The Violence of Thought

They walk along the harbor to Carl’s house.  It’s a late autumn night and the soft slap of black water against the wood pilings is a counterpoint to the hum from the restaurants by the bridge— each has its own set of outdoor tables and competing sets of conversations.  Jane inhales and smells the pungent, salty overtones of seaweed and fish that cannot be completely masked by the garlic scampi being served up at the Blue Fin.

 “It’s not that I don’t want a baby or that I don’t like children,” Carl says. “I just think Miri is clutching at straws. She hasn’t gotten any work for about a year now and it’s depressing her.  She thinks that having a baby will make me value her more.

“Maybe you should just get her a puppy,” Jane mutters. She raises her fingers to her lips to draw the words back.  In the dark, her hand is small and white with tints of blue at the edges. She darts her tongue out slyly to taste the skin which is cold and salty.  She quickly draws it back in when she sees Carl looking at her.

He nods at her though, readily accepting her barely audible gasp as an apology. How can she love him when he understands so little about her?  

She tries crossing out love and replacing it with desire but it doesn’t suit her. There has to be love for her to contemplate an affair with a married man. She was raised in a broken home; she has her own dogma about what is right and what isn’t. Of course Carl doesn’t know about this dogma, just as he is unaware that she loves him. She’s done nothing to lead him on other than to offer friendship and mentorship.

Carl and Jane veer away from the docks after skirting them for half a mile and drift into a series of narrow jumbled streets whose sudden ascension leaves Jane panting. Though Carl’s voice has modulated a little, he seems for the most part unaffected and he doesn’t slow down for her, a fact that piques her—his lack of chivalry. The dark waters of the harbor have receded completely from sight but she still feels the pull of them, the tide of her blood yearning to slip back and away from the tangible proof of Carl’s married life. She’s not sure why she agreed to have dinner with him and Miri; she’s his manager after all. But it’s too late now to back out, they are drawn inland and the houses with their neatly manicured lawns and their hedges casting rectangular shadows, soon surround them. She makes vague warding gestures that Carl doesn’t notice with his quick stride and ongoing discussion of Miri’s frustrated desires that she’s only half attending to. 

Suddenly Carl stops and Jane nearly bumps into him. He gestures and smiles at the house in front of them, which looks like every other house on the street, especially in the dim light. “We bought it at just the right time,” he says sheepishly. Jane wonders when the right time was—the houses in this neighborhood go for nearly a million dollars. She wonders too how Carl can afford this. Jane is still renting, still living like a student. She’d be too busy to take care of a house by herself she’s told herself, but now she contemplates this house and suddenly wants it and the life that Carl and Miri have. She ponders how much more compatible she is with Carl than Miri is. She’d met Miri at the holiday party and had been affronted by the showy, expensive dress and the heavy jewelry Miri had worn. She’d despised the way Miri had clung to Carl and pretended both to understand his work and have contempt for it. 

Jane sighs softly—so much has to do with luck, with meeting the right people at the right time. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Carl says proudly.

“Yes,” Jane agrees. “Beautiful.”

They walk up the stone-lined path of the drive, lined with cacti of all things, and Miri draws open the door with a dramatic flair that makes Jane grit her teeth. Miri is smiling at her and draws her in by the elbows as if Jane is an ambassador from a foreign land. Jane smiles in return and steps into the hallway.

“Take off your shoes, dear,” Miri says and Jane realizes with a start that Miri is talking to her not to Carl. She looks at her uncomprehendingly.

“We’re trying to protect the hardwood,” Miri explains. Carl is already performing this act and Jane notices his white socks slightly graying at the toes. She blushes and removes her sandals, glad she’s painted her toenails and that her feet look clean. She shrugs away her embarrassment and compliments Miri on the house. 

She’s led into the living room through the dining room which is really a table placed in the front hall. That’s the thing about expensive houses along the waterfront; they’re often very small.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Miri asks from the kitchen which is separated from the living room by a faux marble counter cluttered by mail and some newspapers and a bowl of fruit. Carl frowns briefly, removing the paper. “Didn’t have time to put things away?” he says to Miri as he walks to the garage. Jane can tell from the stiffening of Miri’s shoulders that she is not pleased. Jane tries to think of something diverting to say but misses her chance for Carl has motioned her to the garage and she must follow him. He opens the door and gestures proudly at a motorcycle leaning in amongst boxes and piles of canned goods. There’s a thin veneer of dust on the chrome. 

