"A vision of loveliness." He smiled, but he wasn't kidding, and my fatuous phrase didn't sound stupid when he said it. "It was like taking one drink," he said. "Smoking one cigarette. -Readdicted." Oh, God help me. I'm falling.
"I had to see you. Don't laugh at this. I thought-I had some idea that if we were together-, just once, we could leave each other in peace afterward." "Really." I nodded seriously, not disagreeing. It sounded specious in the extreme to me, if he was talking about what I thought he was talking about. But I wanted it too badly to point out the flaws. - "Just never seeing you again-" He touched the side of my hand, which was gripping the edge of the counter. "It's worse than being together.- It seems that way to me. Unnatural, Emma. More of a-sin." "A sin." As an ex-Catholic, the word arrested me. "Is that what it would be to you? Sleeping with me would be a sin?" He shook his head, smiling, helpless.
"Well, I don't care anymore. I don't care about your guilty conscience or your immortal soul, what do you think of that? And I don't care about your wife or your happy home or your-" I-choked up, couldn't get it out. It snuck up on me from behind and pounced, all the reasons why this was the same bad idea it's always been.
"Your son," I finished, trying to sound bold while I was losing my nerve.
He did the best thing- he put his arms around me and held me.
I closed my eyes to block out the pain and doubt in his face. Words had never gotten us anywhere-they never do when the situation is untenable to begin with. I kissed him for a distraction, and it worked: everything melted in a slow dissolve, all but Mick's hot mouth and the whisker stubble on his cheeks and the feel of his hand on the back of my neck. We kissed until we were out of breath and groping, until it was stark sex, not for comfort, not to show we cared. I made a choice to let go, stop thinking, just do it. Maybe something would change if we let it happen, something we couldn't foresee. And it felt so natural, opening my legs so Mick could move between them and press me back, back, the sharp edge of the counter hard and bruising against my spine. I didn't care that it hurt, I wanted sensation, I wanted his hands all over me. "Upstairs," I muttered-I could have more of him if we were horizontal, We took hands and went blindly down the hall, up the stairs, into the bedroom. I almost didn't turn on the light-afraid of his face again-but the blue, bitter moonlight chilled me. Craving warmth, I closed the curtain and turned on the bedside lamp.
We stood on opposite sides of my handsome, unmade sleigh bed, watching each other. I was right to be wary of his face-he looked tragic. "What?" I said, and started to unbutton my blouse. Not terribly romantic, but one of us had to go first, Mick turned around and sat on the edge of the bed. But then-he didn't move, he didn't undo his belt or start to take off his shoes, I knew exactly what was going to happen.
I thought of screaming at him, making a scene, letting hot, humiliated fury take over from here-see how that went. I discarded the idea, but I was angry and hurt enough to want to hurt him. I didn't fasten my blouse when I came around the bed and stood in front of him. I have great breasts, twenty men have told me so, they're my best feature. So it was consoling to show them to Mick, gratifying to watch his eyes drop and darken. See what you missed, I thought spitefully, sticking them out a little.
He smiled. He looked at me with such tenderness and understanding, I started to cry.
"I'm such an ass," he said, taking my hand and tugging me down next to him. "I know it. You couldn't feel any more contempt for me right now than I do." "I don't. I don't." But I had to whisper, "What happened?" Between the kitchen and the bedroom, what went wrong? Should we have done it on the counter?
"You know what happened. I've been telling lies." "What did you tell me that was a lie?" I asked fearfully. - "That we could do this once." "Oh. That lie. Did you think I believed you?" He smiled, and we started at the same moment to kiss each other's hand. A little tug-of-war. 1 rested my head on his shoulder.
"So basically," I said dully, "nothing's changed. You just came here to torture me. Again. I was almost over you. No, I wasn't." "I came because I. . . His shoulder lifted and fell when he sighed. "Everything sounds stupid. I can say I couldn't resist. I can say I was sick of needing you, that I had to see you.- I don't know if nothing's changed, Emma-something must have. I've been suffering enough for something to have changed." "Me, too." He faced me. "There haven't been any other women. You asked me that on the beach. There's only you." "I asked you something else." By the downward flick of his lashes, I could tell he remembered. He was quiet for a long time. "I sleep with my wife. Yes. Not often. She needs-the illusion, and I try to provide it when there's nothing else I can do." "The illusion?" "That we have a marriage." "Ah. And you think that's a gift?" He shifted, almost flinched. "I have no hope of making you understand this."
"Emma-I'm all she has. Even though I think she hates me most of the time. I'm afraid to give Jay to her and I'm afraid to take him away." It was as if he had glass in his throat, it was so hard for him to talk. He still hated betraying Sally to me, even this much. And that hurt, too. - "Mick, why did you marry her?" "Because she was pregnant."
Bleak silence.
