Brass Ring (16 page)

Claire leaned over to whisper to him again. “Are you enjoying it?” she asked, and Jon nodded absently, struggling to return his focus to the play. Randy was dancing, first with one woman, then another. Jon hunted for a word to describe him and came up with “debonair.” Randy was no longer wearing his suit jacket, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He was broad in the chest, narrow at the waist, where the shirt was tucked into his pants. The bulk of his thighs was apparent beneath the dark fabric of his trousers.

Jon rested a hand on his thigh. The muscles in his own legs had long ago atrophied, and those low in his belly were undeniably flaccid. He wanted to glance down to see how apparent the bulge of his belly was.

What had they talked about at lunch, Randy and Claire? Margot, of course. But for nearly two hours?

Claire let go of his hand to turn a page in the program. She held the program into the light from the stage to read something, and when she rested it once more on her lap, she didn’t take his hand again. Jon felt the emptiness in his palm. She even leaned away from him slightly. He could feel her slipping away from him, feel his world slipping away, here, in this tiny converted chapel, as they watched the magnificent performance of the Magician of Dassant.

The play came to a close shortly after ten, and the curtain calls seemed to drag on forever. Randy received a standing ovation, during which Jon sat, clapping hands that felt stiff and wooden, while Claire applauded above him.

When the actors left the stage for the last time, Claire took her seat again.

“He said for us to come backstage afterwards,” she said, looking around the small theater. “He wants to meet you. We’ll wait until it clears out a little in here.”

“All right.” Jon nodded.

“Weren’t the costumes wonderful?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“And that one young girl who played Emilie. She was terrific. And I never expected that twist at the end. Wow.”

She talked on about the play, but he couldn’t concentrate on her words.

Claire, my world just fell apart.

“I think we can maneuver well enough now.” Claire stood up and retrieved his wheelchair from the aisle. Jon transferred into it, while Claire studied the exit leading backstage.

“Hmm,” she said.

Jon looked toward the exit himself. There were five steps leading up to the door. “Oh.”

“Maybe there’s another route,” Claire said. “You want to wait here while I check?”

“No, I’ll come with you.” The thought of sitting like a stranded duck in the middle of the emptying theater didn’t appeal to him, and he followed along behind her as she headed toward the side exit.

The exit led into a long hallway, and Claire broke through the crowd ahead of him to hunt for a more accessible route backstage. Jon wheeled to the side of the hall, trying to stay out of the way of the milling crowd.

Claire returned, a look of disappointment on her face. “There’s one step through that rear door, but once you get over that one, there’s a little landing and then a bunch more.”

“Look, why don’t you go say hi and then we’ll head home,” he suggested. “I’ll wait here.”

She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. “I wanted you to meet him, though.” She looked around the hall, a frown on her face. “Well, I’ll just let him know what happened so he’s not waiting for us.”

He watched her walk off down the hall, slim hips swaying slightly beneath the shiny red fabric of her dress.

She was gone for five minutes, during which Jon read the bio notes on every performer in the play as well as those of the lighting crew, the costume designer, and the stagehands. Only a few people remained milling in the hallway when Claire returned. She was not alone. Randy Donovan walked at her side. He was still in his fitted white shirt and dark trousers, still with the high color of his stage makeup staining his cheeks.

“Sorry you couldn’t get backstage.” Randy held out his hand, and Jon shook it, his eyes now on Claire. She looked extraordinary. What other forty-year-old woman could get away with wearing her hair that long? It was dark—nearly as dark as Randy’s dyed hair—and very thick. The silver at her temples softened her, made her look vulnerable. Her cheekbones were prominent, her lips full. Green eyes big and smiling. He could detect few signs of age in her face. She was tall—five eight—yet she had to look up at Randy, and when she did so, her face was radiant.

“We really enjoyed the play,” Jon said. “Thanks for the tickets.”

“Glad you liked it.”

It was rare for Jon to feel the indignity, the inequality, of his seated status. This, though, was one such occasion.

The two grown-ups smiled down at him.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” Jon said.

“Thanks.” Randy shook his head. “Weren’t you shocked when Claire went out on that bridge?” He sent Claire a look of admiration, which, Jon thought, made her blush.

“Not much she does shocks me anymore,” he said.

“She’s very courageous.” Randy slipped his hand to Claire’s back, the touch light and brief.

“Yes,” he agreed. “She is.” He could think of nothing more to say, and a few awkward beats of silence filled the hallway.

“Oh, by the way.” Randy turned to Claire. “I found a fountain pen in the pew after you left on Monday. Could it be yours?”

“Yes. Oh, that’s great. I couldn’t imagine where I’d lost it.”

“The pew?” Jon asked. “You mean you ate lunch here?” He had pictured them, stretching out their lunch breaks, in a restaurant. But they’d been here, most likely alone, in the intimate quarters of this dim little chapel.

“Yes,” Claire said. “Randy brought smoked tuna from his restaurant. It was delicious.”

He wondered why she hadn’t told him that, why she hadn’t told him that this was where they’d met. So what? he thought to himself. It’s not like they met in his bedroom.

“I’ll go get the pen,” Randy said. “It’s in my briefcase. Be right back.” He walked away from them, and Claire folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall opposite Jon to wait.

She looked down at him. “You look tired, sweetheart,” she said.

He wanted to turn his chair away from her scrutiny. “Not at all,” he said, although he felt very tired. He felt as tired as he’d ever been in his life.

IT WAS CLOSE TO
midnight by the time he got into bed. He watched Claire sitting in her blue robe, combing her hair at the dresser mirror.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said. “I think it’s been a while since I’ve told you that.”

