.25.

I could say it’s all a blur, what happened next, but I remember it all: Me just standing there. Yvonne looking so guilty and sympathetic and strange—exactly the way Sarah had looked when she first told me about her. The two cops shaking their heads. The cigarette butt smeared with Yvonne’s Scarlet Memory and smashed into the plastic lid. The black guys singing that drummer boy song. I remember it all. All of it. I took a cab home, I remember that.

The loft was a mess. Salt and books, half-filled teacups and wineglasses, Cheerios, cookie crumbs, newspapers, clothes—stuff all over the place. It looked like we hadn’t cleaned in months. That damned tree was on the floor again, tangled up in the curtain that must have come down from the front window when the tree fell. Tony stretched across it scratching at the bark, Chico beside him. The floor was covered with crushed pine needles and salt. The string of burnt-out Christmas lights. I remember thinking that the loft looked the way my mind felt. All jumbled up.

I called home. Before my mother could start talking I told her not to ask any questions. That I loved them all, and I’d call later on, but I needed to figure some things out. Maybe it was something in my voice, but she didn’t argue. “I love you, too,” she said. “Make sure you call.”

Then I called Mark. David and Glenda recited a jokey Christmas message saying to “leave a jingle at the . . . beep.” The beep sounded to end their sentence.

“This is a message for Mark,” I said. “I know everything. And you knew I knew.” Then I hung up.

I stood there looking at the phone for a while, barely able to move. I looked around the loft. All that mess. I thought if I did some cleaning up it would help me think.

I put on Maria Callas singing Puccini and I started with the big stuff. I shook out and rehung the curtain. I picked up the tree, brushed it off, and stuck it in a terra-cotta pot. I surrounded the base with crushed tinfoil so it wouldn’t fall. I found a wad of garbage bags I’d taken from Yvonne’s and began to throw things out. The lights, the wrapping paper, Yvonne’s letter. I found Brian’s tape wedged between the couch cushions. “The Cliffs of Dooneen.” I put it in my bag so I wouldn’t lose it and I made a note to call him later, too, to see how he was. I thought he might be lonely.

By the time Maria Callas was singing Manon Lescaut, I’d shelved the books, put the dirty glasses in the sink, dumped the clothes into a wicker basket by the bathroom, and made a pile for the dry cleaner. It was Christmas so no place would be open, but I could bring them the next morning. “Sola, perduta, abbandonata.” I picked up Mark’s journal and stuffed it in the garbage bag.

Why had I thought I needed to know? I mean it’s always better to remain uncertain. At least you have a little hope. When I was a kid I used to think it was really strange that no one talked about Curly when he wasn’t in a particular episode. One day there was Curly and the next day Shemp. I kept waiting for someone to mention him. Say why he wasn’t there. Why didn’t Larry ask where Curly was? Were we supposed to think Shemp was Curly? Were we supposed to pretend that Shemp had been there all along? I tried to figure it out. I thought about it for a long time before I asked my mother. Even she had never mentioned the fact that sometimes Shemp was there instead of Curly. When I finally asked her she told me Curly had died. And that made it even worse. I couldn’t picture Curly dead. And then whenever he was on the show I saw him as a dead man.

The garbage bag was almost full. I tossed in Mark’s T-shirt. The one I’d used to polish my boots.

When the floor was clear enough I swept up the salt and Cheerios and pine needles. I washed the wood with Murphy’s Oil until it gleamed. I made the bed. “Io la deserta donna.” I tried to ignore the song. It made me think too much. It made me think about Maria Callas. How her whole life fell apart after she left her husband. How she lost her voice. Lost everything. Did she have any idea what was going to happen when she was recording that song? In 1954? Did she know she’d lose all that weight and have a twenty-two inch waist, that Ari would leave her for Jackie, that she’d end up alone and desolate, just like the song says. Had she known? Is that why she sounds so tragic? When she got to the part about not wanting to die alone I’d had it. “Non voglio morir, non voglio morir,” she kept singing. It ripped me apart, the way the music stops and she keeps singing, her voice all alone and naked. Sarah says she killed herself, but Sarah always thinks people killed themselves. She believes all that tabloid stuff. That JFK was sleeping with Marilyn Monroe, that he had her killed to keep her quiet. Sarah says that if Callas didn’t kill herself why did they skip the autopsy and rush to bury her?

