place a face.
She was much younger, and by then no one I could have possibly known in my Arkansan youth, but she kept circling.
“Something about y’all that’s hard to pinpoint,” she finally said.
We began an affair of the most perverted kind: She took me to places like those I’d spent my life trying to escape, under the rubric of broadening my horizons. Cheap country bars with long-necked beers and thick-necked women, and Kuntry Kitchens tucked on side streets of far suburbs, with their steam pans of grits and hush puppies.
“How marvelous!” I cried from behind my bow tie, wielded like armor, as I sampled the fare of the hoi polloi. “Just this once, at least . . .”
She would stare me down. But I was partaking. We ended up in her frilly bed, making love under the ceiling fan, and, as I withdrew, I had something like a fever dream. I saw below me the chilling alternative: This same girl, rougher and cigarette-smelling, on a soaked mattress in some cheap town; I saw us—she and the Me I might have been—sweatily heaving in an airless room. Grunting razorbacks come to root.
“What?” she said, alarmed at my expression.
“Nothing,” I replied, knowing it was over.
“You’re not who you seem,” she finally said.
“Either are you,” I said, a dagger to her: She was in fact a UCLA graduate student, not some hick with country sass. I know we felt more naked in that knowledge than we were in that moment.
The problem is, I have no way of remembering her address, where via Street View I could skulk outside her window, with these complicated memories. She had driven me there in her pickup truck; after I left her place in rising dawn I simply walked away from the sunset. I want to say she was somewhere like Sunset and La Brea. I have walked my little golden Street View man up and down those sun-drenched streets (it occurs to me he must have been purposely modeled after Oscar ), but we’re searching for something we’ll never find. All those places look the same, with only degrees of variation in a surprisingly depressing facade.
I went for a breakup beer with her a few nights later, in a country bar off Melrose. I patiently talked her through it and she laughed.
“Not unexpected,” she said. “Because you know that I know.”
“What do you know?” I said. I thought, What am I afraid of? I’ve committed no crime. Each degree on my wall was fairly earned, each publication the result of my own thinking and research. Why was she making me feel fraudulent?
But you get into it, maybe too deeply. She had rattled me.
“You know that, too,” she said.
It was upon my return to school, this time to pull an accelerated doctorate in linguistics at Cornell (I was collecting Ivies on the premise that I’d otherwise risk backsliding, but here I had full teaching schedules and was treated as the peer I was). I was fully adult, nearly middle-aged, and I knew this would lock me into high stations. When I met Margaret, I knew she was the woman for me. The brittle patrician aloofness, the cultivated disinterest. She was a woman who exuded no secrets of her own, and no airs. But she came from the right kind of family in Utica, and craved larger venues. We married at her family church in a snowstorm, and I waited for the letter to come from Cambridge, which it did.
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