A Cloud in the Shape of a Girl Read online

  She liked keeping company with men and she had a steady boyfriend for a time, a young mathematician who took her to the movies and talked about the intricacies and beauty of the proofs he was working on. When he got a position at a college in New York state, she half expected him to ask her to marry him, and was relieved when he did not. What did that mean?

  She was twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. She had always assumed she’d get married; it was what people did. But it kept not happening. She kept going along as she always had, teaching her classes, correcting their papers, and now, spending time in the library taking notes on index cards. Her dissertation would be on the deliberations of the Second Continental Congress, the one that issued the call for independence. The library was known for its size and its excellence, and contained some of the primary sources she needed. She took to research naturally. Her notes were meticulous. The structure and sequence of her ideas and arguments were both logical and fluid. She felt she might distinguish herself, given time. There was a part of her that was deeply contented with such work, and only with such work. It absorbed her but it also lightened her, freed her from herself. She could not have entirely explained it to someone else.

  She could support herself, just barely. The doctorate would make a difference, if she could hang on long enough to pull herself over the line. She wished she had a boyfriend who was just for fun, and could be summoned when you needed cheering up, or sex. Since that was not likely, she guessed the world would simply leave her alone.

  The concert came to its thundering and triumphant conclusion. The conductor bowed. The musicians stood and bowed. Evelyn and her friend gathered their coats and gloves and handbags and moved toward the exit. “Well that was . . .” Evelyn began, not yet knowing how she might end her sentence. That was impressive. That was noisy. “ . . . a very nice evening,” she finished lamely.

  “Don’t look now,” her friend said, “but there’s a man watching you.”

  “What?”

  “I said don’t look.”

  So of course she looked. A tall man in a bulky, uncomfortable-looking overcoat dropped his gaze, his face reddening. Evelyn’s friend giggled. “You have an admirer.”

  “Who is he?” Evelyn asked, but her friend didn’t know. He was now paying elaborate attention to the hat in his hands, examining it critically, as if it belonged to someone else.

  Evelyn started toward him. “What are you doing?” her friend whispered.

  “If he’s going to stare at me, he can talk to me.”

  As she approached the man, he gave his hat another beseeching glance, then raised his eyes to her, trapped. “Hello,” Evelyn said. “Did you like the concert?”

  “Very enjoyable,” he managed, looking so stricken that she felt a little bad about cornering him. How old was he? Older. Neither good-looking nor ugly. One of those men you saw doing serious things, running offices or standing behind elected officials in newspaper photographs.

  “I don’t know that much about music, so I have to ask other people’s opinions, to find out if I like something,” Evelyn offered.

  “Oh, I know less about music than anyone alive. But sometimes you have to make an effort.”

  “Broaden the mind,” Evelyn said. “That sort of thing.”

  He nodded. He didn’t realize she was teasing him. He said, “The chamber pieces are lovely, but I believe you’d have to know the symphonies to really appreciate him as a composer.”

  Evelyn couldn’t think of anything to say to that which wouldn’t have been glib or foolish. It had been a silly, smart-alecky impulse, confronting him. She looked back at her waiting friend, who was rolling her eyes at her: Come on. “Well, very nice talking with you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Without waiting for him to speak, she turned and crossed the lobby to rejoin her friend. “What did you do?” the friend asked. “Were you trying to get picked up?”

  “No! I asked him how he liked the concert.”

  “I bet he could really show you a good time.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re such a fast little number.”

  “I mean it, shut up.”

  Then he was standing in front of them, his hat still in his hand, holding out a card and saying, “Would you allow me to introduce myself? And might I have your permission to call on you?”

  Call on you! How funny, how antique! As if she still lived under her parents’ roof, and expected to be serenaded on a ukelele! It was so hard to keep a straight face! Hadn’t they all lived through enough of war and shivering fear and destruction to take the shiny edge off things? Hadn’t they all wised up? A man didn’t call on you, he took you out for drinks. You either clicked or you didn’t. Who was he, some kind of joker?

  But of course she said that yes, he could, and of course he did.

  He escorted her to football games, a lecture by a distinguished judge, a supper at the Presbyterian church. That kind of thing. Nothing rowdy, and certainly nothing extravagant. Evelyn was amused by his serious good manners. She could do with a break from the library now and then. Her girlfriend teased her that Andrew was a great catch, an ambitious lawyer on the way up. Evelyn supposed that this was true, if you were in the business of catching men, which she was not. From time to time he spoke about his law practice and the principles of impartiality, evidence, and precedent that governed all legal matters. She liked that he was someone who considered things like principles. Most people, herself included, didn’t give them much thought.

  She couldn’t tell if he was courting her, or if he only needed someone to squire around and to present to any of his colleagues whom they might encounter. Aside from that first evening when she’d caught him staring at her, there wasn’t much she could recognize as sexual pursuit. She was reminded of a pair of white geese she’d seen once in a park, waddling around together in what was either a chase or a promenade, nothing in their goosey expressions giving any clue as to which it might be. Surely the geese themselves knew what was what. About Andrew, she could only guess.