He resumed wearily. "She's the opposite of you. She's not strong. She's always defined herself by what other people think, her family, friends." "You." - "Especially me." - "Did you ever love her?" "I love you." "Oh, Cod." I dropped my head in my, hands. "Why did you come here?" I asked him again. Some strange exhaustion was making me almost ill.
"I think-I must've come to ask you to wait." "Wait. Because you still can't leave her? You still think staying with her is better for Jay than splitting up?" He pulled at his hair. "I don't know." I was pretty sure that meant yes. "Go away, Mick," I said, standing up. - - "Emma-" "I'm not your therapist. Don't come to my house and spill your troubles to me. This is-this is the first selfish thing you've done, and I don't appreciate it. I had a scab over you, and you ripped it off. And you won't even sleep with me. Go away, please, disappear for six more months. I'm no masochist, I'll be over you by then, and that's a promise." He stood up. He never gets angry-I didn't like that about him now. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry," and then something that sounded like, "I was freezing." And he walked out.
I caught him in the hall, snaked my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek against his tweedy coat. A symbolic position - no face-to-face contact; me holding on to the man who keeps leaving me.
He tried to turn around, but I held still and wouldn't let him. Better to say it like this. "Listen to me. I want to marry you, Mick. Have babies. Be a starving artist with you. What I don't want is to be a forty-year-old spinster who's having an affair. Or not having an affair, that's even worse." I could feel his heart pounding under the smooth cotton of his shirt. "I can't wait for you," I said, and my stupid voice quavered. "You shouldn't have asked. I have to get on with my life. Don't call me or come over anymore, it just makes it worse." "I know. I won't." He bowed his head. "I love you. That's not so you'll change your mind. It's just so you'll know." He squeezed my arms around him once, just for a second, and then he left me.
Late that night, much later, I called Rudy.
"Oh, Christ, you were sleeping." "Emma?" "I'm sorry." "What's wrong? Wait a see-" She put her hand over the phone. Muffled silence for about half a minute. Her bedroom phone is cordless; I imagined her telling Curtis to go back to sleep, then slipping out of bed and going out in the hail or the bathroom.
"Emma?" "I didn't even think about the time, Rudy. I'm really sorry." "I guess Curtis is pissed." "No, of course not." I shouldn't have said that, I could tell by her tone. She was always prickly about him, which was why I kept my rapier Curtis wit- sheathed around her, but lately she'd gone beyond touchy. Something really bad was happening, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what.
"So, Rudy, how was your vacation?" "Great." "\Vas it?" "Yeah." "You don't sound like it was great. Are you okay?" "I just woke up." "Oh, right:' Silence while she waited for me to come to the point. This was such an unnatural conversation for us, I started to get lost in the weirdness. I could hardly remember why I'd called her.
It came back to me. "I saw Mick today." "Oh." Oh? "Yeah, at the liquor store on Columbia Road. You should've seen me, I looked like the wrath of God. As my mother would say. We didn't-we just looked at each other, couldn't really talk much. It was such a shock, you know? Plus he had his family waiting for him, so . .
"Yikes." "Yeah. Then tonight, he called me. He was in his car. I told him he could come over." "Oh, Em." "I know, but there was no way, I mean, I couldn't not see him, you know? Wait, how many negatives is that?" "Did you sleep with him?" "No. Almost." She sighed. It sounded sympathetic.
"It was pretty much a repeat of the beach scene, except this time we really. . . we finally talked about his situation, which is hopeless. So, that's that. It's over, and I'm. . ." I'm bleeding. Help me.
"I'm sorry, Em. Really sorry. Maybe it's for the best," "Possibly." I waited, but that was it. No more comfort and sympathy coming from Rudy tonight. I should've called Dial-a-Shoulder.
"Well," I said, "it's pretty late." "It is. I should go. I'll call you." "Will you? That'll be a novelty:' Oh, I shouldn't have said that, either. That mild reproof should not have passed my lips. I'd hurt her, I could hear it in the hush between us.
"Night, Rudy," I said gently. "Sorry I woke you." "Night, Em. I really love you." "Well, hey, that's-" Click.
I replaced the receiver slowly, frowning and smiling, feeling a little breathless. "I love you, too," I said.
But I was worried sick. I couldn't get angry with her for not being the rock of support and understanding she'd always been. My broken heart hurt like hell, but it would heal. Someday. Whatever was wrong with Rudy might not. If she would just talk to me. What is it, what could be happening to her? It's something to do with Curtis, that's a given, but what?
While we were talking on the phone, I kept thinking about a time, years ago, when she helped get me through another crisis involving a man. This one was Peter Dickenson. Peter the Prick. I was mad for this guy, totally nuts, I was ready to marry him. You think I'm cynical about men? You should've known me six years ago, P.P. Pre-Peter. I was like Gidget, I was like a goddamn puppy. This guy-he looked like Alec Baldwin's brother, the skinny one with the slicked-back hair, the one you can never trust. I was living alone in a great apartment in Foggy Bottom and really enjoying my solitude. But-this is the Gidget Goes to Washington part-I was so gone on Peter the Prick, I invited him to move in with me. We lived together in common-law bliss for almost four months.
