Five Days (10 page)

‘But it's very important, skilled work. The thing is – and I say this as someone who has known you since you first arrived in this world of ours – I've always wondered why you seem to short-change yourself. And maybe it's absolutely none of my business. But I'll say it anyway, because you're still a young woman with possibilities—'

‘I have two children and a husband and a mortgage and far too many bills. So my actual possibilities are few and far between.'

‘So you say. The truth is, we all have greater possibilities than we ever realize or want to accept. Look at me – I always wanted to live in Paris, teach absurdly abstruse calculus at the École Normale Supérieure, master the language, and take up with a marvellous French chap whose family just happened to own a château in the Loire. And yes, I know that all sounds so clichéd – a gay mathematician's picture-postcard reverie. But here I am, at seventy, and except for a week in the City of Light every summer with Andrew – to whom I've never revealed the French lover fantasy – have I ever used a sabbatical break or even the three months we get off every summer to live there? Hell, no. Know what I think? I think part of me still believes I don't deserve Paris. Isn't that terrible? And Andrew – who I also didn't think I deserved when I first met him, but thankfully he thought otherwise – is now insisting that next summer, when he can take some leave from his job, we spend six months there. He's already apartment hunting for us. And I am finally giving in to the idea.'

‘Good for you,' I said, noticing that I was simultaneously strangling the napkin in my lap.

‘Yes, it's only taken me fifty years of adult life to finally come to the conclusion that I deserve happiness. Which, in turn, leads me to ask: when are you going to start thinking you deserve happiness?'

‘I'm not unhappy, Arnold.'

‘You remind me so much of your father. He could have had the full ticket to Harvard or Chicago or Stanford or any other major university – because, on many levels, he was even cleverer than me. Just as I know you got accepted here at Bowdoin, but chose U Maine.'

‘You know why I chose U Maine. They offered me a full scholarship. Here it was only fifty per cent – and I would have had to take out a loan . . .'

‘Which – had you gone to medical school – you would have paid back five years after getting your MD degree. And having just said that, I know I've overstepped . . .'

‘Perhaps you have,' I said. Thinking:
You cannot begin to imagine how many times over the years I have privately reproached myself for this piece of late-adolescent bad judgment
.

‘I'm truly sorry,' Arnold said. ‘But I just want you to not make the mistakes I made.'

‘I'm afraid it's too late for that. And I really think I'd like to get off this subject now . . .'

‘Of course, of course.'

The remainder of the meal was rather forced, our conversation stilted, guarded, overshadowed by the uncomfortable exchange that had just occurred. Then we listened to the concert – but I didn't hear a note, as everything Arnold told me kept churning around my head. Because it was, sadly, all so true, so right on the money. Afterward, my father's friend walked me to my car, his head lowered, clearly distressed.

‘Will you forgive a foolish old man his foolhardy attempt to give out advice?'

‘Of course I forgive you,' I said, embracing him lightly.

‘OK,' he said quietly, realizing the landscape between us had changed. ‘Don't be a stranger, eh?'

‘And don't you find a way of
not
going to Paris.'

‘I'll try not to.'

I never heard from Arnold again. Two months later he woke up one morning with chest pains – and died of a coronary occlusion less than an hour later. Life is like that. You're here, in the midst of things. Then, out of nowhere, something shows up and snuffs your existence out. It's always so dreadful, a sudden death like that. Always so profoundly unfair. And so distressingly common.

Brunswick. The border beyond which I rarely cross. My world: the thirty miles from Damariscotta to Brunswick.

And now . . .

Portland.

Our one proper city in Maine. An actual functioning port. A place of business. A foodie paradise – and a town which, if I was twenty-five and wanted to start out in a city away from the big metropolitan ambitions and pressures of a New York, a Los Angeles, a Chicago, I'd certainly think about considering. Ben especially likes what he calls ‘the Portland vibe – urban Maine bohemia'. I think he envisages himself in the future in some warehouse space near the docks, living simply, but having a huge studio space and doing well enough as an artist to meet his bills and fund his work. ‘I don't really want to go to New York or Berlin,' he told me recently. ‘I just want to stay in Maine and paint.' As this comment came in the wake of that terrible period of his life I didn't want to say that, quite honestly, the best thing that could happen for him as an artist was to get out of Maine for a few years.

