Five Days Page 19

  A few shops later he also passed on something that – as he interestingly put it – ‘looks a little too Lou Reed for me’.

  ‘You know Lou Reed?’ I asked.

  ‘Personally? Can’t say that he ever bought a policy from me. But Transformer? Great album. Can’t say I’ve kept up on his career since New York. And Muriel’s always been more Neil Diamond than the Velvet Underground . . .’

  Richard Copeland: secret Manhattan demimonde wannabe! Or maybe just a fan. No wonder he wanted to get rid of those golfing clothes he had worn assiduously for all those years. Like the suit I first saw him in at the hotel check-in. The same flat style that his father had undoubtedly worn. The uniform of the strait-laced American businessman. Clothes are a language. So often we don’t like the language that we’ve forced ourselves to speak. Look at me. At the hospital, my white lab coat is my daily uniform. Around the house and in downtown Damariscotta I have always dressed soberly. But in my closet there are a few items that hint at another me – like my leather jacket and this black, very Continental raincoat I’m currently wearing, and even a wonderful fedora that I found in a vintage clothing store during a trip to Burlington. But these clothes – including a pair of black suede cowboy boots that I stumbled upon at a yard sale in Rockland (they fit me perfectly and only cost $15) – stay largely out of sight. Were I to walk around town dressed as I am now, nobody would say anything. That’s the Maine way. But everyone would notice. Comments would be passed when I was out of sight. So this somewhat Left Bank wardrobe stays locked away unless I’m heading down to Portland for something cultural. And when I recently put on the leather jacket and the suede boots to hear a jazz concert with Lucy, my daughter caught sight of me getting ready. Surveying my sartorial choices for the evening she said:

  ‘Are you going to a costume party, dressed as a hipster?’

  I wanted to tell her that, quite frankly, this is the way I would prefer to dress most of the time – but felt constrained by small-townness and my own innate sense of decorum (which, in uncharitable moments, I thought was also a form of cowardice). Now seeing Richard trying to mask his tenseness as we went into another high-priced boutique in search of the leather jacket he was so fearful of wearing, I couldn’t help thinking: He too is someone who has kept so much of what he’s wanted to express under wraps. And when he eyed, in a shop that sold hip military-surplus-style clothing, a reproduction 1940s Air Force jacket in a dark, somewhat distressed brown (it really was rather stylish) I could see that he was weighing up whether he could get away with wearing it.

  ‘That’s the jacket,’ I said.

  ‘People will look at me strangely back home.’

  ‘And I never wear this outfit around Damariscotta – because I fear the same thing. Anyway, Boston is going to be home soon.’

  Richard tried on the jacket. It was a great fit – but his pale blue, very button-down shirt clearly didn’t work with it. So I walked over to a display table where a pile of stylish work shirts were stacked. I figured he would take a large and chose one in black with small steel buttons on its pockets.

  ‘Black?’ Richard said when I proffered the shirt. ‘Isn’t that a bit extreme?’

  ‘It will work so well with the jacket, especially if you match it up with black jeans.’

  ‘I’ve never worn black in my life.’

  ‘But I bet you’ve wanted to. Lou Reed and all that.’

  ‘I’m a little gray and boring to entertain such—’

  ‘You’re the most interesting man I’ve met in—’

  When was the last time I met such an interesting man?

  ‘You’re being too kind again,’ he said.

  ‘Just accurate. Now . . . what’s your waist and inseam size?’

  ‘I’ll get the jeans.’

  ‘No – I’m choosing them. And you can veto them if you disagree.’

  ‘Thirty-four waist, I hate to say . . .’

  ‘Dan is thirty-six. And the inseam?’

  ‘Thirty-two. But do you really think black jeans with the black shirt will—’

  ‘What? Make you look “too cool for school”?’

  ‘Or ridiculous.’

  ‘Try it all on and then tell me if you think it’s ridiculous.’

