JAY SLEPT SO MUCH that I became used to it, to the long bedside vigils where I would sit drooped in thought, or nonthought, suffering instant lapses of memory. What day was it? What time? What had I been thinking only a few minutes before?
But then there were times when he came sharply and suddenly awake, emerging from one of those long and enervating dreams. He would continue conversations begun in the dream, fix me with his eyes, and demand a response. He was there again, but he was not quite himself. Drugged, drained, pummeled into hopelessness. It scared me because I never knew what to expect, and I was ashamed, because this was the only contact possible, the only thing left between us, and I wanted to avoid it.
“The policies,” he began one day while his eyes were still closed.
I was startled out of my slouch. “Sweetheart,” I said. “We talked about that. Don’t you remember? I spoke to Murray. We took care of everything.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It comes back. Do they call?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Everybody. The crew. Murray. Jerry.”
“Yes yes, they all do.” Sick with guilt, I knew that I wanted him to sleep again. He had interrupted that strange new state of nothingness I had been clever enough to discover, and he was leading me back to reality. If we talked anymore it would become painful, real, catastrophic. “Do you want some water, darling?” That was a safe topic—the diminishing needs of a diminishing man.
But he didn’t even bother to answer. “There are things you have to do, Sandy,” he said.
“What things?”
“Take care of some of my stuff. You could sell some of the equipment, the cameras.”
“I gave the Rolleiflex to Martin. You told me,” I said, worried that he had forgotten and would feel betrayed.
But he only nodded, shutting his eyes again.
Just sleep, I thought. Sweet nothing sleep. I could do it myself right now if there was some place to lie down.
“I keep thinking about the book,” Jay said.
The book I felt an instant throb of jealousy. Why did he think about that? Why didn’t he think about the children, about me? But I recognised my own lack of fairness and reason. After all the book was an extension of himself. When he was gone the book would be the real and final proof of himself. As far back as I could remember it was the thing he most looked forward to. Not to its completion, perhaps, but to its growth, to the very act of doing it.
“I wish I could have finished it,” he said, and he might have been talking about anything, even his own life.
“I know,” I said.
“I took my own sweet time.”
“There’s a lot there,” I said. “You did a lot.”
He sighed. “Would you look through it for me, Sandy? Would you see if you can get it into any order, make some sense of it?”
“Sure,” I said. “I can do that. I have anyway. I do.”
“What?”
“Look through it sometimes when I go home.” I felt shy, embarrassed, as if I had been discovered in some naive and romantic practice.
“Maybe you can show it to somebody someday,” he said.
“You mean try and get it published, Jay? Is that what you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said, trying to force some excitement into the monotone of my voice. “It’s a beautiful book, Jay. I’m going to do it this week. Look through the folder, get things going for you.”
“It wouldn’t have much of a chance,” he said. “It needs work.”
“Who knows? Listen, what do you want to call it? Something simple and right to the point, I think. New York, a Photographic Essay. Or New York City, A Life Story. Is that corny? What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” He turned his head away, as if he were bored, weary of the subject.
But I felt compelled to continue, desperately chatty, like a woman being eased out of a love affair. I said positive things, things that implied the future. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t stop.
“Ah, who gives a damn,” he said then, into the wall. “Who gives a fucking damn about anything.”
And I found myself sinking back into the chair, the new false energy instantly spent. He was right. Who gives a damn. Who cares. “Darling,” I said. “Do you think you can sleep? Will you try to sleep?”
His voice came with a muffled resonance, his face still turned away. “I’m not tired,” he said, and fell instantly asleep.