“I bet you wouldn’t have guessed this about me,” Carl says. “That I ride a motorcycle.”

Jane smiles, sincerely, this time. No, she would not have guessed. She imagines riding along the harbor with Carl (even though motorcycles are forbidden on the boardwalk). She cannot for one second imagine Miri perched behind him or she can—she sees Miri clinging to Carl like a barnacle, a chastising barnacle.  

“Carl, can you get the potatoes?” Miri calls and Carl reaches into a corner of the garage and hefts a bag of potatoes, pretending to strain for Jane’s amusement. He brushes past Jane as he steps out of garage, lightly grazing her breast. She wonders if the brief contact is intentional. It sends a thrill through her and after a moment she follows him back towards the kitchen where Miri has poured her a glass of white wine.  Jane takes it and doesn’t know what to do with herself. Miri is busying herself with the dinner preparations and Carl is set to slicing and dicing the potatoes.  

Jane hovers at the counter trying to think of small talk when Miri begins to critique Carl’s efforts.  This time it is Carl whose shoulders stiffen and he retaliates by asking Miri what kind of salads she’s prepared. “Do you think that’s enough?” he says tersely when she tells him and Miri responds in clipped tones after glancing at Jane that “Yes,” she thinks it is.  

Jane thinks to herself that this is how married people fight—over trivial things and with tones of voice, as if all the anger and venom they feel must be concentrated into the fewest most meaningless words. She sees how easy it would be for a hand slicing a potato to strike at a spouse’s heart. She thinks that if she becomes involved with Carl she will never marry him.

Miri interrupts her reverie by asking, “So what is it you do at Kilyeni Tech, or Kill Tech, as Carl and I like to call it? This is quite a coup you know. I am always after Carl to bring some of his friends from work home. I like to understand what involves him so during the day.”

Jane blinks, uncertain how much she should respond to and somewhat hurt by the mocking diminutive of the company she’s somewhat proud to work for. “I’m, umm, a project manager,” she says.  She glances at Karl and he responds mildly to Miri, “for my division. I think I told you that.” Jane notices that he does not say outright that she is his boss.

“Oh, I see. I see,” Miri draws out. She puts a bowl of salad into Jane’s hands. “Can you put this on the table? Thanks, so much.”

She puts a bowl of bread into Carl’s hands and takes another bowl of salad herself. Jane puts the bowl of salad on the table uncertain if there are any rules about dish placement. She sits down then feels awkward because Miri and Carl are still standing puttering about. She’s the guest she tells herself, this is appropriate. She half stands again when Miri sits down finally and then Carl, pouring glasses of wine for each of them. “We’re so glad you could join us,” she beams. “Tell me more about your job. Why you?”

Jane chokes a little bit on the swallow of wine she’s taken.  “Pardon?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Miri says. “I mean how does one become a project manager for a company like Kilyeni? It’s mostly men, isn’t it? Engineering fogies?”

Jane looks at Carl to see if he’ll step in but he’s busy tearing a chunk from a loaf of French bread.

“Actually, I am an engineer. I also have an MBA. So I guess I was a logical fit for the position. And I’ve worked at Kilyeni since it started.”

“An engineer? Not like Carl though?” Miri continues. She’s smiling pleasantly at Jane and so Jane is unsure if she’s right in feeling like Miri is attacking her. 

She feels herself becoming defensive in any case. “Actually, I invented some of the technology Carl is working on now,” she says trying for a wry tone.

“That’s right,” Carl says, “It’s really going to move us into an IPO stage quickly.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous,” Miri responds quickly. Her voice is syrupy and cloying.

Jane tries to deflect the conversation and maybe chip away at Miri a little bit. “So Carl tells me you’re an artist? Have you sold or exhibited anywhere I might know of?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Miri responds quickly, “Do engineers really know anything about local galleries?” She’s laughing but Jane can’t help but feel she injected some venom in the response.

Jane shrugs. “Well, I’d sure like to learn,” she says. “I have interests outside of engineering.”