  I found a wall of shelved jeans and chose a pair of black Levi’s in the appropriate size. Then I handed them to Richard and pointed him in the direction of the changing rooms. As he headed off I asked him his shoe size.

  ‘Ten and a half. But really, I feel as if—’

  ‘If you don’t like the look you don’t have to wear the look. But at least try the look, OK?’

  In another corner of this emporium, which was decorated with vintage World War I and II recruitment posters, there was one pair of black lace-up boots – ankle-high, the leather grained, stylish, but not flamboyant – in Richard’s size. I brought them over to the changing rooms, knocked on the door of the cubicle where Richard was getting into his assorted new clothes, and slid them under the large gap between the door frame and the floor, saying:

  ‘These might work.’

  ‘More black,’ came the voice from within.

  ‘And what’s wrong with that? Give me a shout when you’re ready.’

  A minute later out stepped a very different man. Richard had taken off his soon-to-be-replaced glasses. The effect – coupled with the new clothes – was more than striking. The jeans, the black work shirt, and the black boots all fit him perfectly. And the leather jacket worked wonderfully with the rest of this outfit, though the detachable fur collar was a bit too overblown, reeking of some 1940s war movie set on the Russian front. But that little detail aside, what stood out most was how the clothes so absolutely suited him, and took about ten years off him immediately. Freed from the cost accountant outfit, his face no longer dominated by the dull metallic oval of his glasses, he suddenly assumed a different outward identity. He now looked like a somewhat hip English professor who was at ease with his age. Sidling up next to Richard and looking at ourselves in the mirror – dressed up like a rather stylish metropolitan couple – all I could think was: Why had I spent years dressing myself in such a sober, restrained way? And the most disquieting aspect to this question was the realization that the only person making me conform was . . . myself.

  ‘Well . . .’ Richard said, eyeing us in the mirror.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Understatement will get you nowhere.’

  ‘OK, the truth – I love the look. Even if it also scares me.’

  ‘Just as I love my look – and would never dream of walking down Main Street, Damariscotta, like this.’

  ‘Well, if you think I could get away with this in Bath . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you could. Just as I’m sure that your clients and your neighbors would accept the new style.’

  ‘If that’s the case then why don’t you dress the way you want to when you’re home?’

  ‘I was just asking myself the same question. Maybe I will do just that . . . if I can get up the courage.’

  ‘Same here.’

  ‘You look like a very different man now.’

  ‘And you look even more beautiful than yesterday.’

  I felt myself blush. Yet I simultaneously found myself reaching for his hand and threading my fingers through his. We didn’t turn to look at each other. Truth be told our shared nervousness was clearly palpable, as his hand was as damp as mine. Yet he did not pull away. Rather his grip tightened. Staring straight into the mirror we saw ourselves holding hands, looking so profoundly different than we were just twenty-four hours ago.

  ‘Hey, you guys look cool.’

  It was one of the shop assistants – her tone somewhat spacey, an amused smile on her face, as if the subtext behind what she was saying was: Hey, you guys look cool . . . but I’m really humoring you because you’re my parents. Immediately we let go of each other, like a pair of guilty teenagers caught in a compromising position.
The girl also saw this and added, rather dryly:

  ‘Sorry if I interrupted anything.’

  ‘You interrupted nothing,’ Richard said, his tone corrective. Reaching for my hand again he told her: ‘I want to wear all this out.’

  ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘When you’re ready I’ll just cut all the tags off. There’s a theft device in the coat that’s got to be removed.’

  She left us alone.

  ‘That shut her up,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘I have my occasional assertive moments. And just to make an assertive point, I’m going to take all my old clothes and dump them in the first Goodwill charity box I find.’

  It was my turn to squeeze his hand back.

  ‘That’s a good call.’

  Now we did turn towards each other.

  But then . . .

  Bing.

