Speaking with Strangers Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Copyright © 1998 by Mary Cantwell

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  www.hmhco.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cantwell, Mary

  Speaking with strangers / Mary Cantwell.

  p cm

  Sequel to Manhattan, when I was young

  ISBN 0-395-82751-5

  1 Cantwell, Mary—Journeys 2 Voyages and travels

  I Title

  G465 C275 1998

  910.4—DC21 97-48292 CIP

  eISBN 978-0-547-56137-0

  v2.1017

  For Amy Gross,

  who is all and more than is

  meant by the word “friend”

  If one cannot close a book of memories on

  the deathbed, any conclusion must be arbitrary.

  —Graham Greene

  Prologue

  The tide was wrong, I think, and maybe that was why the tenders couldn’t come in to the pier and take us out to what I believe was the old Queen Elizabeth, Or it may have been the United States. Maybe the ocean liner, which at that distance and at twilight recalled a resurrected Titanic, wasn’t ready to take on the people who were boarding at Le Havre. Or it may have been Calais.

  I am sorry to be so vague, especially because I am proud of my good memory, and many have remarked upon it, but all I can remember is sitting on my one suitcase (I travel light) and waiting for hours to get going. Anywhere.

  Neither can I remember how I got to the pier, although obviously it was on the boat train from Paris. I can’t remember what I ate, or what I was wearing, or if I spoke to anyone, or any landscape except vast fields of yellow mustard. What I do remember is the pier and the man sitting on the suitcase beside me. He, too, had only one, old and wrapped with rope, because otherwise it wouldn’t have closed. He was old as well, and dressed with the kind of decency that proclaims that traveling is an event to be treated with solemnity, respect.

  “Have you ever read the great Polish writer Joseph Conrad?” he asked me. I turned, startled. We had never even exchanged glances, and, besides, the pier, for all the hundreds waiting on it, was very quiet. We might as well have been waiting for Charon.

  “Yes, I have,” I answered, but in truth I had forgotten almost everything but the “fascination of the abomination.” It was a tag line of mine, trotted out for any and all revolting occasions and lending me (I thought) a certain literary aura.

  “I am from Poland,” he said. “I have just come from there.”

  Then the story came out, in slow, thick English.

  When the old man was twelve or so, his mother and father and a brother or two had emigrated to the United States—to Chicago, as I recall. What his life was there—his work, his family, his dailmess—I have no idea. But I did hear about how he had saved for years for this trip. He had planned to see the town in which he was born, of whose houses he still had faint images and along whose streets he was sure he could still find his way. But when he arrived at the place to which memory and an old map had taken him, there was no town, only a crossroad where it once had been. The war had erased it, and with it erased his origins. Joseph Conrad was his Poland now.

  I am not sure how much Conrad he himself had read. He talked about the person, not his work, and not in detail. I doubt he knew any details. But he knew that Poland had produced a great writer, that it was his Poland that had produced the great writer, and as long as the great writer was talked about and read, his Poland still existed. The more he spoke of Conrad, the more I saw the crossroad turning into a town again, the houses taking shape, the streets emerging from the raw landscape.

  Finally, the tenders arrived at the pier and we boarded, but not together. In fact, I never saw him again. I was traveling cabin; he was probably traveling third class. His journey had not been a success. Even now, so many years later, I can imagine him tracing maps, exercising his rusty Polish, counting and recounting his money, riding springless buses and cranky trains, only to arrive at nowhere.

  Still, for those few hours on the dark pier, when we were without landmarks, without anything but that distant, almost mythical ship to give us a sense of place, he managed, because of “the great Polish writer Joseph Conrad,” to put us in his country. His country was built with words, and for a little time, while we talked, he lived there. I wish I could say I am happy about his momentary repossession of his roots, but I know far too much about traveling back in time not to discount the pain that is so often the aftermath of the journey. It must have been hard for him to have lost that town. It must have been harder to have been wrenched from it again.

  That was a long time ago, when my children were small and my husband, about to be my former husband, was desperate to replace me and I seized every chance I got to leave home. I was lucky. I had a lot of chances, because I was working on a fashion magazine and was handy when it came to writing travel articles. There were other chances, too, not necessarily involving travel articles but always involving work. I would not have traveled without the work. I could not have borne the loneliness. But work drove me out into foreign streets to talk to people with whom I would have been much too shy even to share a nod. Work took me to places -—the Anatolian plateau, for instance, and Siberia—to which I would not have dreamed of going. Work drove me to restaurants and airports and to hotels in which I was sometimes the only guest. And all the time that I was making notes and asking questions and taking pictures with my little Brownie Starmite, I was promising God that if only He would get me out of this hellhole I was in—Tashkent was the worst—I would stay home and be a good mother and never again leave my children, my wonderful, beautiful, innocent, and abandoned children. But then the chance would come once more, and, a bag slung over my shoulder, off I would go to the airport, so swollen with excitement it seemed I would push out the sides of the cab. At takeoff I would press my feet against the plane’s floor, urging it into flight. Once I got to wherever I was going, though, I was so stripped of the familiar that I was skinless and would promise God once again that if only He would get me out of this hellhole I was in, I would stay home and be a good mother and never again leave my children, my wonderful, beautiful, innocent, and abandoned children.

