ECLIPSE (7 page)

Pierce squirmed inside. “You were a kid, Marissa.”

She looked up at him. “What I’d begun to feel, and believe today, is that there’s a need hardwired in the human species to define itself in relation to some lesser, dismissible race. That’s why Bobby’s people are so disposable—Luandians dismiss the Asari as an inferior ethnic group; Westerners dismiss them because they’re black. But back then I blamed only
myself
for that.”

Pierce searched for common ground—perhaps one of Sean Pierce’s many stories of being disdained as an Irish Catholic. But the comparison struck him as superficial: he had never been confused about who he was; nor did merely entering a room set him apart.

Marissa’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Do you know what I remember most from that time?” she told him. “When my mother showed me a sepia-tinted photograph of an ancient black woman and told me it was my great-grandmother, a slave. She meant it as a history lesson. But all I felt was this terrible shame.”

She stopped there, pensive. “Where was your father in all this?” Pierce asked.

Her downward gaze persisted. At last she answered, “He’s the
part I
struggle with. All the reasons I didn’t tell my parents how confused I was came from suspicions about their marriage that turned out to be true.

“Their relationship had stopped being an act of glorious defiance. More and more my father spent time with whites, my mother with blacks. When I was small, I used to crawl into bed between them, holding their hands like I was some sort of human bridge.” She paused again, then looked up at Pierce. “Sometimes I look back at myself as a girl of nine or ten, and it’s like I’m someone else. That’s the person I feel sad for.”

Pierce felt them coming closer to truths that had eluded him. “Is your dad the man in your short story?”

The smile at one corner of her mouth did not change her eyes. “More or less. But there’s one scene I’ll never write.”

Unwilling to push her, Pierce settled into silence. For a long time, Marissa contemplated her wineglass. “I was twelve,” she said abruptly. “My mom was visiting her sister and her new baby. It was late at night, and I guess he figured I’d sleep right through. Instead my Anne Frank paranoia turned into a nightmare of men in uniforms breaking into my room—some black, some white. I was so afraid I wanted to find my father.

“My bedroom was at the top of the stairs. When I cracked open the door, I heard voices.” Marissa sipped her wine, as though reflecting back. “The light in the alcove was dim, but I could see them clearly enough. My father, kissing a woman who had slipped in through the door, running his hands all over her body.

“She was young and slender—not at all like my full-figured mother—and very white. They turned and started up the stairs, smiling at each other. I closed the door as softly as I could, so they wouldn’t see or hear me. Then I pressed my back against the door, listening until I heard the door to my parents’ bedroom close as softly as I’d closed mine.”

Pierce remained silent until she looked up at him again. “That’s all,” she said. “Were you expecting more?”

“I was just wondering if you ever confronted him. Or told your mother.”

“Neither. As time went on I discovered that my father had constant affairs, typically with graduate students, young women who reinforced
his need to feel his own magnetism. All of them were white.” Her tone became cool. “To him my mother wasn’t a person—just part of an image he once had of himself. Having me was the sacrifice he made to keep her before realizing he didn’t want either one of us. Eventually he got so blatant that even Mama couldn’t take it.

“After the divorce he moved to a condominium, where everyone was white and everything was symmetrical. When I visited on weekends it felt like I was trapped in a Fisher-Price village on Astroturf. I hated it. I hated the women he saw. Most of all, I hated
him
.” Pierce saw her jawline tighten, and slivers of anger entered her voice. “When I told him I didn’t want to come there anymore, he accused me of being an anti-Semite. He was so completely solipsistic that he looked at his own daughter and saw nothing but an angry black woman filled with all the rage my mother had never shown, all because she was too patient, too caretaking, too concerned with how I’d feel. And he never, ever
saw
her. So I rejected him,
all
of him, with all the fury I could muster.”

Abruptly she fell silent, caught in the emotions of her narrative, yet perhaps regretting that she had taken it so far. To lighten the moment, Damon said laconically, “You should have put
that
part in the story.”

To his surprise, Marissa gave a rueful laugh. “That part’s mine. At least it was until now.”