  Evelyn didn’t mind going to the football games with him. He was patient about explaining the plays and the positions to her. The team was not having a good year. People went to the games out of loyalty, school spirit, it was called. Andrew had been a student here and he knew the words to all the school songs and sang them unself-consciously in his tuneless baritone.

  Evelyn’s attention wandered from the game, which did not seem to be going very well, to her surroundings. The grand stadium was dedicated to the student dead of the last great war. Their names were carved on the lonely stone pillars you walked through on the way in. It felt irreverent to her to be a part of the excited crowd in their looming presence, but maybe that was as it should be, and the honored dead enjoyed the fun. All around her, people were hooting, cheering, or groaning as the plays unfolded. It was November and chilly, with a steely afternoon sky. People had wrapped themselves in plaid blankets and mufflers. They wore earmuffs and mittens and drank from thermoses of coffee or hot chocolate.

  She had tried to dress warmly, in a sweater and flannel skirt and her wool coat, but her feet were cold and her nose kept running. She counted down the minutes left on the game clock, willing it to advance. She was determined not to shiver or complain, because then Andrew would be likely to remove his own coat and drape it around her, the kind of chivalrous, irritating thing he was prone to do.

  The home team lost, no surprise, and the disappointed crowd filed out of the stadium. As always, Andrew saw people they had to stop and talk to. This or that old schoolmate or someone he knew from his law practice. How at ease he was with them all. They talked about the game, about court cases or other old friends, a smooth surface of talk with its own familiar rhythms and rituals. What an amiable, reassuring presence Andrew was. A goose among goose-men. People liked him, they would trust him to do what needed to be done. She saw how a man might be successful in business, how Andrew might be successful in his elem
ent, even if he was often stiff and awkward with her.

  Finally they emerged and set off down the sidewalk. It was a number of blocks to Evelyn’s rooming house, and the cold made them hurry. The setting sun had fallen below the cloud cover and sent out a red flare that lit them briefly before it was shut off like the lid of a box closing. “It gets dark so early now,” Evelyn said, just to break a silence.

  “Yes, well, November,” Andrew said, by way of agreement. One more topic going nowhere. Evelyn tucked her chin into her scarf for warmth and watched the lights come on in the houses along the street. He had not invited her to dinner—she was annoyed that he had not done so—and she was hoping she had enough of last night’s hamburger soup to get by. Really, he could have taken her to Steak ’n Shake, like a normal date. She was getting tired of him.

  “They ran out of gas in the second half,” Andrew said, harkening back to the football game. “I expected more from them.”

  “At least they kept it close for a while,” Evelyn said, just to be agreeable. She was fine with them losing, perfectly lighthearted about it, while Andrew appeared to be brooding. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Honestly, it’s not the same as losing a war.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said after a moment. “I was in Frankfurt after the bombing stopped. Not at all the same thing.”

  “Well,” Evelyn said after a moment. “What were you doing there?” She was accustomed by now to men telling their war stories.

  “I was in the quartermaster corps. Support and supply. I was fortunate, it was toward the end of things.”

  “So you were in Germany,” she said helpfully.

  “Yes, for a few weeks. France too. After Normandy.”

  “Oh, of course.” It could be such an effort, dragging his dead weight through a conversation. “And Frankfurt? Wasn’t it . . .”

  “One of the last air raids used eight hundred bombers. Each of them dropped thousands of pounds of incendiary and high-explosive ordnance. When we say ‘bomb,’ what we really mean is ‘burn.’ When a fire gets big enough, it draws in more and more air, like a chimney. You get a fire tornado. The city was leveled.”

  Evelyn tried to envision a fire tornado springing up in the middle of the dreary cold. She couldn’t do it. The war had numbed people with each new unimaginable thing. “What about the people?”

  “People burn too,” he said shortly.

  “That’s horrible.”

  “It was an industrial center. A legitimate target. Don’t think for a moment they wouldn’t have done the same to us.”

  They walked on for a time without speaking. She felt that she had been rebuked. A silly girl who had been shielded from harsh realities and therefore should not offer her foolish opinions. Andrew said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t dwell on it.”

  “How could you not,” Evelyn said.

  “All that’s behind us now. Anyway, as I said, I was one of the lucky ones.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, but she felt cold, dismal, and somehow implicated.

  Here was her block, and the big white house where she lived. It had been built forty years ago as the town residence of a prosperous farmer, then divided into individual and inconvenient living quarters. One of which Evelyn now inhabited. On the sidewalk at the bottom of the porch steps, she turned to Andrew, anxious to get inside.

  But he started up the porch steps so as to see her properly home. At the front door she opened her mouth to begin her thank-yous, but he cleared his throat with such thoroughness that she stopped, alarmed.

  “I very much enjoy,” he began, then stopped and turned his head away to cough. “Excuse me.”

  She waited for him to set himself to rights and begin over. “I have very much enjoyed your company these last few weeks.”

  “Yes, it’s been such fun.” Not entirely an untruth. There had been some intermittent fun. A premonition, a warning. All she had to do was say good night, open the front door, and pop herself inside. But she was neither that quick nor that rude.

