1. Cunning and Theatrics
I called Eliza’s mother, whom I had never met, about a year and a half after Eliza and I had parted. I don’t know what I expected from that call, except that it fell into the general scheme of “tidying up one’s affairs,” one of the tasks I had assigned myself before moving from New Jersey to Massachusetts. It was almost noon and I wasn’t dressed yet. I was gravely ill. No one, I think, among my modest circle of acquaintances—except of course for Eliza, and later, Don Rath—quite realized the extent to which my condition had deteriorated, nor did they understand that my exodus from Norman State University in Clifton, New Jersey, where I had been teaching in the psychology department, was, for me, a final and mercilessly passed sentence.
I had managed pretty well, through cunning and theatrics, to conceal my illness. After a series of frightening episodes, including a concussive headlong fall off what I had perceived as a very shallow step, a brief period of semi-blindness, and a bout of memory loss, I was eventually diagnosed with a brain tumor. It was benign, but growing, and it was positioned in what was then determined to be an inoperable location. Benign is a funny word, because eventually it would kill me. Truly frightening was the morning I woke up, opened my eyes, and saw all the world as wobbly and dim. Fortunately, this effect passed in a few weeks, but the “insult,” as my ophthalmologist called it, had done quite a bit of damage to my vision. Quarter-inch-thick spectacles were prescribed for me, but they were really little more than a prop. I wore the glasses because I thought they made me look distinguished and bookish, but they didn’t help a whole lot. My vision was deemed “uncorrectable.” I could read pretty well if I held the page fairly close to my face, and I could do most things without assistance. I was functional, but paranoid and feeling immensely vulnerable. That vulnerability pretty much ruled my existence. Fearful that something would happen to reveal my situation, I had become a virtual prisoner in my office at NSU, venturing out only to teach my classes, visit the lavatory, and make my way to and from the parking lot. I still had a few private patients, but they would come to see me in my office after my teaching hours, so that worked out fine.
You will wonder about the parking lot: it’s true that I continued to drive. The fact that I did not have a fatal accident—or murder someone else—is an amazing one, and one that only increases my belief that there must be someone—something—guiding our fates. Each weekday morning and evening I would fold myself into my aging Cadillac with both trepidation and resignation, knowing full well that the worst might easily occur and fearing only that my life might be spared over that of some innocent who had blundered into my darkened path. I knew the route more than by heart; the only stop I ever made was at a small gas station near my apartment where the proprietor, Benny, treated me like royalty. (He was also the one who kept my automotive relic in top repair.) I was able to distinguish traffic lights and police car lights, and I traveled only in the daytime, to increase my chances of survival. In the winter, I had to abandon my afternoon schedule of classes, which I could hardly afford to do: they would have kept me out after dark.
At any rate, there I was in my office prison that sweet-smelling May morning, when I decided to call Eliza’s home. I knew the chances of Eliza being at her mother’s house were slim, but I felt the need to contact, if not Eliza herself, something in her world. The phone rang three times, then a pleasant-sounding woman picked up.
“Hello, Mrs. Harder, this is Jack MacLeod from Norman State, an old friend of your daughter’s. I wonder if you remember my name?”
There was a short pause, then the woman’s voice became instantly warm and kind. “Dr. MacLeod, of course I remember you. How are you?” (What, exactly, I wondered, for the millionth time, had Eliza told her mother about me?)
“Fine, thank you. I hope you’re well too. I know it’s been some time since I’ve spoken to Eliza, but I wonder if f you could tell me how to get in touch with her?”
This time the pause was longer, and, for the first time, I became afraid. Deep in my own miseries for so long, it had not occurred to me that anything bad could have happened to my Lizzie—for that is what I sometimes called her. Fear shot through my already throbbing head like a fiery arrow, and I thought, dear God, not that: that I could not bear. All those long months, a smiling image of Lizzie in her funny multicolored beret had illuminated my way. To think that she might have come to some harm filled me not only with pain and sorrow, but with the crippling guilt of the suddenly self-identified egotist. I realized I had been endlessly selfish, had thought only of myself all along. I was so relieved when Mrs. Harder finally spoke, I nearly dropped the phone.
“Well, I can tell you how to get in touch with her, Dr. MacLeod,” she said, “but did you know that Eliza’s married now?”
Although I suppose this piece of news was not really what I had wanted to hear, I was terribly relieved. Lizzie lived and thrived. I tried to sound avuncular and cheerful.
“Ah, no, I didn’t know that. I’m so happy for her,” I lied. “When did all of this happen? I’m afraid I’ve been really out of touch for quite a while.”
Mrs. Harder must have bought my uncle act, because she opened right up. She told me that Eliza had married someone she’d known at NSU, a boy a few years her senior (not, then, the boyfriend she’d had when I first met her), and that they were living and working happily in a town a few miles from Mrs. Harder’s own. There were no children “yet,” she added, with a little smile in her voice. I wondered if Lizzie had changed her opinion about having children.
After a few more exchanges, which I suppose allowed her to convince herself of my benevolent intentions, Mrs. Harder offered me Eliza’s phone number, which I pretended to write down. I knew I’d remember it anyway. I have a prodigious memory—a rather famous one, in fact. But more about all that later.
I thanked her, we exchanged a few parting pleasantries, and we said goodbye. I just sat there in my bathrobe, feeling like a complete fool. I turned on the radio. Then I turned off the radio and searched through the little stack of record albums I kept in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. The one I was looking for was one Lizzie had left with me the last time she’d visited me at this apartment. When I’d first heard it, with my head resting on Lizzie’s lap, I hadn’t liked it much; I’d never heard anything quite like it before. But over time I’d come to love the songs and the eerie voice of the young woman my darling admired so much. I hadn’t played it in a long time. I located the fourth cut, which seemed to me to echo my relationship with Lizzie, then carefully placed it on the turntable of my little stereo. The lyrics told the story of a chance meeting in a bar between the singer and an older man. She seemed to feel a magical connection with him, as well as a terrible premonition of chaos to come, but she was drawn to him nevertheless.
I still found the song seductively disturbing, but I wasn’t sure why. I wanted to talk to Eliza more than ever after I heard it. I was tempted to call her. Why not? I asked myself: what harm could come of it? In my heart of hearts, I could not name the harm, but I was quite sure there was one. Nevertheless, as George Eliot once wrote, “The fear of poison is feeble against the sense of thirst.” I dialed.
A young man answered. He had a slight New York accent. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I must have the wrong number. I beg your pardon.”
“That’s okay,” he said.
I never tried to call her again.