Then one night-don't get ahead of me, now-I came home early from a Graces meeting, and guess what. Oh, shoot, you guessed. But you know, it doesn't matter how clichéd this story is, how many times you've heard it bleated about in a country-western song or overacted on some soap opera. When it happens to you, it's not ftinny. I walked in on it in classic in flagrante style, and it was going on in my own bed.
I exited swiftly, but the image was cauterized on my retinas. The lovers had seen me, too, so I went in the living room and sat on the sofa to wait. It didn't take long.
Peter came out first, in his underwear. He knelt at my feet. Talk, talk. He was at the "She means nothing to me" stage when the girl came out. At least I didn't know her. She looked like an undergraduate, very leggy, lots of flowy blonde hair. She blanched when she heard she meant nothing to him-I actually felt a little sympathy for her. Then she left, and Peter kept talking. This I remember with crystal clarity: putting my foot in the center of his naked chest and kicking him over backward on his butt. Get out, I told him, but he wouldn't, so I called the police. The first and only time I've ever dialed 911. Peter saw the light and left before the cops came.
So then-here's the point I'm making-I called Rudy. At this time we weren't really speaking. Long story; it was right after she married Curtis, and we'd had a fight about that, the worst in our history, and even though we were pretending all was well for the sake of the Graces, it wasn't. But I called her, and just about all I had to say was, "Oh God, Rudy," and she said, "I'll be right over:' - She stayed with me all night. I cried a lot. We drank gin and smoked a thousand cigarettes, and at about 6 a.m. we went to the Howard Johnson's on Virginia Avenue and ate bacon and pancakes. I was a mess, but Rudy got me through it-this is the thing. Who knows how long I'd have pined for Peter without her? And who knows what kind of shit Curtis gave her when she went home at nine o'clock in the morning? That's the point. That's why the fact that she couldn't replicate that daring rescue mission tonight means nothing whatsoever to me as far as our friendship is concerned. Rudy and I are true-blue.
Not long ago I'd have said the problem is men. "Men ruin everything" is a saying of my mother's; I grew up with it, and after a while it's hard to argue with. But now I'm in love with a man, and as the song says, he's a credit to his gender. I'm miserable, but I can't lay the blame at the usual place. I can't lay blame anywhere, and that ticks me off. Is this called growing up? If so, I'm against it. Middle age-I hit it today and already I despise it. I don't see anything in the future but loneliness and being mature and not having fun and taking hormone replacement therapy.
- Happy birthday, Emma. Welcome to the rest of your life.
Lee.
Dr. Jergens's office always calls late in the day. Good news or bad, 4 to 5 p.m. is the nurses' time to give patients their latest blood tests and lab results. So I knew who was probably calling me at home at four-forty-five on a cold, darkening Monday in the second week of January. I'd had a lifeless feeling all day. A premonition? I let the phone ring three and a half times, almost let the answering machine pick up.
"Mrs. Patterson?" - It was Patti. One of the nice ones. She always sympathizes when the news isn't good. Some of them don't; they could be reading off stock market quotations for all the warmth in their flat, rushed, telephone voices.
"Yes?" "I-li, how are you?" "Fine. And you?" "Fine, thanks, and I'm calling with the results from your last IVF." "Yes." "Oh, I'm really sorry. No luck this time." No luck this time. And Henry spelled cheese wrong on the grocery list. Cheeze he wrote. I have so many refrigerator magnets. Too many. They look messy. One says, "My karma ran over my dogma"-a present from Emma. It's stuck over a photograph of the Graces, all of us on Rudy's front porch steps last summer. We look leggy and tan in our shorts and sleeveless tops.
"Mrs. Patterson?" - Henry put another magnet, this one shaped like a turkey drumstick, over his Wizards' basketball schedule.
- Tonight they're playing against the Charlotte Hornets.
An away game.
"Mrs. Patterson? You there?" "Yes. Thank you for calling." "Okay. Well, I was saying you'll want to make your next appointment before the end of the week, don't forget. You can do that now if you want to. Or, urn, you can wait." I have a magnet that tells how many fluid ounces are in three-quarters of a cup, how many milliliters in a tablespoon, how many tablespoons in a third of a cup. I thought it would come in so handy, but I rarely use it.
"Hello?" I put the phone back in its cradle very quietly.
I didn't want to take my hand off the receiver. And then I didn't want to go outside. But I made myself open the back door and follow the sound of Henry's ax, sharp thunks of noise, crack, crack, that split the cold twilight like ice breaking. He uses an old elm stump behind the garage for a chopping block. I like to watch him heave the heavy, impenetrable-looking chunks of oak or hickory onto the block, haul back, and smash them in half with one clean blow.