“I was thinking we’d go a little farther afield,” I said. “I know a little farm place by a brook, it has a screened-in glass terrace, with a fire, it’s lovely.” I was jangling with nerves, I heard myself as I spoke, my voice false and tight.
“Amazing,” he said. “For once in my life I’m completely free this afternoon. Well, till five.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, started the car, and pulled out. He laughed, then after a moment cautiously protested that he did in fact need to be back by five. He and Cynthia switched off in the evenings after a five o’clock dinner with Phee.
“What does ‘switching off’ mean?” Now that I was driving and could keep my eyes on the road my self-consciousness began to fade and I felt more at ease.
“She goes and works at my office. She’s trying to power through the end of her book. She’s up against it—the publishing company is pressuring to take back the advance if she doesn’t get the draft in soon.”
So that was what he thought she was doing. “So you’re home at five, and then she goes out for the night to work? What if you wanted to see a movie or a friend?”
He shrugged. “It’s temporary. She needs to get it done more than I need a social life. We’ll get a payment on delivery of the draft. We’re drowning in debt. Sorry, I shouldn’t mention that.”
“Why not?” We were on the road out of town now, and wide vistas of farm scenery spread out all around us.
“Nobody wants to hear about money troubles.”
“Who doesn’t want to hear about money troubles?” I said. “Money is real life.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.” And I was pleased to detect an acrid note to his voice, directed, I imagined, at his wife’s financial irresponsibility.
I felt encouraged by his tone. “Marriages are so different now,” I said. “John and I had no schedule. He came and went as he pleased. I was content to ‘keep his dinner warm,’？” I sang, then said, “I mean, not really, but—”
He interrupted me. “What’s that from? I know that.”
“Oh God, a musical—How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.”
“That’s right. I was in the chorus in high school.”
“My father had the cast album. He loved musical theater.”
“I love musical theater too,” he said. “Cynthia can’t stand it. I tell her that I think musicals are like novels, but she doesn’t think that’s a good excuse.”
He expounded on his theory, that while plays were more like poetry—contained, hermetic, and symbolic—musicals, because of their breadth and the function of the melodic and harmonic motifs, their peaks, valleys, and “numbers,” were actually useful structural comparisons to the novel.
I nodded and murmured assent enthusiastically, but when he finished we were silent. American academics, like the rest of America, become shy when our conversations get too earnest. It is one of the reasons that I both love and am put off by conversations with Europeans, who never undercut their assertions with the discomfiture of having been emphatic, the way Americans do.
And Vlad, though born to Russian parents, was an American boy. “Didn’t you mind it,” he said, leading us back to a more comfortable track, the personal track, “that John would do whatever he wanted while you were at home with your daughter?”
“It wasn’t like that. His freedom gave me freedom,” I said. “And we had more babysitters. Parents today are so crazy about spending so much time with their kids. I love Sid but I never felt guilt about hiring a cheap college student to come and watch her while I lived my life, did my writing, saw friends, went to the gym.”
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, indicating that the complications of his situation were beyond any simple solution. Though they weren’t, I thought. We make our lives so complicated, when often all that’s needed is a bit of time and space. I flicked a glance at his sturdy knees bursting against the dark denim, pressing against the glove box. When I next spoke, I tried to bring a smile to my voice, a sense of irresistible and fun wickedness.
“I think you should text Cynthia and let her know you’re not sure when you’ll be home.”
He scoffed. I could almost hear his eyes rolling. “She’ll go ballistic.”
I tried to keep my voice in that light, insouciant register. “So give her the privilege of being the injured party for once. Listen, it’s almost two—this place is still quite a drive from here. Be expansive. I think it’ll be good for you both, Vlad. Trust the old woman.”
He was quiet. I could tell he was thinking. I kept my eyes on the road and listened to the clicking of keystrokes on his phone. “Done,” he said. He sounded giddy, disbelieving his own actions.
“Good for you,” I said, though I hated that phrase and its empty support of what was usually a lazy or at least self-oriented act.
I heard the soft bloop of a response, and Vlad exhaled and texted back.
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Have fun, stud.’？”
And I could feel an air of tension that had been swirling around the both of us dissipate. We were free. Thank you, Cynthia, I thought, graceful, funny Cynthia.
I patted the small strip of seat to the left of his leg. “We’re going to text her the number of a student I know who babysits when we get to the restaurant. I’m paying.”
“I don’t know. I don’t like leaving Phee with someone I haven’t met.”
I patted his seat once again, this time allowing my hand, when raising it, to brush ever so slightly against his outer thigh. “Vlad, you have to let go a little. You can’t be a parent and an academic and a writer if you don’t let go. I know this girl. She works part-time at the college day care. Phee has probably met her. I can fully vouch for her character.”
He nodded. “Okay. Thank you. I think Cyn will like that.” And I took a moment to silently marvel that everything was going so perfectly well.
We paused at a four-way stop sign and let a comically slow tractor pass. A group of dirty cows crowded against a fence on our right, their milk bags heaving. Vlad’s voice settled. “You know it’s hard for me to let go. I have to hold on tight. She’s been better in the past few weeks. Ever since she started getting back into her book. I wouldn’t even have considered this a couple months ago. Still, she’s barely sleeping, which can be a warning sign, and it feels like it could always just—crumble. One wrong move and—” He stopped himself, to keep the emotion from overtaking him.
I squinted in the sun to do something with my face, then proceeded along our route after the tractor finally cleared. As enthralled as I was with Vladimir, he took too much melodramatic ownership over Cynthia’s psychological well-being. He acted as though it were his burden and his alone. I felt umbrage, as a fellow female, that Vlad insisted on bringing up her troubles nearly whenever she was mentioned. It smelled of condescension and a gooey fetishizing of her suffering.
“I’m glad she’s doing better,” I said, remembering her and John in the doorway. No doubt she was elated by her little affair. Nothing boosts one’s spirits like secret plans and schemes and meetings and new hands and a fresh mouth to fixate on. Good for her creativity too. I’m sure she was writing with a renewed sense of energy, like I was when I thought about Vlad. Though I hadn’t consummated anything, and she got to feel the burning memory of someone’s touch while she crafted her sentences. How would I feel if Vladimir touched me? Would I lose myself completely? Would I dissolve? Become nothing but particles?