The Visiting Privilege Read Online Free PDF Page B

Ben said.
    They drove out to the beach and went swimming. On the bluff above the beach was the white silo of a loran station, which sent out signals that enabled navigators to determine their position by time displacement. Constance and Ben swam without touching or talking. Then they went home.
    —
    India came the next weekend. Tracy’s champagne bottle held a browning mum. India was secretive and feminine. She brought two guests of her own, Fred and Miriam. They all lived on a farm in South Woodstock, Vermont, not far from the huge quartz testicle stones there. “There are megalithic erections all over our farm,” India told Constance.
    A terrible thing had happened to Fred—his wife had just died. A mole on her waist had turned blue and in six weeks she was dead.
    Fred told Constance, “The last words she said to me were ‘Life goes on long enough. Not too long, but long enough.’ ” Fred’s eyes would glass up but he did not cry. He had brought a tape of Blind Willie Johnson singing “Dark Was the Night,” which he frequently played.
    On Saturday they had a large lunch of several dozen ears of fresh corn and a gallon of white wine. Miriam said to Constance, “It wasn’t Rose that died, it was Lu-Ellen. Doesn’t Fred just wish it was Rose! Lu-Ellen was just a girl in the office he was crazy for.”
    Miriam whispered this so Fred would not hear. She had corn kernels in her teeth, but apart from that she was the very picture of an exasperated woman. Was she in love with Fred? Constance wondered. Or Steven? Actually, it was Edward she spoke to constantly on the phone. Miriam would say things to India like “Edward said he got in touch with Jimmy and everything’s all right now.”
    After lunch, there was a long moment of silence while they all listened to the sound of Steven’s typewriter. Steven did not eat lunch; he was bringing together the cosmic and the personal, the poetic and the expository. During working hours, he was fueled by grapefruit juice only.
    India had brought four quarts of Vermont raspberries to Constance and Ben. The berries had been bruised a little during their passage across the sound. She had brought Steven a leather-bound book with thick creamy blank pages upon which to record his thoughts.
    “Nothing gets past Steven, not a single thing,” India said.
    “I’ve never known a cooler intelligence,” Miriam said.
    “You know,” Fred said, “Vermont really has somewhat of a problem. A lot of things that people think are ancient writings on stones are actually just marks left by plows, or the roots of trees. Some of these marks get translated anyway, even though they’re not genuine.”
    India lowered her eyes and giggled.
    Later, India and Miriam and Fred took Charlotte and Jill to the cliff that was considered the highest point on the island, and they all jumped off. This was one of the girls’ favorite amusements. They loved jumping off the cliff and springing in long leaps down the rosy sand to the beach below, but they hated the climb back up.
    The next day it rained. In the afternoon, the girls went with the houseguests to a movie, and Constance went up to their room. The rain had blown in the open window and an acrostic puzzle was sopping on the sill. Constance shut the window and mopped up. She sat on one of the beds and thought of two pet rabbits Charlotte and Jill had had the summer they were eight. Ben would throw his voice into the rabbits and have them speak of the verities in a pompous and irascible tone. Constance had always thought it hilarious. Then the rabbits had died, and the children hadn’t wanted another pair. Constance stared out the window. The rain pounded the dark street silver. There was no one out there.
    That night, the house was quiet. Constance lay behind Ben on their bed and nuzzled his hair. “Talk to me,” Constance said.
    “William Gass said that lovers are alike as lightbulbs,” Ben said.
    “That’s just alliteration,” Constance