Chapter XI
"Come with me, Mattie." Clay reached over as they sat facing each other on the sofa, and took her hands in his. "Cape Breton is beautiful this time of year. It's only about a twelve hour road trip from here."
"You know I can't, Clay. There are still five weeks of classes," she sighed, withdrawing one hand and running it down his bearded jaw.
"I wish you could. I can't do this any more...I'm done." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm just spent and I'm no good to anyone like this."
"You know, Clay, the fact that you essentially gave up your life for two years to serve others is more that most of us will ever do." She tilted her head and her heart ached for him as she looked at his weary eyes. She'd been concerned about him since his last arrest, and now, evidently, it was coming to a head. "You've done so much to help so many people, it's bound to wear you down after a while."
She pushed her hair back from her cheek and eyed him worriedly. Ever since his arrest and injury in February, he'd appeared to her to be more exhausted, and he didn't look like he was eating or sleeping well. When he was with her, she'd noticed that he tossed and turned all night. She could tell that he'd lost some weight. He'd taken on others' troubles and sorrows to ease theirs, and it had exacted its toll.
"It's just that nothing's changed, Mattie. We're still up to our necks in this damn war. Nixon declared in December that the war was ending and withdraws sixty thousand troops, and now he's escalated the war." He exhaled loudly. "Veterans are pouring into the hospitals with unimaginable, horrific wounds, and problems with their minds and emotions. Memories of what they've done and what they've seen in Vietnam are causing them to have violent flashbacks. No one seems to know how to handle it, either, and I feel as if I can't do enough, or I don't know how to help them. I feel useless now."
"I know, I know," she sighed, rubbing his shoulder.
"And two more students killed by the National Guard just this weekend." He shook his head in disbelief and rubbed his jaw. "I've been arrested twice now, and I need to pull back, Mattie. I need to get away from this insane country - the insane politicians - just the injustice of it all...and breathe some fresh Canadian air."
"So you're not going back to Plattsburgh? What about your firm?" she squinted at him. "Are your funds holding out?"
"Yes, yes...I'm fine financially. I talked to Cal yesterday, and he agreed to continue running the business for a few more months." He blinked at her thoughtfully. "I can work from Nova Scotia and I'll stay there until August, and then head back to Plattsburgh and get back to my regular job...and my regular life." She eyed him worriedly. She hadn't seen him so down in the six months they'd been together. "Will you join me in Cape Breton for the summer, then? The camper is perfect for two, you know. We've made out fine when we've traveled together." He smiled softly at her, and her heart sank.
"I don't know, Clay. It sounds wonderful, but I'll probably have to teach a couple of courses during the summer. I have for the past two summers. I haven't heard for sure yet how many classes they've scheduled. It depends on enrollment."
"You need to get away as well, Mattie. Can't you just tell them no?" he laughed. "You can't stay cooped up here all summer, can you?" He ran his hand over his forehead.
"I don't consider it being cooped up." For some reason, that struck her the wrong way and she bristled slightly at his comment. What had gotten into him? "This is my home, my job...my career, Clay. I'm not asking you to give up your career for me." She noticed that he looked stricken at her statement.
"If you stay here with your head in your books for three months, in my mind, that's cooped up." His voice had an edge to it. "And I gave up my career for two years. One of us has to give if we want to be together."
"This is my job, Clay." She couldn't believe his caustic comments. "And my head is not always in books. Where did that come from? Is that what you think of me all of a sudden?"
"You're obsessed with books and you know it," he laughed and she frowned. "Promise me that you'll join me when classes are over in May." His voice was persistent.
"I...I don't know, Clay." She stared down at her hands, folded in her lap. "There's a lot to do here."
"Like what?"
She looked up at him in exasperation. "Like the summer classes I just mentioned." She realized that her voice was heated, and she consciously lowered it. "I have responsibilities. I can't pick up and go to another country on a whim just because you ask me to."
"On a whim?" he snorted and raised his eyebrows at her. "You think this is all a whim on my part? That traveling around trying to help veterans is a whim?"
"No, no, I didn't say that...not your helping people. Well, think about it this way. You did leave your job rather suddenly to travel around for two years." She saw him straighten his spine and glare at her, his eyes dark, and his lips tight, as if in amazement at her words, but she continued. "And now you just want to pick up and run off to Canada again."
"I'm not running off." He narrowed his dark eyes at her. "It's my home as well." He rubbed his bearded jaw.
"Aren't you?" She glared at him and a sinking feeling started in her stomach - that she was saying too much. "Maybe, facing your issues head on is the answer. They'll still be here when you return in August. You'll have to deal with them again."
"My issues? What issues? I can't believe you're saying this, Mattie." His deep voice rose, and she felt her heart start to beat rapidly, and she took quiet, long breaths, trying to calm herself.