Though nothing in her tone underscored the last remark, it suggested that she had not fully revealed herself to Bobby Okari. But all Pierce said was “I guess things got better.”

“Not for a while. I’d just started high school, where there were blacks mixed in with whites. And I was remote and angry all at once—the white kids found me intimidating; blacks thought I was ‘snobby.’ For a while I slipped back and forth between them, trying on attitudes and not fitting in anywhere. Then my father’s example gave me direction.”

“Which was?”

Marissa looked at him with renewed directness. “Sleeping with black guys. I didn’t stop until I realized people were laughing at me, white
and
black, and that my reasons were no better than my father’s. So I pulled myself out of it and hid behind a veneer of toughness. My own solitude became the safest place I knew.”

“And that’s when you started writing.”

Her teeth flashed briefly. “How did you ever guess?”

“Sheer brilliance. Plus the fact that feeling different from everyone around me was what got
me
started.”

She gave him an ironic look. “You felt special.
I
felt different. It’s taken some time to separate myself from the identity laid out for me by other people and sort out who I was meant to be.”

Pierce reached for the wine bottle, helping himself to another half glass. “Is that what Luandia’s about?”

“I think so.” She gave him a keen look. “Just to clear something up for you, I was drawn to Luandia
before
I met Bobby. Over a year ago I went with a human rights group to Waro, the major city. The services were collapsing; the roads were congested; there were piles of garbage in the street; the power failed for hours on end. But there was a vitality I’d never seen before.” She began to speak swiftly, passionately. “I was scared and enthralled and thought the people were amazing—filled with energy, directness, and the will to survive. Suddenly I felt that anything was possible for me there, that I could have an impact way bigger than anything I could accomplish here. Now I can’t wait to go back.”

Pierce did not analyze his impulse to object.
“Then
you were a foreigner who knew she was coming back here. From the sound of Bobby’s plans, the next time coming back won’t be so simple.”

Marissa shrugged. “Then I’ll have to become Luandian, won’t I.”

Pierce sipped his wine. “I wonder if fitting in will really be that easy.”

Marissa bit her lip, lending her expression a stubborn cast. “In America I’m already twice a minority. Granted, less than half of me is black—Mama tells me there’s at least one slave owner in the family tree. But for everyone except blacks I’m black. So I’ve chosen to embrace that. I can’t be white, and don’t want to be.”

“And I can only be me, Marissa—an Irish Catholic with as open a heart as I can manage. That has to be enough.”

Perhaps it was the wine, Pierce realized, that had made him say more than he should, or the sense that his time with Marissa was running out. She looked down again, seeming to draw a breath, then met his eyes with an expression of deep gravity. “For who?”

“Maybe for you.”

She held his gaze, head slightly tilted, as though she were replaying his tone of voice. Then she said, “It can’t be, Damon. It just can’t.”

The quiet insistence in her voice hinted at an inner struggle. With
equal quiet, he answered, “I’m not your father. Or Bobby Okari. What matters to me is that I see you as you are.”

Her eyes and body froze. “That’s pretty condescending.”

“Is it? I thought part of respecting someone was speaking honestly. That’s what we’ve been doing.” He softened his tone again. “Do you talk this way to Bobby?”

“I don’t need to,” she snapped. “I already feel stupid for saying this stuff to you. How much dumber would it be for me to whine to Bobby about adolescent angst or my parents’ crummy marriage? For him I’m what he sees right now—and yes, that
is
enough.”

“For who?” Pierce shot back. “Didn’t you say your mother was too concerned with others’ needs to speak out for herself? Or do you need Bobby to see you as someone too consumed by higher causes to bother him with herself?”

“That’s completely unfair.” Marissa stood, trembling with anger. “Damn you, Damon, for drawing me out and then turning that back against me. I gave you credit for being sensitive, when all you are is manipulative.”

