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What We Don't Speak AboutAuthor(s): Jeffrey LevineSource: The North American Review, Vol. 285, No. 3/4 (May - Aug., 2000), p. 40Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126461 .
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N A R
ered over the six of them that day like something that, if
touched, might break.
"Welcome to the family." Carl's father reached out to
shake Harriman's hand. It was an awkward gesture, but
it pleased Harriman.
"Congratulations," Harriman said, as if they were at
the wedding already. He had no idea what he was sup
posed to say.
"We're going to grow old together," Carl's father
said. "One of us will be at the other's funeral."
"I guess?"
"I hope things work out for Carl and Emily." "I do too," Harriman said.
"You put your children on the earth, and then you just
have to hope."
"Carl seems like a nice young man," Harriman said.
"He's the most wonderful young man in the world. I'd
give up my life for him."
"I also have a son." Harriman wondered whether
Carl's father knew this; maybe Emily had spoken about Matthew.
"I look forward to meeting him at the wedding." "I'm not sure you will," Harriman said. "I haven't
seen him in almost two years." He hoped Matthew
would be there. For Emily's sake, if not for his and
Gwen's.
He told Carl's father about Matthew. Matthew?a boy so sensitive he used to cry when he watched the evening news. It was a gift, Harriman thought, this capacity for
empathy. Even as a toddler, Matthew had displayed an
awareness of other people's feelings that startled
Harriman and Gwen. Now, though, he'd withdrawn. In
her own way, Emily had too. Maybe that was part of
growing up. Or maybe he and Gwen had failed them. "I wonder what we did wrong," Harriman said. "I
keep looking for an answer."
"I'm sure you were good parents," Carl's father said.
"I'd give up my life for my son as well. I don't even
know if he loves me anymore, but I'd give up my life for
him."
The sun had gone down. Carl's father was cloaked in
shadows. Harriman found it easier to talk in the dark.
Even with Gwen, he was able to tell her things when
they were in bed that he couldn't in the daytime.
"My wife and I are getting divorced," Carl's father said.
"You're what?"
"We're not in love anymore."
"Of course you are," Harriman said, though he real
ized as he said this that he had no way of knowing. He
looked over toward the arcade where the sun had set, where the six of them had been sitting before.
"We've stopped loving each other," Carl's father
repeated. "We haven't told Carl and Emily yet. We're
waiting till after the wedding." "You're joking about this," Harriman said.
"I'm not."
Harriman felt as if the wind had been knocked out of
him.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because we're going to be brothers-in-law.You
should know."
Harriman stared across the driving range. Through the
twilight, he could see the yard markers along the green, a
JEFFREY LEVINE
What We Don't Speak About Not the house deep under trees that hold
off the heat, or who will take the room
with gardens on two sides, the garden alone.
Of the hummingbirds, yes, but not the single Monarch, how she drinks
for three days, crazy with desire
before letting the wind carry her
to Mexico or Tanzania.
And never, not once, of the purple-crested lourie,
creaking its cry that says "Africa"
and means "servant." How much
of home is an abandoned chunk of Africa, or how like the continents
we gently drift. In the old days,
we'd point: "See what we've carved
out of the trees, out of the grasslands.
See the house, it could be ouis, the animals, the plants, the good strong roof."
Knowing neither of us saw.
Not the guava which belonged to the cook, in tears, blaming us
for unkind hearts?her guava, do you see?
In the garden, even rabbits defy the steep sloping of the hills, the heather three feet thick and soft
as a mattress. To lie down in it
wanting that too.
Without warning, souls detach:
not that surely, nor what plies
the garden, silent, green,
neither how we might forget it all, nor how October hangs over the land
and with a word, falls apart, remembers
nothing of itself. Or that a bit more wind
and the lanterns fail.
40 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW May/August 2000
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