Still, if he ends up in Portland . . . well, of course, I'll love the fact that he's just an hour down the road. And it will give me an excuse to drop down here more often – because this is a city I should be using frequently. And maybe now that Dan is bringing in a salary again . . .

No, let's not think about any of that this weekend. Let's call a moratorium on all domestic thoughts for the next forty-eight hours.

As if.

Kennebunkport. Summer home of the Bush family. I voted for Bush Senior, but couldn't give my support to Junior – as he reminded me of a richer, more vindictive version of the frat boys I always seemed to dodge at college. I've always loved the beach at Kennebunkport – a curiously rugged stretch of the Atlantic and a wondrously savage contrast to the well-heeled, upscale community that fronts it. I would love to somehow, sometime, live directly by the sea. Just to be able to wake up every day and immediately look out at the water. No matter what was going on around me there would be the immense consolation of water.

I glanced at my watch. I was making good time, listening to a Mozart symphony on Maine Public Radio. The 36th, subtitled the Linz. The announcer explained how Mozart showed up, in 1781, on a Monday at the home of the Count of Linz, wife in tow, and the Count, knowing Mozart's habit of running up debts, offered him a nice sum of money if he could write a symphony for the court orchestra by Friday. Four days to write and orchestrate a symphony! And one that is still being played over two centuries later. Is genius, among other things, the appearance of effortlessness when it comes to great work? Or is there some sort of mystique hovering around the notion that all truly serious art must have a long gestation period; that it must be the result of a profound and torturous struggle? Even as the reception began to crackle, once I crossed the bridge that links Maine to New Hampshire, I couldn't help but be carried along by the immense lyricism of the symphony – and the way Mozart seemed able to reflect the lightness and darkness lurking behind all things in the course of a single musical phrase.

New Hampshire – just a stretch of highway here on this corner of I-95. Then Massachusetts – and suburban Boston announced itself with billboards and shopping malls and fast food and strip bars and places to buy lawn furniture and endless car dealerships and cheap motels. The conference was being held in a Fairfield Inn along Route 1, just a few miles from Logan Airport. I'd Googled the place in advance – so I knew it was a large airport hotel with a conference centre attached to it. Up close it was a concrete block. Inconsequential. Uninteresting. A place you would never notice unless you were stopping by. But I didn't care if it was big and squat and all reinforced concrete and this side of ugly. It was an escape hatch for a couple of days. Even the unappealing can look pretty good when it represents a break from routine.

FLORAL CARPET. FLUORESCENT
lights. Concrete walls painted industrial cream. And a big reception desk made from cheaply veneered wood, over which were clocks that showed the time in London, Chicago, San Francisco and (of course) here in Boston. This was the reception area of the Fairfield Inn, Logan Airport. It did not look promising, especially since there was already a huge line in front of the desk.

‘Must be all the X-ray people,' said the man who had just joined behind me.

I smiled.

‘Yes, must be,' I said.

‘“X-ray people”,' the man said again, shaking his head at this comment. ‘Makes it sound like 1950s sci-fi. Not that you were around in the 1950s . . .'

‘Glad you think so.'

‘I would say you were born in 1980.'

‘Now that is flattery.'

‘You mean, I got it wrong?' he asked.

‘By about eleven years, yes.'

‘I'm disappointed.'

‘By my age?'

‘By my inability to guess your age,' he said.

‘That's a major personal fault?'

‘In my game it is.'

‘And your game is . . .?'

‘Nothing terribly interesting.'

‘That's quite an admission,' I said.

‘It's the truth.'

‘And the truth is . . .?'

‘I sell insurance.'

