An American Tune: A Novel

28 “The Sunshine of Your Love”

274 “The Sunshine of Your Love” On a shelf in Tom’s basement there was a box marked “Jane,” filled with the things she’d left behind the night of the bombing. Her birth certificate, her high school yearbooks, her college diploma. The leather ring binder she’d splurged on her freshman year, worn from years of use, neatly organized with notes from her last semester of classes–and extra packages of paper, narrow-ruled. Yellowed with age. A dozen or so battered, annotated paperbacks she had particularly loved, an odd assortment–everything from Pride and Prejudice to Black Like Me. The hardback copy of Little Women a favorite uncle hadgivenherforChristmaswhenshewasinthefourthgrade,itsthin pages worn as soft as cloth from reading and rereading it. The ratty, washed-out IU sweatshirtshe’dboughtwhenshewasafreshmanand had never been able to part with. Photographs. Fraternity dances: Tom and herself, Bridget and Pete, arms wound around each other, grinning. Pictures of herself with Bridget mugging for the camera, time passing in the clothes they wore–wheat jeans and madras shirts to embroidered bell-bottom jeans and hippy blouses. One Bridget had taken at Bean Blossom : Tom standing behind Jane, his arms wrapped around her, Lake Lemon shimmering in the background, ringed by trees in autumn color. They leaned into the frame of the picture, sun-struck, smiling. 28 275 “The Sunshine of Your Love” There were Bobby’s letters and the letter Daniel Pettus had sent to her when her student teaching was done, the brown, ruled paper it was written on crinkled at the edges. There were class pictures from every year she’d taught, the reports on ancient Egypt she’d meant to grade over Christmas break, still in the canvas bag she carried back and forth to school each day. The sight of the children’s handwriting, their voices on the page brought them back to her so vividly–and the sorrow she had felt at disappearing so suddenly and completely from their lives. They were grown now, well into their thirties. What had become of them? SheandTomhadkissedtheirwayhomethatfirstnight,hesitating only for a moment before going inside. “Jesus,” he said. “I feel like I did that day I went over to the dorm to see if you really wanted to go out with me.” She smiled. “I did want to,” she said. “What I’m thinking about is that first time, at Pete’s. Remember that?” He kissed her again, turned the key in the lock. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I remember.” They made love, slept, finally, in each other’s arms–Maxine, curled up at the foot of the bed, having observed them intently through it all, her head cocked, as if to say, “What’s going on here, anyway?” The next morning, Tom had brought the box up from the basement and set it before her. Opening it, taking out the objects one by one, Nora felt like an archaeologist of her own life. Each thing Tom had saved, an artifact that might have been lost forever. Each one a small, tangible piece of what her life once was–and might have been. The sight of the children’s handwriting had brought back winter mornings in her classroom, the sense of anticipation she’d always felt as the yellow school buses pulled into the parking lot. The pure joy of the children entering the room, surrounding her like a flock of beautifulbirds. Sherememberedinherbodytheutterconfidenceshe hadfeltteaching,theknowledgethatbeingwiththechildrenwasthe single thing in her whole life that was absolutely good and right–and she was struck with an overpowering sense of loss for what she had believed would be her life’s work. Washed with longing for that place 276 An American Tune and time, the sense of purpose and possibility she’d felt in her classroom , the lives of her students in her hands. “You can teach again, if you want to,” Tom said, when she dissolved into tears trying to explain this. “You have a savings account, remember? And nearly thirty years of interest on whatever was in it. More than enough to take any classes you’d need to take to renew your license.” She was shocked to realize the money was still there, taken aback by the possibility of resuming a teaching career after all these years–and cried harder. “Jane,” Tom said. “Nora. Nora. You can do anything. Nothing. I don’t care. I’m just saying the money’s there...