By Mark A. Goins
How, you may ask, did I attempt to emulate Henry James with the following story? First of all, I tried to make my hero, Phil, possess many of the some foibles and characteristics of many of the male protagonists in James' stories. Just as Winterbourne fruitlessly and frustratingly pursues Daisy Miller, so does Phil in vain try to construct a life with Vera. Just as Ralph Touchett sees Isabel Archer as something sublime and divine regardless of her actions, so too does Phil view Vera as something artistic or even supernatural. As the reader, we become frustrated with the protagonist's refusal to see what we do, that the relationship and love that Phil fervently desires will never come to fruition.
Also, many of James' male heroes use hyperbole and grand language to describe their beloved, while the reader sees her for all of her weaknesses and excesses, and realizes she is simply a normal human being. Phil in my tale perceives Vera as more than simply flesh and blood, but seems to actually see angelic virtues in her persona. The reader, on the other hand, is able to see Vera as being somewhat self-absorbed and very much unconcerned with how she has hurt, and continues to hurt, her ex-husband Phil.
To give my story a more contemporary setting, I situated my antagonist, Vera, as Phil's ex-wife and not just a former or desired paramour. Divorce is primarily a twentieth century convention, and inserting this into the relationship allows the reader to better understand the emotional stake Phil has in his relationship with Vera. I also have Phil and Vera meet at college, a happenstance that was surely less common in the 19th century than it is today.
Again, please don't confuse my ambition as arrogance. Imitation, or the vain attempt to do so, is the ultimate form of flattery, and that is simply what I am attempting to do here: imitate one of the paragons of American Literature, Henry James.
The knocking at the door jarred Phil from his sleep as he lifted his head from the table and rose precariously from his chair. He vainly brushed his hair down with one hand while rubbing his eyes with the other. He licked his lips, tasting the stale remnants of his last cigarette.
"Hold on," he said to the now returned knocking, " hold on."
Without expectation he moved toward the door, his sleepiness preventing his mind from attempting conclusions. He opened the unlocked door and beheld Vera, standing there with a meek, beautiful look on her face.
"What were you doing, sleeping?" she inquired.
"Sleeping, no, no I wasn't sleeping, I was getting some work done, probably wrapped up in my work and didn't hear you knocking, which you do very well by the way.
Vera removed her coat and hung it over a chair, tacitly changing the agenda of this particular meeting. Vera had always had this ability with Phil. Without a word or motion she could end a conversation or veer to another topic of her choice and Phil was seemingly helpless to prevent it. It frustrated him, but it also increased his respect for her, as a prizefighter gains respect for his opponent after receiving a solid punch.
"Sorry to bother you, but have you seen my earrings, I took them off the other night when I slept here and I want to wear them tonight."
Uh, yeah, I do remember seeing them." Phil walked to the fireplace and from the shelf above grabbed a pink wad of tissue paper containing the earrings, as the receipt from the jewelry store where he had the earrings cleaned furtively drifted to the floor. Phil gave the package an affectionate squeeze, then handed it to Vera.
I'm glad you came for them. You know me, I wouldn't have noticed them and would have accidentally thrown them away," he said feigning nonchalance. Phil was ever like an uncomfortable, fidgety schoolboy around Vera. His attempts at guile were transparent, like a prevaricating child, whose unctuous attempt at insouciance only served to further expose his mendacity.
"I wouldn't normally bother you like this, but I wanted to wear them tonight, they go splendidly with the outfit I've picked out."
"It's no bother at all"…Phil began, than added, "by the way, where is your pumpkin taking you tonight Cinderella." He felt the blood warming his reddening ears, and started to feel the eddy forming around him.
"No big deal, just me and Pete going out to dinner and maybe a few drinks."
"Pete Gooden again huh," he said as he swallowed away a dry spot in his throat, "you two have been spending a lot of time together lately, haven't you."
"Not really", she said obtusely, "we just have a good time together...I guess we're just a good fit."
