, because her daily life had been a thick vine wrapped around her neck, that she had not sent the book to Volkmann because one of them needed to be the responsible, stalwart parent. It hadn’t worked perfectly, but at least Eric made it through the worst, is safe.
She will not describe again to Martin how punishing these past seven years have been, how angry she still is that she shouldered the bulk of the emotional burden, that he refused to give credence to her warnings. She has yelled enough about all of that.
She will say to Martin that it seems the right time for her to return to the life she had when they met: Eric may be only five months past his attempted self-destruction, but based on his emails from India, it seems as if he has found a better path for himself, even if it is not a path Martin likes; and Daniel, he’s happy working on some mysterious project he refuses to discuss, but tired perhaps, something she hears in the tone of his voice; and Martin himself is reducing his surgical travels, finding new interests—the cycling, the cooking—so it’s her turn now.
She will keep to herself her own astonishment that the memories of these seven years are beginning to fade, that the human mind can cauterize the misery, allow a strong woman to pick back up where she was, to recover her inherent power, unleash her personal intention, grab at what she wants, now that she is again free.
24
Barefoot on their front walk, amidst all the blooms, Joan watches Martin as he drives past and waves to her, his sleek black bike attached to the trunk of his sleek black car. He gives a last honk, then crests the hill, and disappears from her sight.
He is headed out again to cycle with the men of Men on Bicycles, his new pals who throw their middle-aged fists into the air to prove they are still adventurous and dynamic, eons away from loosening their hold on the spoils and mercies of life, insisting that they, and their cycling, be viewed with appropriate gravity. They biked seventy-five miles yesterday in the holiday heat. Their goal this Memorial Day Monday is eighty miles. He has told her he might not be home until dark.
It is only seven, already sunny, sure to be hot. She walks through the gardens, headed down to the lap pool in the glen. She pulls off her shirt, steps out of her shorts, and dives in. Easy music on her waterproofed iPod for her first warm-up laps, sunlight glittering when she breaks through the water. The next song is raucous and pounding, and she thinks of Martin in his car, the windows rolled down, his own music at a shattering decibel, the hour drive to meet his cohorts, anticipating the challenge of the steep hills MOB is going to climb today. Then she is slicing through the water, feeling herself moving at an inhuman speed, wondering whether, from above, it might look as if she is merely ambling along.
She tries losing herself in the physical exertion, in the music, but she keeps thinking how Martin did not ask the hard questions she was expecting last night at dinner, after he heard her confession; how he did not interpret her secrecy in writing the book as nefarious, did not ask her to explain how she engaged in such a substantial undertaking for nine years without breathing a word. She would have absolutely asked him those questions, and more, if the situation had been reversed, would have wondered what it said about their marriage if she found he had kept such a secret from her. Instead, he ordered a very fine Malbec from the sommelier, and after asking, “Did you really write the novel on your antiquated typewriter?” said he thought the gardening shed was a perfect office for her, that he was going to buy her a new laptop and printer, and get her one of those small speakers she could plug in, listen to music when she wanted.
She swims for nearly an hour, then stretches out on a chaise. The stalks of maiden grass she planted when the pool was built have grown tall, stand proud and silvery in the morning sun, making the glen feel enchanted, as if this is a place where fairies or sprites might reside once again. She revels in the heat, in her nakedness, in the future that awaits, but when she closes her eyes, she sees herself last night in the restaurant, setting down the red-bowed box in front of Martin, hears again what he said: “I’m here for you. I’ll do anything you need me to do.” And Joan remembers what she thought, her instantaneous and unspoken response: Where were you the last seven years? I don’t need you now, not for this, this is mine.
25
She is dreaming about a middle-aged man who never married, whose last sexual congress was back when he still had hair. He is ferrying his elderly mother somewhere, and although he is a good driver, he can see his speed worries her, the way she braces herself against the door, communicating her displeasure, her wish that he slow down. She fiddles with the air vents because the car is too cold for her taste. Little puffs of exasperation from her tight mouth, her tics and sighs impossible to ignore, but he refuses to look over. He is thinking pills or poison most likely; he doesn’t want blood, and as much as he wants her gone, he does not need her to struggle. Disposing of her body will be the tricky part, and his daydream, on this quiet back road, is interrupted by a brace of luxury cars, empty and parked in a field. Where are the people who drove all the way out here? Then he sees, up ahead, a flock of cyclists in their bright electric plumage. He passes carefully as his shrunken mother says, “Look at all those stupid peacocks,” and he instantly wants her buried in unyielding ground, not even a tombstone atop her grave, and he, free of his filial obligations, astride one of those bikes, his stomach toned, his legs ropy with muscles, wearing the tight shorts and the helmet, joined in fraternal goodwill, connected by the shared act of biking in unison, flying over the road with men he could call his friends. When the cyclists fade from his rearview mirror, he thinks that out here, still far from town, from civilization, this might be the place to do the deed, wonders whether he would be able to handle the sloppy, guilty aftermath, if, by any chance, there might be a shovel in the trunk of his car.