Sarah's Window (5 page)

A trestle table had been set up to accommodate his computer, fax machine, and stacks of paper and files and books. She approached and stood for some time trying to make sense of the clutter. It did not surprise her to find that nearly everything was written in equations; all the notes and scribbles and printed pages were mathematical computations or graphs or measurements of some kind. Very little was expressed in words, and what was made no sense to her—"quantum memory," "atom-cavity state transfer," "vortex creation."

She was still standing in the shadows swaying gently with the baby when she noticed the rumpled throw-covered sofa shoved against the side wall below shelves of books. She was tired now, and the old sofa seemed particularly inviting. She flicked on the table lamp and sank down into the sagging seat. She worked off her shoes, then lay back and shifted Will onto her stomach.

She checked her watch. It was nearly eleven. She would read for a while, then put Will to bed and wait in the parlor until they returned. She opened her book.

Susan Wilde had always succeeded at anything she put her mind to. That's why little Will baffled her so, because he hadn't learned yet, hadn't been told, just how competent, how accomplished his mother was, how she always got it so right. For four months now John had watched her throw herself into the task of motherhood, but she confronted it like a battle, slogged into it with her mental armor and her clever strategies and her steeled will, only to meet with devastating failure. And on this evening, as they sat over their mesquite-grilled steaks in a corner booth of a steak house up in Emporia, they were unusually silent. They had both agreed earlier in the day not to talk of Will or his problems, but Will and his problems sat like a phantom at their table, and romance was nowhere to be found.

Susan looked up from her baked potato and eyed her husband's plate; the twelve-ounce porterhouse and mountain of home fries had vanished without a trace.

"You really should chew your food better."

He gathered up his napkin and wiped his mouth clean. Like many of his gestures, there was a suggestion of restrained energy.

"Still want to see a movie?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Too tired?"

"Tired?" A short puff of air escaped her nostrils. "That doesn't even come close."

"Shall we just go on home?"

"I'd rather. If you don't mind."

"No. I might work a little when I get back."

"Will you take Amy home?"

"Of course."

His mind was on his work, even as he pulled into the driveway and roused Susan from sleep, followed her into the hallway and took her coat from her shoulders, pecked her good night on the cheek.

She turned from the landing, leaning heavily on the handrail. "Please, honey, do be quiet when you come to bed," she whispered. "Don't wake the baby."

"I won't. You get to bed."

She nodded and trudged up the stairs.

Amy was usually to be found watching television in the old parlor, surrounded by a ring of litter, a Coke can or two, half-eaten bags of chips or bowls of popcorn. But the parlor was silent and there was no trace of the girl. It was not so much alarm as curiosity that swept through him, brought his thoughts back to the real world.

He called out in a loud whisper, "Amy?"

In the hallway he stood with his eyes on the stairs, wondering if she was in the nursery, hesitating to check for fear of waking Will, and that's when the door caught his attention. It was not at all as he had left it, but slightly ajar, with a sliver of pale light coming from the study.

He opened the door and looked across the room to where Sarah slept. The small table lamp cast a soft light that encircled her; the rest of the room was lost in darkness. She lay sleeping with both arms stretched behind her head, like a child waiting to be undressed. Quietly he approached and gazed down on her. The loose sleeves of her sweater had fallen around her shoulders, baring the insides of her arms, that vulnerable stretch of pale blue-veined skin, and he was overcome by a shocking urge to kiss her there. One hand hung poised in the air, the fingers gently curled; the other was hidden in the mass of her chestnut hair. The faintly exotic slant of her eyes and the high-winged brows were even more pronounced now that her eyes were closed, and it seemed her softly parted lips were offering up a kiss. He imagined with a kind of wistfulness the men who had seen her mouth just like this.

Will slept on her chest, his tiny body rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath, his flushed cheek on the pillow of her breast.

Never had the sight of a woman moved him so deeply; not even his wife, after all the years of intimacy, had ever appeared to him in quite this way. Will seemed to have tamed her just as she had tamed him, and there was a harmony in their togetherness, as if they were of the same mind, were dreaming the same dream.