  My cellphone interrupted the moment; that telltale prompt letting me know that a text was awaiting me. Again, the guilt impulse took over. I let go of Richard’s hand, but hesitated about reaching for the phone. Richard read this immediately. Not wanting to put me in an awkward position he said:

  ‘I’ll get the girl to deal with all the tags. See you up front.’

  Richard headed off in search of the shop assistant. I dug out the phone and read:

  Garage all cleared. Love – Dan

  I shouldn’t have looked at the damn phone, as a stab of remorse caught me. Becoming very friendly with a man I just met yesterday. Shopping for clothes for him. Holding hands with him . . .

  Oh Lord, I sound like a twelve-year-old.

  Yes, I could see that Dan’s text was a further attempt to make amends. That made me feel somewhat guilty. But . . . but . . . that was the first time he had used the word ‘love’ in a text to me since . . . well, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d said or written anything of the sort. And even the fact that he didn’t say, ‘Love you’ . . . Just writing ‘Love’ – good friends use that at the end of emails. Whereas had he come out and made a direct declaration of love . . .

  In that very instant, as I read his five-word text again, something within me shifted. It’s curious, isn’t it, how a small detail – the fact that my husband left off a pronoun after a somewhat charged word – can suddenly change everything. And the sad thing was: he was trying to be loving. Yet what he had done was underscore, once again, just how thwarted he was; how he could never really engage with me, let alone be talked into changing his clothes.

  Glad the garage is cleared. Thank you. Up to my eyes in mind-numbing conferences. Hope you’ll get some rest tonight. See you tomorrow. L xxx

  Initially I wrote ‘Love you’ before my initial and the multiple vacuous xxx’s. But then I deleted it. I no longer felt like articulating something I actually did not feel.

  As soon as the text was sent I did something I’d never done before. I turned off the phone. If Ben and Sally were to text me – and this being a Saturday night, the chance of that happening was up there with a meteor shower directly above Boston Common – it could wait until tomorrow. If there was an emergency Dan knew the phone number of the hotel where the conference was being held, and a message would be awaiting me upon my return. But when had I ever received an urgent message from Dan or Sally? Even when Ben had his crisis, his breakdown (to give it its proper word), the information about all that only came a few days after he’d been found.

  No. No. Let’s not revisit that. Because what you are doing, in fact, is trying to crowd this wondrous afternoon, the hugely unexpected moment, with all sorts of unnecessary freight. Because you are feeling no longer guilty but still rather tentative about holding that man’s hand.

  Correction: about bumping into a man who’s literate and thoughtful and curious, who takes me seriously and seems genuinely interested in my view of the world.

  And who, in turn, I actually find rather attractive.

  He called me beautiful. When has anybody called me beautiful?

  By the time I put my phone away Richard was back at the changing rooms.

  ‘So she’s de-tagged me,’ he said. ‘And I’ve told her that she can give all my old clothes to charity. She’s promised me to put them in a Goodwill bin on her way home.’

  ‘I’d be a little dubious about that. I mean, she’s hardly a Girl Scout.’

  ‘Well, it’s now her conscience she’ll have to talk to if she simply dumps them in a garbage can out the back.’

  Leaving the shop without bags – Richard’s old glasses back on (‘I can’t see further than four feet without them’) – we walked the two blocks south to the eyewear emporium. Newbury Street was abuzz. This perfect autumn day on this perfect Victorian New England street had brought out the crowds. What struck me immediately was the sense of pleasure on most people’s faces we passed by. Yes, I did see one couple – early thirties, with a young baby in a stroller – arguing fiercely as they negotiated their child through the crowds. And there was a woman around my age who came hurrying past us, her face awash in tears, making me want to know immediately what it was that was causing her so much grief. Richard noticed her as well, saying:

  ‘As my misanthropic father used to say, you walk down a street, you bump into unhappiness everywhere.’

  ‘Even on the most glorious of days.’

  ‘Especially on the most glorious of days.’

  ‘So if I were to say to you, But look at how happy everyone else appears to be, you’d reply . . .?’

