Benefit, page 27
It was such a plain expression of concern, uttered with so little feeling, that I blushed. I said, “I’m all right.”
“You’re certain.” She was satisfied, barely.
“I’m certain.” I almost mentioned my mother. I didn’t. One didn’t mention mothers to Renata.
“You know,” she added, “there are many people around here”—she looked up and gestured with her eyes at the office around her, the building, maybe the institution, maybe the world—“who mistake their position, their professional position, their affiliation, for something significant. This always strikes me as tragic, in a minor way, when I see it. But you are not one of them, and you needn’t pretend that you are.” I didn’t say anything. Renata waited, then added, “Life is not about belonging.”
“Oh, I don’t belong,” I replied lightly, but I knew that wasn’t the right answer, and so I said, “Or rather, I don’t want to,” and I knew that wasn’t the true one. I blushed again.
Renata said nothing. Soon I would be driving back to my mother’s house in my landlord’s van with the boxes of books I had no place for. Soon I would be unloading those boxes into an attic, one corner of which was still covered in my father’s files. “Thank you for the advice,” I said to Renata.
But Renata wasn’t listening, and wasn’t done. “Where has it led?” she asked.
“My work.”
“Yes.”
I tried to think. “Oh—ah—I guess the last thing I did in my research was—well, Henry James and friendship. No, Henry James and war.”
Renata said, “That sounds promising.”
“It wasn’t, really. His dates are all wrong. He died in the middle of World War I, and during the Civil War—he was alive, but he didn’t enlist. Because of some injury he supposedly got while fighting a fire.” I stopped. “He knew people who enlisted, I guess. His brothers.”
“Not William.”
“No, William went to Harvard instead of to war. That was his excuse.”
Renata said, “You assume an excuse is necessary.” She was matter-of-fact.
“William is worse,” I continued. “William and his moral equivalents. I hate that speech.”
“I believe,” Renata said, “that the phrase first comes up in The Varieties of Religious Experience.” She added, “That might be of interest. Though the Varieties is a series of lectures, of course, if you reject oratory outright.”
“Oh.” I stopped. “I didn’t know.”
“That was intended to be wry,” Renata said. “The best of William James is the psychology. His absolute respect for individual experience as perceived and understood by the individuals themselves. I think that is what he shared with the novelist.” She paused. “It helps to go back to the source.”
“Yes. Sorry. Yes. I will.”
Renata nodded a last time. I was dismissed. I drove home.
She was of course right. I looked it up later. William with the first mention of a “moral equivalent of war” was promoting “voluntarily accepted poverty”: “It is certain,” he wrote, “that the prevalent fear of poverty among the educated classes is the worst moral disease from which our civilization suffers.” Voluntarily accepted poverty was difficult enough that it might replace the battlefield as a necessary “bulwark against effeminacy” without the need of “crushing weaker peoples.” This was the end of 1901, beginning of 1902. “War” would have meant not whatever was begun in 1914 or 1861 but whatever was begun in 1898, with the U.S. blockade of Cuba—which drove William to anti-imperialist rallies in Boston and which he called “heart-sickening” in a letter to Henry, who was at this point in England, ready to compose another book about the marriage prospects of young women and trying to ignore the newspapers. Henry of the “obscure hurt,” Henry of the “comprehensive ache”; Henry was not worried about manliness, about morals, about voluntary anything. “One must save one’s life if one can,” he wrote back.
After the Spanish-American War the United States annexed several islands useful for sugar growing and military operations. U.S. sugar companies expanded into Puerto Rico. The City Bank opened its first branch in San Juan. At some point, a socialist named Emilia who smoked glamorous cigarettes and wore high heels with buckles made a bad match in New York that led her to the disappointed house of a complaining heiress on Long Island and from there to the rest of a life that I would never, in all of its difficulty, all of its Jamesian and un-Jamesian difficulty, really know.
There was so much I would never really know.
I sat on the concrete stair now and thought about lives, how they are saved, and what came back to me was the feeling I didn’t admit in front of a stack of books at my mother’s house or a cart of boxes at the Dawes library or a page of questions on the train from the city or any of those anxious hours at Oxford. It was the feeling of taking things in; it was the feeling of needing more—information, words, understanding—and of having more and not enough and then again needing; it was the feeling not of wanting to work but of wanting to learn. It was not a moral feeling. Selfish, rather. But so utterly distant from myself at the same time. How badly I had served this desire, and yet how faithfully it continued nevertheless: That was something to trust. Yes. As I stood up to open the hall door I felt almost dizzy.
Because I had barely eaten all night. I would see about getting some cake.
But when I went back in I found others.
Justin saw me before I could fetch a plate from the back table. “Laura.” He pulled me to one side of a curtained window. After the cool stairwell the room felt loud with sound and light. People were dancing now. The musicians had come to languid versions of Christmas carols that let various couples sway and stride without embarrassment in not exactly steps. No one could really dance. “I want to ask you something,” Justin said.
He had a glass in his hand and I could see a faint stain of wine on his lower lip.
“It went well,” I told him.
“What are you talking about?”
“The essay.”
He made a scornful face—scornful of me. “No, it didn’t.”