I didn’t want to think about Maria Callas killing herself. I switched to Cecilia Bartoli singing Mozart. That beautiful voice makes you feel like even the sad, hard things are manageable. Cecilia Bartoli would never kill herself.

Maria Callas is just too tragic and hopeless sometimes.

I made six big piles of old New York Times. It was Mark’s job to tie up the newspapers and put them out, so the fact that I could make those bundles made me feel pretty good. It took a while to figure out the best way to wrap the cord to make a tight bundle. One that wouldn’t open. I wrapped and tied the cord as if with each bundle I was getting rid of something, clearing something out of my life. By the last pile I’d gotten pretty good at it and I was sorry there weren’t more to tie up. I picked up a Book Review. October 5. The one with the Yeats/Maud Gonne letters on the front page. Save, I’d written at the top. Save. It seemed like another life. Before the gallery opening. Before Sarah had told me about Yvonne. Before I’d ever set foot in Yvonne’s apartment. I closed my eyes and I swear I could see me and Mark sitting at the table on that Sunday morning drinking coffee and reading each other bits from each section. Art reviews. A sale at Barney’s. Profiles of figure skaters. And had it already started? The affair. Mark and Yvonne. Was he already sleeping with her? Had he already been thinking about her when he told me about the new biography of Yeats? I didn’t want to think about it. It occurred to me that it had been just about the only thing I could think about when I hadn’t known for sure—and now that I knew, now that Yvonne had confessed, it was like I didn’t want it in my head at all.

I ran up and down the stairs about eight times to get rid of all those stacks of newspapers and bags of garbage. I was out of breath but the loft was starting to look pretty good. I ran down again and picked up two cans of tuna for the boys. They raced over and climbed up my legs while I opened the cans and I could barely get the food into the bowls. They ate so quickly the bowls kept scraping along the floor, then they just hunched there, licking.

Cecilia Bartoli was singing this beautiful aria about what could be causing her heart’s agitation. Anger? she asked. Fear, jealousy, love? Well that about covers it, but I knew she’d be okay. And I knew she knew. It was painful but she wouldn’t give up. She seems downright cheerful compared to Maria Callas. Maybe that’s why Mark doesn’t like her. He thinks Cecilia Bartoli is too sunny. He likes his women tragic, which is pretty funny since he never seems to be able to stick around for the tragic part. It’s too messy. Like when he went to see Casablanca with me while his old girlfriend, Isabelle, was in the emergency room. No, Mark likes to keep things neat and separate. At least in his head. I picture everything in Mark’s head stacked and tied in separate bundles. Like those newspapers. Mark just doesn’t get things like Cecilia Bartoli and Mozart—the way the sadness and happiness are all jumbled up together.

I started on the bathroom. I thought I could spend the whole day cleaning, maybe go out and get some higher-watt lightbulbs. Mark always buys 60 watt, which is pretty dim. I was thinking that Yvonne had the right idea, keeping her apartment so neat. It feels better when things are neat and orderly. It’s easier to think. I even regretted for a second that I hadn’t gotten Concetta’s phone number, but you can always find someone to clean things up. And it felt good to do it myself. I ran water into the bathroom sink, threw in my blouse and Yvonne’s scarf and panties and rinsed them out. Green dye seeped out of the scarf as I wrung it out and hung it on a hanger to dry. It dripped green across the bathroom floor which I’d already mopped. It always happens like that: you make things messier as you’re trying to clean them up.

I washed the sink, really scrubbed it. I picked out the crusted soap along the bumpy nubs of the soapdish. I washed the mirror, the tiles, the pipes beneath the sink. I shook Ajax into the bowl and swished it out. I sponged and dried every bottle, jar, and tube. I found stray pieces of hair curled onto the sides of the sink. Ordinarily I wouldn’t think about it, but I kept wondering if it was my hair or Mark’s. Or Yvonne’s. Could she have been here? No. I knew at least that. Or I was relatively sure. That’s the thing, I can’t be sure of anything now. Like when you notice a tiny speck of green mold on a piece of cheese and then start seeing it all over and have to throw the whole thing out.