  Eventually the day came when I didn’t have to do it anymore; travel like that, I mean. I could stay home. I didn’t have to sit with strangers anymore, talking about Joseph Conrad and creating a country whose only boundaries were words. Piety would have me say that it was my daughters who brought me back into the land of pots and pans and beds and pillows and homework that had to be checked and suppers that had to be cooked. The joy on their faces when they saw me making Sunday pancakes or unpacking groceries while singing a song my younger had invented, a song that involved endless repetitions of “Oh, juicy spaghetti, oh, juicy spaghetti,” put something bubbly, something like ginger ale, in my veins. But that day was long in coming, and during the five or so years in which I rolled about the world like a billiard ball looking for a pocket, watching my girls was often like looking at them through the wrong end of a telescope.

  Even when the three of us w
ere together in front of the television set, the two of them huddled against me like cuddling cats, they seemed far away. Everything and everyone was far away. In the office and on the street I had to wear dark glasses even when there was no sun, because crying had my eyes chronically swollen, and what I saw through those shaded lenses was almost always in miniature, too distant to seem real. It was only when I trailed my children to school in the morning (they wanted their classmates to think they were allowed to walk alone) that I saw them full size: one fair, one dark, their little rumps twitching under their pleated skirts and their knee socks starting the slow descent toward their shoes.

  Now, when I look at old photographs of my daughters, I see the desolation on the face of the younger, sitting on her rocking horse and clutching our impossible dog, Fred, and am touched by the little ribbon the older used to tie around her throat in imitation of a choker. But then, except for those minutes during our carefully distanced walks to school, I might as well have been gazing from a star.

  Often I was deaf as well. “Mom, Mom,” my children would cry when I settled into silence, trying to pull me back into their world. But I didn’t want to see, not really, or to hear or talk. I wanted to be with Papa, buried beside him in St. Mary’s Cemetery in Bristol, Rhode Island, reunited with someone who was faithless only in dying. But I couldn’t go, couldn’t slide beneath the grass that covered him. Being a mother denied me death and made me resentful. Sometimes I would look at my girls, my beauties, and think, “If it weren’t for you two, I could leave.”

  No. To return to my children and to sight and sound and speech, I had to go far away and become acquainted with the only companion I have ever been able to rely upon. As long as I had a pencil and paper and notes to make for my insignificant little articles, I was not alone. With work to do, I could exit a world in which I was restless and confused and, above all, haunted by people who are shards and ashes, if they are anything at all now, and enter one in which it seemed morphine was dripping on my soul. Here I was calm; here, although I was actually more awake than in any elsewhere, I could sleep.

  One

  The morning of the day my children and I left the house we had lived in with their father—the house with the bunny wallpaper in their bedroom and the wooden valet from Brooks Brothers in ours—to move farther west on Greenwich Village’s Jane Street, I was sitting with a friend in its tiny backyard.

  “Would you ladies please move your chairs forward?” one of the moving men called out. “I’ve got to do some work with this window.”

  Obedient, we moved our chairs out of the shade and into the sun. Behind us, only two or so feet from where we had been sitting, the air conditioner fell to the ground. Had we not been told to move, we would have been killed. Still, neither of us paled, neither of us scared up so much as a tremble. “It’s an omen” was all my friend said. “You were meant to leave this place.”

  Some hours later, with the children at my family’s home in Rhode Island and the house bare of all but my bed and a few cartons, I went to a cocktail party way uptown, grateful that someone from my office had thought to invite me on a night when I would otherwise have been walking through the empty rooms, crying, maybe, and feeling the strange pain that seemed to twist my ribs whenever I thought of my husband—my husband who was happy now and free of the marriage that I had ruined. “How did you ruin it?” friends would ask, but I could never answer. I just knew it, that was all, knew it just as surely as I once had known that to step on a crack was to break my mother’s back. I did not believe in fate or happenstance, only in my power to destroy. “That tongue of yours . . . those hands of yours . . . that temper of yours will get you into trouble someday,” I was told in childhood. My mother was right. I was a killer.

  Some of the guests were friends, the rest were strangers, and one of the latter was drunk. In those days I was a pretty woman, but there was something about my face, something that seemed to condemn, I guess, that aroused hostility—and, at the same time, attraction—in those who had had one too many. This man was no different. While his wife stood by, smiling limply, he made a few rude remarks about my having arrived late, tried to goad me into responding to a couple of dirty jokes, and finally said, “Who stuck the stick up your ass?” Then he dared me to drink a full glass of Scotch. I took the dare. “You’re dealing with an Irishman here,” I said, trying for a tough sophistication that I had never possessed, had never had to possess.

