The World Cannot Give, page 1
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To Dhananjay:
my most serious, and attentive, reader
Part I MICHAELMAS
1
LAURA CRIES EASILY.
She cries at poems when the slant rhymes surprise you. She cries at old movies where people are in love but can’t acknowledge it for self-abnegatingly heroic reasons, like being married or having to lead the French Resistance, and she cries at the lonely light of early mornings. She cries when she pieces together the etymologies of words, and she cries when people sing the exact right harmony and their voices lattice so that she hears only one perfect, unearthly sound.
Laura even cried in the middle of History, once, the time they were reading about how people in the Middle Ages who made art depicted human beings as ordinary-size, but angels as impossibly big, like houses or towers, and the textbook author said it was because people in the Middle Ages really did see angels all around them—not scientifically, sure, but psychologically—and the notion that once upon a time a person could just look around and see angels, everywhere, struck Laura as so impossibly beautiful that she erupted into weeping and then had to lie and tell everyone it was menstrual cramps, because as soft and susceptible as Laura Stearns is, even she knows that in the real world, you can’t go around crying about angels unless you want people to think you’re one of those nuts who stand outside the Bellagio with picket signs that say The End Is Near.
It’s not that Laura doesn’t know she’s too sensitive. She knows her parents, her teachers, her school counselor all call her young for her age. (Laura is sixteen. She feels so old.)
One day, they tell her, she will have to develop that necessary carapace that other people seem to be born with by default, the one that means things no longer make you cry.
Only then, Laura thinks, she wouldn’t love things so deeply. She wouldn’t love Sebastian Webster the way she does. She doesn’t know who she is, not loving him.
* * *
Sebastian Oliver Webster knew things. He understood about angels, about heroes, about lattices of voices. He understood about beauty and meaning, and about World-History, which he always capitalizes. He understood about green morning light, and also about slant rhymes—All Before Them is full of them, hidden in his prose—and every time Laura rereads it she starts crying on page seventeen and doesn’t stop until she’s slammed it shut. Laura has read All Before Them fifteen times.
It’s the ending that gets her.
It’s dusk, late in term time. A spring storm’s blowing in along the coast. It’s 1936. Robert Lawrence—he’s the character Webster based on himself—walks into the St. Dunstan’s chapel. He tries to pray.
Most of the plot is resolved by this point. Gus has already had his affair with his headmaster’s wife; the boys have all dared each other to jump off Farnham Cliff. And Robert Lawrence has already beaten up poor Shrimpy Masterson in the Falmouth woods.
It’s not that Robert’s a bad person. Laura always has trouble explaining this part. It’s just that Robert wants so much, and so deeply, and more than anything Robert wants this experience he calls a shipwreck of the soul, even though Webster never explains exactly what this means.
Laura isn’t sure what it means, either, although the words together make her heart seize, but, anyway, it’s the only thing Robert wants, and so it’s all Robert can’t have.
Not that he doesn’t search. He tries drugs, religion, sex. He falls in love with this townie named Peggy. He breaks Shrimpy Masterson’s nose in the woods. Laura has to skip that scene whenever she rereads it, because it hurts too much to get through.
But anyway, anyway, the ending. It’s dusk; it’s 1936; the sky is splitting open. Robert’s still trapped in what Webster keeps calling the whole sclerotic modern world, where nothing means anything, where everything Great or Pure or World-Historical (Webster’s styling; only now Laura uses it too) that was ever going to happen has happened already, long ago, where nobody’s soul ever gets dashed on rocks.
And Robert—he’s sitting there in the chapel, his head in his hands, looking up at this stained glass mosaic of the Virgin Mary as the Stella Maris, her lantern aloft like she’s some kind of lighthouse, but anyway, Robert’s staring up at her, aching to feel it, incapable of feeling it, and then all of a sudden he hears little Shrimpy Masterson sing.
Webster leaves this part ambiguous. That’s his genius. He doesn’t tell us if Robert finds God, or if he does what kind of god he finds, or whether the thing that finally breaks Robert open is supposed to be Shrimpy himself, or the sound of the Magnificat, or the sight of the storm-split sky darkening through Mary’s lantern, but anyway, anyway, Robert experiences, at last, the shipwreck of the soul he’s spent the whole book looking for.
Finally, Robert gets it.
He falls to his knees.
It came to him, at last, Webster writes, the truth he had always known, within himself, unvoiced. He realized—and Laura is convinced that this is the single most beautiful phrase in the English language—the rocks and the harbor are one.
Two pages later Robert sets off on a stolen boat into the sunrise, and even though Webster doesn’t tell us what happens to him Laura likes to imagine that he ends up how Webster ended up in real life: stealing away from St. Dunstan’s one May midnight in 1937, getting baptized by some Irish Catholic priest in Boston; talking his way into a berth on a transatlantic freighter to go fight in the Spanish Civil War, dying on a battlefield six months later, leaving behind nothing but a handwritten manuscript of such wild-eyed genius that, eighty years later, Laura feels sure he is the only person in the world who could ever understand her.