Vera had not looked directly at Phil since she arrived, looking around the apartment instead, as if scanning for more items she needed to retrieve, completely unaware of the dagger she had just thrown. Phil on the other hand, had not taken his eyes off of her, focusing on her eyes hoping to get a return stare that he refused to realize might never come. He sensed that she was uncomfortable and wondered how this could be after all they had been through together. He was always reluctant around her, at times her presence was downright stultifying. Fate places people together and they live as close as possible, with presumably no aspect of their life unknown to one another. Then, one day it's all over and suddenly disclosure is no more, the sharing is gone, and it seems as if pretending the relationship never happened is the only comfort or means of reparation. How could people who have shared such intimacy act, or actually be, no longer affected by the other's presence? Phil bristled from his weakness and suddenly felt like the only crow frightened by the honking of a passing car's horn. "Thanks again for letting me stay here the other night," she said, fending off further silence, "that storm was a nasty one and I really hate driving in the rain." Phil knew this of course, but if Vera said it to further distance the two of them it had worked. "You known Phil, you didn't have to sleep on the couch, I would have been fine there or even on the floor. I was just so tired I needed to sleep and couldn't wait for the rain to stop. Anyhow, I heard you rattling around a bit, what were you up to so late at night?"
Phil glanced at the unchanged bed sheets he had found particularly warm and fragrant the last few nights. They were the best sleepless nights he had in a long time, not the only sleepless nights, just the best. He felt that staying awake was now somehow his choice and at least there was a purpose to his insomnia.
"I brushed my teeth in the rain," he mumbled, answering her question.
"You what?" she replied, with a supercilious glance.
"I…sorta…brushed my teeth in the rain… just stood out there and let the rain pour on me and brushed and brushed away" he chuckled nervously, "you should try it…it really is a trip."
"A 'trip' huh, haven't you ever heard of acid rain?"
"For god's sake Vera, can't you ever just relax and cut loose for a minute…it was very cleansing," he offered, as his face began to pilfer some of the blood from his ears. The maelstrom had reached Phil's head now and he struggled to appear composed.
"Sure I can relax, but that doesn't mean acting like a child, standing in the rain catching four kinds of pneumonia. You refuse to grow up, that's your problem," she admonished, locking her eyes with his for the first time, with a harshness Phil would have traded for the previous apathy. "Well, anyway, I've got to get going." She turned to the door, grabbed the knob and without turning around said, "goodbye Phil, take care of yourself."
"Sure, I guess you can't leave darling Pete waiting." He took a step toward the door, "I love you."
Phil had whispered these last few words after hearing the click of the door and her quick steps fade down the hallway, knowing she wouldn't hear them but not letting her leave without saying them. Ending their conversation with sarcasm upset him but it combated some of the diffidence he felt. He opened the door and looked down the hall after Vera, feeling the cold sensation of the air hitting his sweat-soaked shirt. He walked to the sink and tightened the cold knob to stop the dripping, it didn't work, he didn't notice. Phil flipped open the lid of his lighter with his thumb and lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag and holding it as long as he could. He exhaled, seemingly filling the two-room apartment with smoke that appeared even thicker in the growing darkness of the room. He watched the smoke waltz across the room and then quickly slip out the tiny opening of the balcony door and disappear into the overwhelming wind.
When Phil first spotted her his freshman year at college, Vera Brunson was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. The face of an angel, Phil swore to himself that she actually exuded light, a light he could locate from anywhere on campus. He had exchanged smiles with her and an occasional hello, but basically he just knew her through common acquaintances and distant adoration. Not the most comfortable freshman with women anyway, Phil had exalted Vera to such great heights, that no man was worthy of her attention, particularly not him. Most of Phil's friends pursued the more meretricious women on campus, searching for dating economy and efficiency rather than substance. Phil presciently perceived a purity in Vera, saw her as different than the party-girls his friends chased. He almost convinced himself there really was a light around her, a kind of halo that only he could see. Then it happened. He was in the Student Center one heretofore uneventful Friday afternoon with whomever, when Vera came up to him.
"Hi Phil, what brings you here today?"
He felt the sensation of his stomach rising into his throat. He swallowed hard and replied with as much composure as he could muster, "Oh, you know just blowing off a little steam, what about you, I hardly ever see you here." She told him some elaborate story about her roommate's birthday and meeting people from home, but he wasn't listening. All he could perceive was her beautiful lips and the flashing of her eyes. Even up close she had that halo of light, and for the first time in his life Phil had to remind himself to breathe.
