Read Martin Sloane for Free Online Page B

someone else has a copy of it, he said.
    An emotional archive with me as curator.
    And me as yours.
    I like that, I said. And we continued to learn the other like explorers expanding their maps of the known world. I didn’t know, at that age, that those kind of maps have no north, no true north.

II.
    JEWELLERY BOX, 1957. 6" X 4" X 4" BOX CONSTRUCTION. WOOD, FOUND OBJECTS, MECHANISM. ALBRIGHT-KNOX MUSEUM. A CHILD’S JEWELLERY BOX, WHEN OPENED, REVEALS A HALFALLIGATOR, HALF-BALLERINA TURNING UNDER A PARASOL.
    A YEAR AND A HALF LATER, I’D FOUND A GOOD JOB teaching English lit at Indiana University, one of the most beautiful universities in the country. It sat on an expanse of rivers and greens; tall shady chestnuts, poplars, and oaks formed a canopy over the centre of it. Martin and I had settled into what we both quakingly called a relationship. Once in a while we even slept together without making love. We also fought occasionally (like
a real couple,
I caught myself dizzily thinking), mostly over things that one thought was more important than the other. Some aspect of manners or habit; a disagreement of fact, something taken the wrong way. But it was hard to fight with Martin. He had a polarity that bent conflict away from him; he preferred to give in or postpone; he rarely saw a disagreement through to the end. And in this way, I usually prevailed, winning by default. It was an uncomfortable process for me. I wanted to lose. I wanted him to care about something so much that he had to take it away from me, had to convince me to give in. The only area of our lives where this obtained had to do with who visited whom. He always came to Bloomington; I never went to Toronto. I’d bring it up persistently, trying to gnaw away at his reasons, or at least to understand them.
    Not this again, he’d say.
    I have next Monday and Tuesday off. I’ll take a bus on Friday. We’ll have three whole days.
    No, Jolene.
    You have to.
    Why do I have to?
    Because I’ll be very upset if you refuse me.
    He’d sit down. Perhaps he’d be eating a slice of pie I’d made. Wearing one of his bulky blue sweaters. (I tend to remember, among other things, his clothing. Maybe simply because I kept a lot of it for a long time.) There’s nothing for you to see in Toronto, he’d say. It’s a boring place, my apartment is dark and dusty, and I don’t see a lot of people.
    But you have
some
friends.
    Yes. Acquaintances.
    And you don’t want me to meet them?
    How about if I bring a couple of them down and they can meet you here? You can all have a drink together and talk about how lucky I am.
    You’re not being very nice.
    Look, Jolene. I like there being one place in my life where everything is perfect, and that’s here. There’s you, and this house, and my little workshed that you built for me —
    You’re welcome.
    Yes, thank you, and I like to have it to look forward to. When I know I’m coming down to see you, it makes the days much easier for me.
    Then why don’t you move here?
    Because I’m used to being alone.
Most
of the time. I’m slow this way, Jo. You know that.
    I’d usually start crying around here, feeling hopelessly confused. I was so special to him that he had to stay away most of the time and didn’t want me to visit him where he lived. Are you ashamed of me? I’d ask.
    No, he’d say firmly. I love everything about you. But I don’t love everything about me, and I just want to bring you the best parts.
    I want them all, though.
    This is most of me, Jo. Please try to be happy.
    And he’d win. That was the one fight he’d always win.
    I hadn’t seen Molly since graduation — good intentions come to their usual end, or so I told myself — but we’d kept in contact, sending cards for birthdays and Christmases, talking occasionally by phone. I kept meaning to invite her to Bloomington, but it was hard coordinating our three schedules, and the fact that Martin and I continued to live in separate countries made our