I now stepped back and got a proper look at this insurance man.

Mid-height – maybe five foot nine. Reasonably trim figure – with the slightest hint of a paunch around his stomach. Graying hair, but not thinning hair. Steel-rimmed glasses in a rectangular frame. A dark blue suit – not particularly expensive, not particularly cheap. A mid-blue dress shirt. A rep tie. A wedding ring on his left index finger. He had a Samsonite roll-on bag in one hand, and a very large black briefcase on the floor next to it – no doubt filled with policy forms just waiting to be filled in as soon as he landed the necessary clients. I judged him to be somewhere in his mid-fifties. Not particularly handsome. Outside of the gray hair, not looking bloated or too weathered by life.

‘Insurance is one of life's necessities,' I said.

‘You should write my sales pitch.'

‘I'm certain you've got a better one than that.'

‘Now it's you who's flattering me.'

‘And where do you sell insurance?'

‘Maine.'

I brightened.

‘My home state,' I said.

Now he brightened.

‘Born and bred?' he asked.

‘Absolutely. Heard of Damariscotta?'

‘I live about twenty miles away in Bath . . .'

I then told him where I'd grown up, also mentioning my years at U Maine.

‘I'm a U Maine grad as well,' he said – and we quickly discovered which dorms we lived in during our respective freshman years and that he was a business studies major at the college.

‘I did biology and chemistry,' I said.

‘Far more brainy than me. So you're a doctor?'

‘What makes you guess that?'

‘The two science majors, and the fact that there is a radiography convention this weekend at this hotel – and all you X-ray people are delaying my check-in.'

That last comment came out with a smile. But I took his point, as there were fifteen people ahead of us and only two receptionists at work. We were going to be here awhile.

‘So you've decided I'm an X-ray person,' I said.

‘That's just deduction.'

‘You mean, I don't look like an X-ray person?'

‘Well, I know I look like the sort of man who sells insurance.'

I said nothing.

‘See,' he said, ‘guilty as charged.'

‘Do you like selling insurance?'

‘It has its moments. Do you like being a radiographer?'

‘I'm just a technologist, nothing more.'

‘If you're a radiographic technologist, that's a pretty important job.'

I just shrugged. The man smiled at me again.

‘Which hospital?'

‘Maine Regional.'

‘No kidding. Were you working there when Dr Potholm ran the department?'

‘Dr Potholm hired me.'

The man smiled and stuck out his hand.

‘I'm Richard Copeland.' He simultaneously handed me his business card.

I took his hand. A firm grip. A salesman's grip. I pocketed the card. I told him my name.

‘My first grade teacher was named Laura,' he said, ‘though we called her Miss Wigglesworth.'

‘Well, my mother told me that, after much debate, the name choice came down to Laura or Sandra. My father preferred the latter, but my mother was certain I'd end up being called Sandy.'

‘Sandy's a little bit Californian, isn't it?'

Now it was my turn to giggle. Richard Copeland certainly had an easy conversational style. But he was also somewhat cautious with his body language, as if he was always fighting a certain physical shyness. I could see him looking me over and then trying to mask the fact that he was looking me over. The banter between us was simultaneously breezy and guarded. I characterized him as a flirt who was not totally at ease with being a flirt. But this was, without question, a flirtation – of the sort that two strangers have when caught together in a long line and they know that, in fifteen minutes, they'll never be seeing each other again.

‘Funny you say that. When I was thirteen my dad mentioned to me that I almost ended up with another first name, but “Mother hated the name Sandra”. And when I asked her why she was so against that name, Mom said that Sandy would have made me sound like “a surfer girl”.'

‘Spoken like a true Maine mother.'

‘Oh, Mom would have been very much at home in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.'

He looked a little surprised by that last comment – almost flinching a bit.

‘Have I said the wrong thing?' I asked.

‘Hardly,' he said. ‘It's just that it's not every day you hear someone make reference to the Massachusetts Bay Colony.'