Carl interjects as Miri draws herself together, her smile becoming sharper, “Miri hasn’t sold anything in a couple of years but she’s looking for opportunities.”

Miri’s nostrils flare and she steps in and goes on for a while about her interests and the lack of commercial opportunities. Jane makes compassionate noises and she thinks she observes Carl rolling his eyes at one or more of Miri’s comments. It gives Jane small thrill and she takes a knife to butter a slice of bread, imagining it accidently diving into Miri’s fleshy throat. She pictures slicing from side to side, a quick and efficient maneuver and then continuing to eat with Carl, who will look at her with gratitude for stopping Miri’s incessant chatter. The stove alarm rings and they all sit back, eyes widening at the interruption of their own private thoughts.

Miri gets up briskly and walks to the kitchen and Carl whispers to Jane, “She’s not going to be doing anything but housewifing. She’s in a rut now and it’s eating at her.”

“Poor thing,” Jane says, trying to evoke pretend-Jane, who knows how to respond sympathetically to these sorts of remarks. Miri returns to the table with a roast and instructs Carl that the potatoes are ready and he should get them from the kitchen. He frowns at being told what to do and gets up, dropping his napkin into his salad plate. Both Miri and Jane watch the white cloth absorb some of the red salad dressing for a minute, then Miri snatches it up and says, “Men,” to Jane with a strained smile. She gets up again to get a new napkin from the kitchen.

When Miri and Carl return, Miri is rubbing his shoulders and he is laughing at something she’s said. Jane sits back with a foolish smile plastered on her face (one she’s wrested, with some difficulty, from sympathetic Jane). The dinner goes on and outside a slashing rain lances the windows. Jane contemplates  how tired she is of Miri’s company  and wishes that Miri would go to the kitchen and clean up or something so that she can talk to Carl. Jane resents her friendship with Carl being usurped by Miri-time.  She wonders if Carl resents it as well as she notices him drinking glass after glass of wine. Perhaps she can invite him for some coffee when he drops her back off at her place.  

She glances at her watch.  “Oh, my, you’ve been so gracious,” she lies. “I should probably be going.” She turns to look at the window, gleaming with rivulets of water and fairly shaking from the storm.  “Can I call a cab?” she says, knowing Carl will offer to drive her.

He does indeed start to offer, but Miri puts a firm hand on his arm. “Carl, you’ve probably had a bit too much to drink.  Jane, why don’t you just stay with us tonight? It’s Friday after all. Carl can drive you home in the morning.” Jane’s eyebrows cant upward but if she calls a cab she’ll have to make small talk with Miri for another half hour. This way she can retire to the guest room and have some time to talk to Carl in the morning. She can imagine for one night what it is like to live in this house. “Alright,” she says. “Are you sure it won’t put you out?” This is a formality of course and both Miri and Carl nod. 

Miri guides her to the guest room, giving her a sweatshirt and sweatpants to wear to for night clothes. Jane takes some satisfaction in seeing that it will be too big on her. When Miri leaves, Jane closes the door and dives under the covers of the narrow bed. It’s higher than she’s used to and the mattress is more firm than the cheap one she has at home. In the dark she listens for the sounds of Miri and Carl’s conversations but she can’t hear any; their bedroom is downstairs. She falls asleep and imagines that Miri might die of a (silent) heart attack sometime in the night. Immediately she tells herself she doesn’t mean it as a wish or anything of the sort. She has a superstitious belief that even wishes can bring about bad karma. She falls asleep just as the rain begins to let up, feeling the chill air of the house cover her along with the blankets, and yearning for her own small room where she can crank up the thermostat.

In the morning, Jane gets dressed, feeling rumpled and crusty-eyed. She dashes water over her face from a sink in the narrow bathroom adjacent to her room. She walks barefooted into the kitchen where Carl is already up, tossing something about in a skillet.  She notices two plates set on the table and asks with some alarm, “Where’s Miri?”

Carl turns from the stove. “Oh, she had to leave early. Her mother’s getting on in years and she called late last night, apparently not feeling well. Miri’s gone to check on her.” In a space of seconds, Jane is both relieved and sorry that she has not murdered Miri with her thoughts. 