Not that Laura experienced anything she could confidently describe as a shipwreck of the soul, nor does she know, exactly, how she’ll be able to tell when she does. She knows only that she, like Robert Lawrence, wants to have one more than anything in the world, and that the closest she’s ever gotten is reading All Before Them for the very first time.
Laura wonders often about what Sebastian Webster’s shipwreck was like. She wonders whether it came quickly, like a thunderclap, or gradually, like dawn. She wonders whether once it came, he wrote the whole novel, in a single feverish week, ablaze with certainty, or whether he wrestled over every word, the way Laura wrestles whenever she tries to explain herself to the people that she knows.
She wonders whether he knew, running off from St. Dunstan’s under the cover of moonlight, that he was doomed to die on the battlefield, or whether it came as a shock to him when some Spanish soldier bayoneted him in the back. She wonders if you can have a shipwreck of the soul in a place like Henderson, Nevada, or in a time like the present, or if you have to be lucky enough to live in a place and a time where people are fighting World-Historical battles you can die in. She wonders if you can have a shipwreck without dying.
Maybe, she thinks, once you have one, death doesn’t scare you, anymore.
* * *
Laura likes to think she and Webster would have been friends.
If she had only been there, with him, back then, at St. Dunstan’s (oh, if only she’d been a boy!)—she’d know exactly what to say to him. She has the whole scene in her head. They’d sit, together—maybe at Farnham Cliff, just like Robert’s always doing with Gus, gazing out over the rocky coastline, counting the mother-of-pearl oysters that wash up with the wreckage of vanquished boats.
Maybe they wouldn’t even have to talk. Maybe he’d just take her hand, and press it to his lips, and they would watch the moonlight overflow onto the black water, and he would simply understand, by virtue of his mystic shipwrecked soul, all those things Laura never has words for.
But Sebastian Webster is dead. What’s left of him is buried in the crypt under the St. Dunstan’s chapel, where the spires cast their shadows toward the sea, where the student body sings Evensong every Friday night, just like they did in Webster’s day.
They’ve admitted girls since the sixties.
That’s why Laura’s heading there right now.
* * *
Laura has been awake for twenty-four hours. She has flown from Las Vegas to New York, and then from New York to Boston. Her suitcase is heavier than she is. She has taken the train from Boston to Portland, shivering with glory, shuddering, texting her parents every few hours just like she promised, because although after months of deliberation they have at last agreed to let her go to St. Dunstan’s, she knows they expect her to get lost in baggage claim and call them, begging to let her come home and spend junior year at Green Valley High after all. She has taken the bus from Portland to Weymouth, reciting the names of the dormitories to herself, because if she forgets just one St. Dunstan’s will disappear.
Laura is standing at Weymouth’s bus stop, which is really just a lamppost, waiting for the cab that will take her to campus, three miles north along the coast. Laura’s heart is a hummingbird.
Laura isn’t even tired. Laura can’t stop smiling. It is the first day of Michaelmas term.
* * *
Laura’s parents have reminded h
Laura knows all this. She can’t bring herself to believe it. Deep down, Laura knows that St. Dunstan’s can’t possibly belong to the real world, to that sclerotic modern world Robert Lawrence despises.
After all, Laura has seen the pictures.
God, she has spent so many hours googling pictures!
She has seen how the fog still hangs dark and thick on Farnham Cliff, where a memorial statue to Sebastian Webster now stands. She has seen the chapel: its stark spires, its lighthouse Madonna illuminated by the riotous sunset reds, Sebastian Webster’s bones interred below. She has watched and rewatched and paused and gasped and started up again so many videos of the choir singing Evensong at chapel, the way they do every Friday night. Surely, Laura thinks, nobody could sing Evensong at chapel every Friday night without it shipwrecking your soul, at least a little.
She has spent all summer wondering about the people she’ll find there. She wonders if anyone loves Webster like she does; whether anyone requested—as she did—a room in Desmond Hall, because that is where Webster wrote and slept and wrote, back when Desmond was a dorm for boys. She knows they will be smart, probably much smarter than she is—God, she hopes they are a million times smarter than she is, so long as they’re patient enough and willing to tell her what to read next, and what to think about it, and what it all means.
Her roommate in Desmond is a girl from outside New York City called Bonnie di Angelis. She has been at St. Dunstan’s for two years already. This makes Laura nervous. Maybe Bonnie is used to the spires, and the salt fog, and the sight of the black water. Maybe Laura will seem childish. Lots of people find Laura childish.
Laura wonders if she should hide her copy of All Before Them in her suitcase, instead of carrying it, face forward, against her chest. Maybe turning up with a copy of All Before Them in your arms is a thing only freshmen do.
Laura breathes in the Weymouth air. She scans the town—the bobbing fishing boats at the dock, all the wooden houses with their flaking paint and nautical colors, the Wayfarer Hotel with its big glass windows revealing its overstuffed Victorian living room.