  ‘Bless your positive view of the human condition.’

  ‘But if we all don’t travel hopefully . . .’ I said.

  ‘Hey, I just let you talk me into . . .’

  With a downward sweep of his right hand he motioned towards the new clothes he was now wearing, then said:

  ‘So surely this is traveling hopefully?’

  He laced his fingers into mine. At that very moment I so wanted him to pull me towards him and kiss me. From the way his grip tightened on me I sensed that he too wanted to do that. Just as I also knew that part of me would have been unnerved and panicky had he embraced me right there, amidst the stream of people on Newbury Street. Just as I also knew that such a kiss would mean the traversing of a frontier I had never considered crossing, Correction: of course I had imagined, at particularly difficult moments, a life without Dan. Of course there were instances when I saw a photograph in some book review of a particularly handsome, clearly intelligent novelist in his mid-thirties and contemplated a night of passion with him. But . . . between the motion and the act falls the shadow. This is an afternoon of make-believe, with nothing to anchor it to actual reality.

  But then I felt my fingers tighten around Richard’s hand. We exchanged a fast, telling look that said everything, but behind which I could also clearly glimpse his own sense of hesitancy, of apprehension. Yet his hand remained in mine until we reached the eyeglass boutique.

  ‘Well, look at you, sir,’ Gary the ‘spectician’ said as Richard approached the counter. ‘Clothes make the man – and you are evidently in re-fit mode this afternoon. Bravo.’

  Richard accepted this comment with a nervous smile.

  ‘And to complete the new you . . .’

  Now Richard’s discomfort was manifest again as he looked down at the tray on which his new glasses were displayed. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ he said, not succeeding at masking his unease. Gary noted this as well.

  ‘If I may, sir,’ he said, reaching out to remove Richard’s old frames. Richard initially took a step backwards, as if he was trying to dodge the idea of giving up this last vestige of his old look. But Gary – almost anticipating this – put a steadying hand on his shoulder and quickly pulled the frames off. Then he proffered the tray to him.

  ‘Try them on, sir.’

  Richard reached for the new glasses, then slowly raised them onto his face. Was his anxiety due to the fact that, with these glasses, his outward transformation woul
d be complete? Or because, like me, he too felt we were veering far too close to a frontier he had never been within the proximity of during all the years of his own sad marriage?

  Sad marriage. Now I could stand guilty of presumptuousness. Just as I knew I was talking about the domestic life I’d been leading for so many years.

  Glasses on, he didn’t look at the mirror in front of him. Rather he turned directly towards me. As before – when he first tried these frames – I couldn’t help but think just how perfectly they suited him, giving him a canny, worldly, academic mien. Seen now with his leather jacket, his black jeans and black work shirt . . .

  ‘You look amazing,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ Richard said.

  ‘Madame is speaking the truth,’ Gary said. With a gentle hand on his shoulder he turned Richard around to face the floor-length mirror nearby. Watching Richard now take himself in I couldn’t help but remind myself of the way I stared at myself in the hotel mirror this morning: the fear of casting off my everyday image; the unspoken pleasure in seeing myself transformed into the person I always imagined myself being. Richard was engaged in the same process right now. The old identity, the new identity. I knew just how painful and arduous it was to actually shake off everything you have told yourself you have to be. You can dress up differently. You can change all the externals. But there are still all those ties that bind.

  Richard must have regarded himself for a good minute in the mirror – and I instinctually knew it was best not to say anything right now. Gary also was astute here – as he too was watching Richard talk himself out of the anxiety that had overtaken him again as soon as we stepped back into the boutique. And during that very long sixty seconds, I watched as his face divested itself of its dread, his shoulders lost their taut hunch, and a small smile crossed his lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ he finally said to me.

  At that moment I caught Gary out of the corner of my eye. I could register him working out that we were, in no way, husband and wife, and that what had just transpired was, in its own unspoken personal way, rather huge. His only comment was a most appropriate one: