J L J A C O B S
_____________________________________________THE PERFECT BLUR OF REFLECTION
Contradiction experienced to the very depths of the being tears us heart and soul:
it is the cross. ~Simone Weil
Dear Erin,
I have thought to write many times and did not. I thought I would not miss you—as Nathaniel noticed even before your move the daily fabric of my life with you had changed. But even apart, as you've seen, we rarely went more than four days without speaking. Now, it has been three weeks. Your words echo in my head. “Anna, Michael has poisoned the whole of your being.” Now in this quietest of all houses I hear your voice—your laughter and your words of admonition. I wanted to share a passage from Simone Weil that helped me see my sin: “A hurtful act is the transference to others of the degradation which we bear in ourselves. That is why we are inclined to commit such acts as a way of deliverance.”
I am truly sorry, and hope you can forgive me. You are ever in my prayers.Love, Anna
Why wouldn't he open his eyes, Rosemarie wondered. Did he not want to see her? It was the Fourth of July. The streets of Williamsburg crowded—the air humid. They'd walked the cobblestone paths—looking in the shops—from time to time Michael had offered her his arm. He had found a yellow linen shirt and black poplin pants—he had tried them on with his hat. How dapper she thought, but did not say it. She had chosen to wear a camisole instead of a bra underneath her white silk shirt. Perhaps he had noticed. It was mid-afternoon when they returned to their hotel. The sun permeated the room through the sheer gauze curtains covering the bay window. The afternoon light created a diffusion of color throughout the room—light reflected from the red wallpaper, from the mahogany of the four poster bed. How different this holiday was from last year, she thought, as Michael fell asleep in her arms.
Jared waited impatiently in the baggage claim area—waiting for the carousel to start moving—the red light to start flashing. As he watched for his Louis Vuitton luggage, he observed a Mexican family who'd been on the flight from Dallas. They were communicating on walkie-talkies in Spanish with someone outside. For a moment, he thought of packing for one of the poorest countries in the world. He wondered if the natives recognized Dolce and Gabanna or Versace. Did they even care? But he had to look good. Dressing was an art. He lit up a Turkish Camel Light as soon as he exited the airport. It had been a long flight—Montego Bay to Houston to Dallas and finally to Oklahoma City. The temperature had to be near a hundred. He thought then of his apartment and what a mess he'd left it in—and Anna. He'd call her later.
She was surprised to see Ethan so dressed up. In his all black outfit he looked somehow younger and healthier, his hair grayer in the afternoon light. Upon, seeing Ethan, Anna decided to wear her black silk evening dress. As she fastened the clasp of the pearls, she thought of the day Michael had given them to her. A talisman she had thought. Ethan had asked her to make the focaccia like Michael's with extra coarse ground salt. She thought of communion as they shared their bread and wine. It was the Fourth of July. “What are we doing?” “Not, now. This is a holiday.” He nodded in agreement. After a while Anna said, “we are living in the interstices—like alpine plants.”
Jared met Anna at her house upon her return, and together they secured a bolt on the back door that would prevent Michael's entering with his key. Though they both knew it was largely symbolic. “I'll talk to him for you.” They smoked a cigarette on the back porch. She was anxious to be alone, though grateful for his help. He was indeed beautiful she thought—and it mattered so much to him. Jared left for his AA meeting around 7:30. Anna's neighbor had already watered her flowers. She sat in her favorite chair in front of the fireplace—beneath the north shutter window. The evening light shone onto the coffee table where the peonies had withered—the spring bouquet had drooped and fallen—all but one pink tigerlily which appeared as if illuminated from inside against the darkening shadows on the white stone hearth. Chiaroscuro was it not? A moment that could only be captured with a 4x5 plate. As Anna, thought of the tigerlily, she heard music—church music from her childhood.
I am resolved no longer to linger,
Charmed by the world's delight,
Things that are higher, things that are nobler,
These have allured my sight.Michael saw Anna at a distance in the hallway. Three times she ignored him when he spoke. “Good Morning, Anna.” How thin she looked—haggard—another ten pounds since school was out. Her red hair was limp and dull. He was looking for peonies for her coffee table—something to cheer her up. How could she doubt that he loved her best? It was only two nights ago that she had awakened up from a dead sleep and flown into a rage at him—forcing her body against his. He'd taken the two aspirin that he'd carried since before the operation. He sat and then paced the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace with his hand on his heart. Anna, became aware of what she'd done. She knew she'd had a fit. She could not remember the specifics. The room was darker than usual. Michael had turned out more lamps than she usually did. Light shone into the room from the street lamp on Cordelia Avenue. She did not have her glasses on—but she knew his brow was drawn—his jaw clenched. She felt Michael's fear for his health as a result of the anger that tensed his mouth— that tensed the silence between them.
Anna glanced down from the north shutter window, and in the panes of glass on the bookcase she saw a reflection of the flowers on the coffee table. It reminded her of an Olivia Parker photograph. The yellow daises in the uppermost pane were superimposed upon Whitman's Leaves of Grass —the withered peonies faded into the shadowy background—and the deep red roses appeared luminescent. She studied the image. It made her think of church on Sunday with the light streaming in through the red and blue stained glass—its reflection on the highly polished silver. She tried not to look at Ethan during the service—grateful that he knelt on the prayer bench beside her. He later told her he knew the litany by heart, and she did not ask why he did not read responsively.