She was dressed exquisitely in a three-button sweater and a pair of jeans that must have been tailored by someone familiar with Vera's beguiling form. His thoughts weren't salacious, but he had to keep his eyes from wondering down to her breasts and her statuesque legs. He wondered how he could look at a girl so stunning and not think of sex. She was like a sublime work of art; a statue come to life with all the charm and allure of a Greek goddess. He forced his look back up to her eyes and felt his breath jump. Her eyes were blue, like he imagined the Mediterranean must have been to the soldiers of ancient Rome as they sailed toward Carthage, beautiful, yet foreboding. Her downy blond hair flowed over petite shoulders, framing her tan, unblemished face.
They spoke for only a few minutes but to Phil it felt like hours, like frantically waiting to get a word wrong in a spelling bee. She ended their brief conversation with, "Why don't you give me a call sometime," and handed him a scrap of paper with her phone number on it, then turned and walked away. Phil smiled and nodded as coolly as possible, but he had the feeling that his chest was actually on fire. He felt a drop of perspiration roll down his face as if it had been waiting for her to leave to show itself. As she walked away he gave a little wave and wondered how he was going to summon the courage to actually call her.
He found the courage and they dated for about two years. They broke up a few times, as most young couples do, and sometimes their relationship was serious and sometimes they acted like just good friends. But they weren't just friends. Phil felt closer to Vera than to any person he had ever known. He obliged whatever caprice she wished to entertain, playing the shoulder to cry on, the passionate lover, the comfortable, reliable boyfriend or whatever he imagined she needed. Vera saw Phil as an almost avuncular presence, contrary to his unrelenting solicitude. At times, he felt more a function of her life than a part of it. Having a boyfriend was part of the tableau of her life and Phil was an innocuous unit that completed the portrait. She told him she loved him and that he was the only guy for her, but whether caused by his almost pathological diffidence, or real intuition, Phil never quite believed her. But he loved her, that was the one, and probably only thing he was sure of in his life. He believed he had enough love for both of them and was certain he was meant to spend his life with Vera, and he would try indefatigably to make that happen.
The marriage took place two years after graduation. Phil had settled into a comfortable job in public relations and Vera was one of the brightest young architects in the business.
The divorce took place eight years after graduation. It cost him a great deal of money and he had to get a job as a stringer for a local newspaper. Despite all of his uxorious efforts, Phil had lost the one thing that raised his head from the pillow each morning…Vera.
The ringing of the phone brought Phil back from total darkness to mostly darkness as he struggled to recover reality. There were no lights to affect his pupils, so his eyes remained locked into the darkness.
"Hello," he said into the telephone as he fumbled for the lamp switch. "What...what happened...is she alright....what are they saying. Okay, mom, I'll be right there." He didn't even notice that he had called Vera's mother "mom", all he knew was that he had to get to the hospital.
The clock in the car read 2:33 and the darkness told him that it was A.M., as his senses again began to work in unison and lights turned from liquid to solid. "Vera's been hurt," was all he could remember from the brief phone conversation with Madeline. He wondered why she had called him. After all, they were divorced. Did Vera ask for him specifically? He liked the feeling of imagining that during traumatic moments, Vera would need him. He even, in the initial blinding grief of their break up, considered manufacturing a trauma that would send Vera running back into his arms. Phil winced at his selfishness, and felt the knot forming in his stomach; how could he think about his problems when Vera was hurt, lying in the hospital? Instead, he marveled at his lack of panic, at how composed he was. Running off to be near Vera, especially when she was hurting, seemed the most natural thing in the world. His concern for her condition was almost tempered by the feeling that there was no place he'd rather be than next to Vera, trying to take her pain away. The White Knight always rode in with intrepid grace and saved the damsel, and his adrenaline began to awaken Phil and he felt magnanimous.