Laura’s lips taste like salt.
* * *
Laura cranes her neck all through the drive. Twice she asks the driver to slow down so that she can take it in more reverentially: the narrow country road that snakes along the coastal path, with woods on one side and a sheer cliff drop along the other. She wants to ask him to stop, once they get close to Farnham Cliff, so she can see the Webster statue face-to-face.
She doesn’t dare.
Then the car turns inland.
It’s all here. Here is the old chapel, fog clinging to its spires like smoke; here is Carbonell Library with its little dome, across the quadrangle from the sprawling red brick of Mountbatten Hall, where the offices and classrooms are, trellised with leaves that have turned red, too, giving the whole building the look of a bonfire. Here are the dorms—Desmond and Lyndhurst and Latimer for the girls; Morris and Unger and Cranmer for the boys. Here is Jarvis Lighthouse, in the distance: half caved in.
Laura tries to hide her tears from her Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a baseball cap and an earring; he beams at her in the rearview mirror.
He tells her not to worry. He’s driven hundreds of students just like her up to the academy over the years. More than a few have cried.
Homesickness. It passes. By summer she’ll be crying when she leaves.
“I’m not homesick,” Laura says. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
She has been homesick, all her life, for here.
* * *
Laura registers at Mountbatten. She gets her room key. She breaks her suitcase handle. She lugs it by the zipper all the way across Devonshire Quadrangle. She almost drops her book.
She drags her suitcase up three flights of stairs. She kicks it down the hallway. She stands, breathless, in front of room 312, where STEARNS/DI ANGELIS is emblazoned by the door.
DI ANGELIS is decorated already with gel-pen flowers and a curlicue over both I’s.
Laura is deciding whether to knock or just push open the door when she hears a voice inside.
“Can it be?”
It is loud and high and nasal. Laura cracks the door open.
“Another year,” the voice goes on. “Another set of memories. Another ripening of the autumn leaves and of our hearts.”
Laura opens the door.
A blond girl in a rowing blazer is lounging on the bed by the window.
She is staring straight at Laura.
“The lessons we’ve learned here,” she goes on intently, “will shape us for the rest of our— Fuck!”
She sits straight up.
“Cut!”
Laura stands flummoxed on the threshold.
“Sorry,” says the blond girl, “I know. I know. Gross.” She beams and rolls her eyes at the same time. “But…” She winces. “It’s just…”
“You’re in the shot.”
Laura whirls around.
A scowling, scraggly girl with chunky pigtails is sitting cross-legged on Laura’s bed, next to the door, holding a phone. She’s filming. She glares at Laura.
“I…,” Laura fumbles.
“We’re almost done,” the blond girl says brightly. She turns back toward the girl on the bed. “Come on, Freddy, just one more. Please?”
“You said that an hour ago.”
Bonnie keeps smiling. Bonnie starts over.
“Another year. Another set of memories. Another ripening of the autumn leaves and of our hearts.”
She swoops across the bed, turning her face to the window.
“What we learn out there”—she gestures, grandly, toward the water—“will create the people we become, in here.” She folds her hands against her heart. “I can’t wait to share my journey of becoming with you all.” Her chin shoots up. “Cut!”
“Was that too on the nose?” Laura doesn’t know which one of them she’s talking to. “I feel like that’s too on the nose.
“It’s straightforward,” the ugly girl says. “People like straightforward.”
“Journey of becoming?” Bonnie wrinkles her nose. “It’s clunky. What do you think?”
“Me?” Laura is conscious that Freddy is still glowering at her.
“You’re impartial,” Bonnie says. “What do you think? Is journey of becoming too clunky?”
Laura hesitates. “It’s a little clunky.”
“Originally I was going to say bildungsroman,” Bonnie says, “but I feel like that’s maybe—I don’t know—pretentious? Like, I want it to be a little, like, literary, you know, I mean like smart, but not, like, obscure. I don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard.”
“You are trying too hard.”
“She’s right, though.” Bonnie pouts. “It’s clunky. ‘Journey of becoming’—Christ, what was I thinking?”
“I—”
“What’s something better?” She fixes her eyes, unblinking, on Laura. “Like—a journey that changes you? But in English.”
“A pilgrimage?” Laura tries.
The girl’s face lights up. “Pilgrimage,” she says. “That’s good.”
Freddy snorts. “It’s not a pilgrimage if you don’t go anywhere.”
Bonnie ignores her.
“From the top,” she says.
“Don’t hate me,” says Bonnie when they finish. “I know. I know. It’s awful. We’re all supposed to be present, and in the moment, and, like, living for the ’gram.” She shrugs. “But my problem is that I never remember anything. I’m like a hummingbird.” This makes her trill. “I have to have a record or—” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Bonnie,” she says. “That’s Freddy. Barnes.” She grins. “My enabler.”
