The Wall (25 page)

was so exactly what she needed that she melted completely, put her

arms around his neck and buried her face against him. It hurt so, and

yet seemed to be the balm her bruised self needed.

They sat this way for a very long time. Finally Greg stirred and

picked her up firmly as he stood. His grip was so decisive, she didn't

have any choice but to comply with it. The question of her objecting

however, was academic. It never occurred to her. She was too tired,

too passive, too much in need of whatever attention he would see fit

to give her.

He carried her over to the bed and gently laid her down on it. 'You

need a clean nightgown, don't you?' he asked her softly, and she

nodded, glancing at the widening gap of her dressing gown. He

disappeared and came back with a filmy garment held in one hand,

and he insisted on helping her with it, which was all for the good,

since she didn't know if she could manage on her own. Then he sat

down on the bed, stroked with an absent hand the side of her cheek,

and stared frowningly into her eyes. 'We have to talk.'

Her throat was dry and she had to clear it before anything would even

come out. 'I know.'

'Would you like to wait until you're feeling stronger?' His

consideration, after the explosive clash they had just recently had,

jarred her up. She nodded, lips drawn tight to keep them from

trembling. 'All right. Are you tired now, or would you like for me to

help you downstairs?'

'If you don't mind,' she whispered, sounding terribly humble. 'I think

I'll take a nap now—I'm tired.'

'Call me when you wake up. I'll be back with supper later on in the

evening.' He stood and turned to go, and she rolled over in the bed to

stare dumbly at the wall until she did finally go to sleep.

He was up later, like he had promised her, and he shook her shoulder

gently to wake her up. She sat, rubbing her eyes, and took in the

loaded tray hungrily. Greg sat and kept her company, though they

didn't say much. It would all be said later. For the moment, they just

existed together in silence.

When bedtime came, much later, Greg came into the room and took

his black robe and started to head out the door. Sara watched him

with apprehensive eyes, and called out before he could get far. He

turned around to her with an obvious reluctance.

'Are .. . you coming to bed soon?' she asked him quietly. It was the

only way she could think to frame the question in her mind.

He looked down at the robe held in his hands, the posture throwing

his eyes into shadow so that she couldn't read the expression in them.

'I thought I'd sleep in the other room tonight.'

She felt shattered. 'Greg, did you sleep with me when I was sick? I

remember you being there.'

He didn't look up. 'Yes.'

Her voice trembled with the effort of asking the question. 'Then

would you please tell me why you aren't sleeping in here tonight?'

He did look up at that with a searching, questioning glance, and his

answer came slowly. 'I thought it would be best if we were apart until

we had a chance to—talk things out.'

It would be disastrous, she sensed intuitively, if they did that. He was

retreating behind the wall. It was his instinctive escape to isolation. If

he slept away tonight, then any hope of a future together would be

destroyed. A sense of desperation came over her, and it gave her the

courage to blurt out, 'Please—I want you to stay.' She couldn't say

anything after that, because that said it all, and she watched him with

pleading eyes.

She saw him close his eyes and swallow hard. Then he was flinging

the robe on to the chair and coming towards her, shedding his clothes

and climbing into the bed. A muscled arm flexed, reached and turned

the bedside lamp off. He pulled her into his arms and curved his long

body to fit into the curve of hers. Warmth and relief swept over her,

and she was able to relax enough to get sleepy.

She suddenly whispered into the darkness, 'Greg?'

His answering whisper was immediate. 'What?'

'I'm sorry I yelled at you this afternoon. I have a nasty temper, I

know, and I didn't mean what I said.' Her body tensed; it was

suddenly very important for him to realise that before she let herself

sleep.

'Hush, Sara. I'm sorry, too. Relax and go to sleep, sweetheart, we'll

talk later.' That was all he said as he hugged her convulsively against

his chest, then relaxed his hold again, but it was enough. The tension

seemed to ease up and they were both soon asleep.

BY unspoken mutual consent, they kept to light matters when they

conversed the next day. Sara recognised what they both were doing:

they were both giving each other breathing space. They touched each

other often, as if they had to convince each other of something, of

what she couldn't say. She was full of nameless fears, for she sensed

something despairing in Greg's attitude, something desperate in his

eyes, though his face was calm and serene enough.

She couldn't shake the feeling that the world was going to end,

everything was just going to fall apart, and on the surface life seemed

just fine. It made her want to scream in terror, and all she did was

smile at Greg in response.

That evening, they both sat in front of the fireplace and sipped cups

of coffee. The supper meal had been almost totally silent and, for

Sara, very uncomfortable. She searched for things to say, and came

up with nothing. The silence wasn't the kind of companionable quiet

that comes from a peaceful feeling or a longstanding relationship. It

was the tense-filled silence that preludes something violent, a tropical

storm, a wild destroying tornado, death. Sara shook herself hard at

this and deliberately thought of something else.

Greg's face flickered with the flickering light thrown from the flames.