“Well, it went fine.”
“Yeah. Not even that.”
“I’m serious.”
He shook his head at my simplicity. “When I got back to the table, my dad said on the whole I should stick to the less personal stuff.”
“Oh. Sorry. Your dad?”
“My dad was a fellow in the seventies. Had a great time. No way he was missing the party.” He gestured with his chin to a couple standing in conversation with a few others at the edge of the dancers, a tall silver-haired man and an equally erect woman in velvet.
“That’s your mom.”
“Yeah, they’ve been married thirty-five years,” Justin said. “So they’re really thrilled with my choices so far.”
“I’m sure they are, actually.”
“Gee thanks. That’s reassuring. Anyway. I wanted to ask you something.”
“You said.”
“Mark and Heather.”
“Mark and Heather?” I looked back at him.
“Come on.” Justin was impatient. “You know what I’m talking about. They’re together, right?”
I refused to be impatient. “Aren’t you friends with Mark?”
“No one’s friends with Mark.”
“Wow.”
“Not like that anyway.”
“Well, why would I know—”
“Okay, what are you two talking about?” It was Greta.
She grabbed Justin’s elbow. She had a glass, too, in the other hand, tall and full of ice. Her cheeks were flushed. She said, “I’m trying to escape some woman telling me about the deserving poor.”
“We’re talking about Justin’s essay,” I told her. “Help me convince him the essay was good.”
Greta nodded. “The essay was good!” she said to him. To me: “See. There you go.”
Justin, angry now, said, “I don’t really care?”
Greta looked at me. “He seems convinced.”
“All right.” Justin gave up. “I’m going to find another bottle of wine. I don’t know why they took down the bar so early.”
Greta said to him, helpful, “Mark’s with that guy, chairman of the board, over there.” Then, to me, when Justin had gone: “What’s his problem? You haven’t seen Judith, have you?”
“No. I haven’t looked, though.” I scanned the crowd.
“She’s acting weird. I think she’s just mad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’ll come around. She hates these things and takes it out on me. But I just go with it and everything is okay in the end.”
“Let me know if I can help,” I said.
“You can help. Come with me. I have to find the bathroom.”
“Can we get some cake?”
“Yeah, the cake is so good,” Greta said, ignoring the question. “I’ve had like three pieces!” She steered me toward the door, leaving her glass on the nearest table. “All of the food was really good. Though I’ll eat anything; you know how I am.”
The interior of the women’s room was less elegant than I might have expected after the ballroom. I avoided my own reflection in the mirror as I waited for Greta. “Fuck zippers, by the way.” She emerged, smoothing herself, and headed toward the sink. “I should never have worn a jumpsuit; I knew I would have to go constantly. Never fails.”
I stared at her. “You’re pregnant.”
“Oh! Well—yeah, I am.” She looked at me with surprise, then approval, as if I had just made a lucky guess. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course. Congratulations.”
“It’s too early. Complications, you know, blah blah blah.”
“You were pregnant when I visited.”
Greta thought that over. “I was, actually!” She looked at herself.
“That’s great.”
“You think so? Come on, tell me, am I nuts to go through this again?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Does Judith know?”
It was an idiotic question, I realized as soon as I said it; somehow it had seemed the logical one. But the door opened before Greta could register her offense or amusement, and Greta said, “Heather!”
Heather paused in the doorway. “Oh, wow.” Then she remembered to smile. “So this is where everyone is,” she said brightly.
“All the important people,” Greta replied, “now that you’re here.”
“Don’t let me disturb you.” She didn’t look at me. “I just want to freshen up for a moment.” She stepped in. “You two seem like you’re deep in discussion.”
I said, “We’re talking about how good the cake is.”
“I haven’t tasted it,” said Heather. “I know it sounds ridiculous but I haven’t had the chance. Too much to do.”
“Oh, yeah,” Greta agreed. “I get that. Like a wedding. At the end you realize you’re starving because you’ve been talking to people all night and haven’t had time to eat. I mean your own wedding. But I’m in your way—”
“Oh, no, no,” Heather said as she moved into the space by the mirror that Greta had left. She opened the bag she held in one hand, a thin fabric envelope, and took out a tube of lipstick. “I’m just trying to make sure everyone has a good time.”
“We’re having a great time!” Greta said.
“That makes me so glad.” Her voice was calm even through the distortion of her mouth held taut and her eyebrows raised. She applied the lipstick. She capped the tube. “I worry that there’s too much talk about the foundation.”
“Isn’t that the point?” Greta said.
“Yes, of course.” Heather nodded. She pulled her eyebrows tight and pressed her lips together. “I hoped tonight would serve mostly as a kind of reunion, a chance for people to reconnect. Ultimately, though, we do want more people to take an interest in the foundation’s initiatives.” She frowned. It was hard to tell if the frown was an expression of her feelings or a test of her face.
“It’s going great,” Greta said definitively. “You’ll get lots of interest.”
“Thank you.”
“Lots of money!”
Heather frowned again. There was a pause. I said, tentative, “I think this is the kind of event from which people can take whatever they want.”