Standing to face her, Pierce felt himself flush. “All I’ve done was listen to you and, because you matter, challenge you. I think you know the difference. That’s one of the reasons tonight happened the way it has. You can say anything to me you need to say, and that you
don’t
say in the stories Bobby never reads.” He lowered his voice again. “I care about you, Marissa. But then you’ve known that for a while.”

Slowly the stiffness left her posture, and then she looked into his face. “What I know is that we’re different. You’re a poor boy from Boston who’s grabbing what America has to offer you—a partnership in a corporate firm and the money to buy a Victorian in Pacific Heights, fill the cellar with fine wine, and have enough left over for liberal causes. It’s only human for that to appeal to you. But I’m going where I can help people in a way that I think matters. The life you’re headed for would be slow death to me.”

“And yet you’ve imagined it,” Pierce said softly. “Can you tell me you love Bobby as much as the cause he stands for?”

To his surprise, Marissa said nothing. Nor, despite her stricken expression, could she seem to look away.

Pierce touched her face. “It seems you’re out of words.”

Still she didn’t speak. Gently, Pierce brought his face to hers.

As they kissed, he felt her hesitate, and then their kiss went deep. When it was done, she rested her forehead against his chest. In a strained voice, she said, “You have to go now.”

Cradling her chin, he raised her head. Twisting away, she said,
“Please.
If you don’t go I can never see you again.”

She made it sound like a matter of her own survival. He touched her face with curled fingers and then, against his will, walked slowly to the door. When he turned again, she looked as vulnerable as the child she had described.

Out of compassion and the fear of losing her, Pierce left.

I
N THE DARK OF NIGHT
, P
IERCE READ THE
BBC’
S LATEST BULLETIN.

General Savior Karama, the report said, had announced the imminent arrest of Bobby Okari. Karama’s statement ended simply: “The necessary measures will be taken to maintain civil order as the arrest is carried out.” But Pierce, familiar with war crimes, knew too well that bland phrases and the passive voice often signified unspoken horrors.

There was nothing more. In silence, more profound for what he could imagine all too well, Pierce recalled the last time he had seen Marissa Brand.

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK,
Marissa had not come to class. Afraid that he had offended her, Pierce forced himself to wait. But then she missed a second class, and a third.

He did not have her phone number; directory assistance could tell him nothing. Only his fear of making matters worse kept him from going to her apartment.

The next week she reappeared.

She would not meet his eyes. When class was over, she left before he could catch her.

He hurried outside, then stopped abruptly. She was waiting at the bottom of the steps, as though nothing had changed. But when he came closer, the anxiety he felt was reflected in her eyes.

Touching his sleeve, she asked, “Can we walk a little?”

Together they moved across the moonlit grass. She did not speak or
look at him until they stood beneath the shadow of the campanile. Quietly, she said, “I’m leaving, Damon.”

“Class? Or school?”

“America. Bobby’s returning to Luandia—it’s time, he’s decided. I’m going, too.”

A dull shock silenced him for an instant. “To do what?”

“Marry him.
Help
him.” Her eyes held uncertainty and a hint of pain. “I don’t expect you to understand. But I won’t be sad to leave a place where so many take so much for granted, and go where the simplest thing—the survival of your child—is precious.”

He drew closer, looking down into her face. “Is this about Bobby, or the cause?”

“I don’t separate them. The work is part of who he is.” Her tone, though sharper, contained a plea for understanding. “It’s also about me.”

“But do you love him? Does he love you? If he doesn’t
see
you, Marissa, all the good works in the world won’t make you feel less alone.”

For a moment she looked away. With fresh urgency, he asked, “Why didn’t you come to class?”

“You know the reason.”

“Do I? Then look at me and say it.”

When she gazed up at him it seemed an act of will, though she answered in a soft, deliberate voice. “I love him. I want the life we’ll have together. But you have the power to confuse me.”

He tried to restrain himself from showing hope. “Then maybe you shouldn’t go yet.”

“I’m going. But right now it’s like jumping into the unknown, the biggest thing I’ve ever done or will do. Just by
being,
you make me doubt myself.”

“Are you sure that’s about me, Marissa? Or is it also about Bobby and the choice to be with him?”