As he pulled into the parking lot at Mother of Mercy Hospital, Phil could feel the anxiety start to rise in his stomach again. Be calm, he told himself, these things are never as bad as they seem. Entering the door marked EMERGENCY, he could see Edgar Brunson sitting on a bench at the end of the hallway. Phil nodded hello to him as he walked through the cloud of smoke coming from his former father-in-law's obligatory pipe. He walked up to Madeline and could see that she was upset. She grabbed both of his forearms and started to cry.
"Oh Phillip, thank god you are here, there's been an accident. Vera and some man she was with. Apparently they were coming home from somewhere when a car coming the other way hit them. Crossed right over the double yellow line. Vera's right in there. They took the man down the other end of the hall."
Phil noticed that Vera's mom had not known Pete Gooden's name, and this must mean that Vera is not serious about him. "Just relax Madeline, tell me what happened to her."
"She has a broken arm, bruised ribs and a pretty good gash on her forehead right above her nose. The doctor gave her something to help her sleep."
"What about Gooden"
"Who?"
"The man she was with, is he alright?"
"Yes, he bumped his head pretty good and has a broken leg. It took them awhile to get him out of the car; they said his leg was stuck. They brought her in first."
"Can I see her, is she allowed any visitors?"
"Like I said, they gave her something to help her sleep. They took her to room 212, I was just waiting for you to get here."
"Well, I'm going to go up. Why don't you go sit with Edgar? Would you like anything....coffee, a soft drink …something to eat."?
Madeline patted Phil's hand, shook her head no, smiled and went to sit with Vera's father and his pipe.
Phil let out two deep sighs as he waited for the elevator and listened to his heartbeat throbbing in his temples. The hospital was extremely quiet and Phil looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly 3:00 am. He thought this was easily the longest he had ever been in a hospital without seeing a doctor or nurse, and just then the elevator doors separated and right on cue, a doctor, stethoscope pinching his neck, stepped off. Phil entered the elevator, pressed the "2" and gave the button marked DOOR CLOSE several anxious taps until the doors reluctantly obeyed and squeezed shut. Almost as soon as they had closed, the doors parted and Phil stepped off into the placid hallway of the second floor.
"212, 212, 212..." he mumbled to himself as he checked the numbers on every door he passed. "Here it is," he said to no one and slowly pushed open the door.
He could feel a tingle in his chest as he saw her laying on the bed, asleep, a single, dim fluorescent light above her bed providing faint illumination. Her head was bandaged and dark, purple bruises cradled both eyes. Her right arm was wrapped in a cast and suspended in the air above the bed and a bandage, surrounded by dried blood, rested across the bridge of her nose. Even in this battered condition she retained her angelic visage to Phil and he wanted to hold her as tightly as he could. He slowly took a breath and walked over to the bed. Shaking, he grabbed her hand, noticing that it no longer bore the engagement and wedding rings he had given her. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, kissed her dainty palm, and then rested her hand back on the bed.
Without taking his eyes off of his ex-wife, Phil backed into the wooden chair at the foot of the bed and closed his eyes, remembering how tired he was. He wondered again if Vera had asked Madeline to call him. The feeling of being needed, or maybe even wanted, caused a warmth to fill his entire body. Being this close to Vera and being involved in her life, even if it took an accident to bring him here, made Phil feel more peaceful than he had in a long time. Her helplessness gave Phil a feeling of power and control that had been wanting and he felt enlivened as he soaked up this power. Phil stared at the beautiful figure in the bed, and listened to the gentle whisper of her slow, steady breathing. Leaning back, he placed his hands on his face and rubbed his eyes. He put his elbows on his legs, opened his eyes and made them refocus on Vera. Seeing her in the bed, looking so delicate and sad, brought him back to the times in college, before they met, when he would look at her on campus and dream of being close to her. Phil shook his head slightly to chase off the unwanted thoughts. He leaned his head back in the chair, blew out all the air in his lungs, closed his eyes and searched for happier memories. He opened his eyes, glanced at the needle going into her arm and envied the liquid dripping from the clear plastic bag suspended above her bed. He stole one more glance at Vera's face to see if she was okay, then let his dreams ease him to sleep.
The sunlight fingered through the venetian blinds of Room 212 as Phil struggled to remember where he was. He saw the bed and the tile floor and the drab whitish-gray walls and his consciousness returned to the hospital. Seeing the empty bed startled him slightly and he left the room to see where Vera had gone.