It sounded oddly formal out loud. Heather turned around. “That’s a good way to put it, yes.” She picked up her bag. “I should get back. I have to go rescue Mark.”
Greta brightened at this. “Does Mark need rescuing?”
“He’s deep in some sort of political discussion with an elderly donor,” Heather told her. “Of course he’s too kind to just leave. I imagine he’ll have to get more practiced at that. He’s exploring a run for Congress,” she added patiently, “which of course involves engaging with a lot of people he wouldn’t seek out otherwise.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” Greta said. “I got the memo. And you’re part of the—” She stopped suddenly and looked hard. “Oh my God. Heather!”
“What?” Heather turned.
“You and Mark.”
“Oh, I—”
“It’s true!” Greta crowed. “Oh my God, it’s true.” She didn’t bother to hide how pleased she was to discover this—pleased with herself. “You two!” Her eyes were manic with it.
Or something else. I thought of the wet evening on an Oxford street, the shine of rain and cobblestones, when Greta was crying through heartbreak and I had only walked her home. And as Heather smiled at her in admission—yes, it was true—as Greta clutched Heather’s arm in enthusiasm, and as I stepped back toward a stall door, I thought of the dark evening in the Oxford pub, the scent of mold and old bleach, when Heather was bleeding through the aftermath of her abortion and I could only offer her a tampon.
“Please don’t say anything,” Heather said. “We’re taking it slow.”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Greta assured her. “Of course. I won’t say a thing.”
She would say a thing, I knew. Heather knew, too. Greta would tell Justin, at least, before the evening was out. Heather thanked her.
“And Laura,” Greta continued, “Laura won’t say anything. Though Laura probably knew the whole story all along.”
“No,” I said, watching the strange tableau we made in the mirror, the three of us. My face a little behind the others. Heather and Greta would be good friends for each other, better than I had been to either. “No, but I’m glad.”
And Heather glanced at me then for the first time since she had entered the bathroom; I couldn’t tell what was in her eyes, but it wasn’t meant for anyone else.
“We’ll all go rescue Mark,” she said after a moment.
So the three of us pushed out of the swinging bathroom door together, where we met Caroline, a coat over one arm, and when Greta screeched that no one could leave, not yet, Caroline said she had to, sorry, “But what have you three been plotting together in the women’s room?” I answered quickly with the word people, which didn’t quite make sense, but Caroline nodded, approving. “Speaking of,” she said. “I’m due uptown. But I told Mark I was heading back early and I couldn’t share a cab with him so if he asks don’t blow my cover, okay?”
She was blithe. We all agreed. Greta told her to have fun, and Caroline shook her head, shrugging on the black wool of her coat. “Oh, I definitely will. That’s exactly why I shouldn’t go. Remind me,” she said, pulling a glove from her bag, “to write a little anonymous book sometime about men who weren’t loved by their mothers.”
Heather nodded. “Or those who were.”
Caroline laughed at that; we all did, though we didn’t know—at least I didn’t—what we agreed to with the laughter, and Caroline said, “Fair,” then added, “So, yeah, great to see all of you, keep in touch, all that,” and strode in the opposite direction down the hall. The ease of her dismissal, leaving for her night of inadvisable pleasure, lying about it, confiding about it, uttering the obviously superficial phrases of parting that no one was meant to believe, the ease of all the unconcerned competence with which she went about her life—it seemed to buoy us, Greta and Heather and me, as we made our way back to the ballroom, where the lights were higher and the quartet had stopped playing and small sociable clumps of people congealed, all over, fellows from the same or adjacent years; this was late-stage party, when optimism or determination had worn off and people came back to those they already knew. We drifted our way to where Mark was standing with Justin, also Lindsay, and Jay, and there was Zac, along with a fellow from one year later whose name I couldn’t remember. Lindsay was saying something to Mark, or rather, about Mark, which she explained to us as we came up: “All the stories we could leak, once this one is a public figure.” I didn’t remember Lindsay and Mark having been friends, but now, in this conversation, they always had been. “Then we were reminding ourselves,” Lindsay added, smiling, “that Mark is a specialist in unconventional warfare.” Mark didn’t say anything. He smiled, looking slightly down and away, embarrassed and pleased at the stories, the warfare. Justin made a small gesture with his hands that was meant to quiet the group so he could add something, but another voice had begun a different topic—it was Zac, who looked fit and satisfied, in a dark suit, saying in apparent earnestness how quickly time passed, confessing his jealousy, so often now, of interns in his office, though he was the one giving them jobs. “I’m thinking,” Zac said, in a sort of wonder at his thought and the ability to articulate it, “I’m thinking, No, no, I want your life.”
Others agreed. Others added their findings about the passage of time. I thought about what was still to come, the good work Mark would do in Congress, the good work Heather would do in nonprofits and for women’s empowerment, the good books Justin would write, the stories he would tell, the good work Greta would do for her students, her friends. These goods were not mine. I had been jealous of their work—I knew that now—deeply jealous. I had been jealous of their having work. But I did not want their work, their lives; I did not want to live them, to go on living them; till now I had not, mostly, even wanted my own life, the one I hadn’t lived and yet still needed to atone for.