  When I was halfway through the Scotch, another man took the glass from my hand and told the drunk to cut it out. The wife kept smiling, the drunk moved off, and I left for what remained of my home, feeling as helpless as my mother did the first time she had to balance a checkbook. My father had died. He had always paid the bills, and when, not realizing that she had to figure in the ten cents for each check, she couldn’t match the bank’s tally with hers, she put her head down on the desk and cried the only tears I had seen her cry since his death. Now it was I who was unprotected. Without my husband, with whom I had spent my entire adult life, I had no defenses against drunks and their brutalities. I didn’t even know how to come to a cocktail party unescorted. How could I know? In the past, when I had entered a party by myself, it was always with the knowledge that my husband was soon to appear, rushing in from the office and about to feel my proprietary hand on his arm.

  I shall call him by his initial, B, because it is boring to repeat husband again and again. Also, I have a bad habit, one that leads strangers to believe I am still married. In speaking of him, I always say “my husband,” simply because he is the only one I have ever had. Besides, it is hard for me to believe that a piece of paper can end a marriage, any more than it can end a motherhood or a sisterhood. My mother is my mother, and that is that. My sister is my sister, and that is that. My husband was my husband, and he still is. True, I am unacquainted with that man who lives across town, that man who has gained a little weight, a little hearing aid, and—as they seem to me, in the few times I have seen him—capped teeth. But the boy who bought me books to improve my mind and a linen blouse and a cashmere sweater to improve my wardrobe when I was a junior in college: I am bound to him until my last breath.

  “You’re always lighting little candles to that guy,” a man who once fancied himself a possible suitor said not long ago. Yes. They are to someone who occupies the same niche in my mind as the plaster saints before whom—the dime pushed in the slot, the flame fluttering—I knelt in childhood. Pray as I might, I never really believed in them. As time passes, I grow less and less able to believe in him. But I want to. If I go on lighting candles, it is because I cannot bear thinking that he was, in the end, only a figment of my imagination. To think that would be to do myself a kindness. But I have never been very kind to myself. I am my own Simon Legree.

  During that childhood, in a town where the only official entertainments were the bowling alley and the movies, I spent every Friday night at a little stucco theater called the Pastime. When the movie—and the news and the serial and the short—was over, I was still not only at it but in it. Walking home, gripping my grandfather’s hand, the elm trees soughing overhead and the salt air surrounding us, I was not Mary Lee Cantwell but Alice Faye or Betty Grable or Lana Turner. Thin, dark-haired, my teeth armored by braces, two elastic bands, and a plastic retainer, I even thought I looked like them. Years later, the elms and the salt air long behind me, I subwayed home alone to B from an evening at the Royal Ballet (it was Sadler’s Wells then) and Sleeping Beauty; and tried to show him how a man named Brian Shaw danced the Bluebird Variation. My arms flapping, my leaps a mere six inches off our shag rug, I truly thought I was dancing. Once, leaving a Broadway show with B and an acquaintance who proclaimed himself “a truth-teller,” I so persisted in unconscious mimicry of the heroine that the truth-teller told me to cut it out.

  Retaining my edges was even more difficult when I was reading. Then, if the story was powerful enough, it erased my reality. The people I have been! Emma Bovary and Dais
y Miller, of course. Lily Bart. Judith Hearne. I have been real people, too. Edith Thompson, who was hanged for killing her husband, and for whom I wept because her only crime was silliness. Madeleine Smith, who probably should have been hanged for killing her lover, but with whom I sympathized because he was a leech. And a woman, or several women, described in an article in New York magazine.

  The article was one of the magazine’s usual 1970s exposés of the tragedies of urban life—life as a Puerto Rican pimp, for instance, or life as a black hooker. This time the tragedy of urban life had to do with the divorcées who, hair fresh from all-day rollers, buttocks molded by Lycra slacks, congregated at a roadhouse near the Long Island Expressway for five o’clock drinks with the men—married, most of them—who stopped there on the way home from work. I cried for those women. I was one of those women, not a magazine editor but a jobless housewife with teased hair and a pneumatic butt who cadged drinks, smokes, and feels from men in leisure suits. Leaving the party where that drunk had dared me to down a Scotch—how I had loved our cab rides home from parties, the New York streets glistening in the night and B solid beside me—I remembered that article. There it is, I said to myself, my fate.

  My true fate, for a while anyway, was invisibility. A few weeks before my last day in the old house, a friend of B’s had stopped me on the street and said solicitously. “Moving to a smaller place?”

  “No,” I snapped, “bigger,” hating him for his curiosity and distrusting his concern. He and his wife, after all, had dispensed with me months before. So why the worried eyes, the voice dripping sincerity? I knew. Showing an interest in my future was akin to going to church once a year—Easter, say, or Christmas. The knees had been bent, the money dropped in the collection basket, the duty done.

  But, then, everyone except my friends at the magazine had dispensed with me, and the world in which I had lived seemed imagined but not experienced. The seat I had occupied at dinner parties was still warm when my successor slid into it. If I wasn’t surprised, it was because I had seen it happen so many times before, that curious disappearance into purdah that seemed so often the fate of first wives. It was as if we were all trial runs. Even our children were sometimes trial runs. “With my first two children, there was never time . . .” says the semifamous man to the newspaper interviewer, glorying in the issue from his aging loins. “But now I am discovering what it really means to be a father.”