"Excuse me," he said to the nurse at the desk, "what happened to the woman in 212."
"And you are?"
"Her husband...er...ex-husband. I spent the night in the room with her, but when I woke up, she was gone. Has she been released?"
"No sir, she asked an orderly to take her to see the gentleman who was in the accident with her. A Mr. Goodman I believe."
"Gooden," Phil corrected.
"Oh yes, here it is, room 233, just down that hall on your left."
Phil wiped the sleep from his eyes, smoothed his hair down with his hands and strode quickly down the hallway. He noticed the door to 233 was open. He stood in the doorway and looked in at Vera as she chatted with Pete Gooden. She had a sling around her neck supporting her bandaged arm and the bruises on her face looked darker and larger.
"There you are," Phil interrupted, "why didn't you wake me."
"You looked so uncomfortable I just couldn't bear to disturb you," she replied, as she and Gooden burst into laughter, until she winced from the pain of her bruised ribs. Phil suddenly felt his legs get heavy and his chest grow warm. The laughter penetrated his head like an early-morning alarm clock after a night of heavy drinking. He struggled to conceal his discomfort.
"So, both of you are obviously okay," Phil said and then cleared his throat, tasting both the morning in his mouth and the bile that rose up in his throat. Phil avoided eye contact and glanced to the place on the bed where Vera's hand rested. What he saw caused him to feel uneasy, out of control, like trying to hold a bird struggling to fly away. He looked around the room, desperately trying to find something to look at rather than Vera's hand. But he couldn't distract his eyes and feared Pete and Vera would become aware of what he was looking at. The silence in the room got louder and Phil seemed to feel his breathing quicken and the light coming in the only window in the room appeared almost blinding.
"I guess I should be going. Didn't really get much sleep in that damn chair." Phil laughed nervously and threw his hand up in a sort of wave, waiting for Vera and Pete's hands to do the same. "Vera, you call me if you need anything at all, and I mean anything. Pete you take care of yourself." The two patients nodded and gave Phil a smile as he headed quickly toward the elevator. He heard them resume their conversation before he had even left the room.
On the drive home Phil felt still felt unsettled. He kept telling himself that he was just tired and the traumatic events of the previous night had left him a little stressed out. His thoughts raced through the last eight hours, always concluding with the vivid image of Vera's hand on the side of Pete's bed, her fingers weaved with those of someone other than Phil. The hand that once wore the rings Phil had sold his stereo and baseball card collection for, now affectionately grasping the hand of another man.
It began to rain but Phil hardly noticed. The rain began to blur Phil's vision through the glass, but he was almost home and the distorted vision caused by the raindrops helped distract him from his other thoughts.
He parked his car, ran through the rain, unlocked his apartment door and slowly entered. He pushed the door closed with his backside and heard it click shut. He needed a shower and ran his tongue across his teeth and grimaced from the awful taste. He went to the sink and grabbed his toothbrush and squeezed a glob of green gel out of the tube onto the bristles. He held the toothbrush tightly and stared deeply into his own eyes in the mirror above the sink. All he was aware of was the reflection of his own face, and the patter of rain against his balcony door. Tears began to run down his cheeks. He closed his eyes tightly, forcing out more tears, then slowly reopened them, hoping he would no longer be looking back at himself in the mirror. He turned and walked across the room and opened the balcony door. The rain was coming down harder now as Phil stepped out onto the balcony. He put the toothbrush in his mouth and began to work the gel into a foam. Breathing through his nose, only opening his mouth to allow the sobs to escape, Phil leaned his head back and began to brush feverishly. The rain rushed over his face and into his mouth. The foam rolled out of his mouth as the rain cooled the warm tears on his face. He again filled his mouth with rain and sobbed as he spit the foam over the balcony railing and closed his mouth letting the downpour chase the toothpaste off his chin. He felt a chill, as his clothes soaked up the rain pouring down upon him. Leaning forward on the railing of the balcony he squinted, causing the tears to blur his vision. Blowing away the water that dripped from his nose, Phil turned back toward the sliding door of his balcony, let out one last gasping sob, and went inside to get out of his wet clothes.