The Roberts Page 3

  How to describe her? He couldn’t, not really, except in this way: she was beautiful—in mind, body and spirit—to a degree that made every woman around her beautiful, and at the same time turned every woman pale by comparison; she surpassed them all. He longed to be with her and only her, and she longed to be with him. This made life easy, for togetherness was something they could achieve. They slept together, ate together, whiled away their time together. They took a trip to the desert, where they hiked and baked in the heat together; to Rome, where they sat in cafés and explored the ancient streets together; to the mountains, where they climbed a peak and stood atop the world. Each day, impossibly, they fell deeper in love. And little by little, what was dead inside of Robert, or dormant, began to stir.

  There was a piece of undeveloped land not far from Robert’s office, one of the few left in the city. It was a site he had always coveted (he and every architect in town): three flat acres south of the city’s heart, at the edge of a long, bifurcated inlet of the ocean, empty save for weeds, unused railroad tracks and two abandoned wharves. Over the years he had envisioned any number of projects blossoming here—housing, a hospital, a corporate headquarters, a park—every one of them a pipedream, as the land was not for sale. Still, it never failed to excite his imagination…never, that is, until his imagination went south. For more than a year he had avoided the site, as it did him more harm than good. It was a stone in his chest, this place, a reminder of better times, and he would have continued to give it a wide berth had not Grace requested to see it. He agreed, for her.

  The day they chose, in early Fall, broke warm and sunny. The blue of the sky was rivaled only by the deeper, steelier blue of the water. Fancying a picnic, Grace brought cheese and a bottle of wine; Robert, at her insistence, carried a blanket. Much of the rusty fence that surrounded the site was down or missing, as were signs forbidding entrance. There were several well-worn paths, used primarily by birders. Grace chose one, but after a short while she veered off into the weeds and waist-high grass, searching for something more private. Robert followed as if by rote, halting when she did, in a clearing near the water.

  “How about here?”

  “Fine.”

  She waited for him to spread the blanket.

  “Robert?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is something the matter?”

  It was a struggle for him. The site stirred up feelings he preferred not to face.

  “Do you want to spread that thing?”

  He spread it.

  Grace sat down, depositing her things. The city surrounded them on three sides—skyscrapers to the north, homes and warehouses to the south and west—but from the blanket these were invisible. She stretched out her legs.

  “This is nice.”

  Robert, who had remained standing, gave a wooden nod.

  “Our own little hiding place.”

  ”It’s hardly hidden.”

  “It is from down here.”

  He glanced at her.

  “Come sit.”

  “I used to think of all the things I could do with this place. All the things I could build. It was like an invitation, a magnet, for my dreams.”

  She reached for his hand.

  “Not that I could ever do anything about them. Still, it was fun.”

  “You felt free.”

  He looked around, shrugged, then sat.

  “Cheese?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  She poured some wine into a plastic cup, which they shared. After a while she lay down, arms at her sides, eyes closed. She wore a halter top and shorts. Her skin was smooth and tawny. Her great bushel of hair pillowed her head, shining like a halo. Robert began to lose himself in her face.

  “We could be the only people left on earth,” she said dreamily. “This could be our last day together.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  She turned on her side. “What would you do?”

  “What I am.”

  “You’d look at me?”

  He nodded.

  “What else?”

  “Make love to you.”

  She smiled. “What else?”

  When he didn’t answer, she told him to lie back and close his eyes.

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  “The backs of my eyes.”

  “What do you feel?”

  He took a moment. “Warm.”

  “I’m going to tell you how I feel. Happy. Grateful. Lucky. Beautiful. Alive. In love.”

  “That’s a lot of things.”

  “I’m a complicated person.”

  After a time he said, “I see something else.”

  She waited.

  “It’s hard to describe.”

  She waited longer.

  “I’m not sure that I can.”

  It was a building in the form of a fountain, made entirely of glass and erupting from the ground like a geyser, in what seemed a froth of light. It was fixed in place but also fluid, gravity-defying, straining against the constraints of space and time. And the way it played with light, concentrating it, reflecting it, diffusing it. It seemed spun half of reality, half of dream. He had never seen or imagined anything like it.

  He sat up and opened his eyes. He blinked and rubbed them, but the vision remained. It was pulsing now, which was the beating, the pounding, of his heart. He got to his feet and started walking.

  “Robert?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Maybe, she thought, he hadn’t heard. She called again, then rose.

  He was halfway to the car, and Grace wondered if he was going to stop. Clearly, he was possessed by something, and having lived and waited with him for this moment, this spark, she felt a quiver of excitement. She was pleased to see him so engrossed and engaged, as pleased as anyone who in the blink of an eye becomes an afterthought. Forgiveness flowed through her like honey, and like honey, forgiving him for leaving her behind without a word was sweet. It was a new experience for her, being left, and she was not a person quick to judge or take offense. Especially not toward a man for whom she felt such love. If it happened again, she would figure out what to do. She was made to think for herself, just as she was made, with craftsmanlike precision, not to be hurt.