She began to stir. The long, slender fingers came alive in a graceful, slow dance, and then she stretched and her body quivered as she took a deep breath, and her eyes opened.

He did not move but stood looking down at her with that penetrating gaze. Sarah awoke slowly, thinking this was still her dream, until he spoke.

He whispered low, "Shall I take him?"

She answered him with a quiet shake of her head, then she eased her way up, rising slowly, cradling Will to her breast. She swept back the dense tangle of auburn hair, then turned a groggy look on him.

"You're still asleep."

She nodded.

"Take your time," he whispered.

He waited while she worked on her shoes, and as she struggled to stand he reached under her arm and pulled her to her feet.

"Can you get him up to bed?"

She swayed slightly and he steadied her.

He stood in the hallway listening to the old wooden stairs creak under her feet. It seemed like hours before she came down again, but it was only a few minutes. He had pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and stood there with it folded in the palm of his hand, feeling a little silly and uncomfortable, the way he used to feel as an adolescent in the presence of girls. She descended the stairs with her eyes cast down, and when she reached the last step she looked up at him and said, "Amy called me. She was having trouble getting him to sleep. My name's Sarah."

"I remember you," he said as he held out the bill.

She reached for it and said with eyes averted, "Yes, from the open house. I'm sorry about that."

"I didn't mind."

She turned away and lifted her coat from the coat rack in the entrance.

"I'll give this to Amy," she said.

"I don't know if it's enough."

"I'm sure it is."

"Susan usually pays her."

Sarah lifted her backpack to her shoulder and turned toward the door.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"No, I drove."

"It's snowing heavily. Be careful."

"Thanks. I will."

"You want me to make you some coffee?"

"No, I'll be okay. Thanks."

She turned with a hand on the doorknob, and there was something in his look that gave her reason to pause.

"If you ever need me again, I mean... if Amy is busy, you can call me."

"Was he difficult?"

She seemed to be thinking over his question. "No, not really. He ate a little and then fell asleep on my shoulder. I think he just needs to be close to people."

He looked as though he was about to say something, but then his expression changed and he grew somber, but he did not leave her with his eyes.

Sarah could not last under that blue gaze, but looked down and mumbled a thanks, then opened the door and walked to her truck.

John Wilde had been an intellectually precocious youth, but girls did not interest him until late in high school. His popularity with women had always baffled him and left him a little uneasy. Even in the early stages of his marriage, the focus of his life had been his work, and sexual pleasure had always seemed strangely isolated from the rest of his life. It was not that he did not enjoy it, but that it seemed like something fragmented, not at all integral to his life.

His field did not draw a lot of women, but there had been a secretary in the physics department at Stanford who had flirted with him one winter, and she even tried to seduce him at the lab's Christmas party when she'd had a little too much to drink. At the end of the evening she stood in front of him in the crowded elevator and reached behind her back to work her hand between the flaps of his open coat. Unable, unwilling to resist, he felt her fingers drift between his legs, groping for him. John, in a daze, fixed his eyes dopily on the red digital numbers as they descended three floors, wishing they would continue into infinity. Several weeks later he walked into the office and found her flaunting a diamond and sapphire engagement ring, and the next month she moved to Seattle with her new husband-to-be—to John's great relief.

Then there had been Stephanie, a doctoral candidate from MIT he had met at a conference in Boston, and they had fallen into a long-distance affair that lasted the good part of a year, although they managed to see each other only twice after that initial encounter. It had frightened him terribly because she was on the verge of leaving her husband for him, and John felt nothing for her except a throbbing lust that spilled over into the rest of his life and sullied it. After those waters had ebbed, the guilt settled on the floor of his life like a sediment, and it lay there and hardened into a fine dark seam, a constant reminder of his betrayal.

He had never really questioned his marriage, had never really found it lacking by any measure. These occasional moments of temptation arose, but then they passed and were forgotten. That inarticulate no-name hunger that had driven him to rebellion as a young man had long since been channeled into his work, and—if not at peace with himself—he was at least reconciled to the life he was living.

The log burst into flame and John rose and went to his desk. He shuffled aside some papers, found the scientific journal he wanted, then settled himself on the sofa to read.