I beat the mat and dumped the towels, emptied the toothbrush cup and threw out the old brushes. I took the brush I’d been using, the green one with silver sparkles I’d bought the day I went to Yvonne’s for the first time. I sprayed it with Fantastik and used the splayed bristles to brush around the spigot and cock.

Then I turned on the shower and watched the mirror steam. I watched my face slowly disappear. I rubbed the steam to see myself, then watched me disappear again. I did it over and over. Yet always when I look death in the face / when I clamber to the heights of sleep / or when I grow excited with wine / suddenly I meet your face. But it was my own face I kept seeing. I wonder if it had ever occurred to Yeats to say my face. Suddenly I meet my face.

By the time I got in the shower I was already drenched. I made the water hot. As hot as I could stand it. I peed into the tub, something Mark hates. I watched the stream of urine run down the white porcelain, into the drain. I sang. My voice rose up and out of me, a full, round voice filling me up and pouring out. I could feel my breath reaching through me, to my fingertips and toes, filling every part of me. And then it poured out. My voice just washed out of me, singing Mozart.

Steam blew around me in hot, airy drafts. I washed my hair. I scrubbed my skin with the loofah mitt until it turned bright red. Then I rubbed Neutrogena sesame oil all over and wrapped myself up in a big green towel.

I didn’t want to get dressed. It was Christmas and I usually dress for Christmas, but it looked like I wasn’t going to be going anywhere. It made me think about that Christmas with Mark, when we’d spent the whole day in bed. That tiny gold ring he’d tongued out of me. I’d been okay, I think, until I thought of that. Christmas with Mark. That great bottle of wine. Chevalier-Montrachet.

The phone rang. I thought it might be Mark. I turned the volume all the way down and watched the red light hold, then start blinking when whoever it was hung up. For a minute I thought about calling Eric. But what could I say? That Mark was having an affair with Yvonne? He already knew that. And it would take too long to explain. That I had known but not really known.

The phone rang again. Right away. And I knew it was Mark, that he’d gotten my message. I turned up the volume.

“Treas, it’s me,” he said. “Please pick up.”

I just stood there.

“Come on, Terry, please pick up the phone. I know you’re there. Honey, I want . . .”

I turned the volume down again and I knew he was still talking.

Let him wait. Let him wait and worry and guess. Just like I had. Let him wonder. And feel sick and crazy and depressed.

The machine clicked off and the light started blinking.

I stared at the phone thinking of who I could call. And then, it’s funny, I pulled out the plug. I pulled out the plug and looked at that dead phone just sitting there.

The keys.

It’s a little voice inside telling you what to do.

I took Yvonne’s keys out of my bag. I went into the bathroom, threw them in the toilet, and flushed. I watched them spin, heard them clang against the bowl, and go down. I waited until the water was still, and I flushed again.

Then I went back inside. I sat in the big chair and looked at how clean everything was. Tony and Chico approached, tentative at first, pawing the towel a little. I could smell the tuna on Chico’s breath when he jumped in my lap.

It was quiet. I hadn’t noticed the music end. I knew the phone wouldn’t ring. I think it was the most silent moment I’ve ever experienced. There are many kinds of silence. A lot can happen in silence. I felt comfortable in that silence. My whole body felt quiet. I just sat there. Just sat and sat.

And then it happened. A movie moment. Suddenly I felt so real in that chair. Dense and substantial. I can’t really explain it. It was like I was watching myself. Watching the way that big fluffy green towel wrapped around me, covering all of me. The way the floor looked so clear and clean, that warm woody cello color spreading out in every direction. I think that if it had been a movie a cello would have been playing. Just one lone cello. Calm and quiet. Adagio.

For the first time in a long time things seemed to fit into themselves. My breath fit in my body. My thoughts fit in my head. I think there are times when what’s inside you gets too big and it’s all there pulsing and rocking in you trying to find a way out. I think there are times you can’t just meditate and push it all back.

The bells from St. Anthony’s rang for one o’clock Mass. One solitary gong. It was only three hours since I’d left Yvonne. I didn’t know what I was going to do for the rest of the day. I didn’t know what I was going to do about me and Mark. I breathed and breathed and sat there looking at how clean I had made the loft. Thinking about how I didn’t know anything. That maybe I would just sit there and breathe. For hours. I didn’t know. And it was okay. It really was. I was quiet. I was inside myself.