"You seem to have a habit of just picking up and leaving. You did say once that you lived a schizophrenic life between two countries." Mattie saw him stare at her for a moment.
"And, you know what?" He shouted at her now as he rose from the sofa. "That's exactly what I'm going to do right now. You stay here with your obsession with the past, and I'll go where I please...when I please."
She shook her head and watched, horrified, as he went over to his desk, and stood for a moment, his hands on his hips as he decided what to do. Without a word, he rolled up his drawings, slipping them into the cardboard tube. He gathered his tools and put them in the black, leather case. She sat on the sofa silently and crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him as she watched him fold up the drafting table, and she could feel her heart racing. She couldn't believe he was doing this. He glanced over at her, his mouth tight, then he picked up the table and adjusted it under his arm, and reached down for the case and tube with the other. As he passed the sofa, she leaned over and picked up his lightweight jacket from the sofa, and slung it at him and it landed across his shoulder. He glared at her and headed toward the door. She got up from the sofa.
"I'll get the door for you since your hands are full," she said sarcastically.
He turned to look at her, his eyes dark and narrowed, as she opened the door, and she lifted her chin as she felt the tears well up in her eyes.
"Good bye, Mattie." He maneuvered the table out the door, and she slammed it behind him.
She stared at the door, stunned. What had just happened? He thought she had an obsession with the past? Where had that come from? She was passionate about art history, that was true, but what was wrong with that? She'd made it her life's mission to immerse herself in the arts, and she loved her books, museums, and her idyllic job at Brooksford. How many people get to live out their dreams? So what if her dreams included reading for hours about the artists she adored. That's what she loved. And how could he tell her that she kept her head in the books in such a sarcastic tone? Why didn't he find her penchant for books something he found endearing, not something to criticize? And why did he think her job didn't matter? That she could just pick up and leave it? Just because he jumped from one thing to another didn't mean that she could do the same. Just tell the college to shove it, and she would be without a job very quickly if she did that. Why couldn't he understand that? That what she did mattered. Just as much as his profession. She shook her head in frustration as she lo
cked the front door, hoping her neighbor on the other side of the duplex hadn't heard their heated voices or the slamming of the door. She'd hate to have her come running over to see if anything was wrong. She certainly didn't feel like talking to anyone else tonight.
Mattie walked toward the kitchen and stopped to stare at the bare spot where his drafting table had resided for almost five months now, and she felt a sickening, sinking feeling in her chest and stomach. How many times had she passed that table during the week, smiling to herself as she'd run her hand along the edge, or stopping to peer down at his drawing-in-progress. She sighed and went over to the record player, and turned it on, dropping the needle on the groove of the record that she had played earlier, before Clay had arrived. She guessed, that her love next to art and books, would have to be opera. Clay had forgotten to mention that in his litany of complaints. She listened to the opening strains of La Traviata. She walked into the kitchen as the young bourgeois, Alfredo, in his rich tenor voice, sang of his love for the Parisian courtesan, Violetta, dying of consumption..."De'miei bollenti spititi - Il giovanile rdore".... and she stopped short.
Wait a minute. Hadn't she done exactly the same thing that she was accusing Clay of doing? Hadn't she packed up and left Virginia three years ago for a job at Brooksford within weeks of accepting their offer? Had she run away? Her heart began to pound and tears ran down her cheeks. Perhaps...perhaps, it had been...from her unsatisfactory relationship with Robert. And something she'd said to Clay the first night they'd made love, in his trailer when he'd said he really wanted to ask her to run away with him, sprang to her mind. "But, you know, Clay....I would...if that were possible." How had she come to change her mind over the last six months? She leaned her cane against the cabinet and grabbed a dinner plate off the counter and hurled it into the trash can, hearing it break into pieces. She stared at the trash can for a moment, blinking hard, not caring anymore if her neighbor heard the noise.
"To hell with relationships!" Mattie picked up another of her flowered plates..."To hell with men!"... and slung it towards the trash can. It missed and hit the wall, shattering into hundreds of sharp shards on the speckled beige and white linoleum floor. She took deep breaths as she rested her elbow on the countertop and rubbed her forehead, her hair spilling over her face. Was Clay sorry for the things he'd said to her? She doubted it, in his state of mind. How could he have meant them? He had belittled her passion for the arts, her love of reading, even her career at the college. Just about everything that mattered to her and defined her. Why would he do that? He seemed so caring, so empathetic to others' feelings. Why would he hurt her so badly with his careless words?
Mattie took several deep breaths and lifted her head, swiping her hair back from her forehead. She got out the broom and dustpan and sighed as she bent down and swept up the pieces of her beautiful plate as the stirring sounds of La Traviata filled the room.