The State of the Novel (8)

The End of the Novel

I rang Pension Beatrix and was informed The Novel had paid his bill and left by taxi for the train station. He left no messages or forwarding address.

The children were crushed, and Mother so hurt she proclaimed her pain to the kitchen staff. My husband became too angry to pour a drink. He went onto the lawn and lay face down in the grass, pulling out great tufts by the handful. I briefly thought he might begin tearing at his hair. But he rolled onto his back and stared up into the boughs of the maple tree.

I sat beside him and brushed the wrinkles from his brow with my fingertips.

What are you doing my love? I said.

Counting the leaves, he said.

You can’t really count the leaves, I said.

No you can’t, he said. But it’s wonderful believing you can.

You are my one true love, I said.

I don’t know why The Novel came to our community, or how he could stay as long as he did and then leave so abruptly. I do know, despite what we might want to believe, that he didn’t change our lives. I’m not sure I can say he made them more interesting; his many jokes often fell flat and his antics generally proved tiresome. And I won’t say a few more clouds have filled our skies since his departure. He preferred clouds anyway. Clouds, he once told me, are our reason for searching the sky.

So I cannot explain why it is that each night now as I lie in bed, I find myself recounting the story of The Novel’s visit. With each retelling the sky’s clouds grow friendlier, the water in the ponds is so clear you can see all the way to the sandy bottom, the wildflowers in the mountain meadows beam, and rusted garden gates open like attic bureau drawers full of old photographs. With each retelling I make it better than I remember it from the night before; and when I have the story where I want it I lay my face on my husband’s chest to hear his heartbeat, and as I fight off sleep, I tell it one more time.