  “I know that this must seem hasty, or premature,” Andrew went on, as Evelyn, helpless to stop him, stood rooted. “But would you consider . . . would you do me the honor . . .”

  She gaped at him. He tried again. “ . . . do me the honor of entering into an engagement . . .”

  “No, please,” she blurted. “I mean, why?”

  This threw him off his stride. “I suppose . . . we’re both at a point in life, that is, I am more so than you. Being older, I mean. I mean, you’re not old in the least. Not wanting to miss out on things, you know. Miss out on things in life. Before it’s too late.”

  He did not seem aware that it was customary, when proposing marriage, to say admiring and ardent things to advance your suit. Really, he was ridiculous! Evelyn said, “I suppose there are those reasons. But as you say, it’s somewhat hasty.” She thought she could talk her way out of it if she just kept going. Why did she feel she had to come up with reasons? It was preposterous.

  He seized on this. “Then perhaps you would keep it in mind. As a serious possibility.”

  “Yes,” she said, seeing an escape route. “I would be happy to keep it in mind.”

  Andrew inclined his head toward her. She braced herself, knowing that she was about to be kissed. Just then the door behind them opened and they had to step apart. One of Evelyn’s fellow lodgers came out and hurried down the stairs without speaking to them. “Thanks for the lovely evening,” Evelyn said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her.

  She accepted his proposal a few weeks later and they were married on New Year’s Day in the pastor’s study of the Presbyterian church.

  Andrew was surprised and delighted that she got pregnant right away. Then, at the end of March, she miscarried. It was one of those things, the doctor said. Not uncommon with a first pregnancy. He’d see her back here with a healthy baby or two, and very soon.

  But their children were not born for years and years, after they had come to believe it would never happen.

  Had Andrew known? Had he suspected? They never spoke of it. They went about their lives. They did those things that needed to be done. Time passed and passed. It built up like layers of glass. You could see straight through it, but every so often there was a shimmer, a distortion, something that threw you off.

  Where was her baby daughter, her Laura? The woman kept talking and patting her hand. She was gray and tired looking. “It’s me, Mom.” Of course it was. It was so irritating when they thought she did not know things. Laura was old because everybody was old. Andrew was whatever it was that came after old. Dead.

  Why was she driving? She didn’t know how to drive.

  He said, Take your time. You got it. Now you’re cooking with gas.

  You could see the storm rolling in for miles and miles across the big open flatland. From west to east, a great dark mass of cloud that opened its throat and shook the air and sent down red and yellow forks of lightning.

  * * *

  One of the courses she was teaching that fall was a survey, World Civilization I. The textbook made mention of Babylonians and Sumerians. In faraway places such as India and China, people were busy doing things that might be considered civilization, if one lived in those parts. Civilization had really come about in ancient Greece, with its philosophers and playwrights. The Romans had made it more efficient. During the Dark Ages, it was a wandering orphan. The Renaissance revived it, the Enlightenment argued about it. Kings and queens tugged it back and forth. Finally, on the eve of the founding of the Republic, it was ready to be perfected. That was where the next course, World Civilization II, began.

  Her students were now distracted by fun and hijinks rather than war. They giggled and jostled in the classroom’s wooden chairs, so that a constant scraping sound accompanied Evelyn’s lectures. She raised her voice and carried on. The course was part of a basic studies curriculum and most of them were required to take it. Evelyn began to develop a dangerous contempt for her students. She ga
ve pop quizzes and called on the sleepiest and most distracted of them to answer questions. She was getting a reputation as one of the mean instructors.

  Most of the GIs went into practical fields of study, like business or engineering. The few who did take her classes stood out as older and more studious. They kept to themselves and didn’t say much in class, aside from asking when a paper was due, or some other requirement. They were in a hurry to make up for lost time.

  The man who stayed after class in World Civ I was a veteran, Evelyn was certain. She noticed him as she was packing up her books and notes. He sat near the back, one foot tap tap tapping, and wrote in a spiral notebook. He kept his head down and Evelyn didn’t speak to him. But after the fourth or fifth time of this, she said, “Are you writing a letter?”

  He did look up then. “No ma’am. I don’t take real good notes the first time around. So I run through them again while I still have them fresh in my head.”

  “That’s very conscientious of you.”

  “Well ma’am, that’s the only way I can get through it. I’m not much of a school type.”

  He smiled. He had fair, reddish hair, sandy eyebrows, and sunburned, unemphatic features. His voice had country in it.

  “I’ll leave you to it then. See you Wednesday.”

  The seating chart told her that his name was Russell Hatch. “Call me Rusty,” he told her on another day after class. “Real original, right?”

  She was careful to keep their conversations brief and impersonal. She’d had previous experiences when she’d become friendly with students, even fond of them, and then had to give them bad grades. And Rusty’s first written assignment was bad. Objectively, even terrible. Whatever he had been trying to say about the Greek city-states was lost in a pileup of sentence fragments and odd assertions. (“The army in Sparta was a very important part of military life.”)