As soon as his head hit the pillow he noticed it—a faint sweet perfume from her hair. But he focused his attention on his reading and forced her out of his mind. After a page he felt his eyelids fall under the weight of sleep. He struggled against the urge for a few more paragraphs, then rolled over and laid the journal on the floor.

It took him a moment before he realized his fingers had grazed something: it was the cold spine of a book, kicked under the sofa, only a hard-edged corner protruding.

He fished it out and looked at it.

It was an early leather-bound edition of Charles Doughty's
Travels in Arabia Deserta.
He had heard of Doughty, a nineteenth-century Arabist who had traveled the caravan routes. The book was a rare edition, one he judged to be of considerable value. There was no name, nothing to indicate proprietorship, but it could only be hers. He carefully opened it, and as he did so, a large envelope fell from the back cover. Within it were folded letters, their original envelopes discarded. The correspondence appeared to be typed letters to Sarah, and her replies, which were entirely handwritten. Her handwriting was erratic—at times an elegant, stylized script, at other times careless and nearly illegible. He knew at a glance it was an intimate correspondence, knew she would be exposed to him on these pages, and he was not sure if he wanted to know her like this, suspected he might be disappointed, that she might reveal herself to be dull, unimaginative, that the mystery would fade. It was more apprehension than conscience that caused him to hesitate; but finally, he sat up and began to read.

March 2

Dear Miss Bryden,

I am beginning to despair of ever having the opportunity to meet you. I know from your grandfather that you have tried to return my calls, and I confess this is one of the rare occasions when I regret my resistance to technology and my stubborn refusal to install an answering machine.

Therefore, I resort to this archaic—yet not unpleasant—form of communication and beg you to regard me as an acquaintance rather than a stranger.

I know that by now your grandfather has told you of my visit to your home and perhaps elucidated the reason for my presence in Cottonwood Falls. I'm sure countians secretly—or not so secretly—do not look with kindness on my attempts to unearth the lives of the living and the dead in my pursuit of literary glory. But I am used to my status as an unwelcome stranger; I lived it in Baratzeland and shall live it in the Australian lowlands when I leave here.

It is a strange task I undertake, and although I am quite clear as to the shape and substance of my work, if you should demand my personal
motives, I would reply that I will only know once it is finished, for the answer lies in the search itself and not in the final chapter.

Already I have strayed from my intent, which is to ask your cooperation in a matter of trade. I am sending you herewith a print of David Roberts's, which I obtained from a London gallery after visiting the site myself many years ago.

The drawing is entitled "Excavated Temple at Petra called El Ehasneh, or the Treasury " and is, I believe, one of the most beautiful among the 120 or so Roberts sketched. Apart from my own travels in Israel, Egypt, and the Sinai, my affinity with the subject is more than just a matter of taste: Roberts was accompanied on his journey through the Middle East by my great-greatgrandfather John Kinnear in 1839, and I have among my papers in London some of the letters he wrote to my great-great-grandmother.

In exchange, I would very much like to have your pastel of the pale yellow-fringed orchid— the one above your bed.

Sincerely yours, Anthony Kingsley

March 7

Dear Mr. Kingsley,

Your lithograph is worth more than all my efforts thrown together, but I am far too selfish to refuse it for the sake ofform. Therefore, I am sending you, along with the yellow fringed orchid, one of my rare oils. It is quite different from my pastels, but I think it has merit. It is quite
simply just another way of seeing things.

When I was at the university I wrote a paper on the Orientalists for an art history class. I mention this only as a way of connection. I am not a romantic—but I do believe in the power of myth.

My grandfather is always entertained by your visits. As for my grandmother, she makes everyone feel uncomfortable so please don't let her deter you. I regret I keep missing you.

Very sincerely yours, Sarah Bryden

March 20

Dear Sarah,

I bought this for you last night at the Jitney Bazaar in Cottonwood Falls. It cost all of $1.00. In all my travels I think I have never seen such a tawdry teapot. But I fancied I saw just a hint of a grin on that camel's face, and I thought it was a secret bit of humour he might like to share with you.

