Academy Street by Mary Costello

slow and sombre. And then, from the cello, rose the most mournful sound she
had ever heard. Beautiful, melancholy, reaching every remote cell. She closed her
eyes. With his kiss he had claimed her. He had awoken her soul.
    Days passed, each an eternity. She remembered every word, and was by turn exalted,
desolate. She had never lived so intensely. At night she sat at her dressing-table
mirror. She felt his approach, felt him steal into her, leaving a cold shivery fear
at her centre, and afterwards a waning numbness. The only cure would be the sight
of him. She crawled into bed. In the dark her mouth shaped itself to kiss, re-kiss,
grasping at the air in little fish gulps. She bit back the reflex, the trembling
mouth. The things that had seemed indecent to think were no longer so: his limbs,
his skin, his hand pressed flat on her belly. Please come back to me.
    She looked out of windows. She drifted, distant and composed, through each working
day, the routes and rhythms of trains and subways, streets and corridors, already
set into her neural grid. Days off she spent in the library, vaguely dreaming, vaguely
sick, or in the park, staring at men walking home from work. In the apartment the
fan whirred and she looked out and examined the day.
    One evening, alone, at twilight she rose from the table and left her hand on the
refrigerator door and felt its faint vibrations. She leaned against it and closed
her eyes. The radio was on, low. After what seemed a long time she walked to the
window and saw a man on the street below, smoking a cigarette. She thought it was
him. She had a vision of herself, dressed in his skin, her arms inside his, her head
in his. He raised his face but it was not him. She remained calm, felt herself possessed
of infinite patience. The man threw his cigarette on the pavement and turned and
walked away.
    She moved from the window. She stood in the middle of the room. So this is love,
she thought.
    She went down to the drugstore, desperate to be among people. Returning, she was
accosted on the street by a bag lady, a face thrust in hers, crazed eyes, wild hair.
A mad mouth screaming obscenities at her, shouting out Tess’s own thoughts. Shameful
thoughts. She froze, trapped under the woman’s spell, cursed. Then someone passed
and knocked against her and she came to her senses and ran, stumbling, into her building.
    The incident shook her to the core. How had that woman known her thoughts—the carnal
thoughts that she, Tess, had harboured? This man, this love had become a disturbance,
an interruption in her life. She needed to put an end to it. The following Sunday
she visited Molly and Fritz. Oliver was there—she had not seen him in a while. He
sat red-eyed, hungover, depressed. Alone for a minute after dinner, she asked good-humouredly
about the raven-haired girl. He raised his listless eyes and shrugged.
    Molly sat down. ‘Have you heard from Claire? I wonder if her arm is any better.’
    ‘What’s wrong with her arm?’ Tess asked.
    ‘I don’t think it’s much…She has it ever since Elizabeth was born. It could be arthritis—this
family is riddled with arthritis.’
    She was ashamed. Wrapped in her own selfish fantasies.
    That night she called Claire. She could hardly speak.
    ‘How are you, Tess? When are you coming to visit us?’ The voice was far away and
lonely.
    ‘I’ll come soon, I will. In October. I promise. How’s your arm?’
    ‘It’s much better. It’s nothing—just numb from carrying Elizabeth around. But now
she’s walking.’
    ‘And Peter?’
    ‘He’s good. He’s busy, always busy—the company’s expanding. It’s all…great. They
have these family days—I meet the other wives. They’re all so pally with each other.
We go to parties. Oh, Tess…you wouldn’t believe what some people get up to.’ Her
voice trailed off.
    ‘Is everything okay, Claire?’
    A hesitation. ‘Yes, of course. Everything’s good, Tess…Do come out. You promised!
I think of you