  From that day forward Robert overflowed with ideas. New ideas, bold ideas, crazy, romantic, incredible ideas, bubbling out of him, pouring, gushing, like being in the love for the first time. And everybody loves a lover. And everybody wants a piece. He starting getting jobs again, small jobs at first. Then bigger ones. Before long he was up to his neck in work.

  He worked seven days a week, as much as he could at home. Typically he labored deep into the night, breaking for dinner, which Grace cooked, and often for an hour or two in the afternoon, when he and she would do something together, take a walk, explore a neighborhood, pull the curtains and make love. Occasionally he would break in the morning too, roused by the sound of her moving in the house, distracted by the thought of her, the smell of her, which he could summon even in her absence, her smile, her warmth, her sweet and loving nature, her embrace.

  It was a wonderful thing to be working again, to be noticed and sought out. More wonderful in some ways than his initial success. He was older and wiser. He appreciated what he had, all the more for knowing how quickly and utterly it could be gone. He felt lucky: if birth (whether by natural means or by nature once removed), was a miracle, then re-birth was nothing less than an act of grace.

  It would have been hard to say who was happier. Robert had the happiness of a man, inexplicably crippled, restored to health. A man from whom the curse (and who had uttered it? and by what power? what right?) was lifted, gone. Grace had the happiness of the lover at her beloved’s good fortune, the satisfaction of having been part and parcel of that good fortune, the joy in the knowledge of the strength of love and all that love can achieve. She was so good at loving, so generous, so thorough and complete. If love were a violin, she played it with the finest
tone, the deepest understanding, the most impeccable technique. There was nothing that rivaled it in her world, nor would it be contained. Like a rain-swollen river will spill beyond its banks, her love spilled beyond the principal object of her affection. She loved animals. She loved music. She loved puzzles, children, shoes, and conversation. She was also very fond of books.

  In this she resembled Robert’s mother, an avid, indiscriminate reader, and the resemblance went further, for Grace was also fond of reading in bed, waiting for Robert to join her, and also in a certain armchair, with a curved upholstered back that had been in the family for generations. His grandmother had owned it, then his mother, who had passed it on to him. It sat in a corner of his house, waiting for someone like Grace, who fit it perfectly, and a lasting image for him was of her in the chair, lost in a book, lifting her head and gazing out the window, pondering something she had just read, perhaps relating it to herself, perhaps to him. She had a past, in the sense that she had memories, and she also lacked a past, in the sense that these memories were artificial; they had been given to her. Like all memories, there were gaps that had to be bridged. And like all memories, they gave birth to new thoughts and memories, and they were colored by her state of mind, which they also contributed to. Some, of course, stood out more than others. Once, when Robert was watching her unseen from a doorway, her head bent, her hair hanging loose about her face, she lifted a hand and unconsciously began twirling a lock around a finger. This was a physical memory, a memory of the body, and it made him smile, and he felt a great wave of affection, for it was something his mother used to do.

  But these moments, of simply watching and enjoying her, were rare. As his star rose, he didn’t have time for them. He worked late. He traveled extensively. He was gone nearly as much as he was home.

  It was a busy life, too busy, and he told her so again and again, as though by acknowledging it, he could mitigate the consequences. He missed her, sometimes desperately. He wished it were different, but what could he do?

  And what could Grace do but look after herself when he was away and welcome him back on his return? He was in the grip of something, and she admired him for it, and sometimes pitied him too. And the pity made her love him more, but respect him just a little less. It was an oversight, no doubt, in her design. Possibly it was even a flaw, and she sought to mend it with kindness.

  “I wish it were different too,” she told him one night. He had just returned from a month-long absence. “But it isn’t. Let’s be honest.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “But I am.”

  “What I mean is, it’s okay. I understand. I get it.”

  Robert was exhausted, but her frankness and acceptance always had a way of reviving him. “You do?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m happy for you.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Grace. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

  “Don’t be silly. How can you hurt me?”

  “By neglecting you.”

  “Are you?”

  “I worry about it.”

  ”I know you do.”

  “I worry that you’ll get tired of waiting. That you’ll get bored.”

  “And if I did?”

  “I worry that you’d leave me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It’s happened before.”

  She looked surprised. “Has it? I don’t recall ever having left.”

  “Not you.”

  “Well then. You see? You’re worrying for nothing.”

  His bouts of insecurity were not new to her. They happened frequently after prolonged absences, and she understood his need for reassurance.

  “You know how much I depend on you,” he said.

  She stroked his arm and kissed him on the cheek and followed that with a tender look that somehow ended at his artificial eye, which stared at her sphinxlike. She had an urge to pluck it out, which seemed scandalous, and then make love to him, which was long overdue and seemed like fun.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she said.

  His mind, involuntarily, had drifted from thoughts of her to work. “For getting the Eisenmenger commission?”

  “No, baby. For knowing your blind spot.”

  It took him a second to recover, which he did magnificently. “Which one?”

