Middle Age by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

personal papers of Adam’s, any letters or documents suggesting that
    “Adam Berendt” had relatives, a background, a history. In one of the pigeonholes he found a half-dozen vouchers from Las Vegas casinos; in another, a crumpled document he passed over to Marina without comment, a bill of sale from a Manhattan art gallery? a receipt for $,6 for the purchase of a work of art by Raul Farco? This must have been the sculpture donated to the Salthill Arts Council by an “anonymous” donor.
    Adam Berendt! Marina was stunned. She remembered how Adam had been persuaded to formally present the graceful columnar marble piece in Middle Age: A Romance
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    the Arts Council hall; how, once Adam overcame his initial awkwardness, speaking in front of a gathering that contained so many friends, he’d seemed to soar, not eloquent exactly but warm and enthusiastic, explaining why the marble sculpture was an important work, speaking of the community’s gratitude to the “unknown” donor. For once, Adam said, artist and donor need not be conjoined, only the artist and his work would be celebrated. Everyone had clapped enthusiastically. It had seemed to them that Adam’s insight was profound. But he was speaking of himself .
    Beneath scattered newspaper pages on a table, Marina found Adam’s filthy, much thumbed address book. Quickly she looked under “B”—but there were no Berendts listed. Many names in the little book were messily crossed out and entire pages were missing. There were numerous inser-tions, business cards and slips of paper, falling out of the dog-eared pages.
    Marina couldn’t resist turning to “T”—and there was Marina Troy listed.
    Her hand began to shake. How sordid it was, this business of recording the names of human beings, addresses, and telephone numbers as they intersect with our lives; when they no longer intersect, we cross them out, or
    ©
    tear out their page. Adam had marked occasional names with
    ; she
    ©
    seemed to know that indicated an individual no longer living. For some reason her heart was pounding quickly. What did it mean that Marina Troy,  North Pearl Street, was included in Adam Berendt’s address book, with so many others? It meant nothing, of course. Marina said with sudden bitterness, “What do we want from one another, really? All this frantic ‘collecting’ of one another. Friends, social life. After death, it must all seem so futile.” Roger, seated at Adam’s swivel chair, made a snorting sound. “Maybe before death, too.” Marina tossed the address book down onto the desk in front of him, with sudden vehemence.
    Quickly Roger leafed through the little book, as if its secrets might spill out at once. She knew he was seeking “C”— Roger Cavanagh . Marina felt a stab of dislike for the man. Why couldn’t he be Adam, why couldn’t he have died in Adam’s place? His forehead was oily and furrowed with fine cracks; his small, hurt, sullen mouth was offensive to her, as if she’d kissed it once, and tasted rot. Roger must have been fatigued by the morning’s effort but he sat drumming his fingers on the desk top and Marina had an impulse to lay a hand on his. But she’d never touch the man! We’re co-conspirators. Criminals together. But neither of us understands the extent of the crime . She felt shame, to have invaded her dead lover’s home; to have learned facts about him he had not wanted known, at least not by her; and
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    J C O
    the shame was compounded by Roger Cavanagh’s presence, as if both were looking upon Adam naked, each having to know that the other knew. Marina tried for the right tone, saying, in an undertone, “The strangest thing is, Roger, that Adam was alive twenty-four hours ago, and now he is not. The rest of this, his private life, his secrecy—is not so strange.”
    But was this true? Marina meant to be brave.
    She understood that Roger both wanted to look at her,