Jane hovers by the counter again, experiencing a disorienting déjà vu feeling. She feels awkward in her night-before dinner clothes. Carl is in sweatpants and a T-shirt and his feet are bare…and hairy…like a hobbit’s! He hasn’t shaved and the skin on his face looks grey, stippled by the coarse hairs of his beard. She notices now that his eyes bulge slightly.  

Jane sits at the counter and watches the light strike the dust motes in the air. Even in this million dollar house, they have dust motes. The light shifts and strikes Carl and she sees again that despite his disheveled appearance he is handsome in that nerd-boy way that so attracts her. But his feet… She half laughs to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Carl says smiling as he brings a plate of eggs towards her.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing,”  Jane murmurs, her own smile fading for the light is slipping away from Carl again and she sees now the paunch of his stomach tenting the T-shirt he wears. Still, Jane tries to push aside the feeling of revulsion that sweeps her, attributing it not to Carl but the smell of grease in the eggs, that  glisten and jostle on the plate.

“Carl,” Jane says, “I hope I didn’t upset Miri last night asking about her work.”

“When? “ Carl asks. “Oh no,” he says recollecting. He gives a small snorting laugh. “Miri’s pretty high strung. She may act upset over the slightest of things, but they bounce off her. Nothing really sticks to her. She’s very forgiving that way.”

Or insensitive, Jane thinks, not ready to hop onto the Miri bandwagon.

“Everything bounces off her,” Carl says echoing Jane’s thoughts. His lower lip puffs out, making him look like a small boy and for a brief instant Jane despises him. She pushes the feeling away, wishing that Carl would shift from one foot to the other so that the light would find him again. But he sits down instead and the light is behind him now; the shadows of his face are all she sees.

Carl chews on a slice of buttered toast and grease glistens faintly on his lips. Jane lifts a forkful of eggs to her mouth. They are both silent, chewing and Jane realizes that they have nothing to say to each other unless she decides to bring up work. She glances out the window—it’s going to be a beautiful morning and she looks forward to sitting out on her own small terrace with a cup of good coffee and a book that has nothing to do with engineering or business. It strikes her then that she has not seen a single book in this house, this house that she’d so wanted last night and that seems to her, in the morning light, so cold and dull. 

In her mind, she places Miri at the third barstool by the counter so that Miri is now sitting with them smiling benevolently at both Jane and Carl, talking about all her enlightened plans for the day. It’s difficult with the knife Jane’s tapped into her throat, so Jane slowly draws it out and the pouchy flesh seals itself so that only a streak of blood remains. She pictures Carl reaching for Miri’s hand and squeezing it. Why not? They are right for each other, Jane sees. This house, with its coddled hardwood, is their perfect reflection.

Jane wipes at her lips with her napkin and stretches to banish this uncharitable thought. It shouldn’t matter to her that their lives are impoverished.  It is going to be a beautiful day, she reminds herself. She reaches for sympathetic Jane. “Thank you so much for the lovely dinner and for letting me stay the night, Carl. I’d like to go home now,” she says. He seems a bit lost as he takes it in, as if he’d wanted her to linger.  She wonders what he’s been imagining about her, about the potentials of their relationship.

“You’ll have that report for me on, Monday?” she comments offhandedly. She’s calculated catching him off guard and notices how his eyes become smaller when he frowns.

“Sure, sure,” Carl says. “Monday,” he repeats. A quick look of loathing slips across his face like a shade that’s been drawn down and then snaps up. “It’s Saturday, though.  Never do today what you can do tomorrow,” he says lightly.

Jane smiles, gets up and stretches, reaches into her bag for her cell phone to call a cab. On Monday, she’ll make sure she gets the report on time. He can’t be left to assume things about them. She puts her cell phone back in her purse. “You know what? I think I’ll walk back into town. There are some things I need to take care of at the office. Have to earn my salary,” she says breezily, letting him know that Miri’s barbs are not forgiven. 

He leans forward, uncertain if he should hug her, but she slips away and leaves him standing there with a glass of orange juice in his hand. Outside the house, the bright chill air is like a slap to the face. She feels awake now. She hesitates for a moment as she takes in the jewel-like green lawns, the grass tinged with frozen dew and the houses with all their doors closed to her, but she heads of in the direction of the bridge, in the direction she remembers.

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