  She smiled.

  “I have so many.”

  ”Not really.”

  “I love it when you smile.”

  “Just one or two.”

  “Like taking you for granted.”

  A moment passed.

  “Do you?” she asked mildly.

  “No. I don’t. I don’t mean to. But I get busy. I forget. Sometimes it just happens.”

  “Do you have another woman, Robert?”

  The question took him by surprise. He was shocked and dismayed. “No. Never.”

  “I’d understand it if you did.”

  “I don’t. And what do you mean, you’d understand?”

  “Don’t get angry. You like women.”

  “I like you.”

  What she meant was he liked attention and love. And as good as she was at providing these, as custom-made and streamlined for the purpose, she was only one person. This seemed fairly obvious to her, and it gave her an idea how to ease the tension and guilt he felt for being absent so much, but it would take some planning and time. Meanwhile, there was more pressing business, which she grasped with her keen, intuitive, state-of-the-art, female mind.

  She draped an arm around his neck and lay her lips, her hot breath, against his ear. “You know, we’ve never made love completely naked.”

  “Sure we have.”

  She shook her head, transfixed by his eye, its cool ceramic machine-like stare, while her fingers toyed with the topmost button of his shirt. “I mean completely. Without anything on. Anything not ours. Anything we weren’t born with.”

  It seemed a strange comment, and when he understood what she meant, an even stranger request. Reluctantly, he agreed to it, and when the eye was out, he struggled not to feel self-conscious, with the result that he broke out in a rash. This happened on occasion, these stress-induced eruptions, and this one was worse than most. Within minutes his face and neck were covered with hot and itchy welts. Ordinarily, he took medication for something this severe, without which the rash could last for hours. But this time Grace intervened. She brought him ice, which she applied with a sure and gentle hand, and spoke to him in the most soothing and hypnotic of voices. And for the first time in memory, the welts faded on their own. Or rather they faded under the ministry of Grace. And in the wake of this, this miracle, he was overcome with gratitude and love for her. She was showing sides of herself that he’d neither seen nor imagined, and he didn’t want to lose her and knew that, despite himself, he was on a path that might. And he made a vow, silent but absolute, that he would not repeat his past mistakes. He would do whatever it took to keep her, and if this meant giving more of himself, he would give more. And if this somehow proved beyond him (as self-improvement, in the surest hands, could), he would give of himself, and, if necessary, give of himself profoundly, in some other way.

  These words would come back to haunt him, but that night—and the following days and nights—he couldn’t have done more to live up to them. He was with Grace as much as humanly possible, putting all but the most urgent business aside. He discovered, or re-discovered, how fine love was, and how finer it was to be the lover than the beloved, to give than receive, and how being the recipient, the beloved, that was great too. Everything was great, and when he returned to work, there was greatness there, in his insight, vision and execution, how everything just flowed. Not a problem in the world, other than missing Grace, which he compensated for by calling her incessantly when he was on the road and making time to be with her when he was home.

  But one day he missed a date, which he compounded by forgetting to call. A week later, it happened again, and that night
he didn’t come home until after she had gone to bed. Little by little the futon in his office began to see more use. Increasingly, they communicated by email or phone. And before long, like an untended field, life had reverted to what it was.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with her. He did, sometimes more than he could bear. But work wouldn’t allow it, and he couldn’t say no to work. It had a power over him that he dared not deny. Yet things could not go on the way they were. This he knew with certainty. Something had to be done or he would lose his Grace, just as sure as he had lost the others. Her birthday was approaching, and perhaps an answer lay there.

  What, he wondered, could that answer be? Something more than words, vain hopes and hollow vows, here one day, gone the next. Something real, lasting, tangible, concrete. An offering, he thought, a gift to show that he understood what she was going through, that he sympathized, that he apologized, and above all, that he loved her and wanted to set things right. What kind of gift could do all that? Was there something that she needed? Wanted? That was paramount. What did his Grace, his poor, neglected, beloved Grace, want? In the whole wide world what did she want more than anything?

  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, Grace—with all the wisdom, incentive and desire of a woman put on earth to love her man and to help him in times of trouble, a woman with a job to do, a woman, like all the best women, without a selfish bone in her body—was hatching a birthday plan of her own.

  The day arrived. Robert could barely contain his excitement. He had found the perfect gift. He knew he had. It wasn’t cheap, and it hadn’t been easy to arrange, which in the end made it even better. He took Grace out to dinner, an elegant, candlelit affair, and could scarcely keep from telling her. For Grace it was a new experience. She had never had a birthday before and was on unfamiliar ground. On the one hand, she didn’t understand the fuss; on the other, she liked the feeling of being special, one of a kind, the flattery, the compliment, the harmless deceit. Robert was in high spirits, and she liked that too, save for a certain stridency in his manner, a tautness in his otherwise handsome and fluid charm, like a violin string tuned a quarter tone sharp. She worried a little about this gift of his and the expectation attached to it. She would have to do more, and possibly a good deal more, than merely like it.