His dark eyes caught the colour and reflected it. It seemed as if he

had two tiny twin flames of his own, deep inside. His face revealed

nothing to her; it rarely did. That was a good trick he had learned as a

criminal lawyer, she thought grimly, that ability to hide one's

emotions behind a face of granite stone. She wanted to slap it off his

face, to shout, to plead, to go and crawl into a corner and lick her

wounds like a hurt animal. She wanted to walk out the door without a

second look back, uncaring and without regret. She sipped her coffee

instead.

When her own voice sounded in the quiet, so still room, she jumped

with surprise as much as Greg did. 'Please,' she said quietly. 'I know

there's something on your mind that's bothering you. Could we talk

now?'

He regarded her from under lowered brows, then nodded heavily.

Still, he didn't speak for some time, and when he did, she spilled

some of her coffee from the shock of his words. 'I was married once/

he admitted harshly. Sara automatically reached for a napkin to mop

up the hot drops sprinkled on the floor.

'How long ago?' she asked him simply. It was indicative of the stern

control she had to exercise over herself. She had nearly reached over

to hit him. Why hadn't he told her before? Why the hell hadn't he

waited for her? The irrationality of that thought made her smile to

herself, wryly. What a fool she was over him!

'About eight years ago,' he replied, his voice flat and unemotional.

The very passionless tone of his voice was terrible to hear. 'I was

very young, twenty-four. She was a year younger, just twenty-three.'

'You find it hard to talk about,' she said. It was a statement, not a

question, and he nodded without surprise at her perceptiveness. 'What

happened?'

'She was a beautiful little thing, and spoiled rotten, but of course I

didn't see that at first. All I saw were those big brown eyes and the

golden mane of hair, and that naive sincere way she had of saying

things. It was three years of hell,' he said, and he might have been

talking about the weather. Sara winced, and his eyes caught the look.

He stared right at her and let her see the bitterness he was fighting to

control with every word. 'Her father was rich, and he gave her

everything she wanted. What I couldn't afford to give her, whatever

she had her heart set on, she would run to Daddy for. And there were

other men. I didn't find that out for about two years, though she'd

been no virgin when I married her. And by that time I frankly didn't

care. Infatuation is a rotten basis for a serious relationship, and mine

had died some time back.'

A log snapped in the fireplace, and fell through the grating to the

hearth floor, shooting sparks high up the chimney. Beowulf was

stretched out at her feet, and she left the corner of the couch that she

had been curled up on, to go down beside him and pet his sleek side.

He lifted his head, looked at her briefly, and plopped his head heavily

down on her lap. Greg poured her more coffee. It could have been a

cosy scene, and looked it. Advertisement material, she thought

ruefully.

'You'd have had to have been a student in law school, right?' The

gentle prodding worked, and he shook himself out of whatever

reverie he had fallen into to continue.

'I was just finishing up, and starting my career with a brilliant bang.

Andrea loved to complain of how I neglected her for my studies and

career. It was her favourite line to her father, and of course, when I

confronted her with the fact that I knew of her extramarital affairs. It

sounded terrific; those big brown eyes were so guileless and hurt, and

the small mouth quivered with just the right touch. I laughed at her!'

Greg smiled a truly amused smile at the memory. 'It was my best

revenge for any emotional hurt she might have inflicted on me. She

just stopped and stared as if she couldn't believe her eyes. I don't

think anyone had ever laughed at her before.'

On impulse, Sara reached out her hand, and he took it immediately to

hold it hard. She had the funniest impression; she suspected that his

disclosures were hurting her more than they were hurting him. She

suspected that he was way ahead of her on many counts.

He was continuing. 'The night Andrea died, I issued her an

ultimatum. We had a few people staying for the weekend, and she'd

sent off signals to one of our single guests all evening long. It was

too much—right in front of me, and with a fellow I liked and

respected. I couldn't let her ruin him with her particular brand of

mucky immorality,' the peculiar emphasis he was giving to each

word made their meaning lash out with the sharpness of a whip, 'so

after our guests had gone up to bed, we had a confrontation

downstairs. I told her that she could either- stop her extra-marital

activities and stay with me, or she could pack her bags and go, but

either way I really didn't give a damn. She was just furious! She spat

poison at me for about an hour or so, I really don't remember, then

she went upstairs to pack. By that time we were doing fairly well

financially, not as well as Andrea was used to, but we were able to

afford a housekeeper and some daily help. It was the only thing that

saved me later on, our housekeeper being up late in the kitchen and

cleaning up things from that night's dinner party.'

Sara got a sudden chill down her back at his words, and when he

paused, she whispered through dry lips, 'W-what do you mean,

"saved"? What peculiar wording— were you in some physical

danger, Greg?'

'Not really. I was having a drink after Andrea had left the den, and

when she screamed and fell down the stairs, Mrs Owens, the

housekeeper, and I both ran out into the downstairs hallway at the

same time. Because of the floor plan of the house, there was no way

that I could have pushed her down the stairs and have been back to

the den in the few seconds it took us to react. To this day, I don't

know if Andrea, poor bitch, had deliberately fallen down the stairs

for attention and miscalculated the distance, or if she really did slip

and succumb to an impulse of malicious mischief afterwards. I don't

think she really thought she would die. She just opened up those big

brown eyes and stared up at me, with everyone crowding around, and

said, "Why did you do it, Greg? Why?" And then she conveniently