Nathaniel called Anna from Miami. There was the sound of the ocean crashing behind his voice. He told her he was fifteen feet from the water—he sounded more relaxed than usual. Anna imagined him barefoot with his pants rolled up—she could see his curly black hair slightly graying at the temples—his asymmetrical eyes and boyish grin. She thought of their weekend on Watch Hill—and how he'd taken off shoes, socks, sweater, and watch to run along the shoreline for a half mile or more, as she'd watched the sun rising over the Atlantic.
As Rosemarie washed the soap from under her nails, she wondered if Michael's friend organized her time around him the way she did. Did she too look forward to poker night on Wednesdays when for a few hours she knew—or mostly knew where he was. Often she felt everyday was a kind of performance—and a debt to be rendered.
Anna watched the morning sun stream across the oak floor; she wished her house had a piano—she wished she had let Michael buy her one last summer. She thought of him playing Fats Waller's “Do Me a Favor…Marry Me” for her over the phone. She could see the look of joy on his face.
Her thoughts turned to Erin. Anna could see her sleeping—her blonde hair slightly covering her face. She thought of the photograph on her dressing table. They'd been shopping. It was after dinner— pizza at a trattoria—and they'd stopped for gelato on the street. Erin's mother had asked for a small gold cross—one she could wear on a necklace. Erin was leaning on the wall along the Arno River, looking back at her with mischievous joy.
Now she understood why her grandmother started wearing her grandfather's watch after his death. As Anna slid down on her back in the claw footed tub, her long red hair spread out fanlike around her. She looked up to see the glass beads Erin had strung hanging over the window above the tub. They shimmered in the morning light. She thought of that humid June evening years ago when she met her professor at her house—he showed up on her doorstep with a bottle of Riesling and a book of Pre-Raphaelite paintings. She thought of the red stains on her favorite lilac sheets. Anna counted the years. He was forty two and she eighteen. It was he who had first shown her Milais's Ophelia —and told her the story of the model for the painting posing for hours in a tub of cold water—warmed only by candles underneath. The painter wanted to get the image of the water laden cloth exact. She had later died of pneumonia.
Jared was the center of attention at Thanksgiving dinner, and did he have a tale this year—and the underwear marked CSH for Central State Mental Hospital where he had been taken half conscious. They wouldn't let him have his hair products because they contained alcohol—after a few days the nurses would squeeze a bit of product in his hand. Anna smiled wanly as he told the story. It wasn't funny then. It was the fourth of July. Anna remembered picking him up less than 24 hours after his detox. His kitchen was stacked waist high in beer boxes. He assured Anna he'd eaten, but she was fairly certain he had not. Maybe he'd eat once they got to her sister's house. And that night at the fireworks in the park he was retching in the bushes—he sweat into Celia's sheets so much that in the morning he gathered them for the laundry.
Why had they all been named Emily—or most all? When was the last time he was with Sarah? And the last time with Emily W.? Did he still see the first Em while he was seeing Emily W.? Or did he stop? So it was Em, then the Emily at the conference, then there was Emily W.—the one he loved best—the yellow tablecloth just like his and Rosemarie's—the ring—the strand of pearls—the single pearl—the anchovies they only shared. And the letters—he'd copied all his letters to her out by hand. “Pearls were a thing between us,” he'd said. Did he buy as many gifts for all the others? Were they all symbolic? He bought gifts for that woman in France—the one who stood him up. What was her name? Anna remembered the day she almost hadn't boarded the plane to London upon finding out Michael had made love to her friend Rebecca—the clergy at her wedding.
Dear Anna,
It's the middle of the night -- really near morning -- and that quiet peaceful time when the train can be heard from all over town. I had forgotten about the table, but not the time we spent at it with food or drink or simply smoking and talking. When I miss you -- and I do all the time we're apart and, alas, sometimes when we're together -- it is the bright moments between us I miss, shining eyes, soft voices, closeness I've never shared before. These things are real, and (I wish you felt this the way I do: if you did -- to quote E.M. Forster out of context -- "we might be perfectly happy") -- they're real, I was saying, and like the most real things in our lives, in no need of symbols. Such symbols, it might be, are a trap and a diversion: perhaps even Weil knows this. (I know Stevens and Williams did.)
But, in any case, I'm missing you already and I know you'll be with me on my travels. Sleep well, my dear; eat well and work with energy. I love you.
Michael“You have beautiful hands.” Ethan had folded her hand into his and extended it into the air above their heads admiringly. Their hands cast shadows on the wall of Anna's room. He found her an enigma. Mercurial. She asked questions he couldn't answer. She wanted to know everything before it happened. He didn't know what he would or could do for her—or what he was willing to change. As he'd washed the dishes from Anna's breakfast with Michael, he'd asked himself again “What are we doing”?
(July evenings occur as a name repeated.)
Strange benefit of geography.
He studied me at mirrors
but recalled only photographs
and houses leaning seasonal
(a deluded shoreline.)Ascertain bird or cicada near.
Awaken to a darkened background
clouded North by noon.Here is a reverse. We take of gales
and a landscape of driving rain.It is the tangled white hair
of two decades
(definition.)It is the perfect blur of reflection.
Anna remembered the thunder rolling in the distance—growing closer. Lightening faded into the greying dawn. And the roaring whistle of the Northern Pacific three blocks away was swallowed in thunder.
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All quotes from Simone Weil are from Gravity and Grace , trans. Emma Crawford and Mario von der Ruhr (London and New York: Routledge Classics, 2004).
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