Thank you for sending me your paper on the Orientalists. I knew you could find it if you searched long enough (although I suspect your reluctance was more a matter of timidity than time). It was, as I suspected it would be, quite impressive. You would have made a fine scholar.

I was very disappointed that you were called away last night just as I sat down at your table. I got a fair view of your face and your smile. But then you disappeared.

Fondly,

Anthony

April 9

Dear Anthony,

I applaud your determination, but I think your chances of finding a fringed orchid are slim. I haven't seen one in many years. Unfortunately, it can only be pollinated by the sphinx moth, which visits the orchid around twilight, drawn by its delicate perfume. The sphinx moth has nearly been exterminated by pesticides, and so these beauties may very well be doomed to extinction. Nevertheless, I urge you to keep looking.

I envy you your freedom on the prairie. And your fresh eye. I seem to have lost both.

I assure you, I am not averse to meeting you, but I do work long hours and my days off are generally spent drawing.

I am also completely absorbed by the book you lent me, so you mustn't blame me if I am reluctant to come out. I am particularly intrigued by the passages you chose to underline and your margin notes. More of a window onto your thoughts than the author's.

Yours truly,

Sarah

May 14

My dear Sarah,

I found Diamond Springs, but only after more than six hours of wandering. Not that I regret the wandering—it is, after all, my modus operandi. But I had hoped to have you for my guide.

I am now sitting in the shade of the big elm growing just north of the trough—I'm sure you
know the one—and I am imagining this place throughout its centuries of interaction with man. Despite the buzzing heat and the hostile prickli-ness of these grasses I can't help but be convinced there is a genius loci here—just as there was one at Thut's quarry. Perhaps it is only that these places are somehow connected to you.

The old cowman I approached up at Diamond Ranch to get permission to wander out here without being shot told me a story about a little girl who used to run away from home and hide up here with a wild stallion. I made no attempt whatsoever to correct him and render his story more accurate. Instead I felt myself honored to be acquainted with a myth in the making, and I was determined to do nothing to diminish it. On the contrary, I drew him out as long as possible and, as I suspected he might, he took the bait and wove me a tale Mark Twain would have found tough to beat. But I refuse to be so easy as to write it to you; it will be had only in the telling, as oral literature should be had, and in exchange for your presence.

The wind has come up since I began writing, and I have to take great care lest these thoughts be lost to the wind.

Here, more than any other place, where there is nothing from the past to recommend it, no ruins, no monument, I sense the greatness of the ordinary that has tread here before me. Cattle paths approach this spring like the spokes of an old wagon wheel, and I see coming to me on the wind a Kaw buffalo hunter; a Czech immigrant; a Boston barber seeking gold; an army lieu-
tenant sent to map topography seemingly endless, a land that haunted his nights with dreams of walking on the bottom of the sea; a mischief-loving ten-year-old girl (whom you would have liked); a Spaniard in chain mail with skin and mind the toughness of buffalo hide; and then those nomads of eras so long past they escape my imagination and I feel them only as spirits, with no faces, no history to define them.

There is, however, a vision that haunts me more than these, and it bears your face and your eyes and your smile.

Fondly,

Anthony

June 28

My dearest Anthony,

Your offer was providential; I hate to think what kind of misery my grandma might have brought down around my ears had I stayed under her roof one more night. We have times of peace and times of war, and we seem to be entering upon the latter.

Did I mention to you how, as a child, I used to imagine myself living here in this house of yours, daughter of a great landlord, with servants and ponies, and only once did I set foot in the place before yesterday, and that was in the dead of night the New Year's Eve of my senior year in high school, with a riotous gang of friends looking for ghosts.

Since you estimate your absence to be at least three weeks, I took the liberty of bringing over
some of my painting materials and setting them up in the parlor. Rest assured that your privacy and your work will be completely respected.

Yes, the bed is spartan at best—on sleepless nights I think it not much better than the rack. But I have brought my David Roberts from home and hung it above the bed. It is quite serene here with your rugs, and the high naked walls seem to stand proud with a kind of forlorn beauty. I would dare not touch a thing in here.