She smiled at him in the mirror. “Thank you.”

“Could we talk, please?” he asked.

She stopped the comb, and her smile was replaced with concern. “What about?”

“In bed?” He patted the mattress, and she nodded. He preferred talking to her there. Bed was the only place he could really hold her.

She slipped off her robe and climbed into the bed next to him, turning off the lamp on the night table. He could detect the scent of her skin cream, and the familiarity of the smell was soothing. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands on her bare skin, and held her as close to him as he could. Breathing deeply, he wondered how to begin. What should he say? In twenty years, he had never felt threatened by anyone, by anything. He knew she sensed his distress, because she held him tightly, too, pressing her cheek hard to his shoulder.

“I love you, Mathias,” she said.

“I needed to hear that,” he said.

She raised herself to her elbow. “Do you have some doubt?”

Drawing her head to his shoulder again, he said, “Let me talk, all right?”

She nodded, her hair brushing his chin.

“There’s something…strange going on with me.”

Her head jerked up, and he felt her alarm. She thought he meant something physical.

“Emotionally,” he said quickly. “I’m feeling…I think I’m too dependent on you.”

“That’s crazy.” She flopped her head onto his shoulder again. “It’s okay for two people to be dependent on each other. Isn’t that what we’re always telling the couples we see?”

“But I’m
too
dependent. I don’t know how I would manage if anything ever happened to you.”

She sighed. “First of all, nothing is going to happen to me. Second of all, you’ve traveled all over the world. I’ve seen you do things that would make a walking man quake in his hiking boots.”

She wasn’t getting it.

“It’s Randy.” The words slipped out of his mouth, far too loudly.

The silence was sharp and tense. “What about Randy?” she asked finally.

“He’s so slick. He seems fake to me, or—” This was not true. He hadn’t for a moment doubted Randy Donovan’s sincerity. He growled at his ineptitude to say what he meant. “Look, seeing him standing next to you and putting his hand on your back and talking about feeding you lunch made me want to punch his goddamned lights out.”

He’d expected her to laugh. Instead, she lay perfectly still. He couldn’t even feel her breathing.

“You’re making way too much of this, Jon,” she said finally. “You sound as if you’re afraid I’d have an affair with him or something.”

“I’m not sure…” He swallowed hard. “Maybe I am.”

“God, Jon, don’t you know me better than that?”

“Well, frankly, right now I don’t know. He seems interested in you, and I think you’re leading him on. Innocently, maybe. You look up at him with those green bedroom eyes of yours, and—”

She sat up, hugging her pillow to her chest. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing,” she said. “Jon, I love you. You’re my husband, and Randy is a friend. That’s all there is to it.”

“All right,” he said quickly, touching her arm. She was right. He was blowing this way out of proportion.

She stroked her fingertips over his chest. “You know you’re being ridiculous, don’t you?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

“Jon,” she nearly wailed. “You’re saying you don’t trust me. After twenty years of being married to me, how can you say that?”

“I trust you. What I don’t trust is…I don’t know. Being forty, I guess. I mean, you and I have seen it happen far too often. The midlife stuff. It creeps up on you. It eats up the healthiest-looking marriages before anyone knows what’s hit them.”

“It’s never going to happen to us, though. Don’t even think it.”

She lay next to him again. The conversation didn’t satisfy him, but he didn’t know how to turn it around. After a moment, she spoke again.

“I won’t see him anymore, then,” she said. “Not if it makes you this uncomfortable. It’s not that important to me.”

He sighed. “That’s not what I want.” It was, but he knew he was wrong to ask that of her. “If you say he’s a friend, then he’s a friend. I’ll accept that.”

She leaned on her elbow again, then lowered her head to kiss him, and her hair fell onto his chest. Grinning, she said, “Hey, Mathias, don’t torment yourself over things that will never happen. You and I are going to float through midlife the way we’ve floated through everything else. Understood?”

He nodded and kissed her, and she settled back into his arms. In a few minutes, her breathing became deep and regular. He didn’t let go of her, though. Not for half the night, even though she felt edgy beneath his arms. Even though, at moments, her body felt like that of a stranger.

SEATTLE

“PATTERSON’S GOING TO BE
wonderful, Vanessa.” Terri Roos sounded more enthusiastic than Vanessa had ever heard her, but it was an enthusiasm she couldn’t possibly share.

“Well, go on,” she said into her office phone. “Tell me what he said.”

It had been over a week since her attempt to call Walter Patterson’s office, and during that time she’d suffered two migraine headaches, innumerable vivid nightmares, and a stomach so queasy she had simply stopped trying to eat anything other than soup. She’d called Terri on Friday to ask if she might be able to make the first contact with Patterson, mumbling some weak excuse about being too busy. As if Terri had any more free time than she did. Yet Terri had agreed without complaint. Now Vanessa had to listen to the results of that call.

“He’s gotten so many victims’ rights bills through,” Terri said. “And he’s already sponsoring something he’s calling the Aid to Adult Survivors Bill for adults who suffered childhood abuse. He admitted he hadn’t thought specifically of programs for adolescents, though. He’s all for including their needs in the bill, but he said it’s going to be a hard sell, and he doesn’t want to screw up the chances of getting the rest of the bill passed by attaching something to it without a good sense that it will have support. So”—Terri stopped to draw in a breath—”we need to get to work. I told him about the network, and he thought we might be able to pull it off. We have to flood him with statistics showing the need for AMC programs. And get this: In May they’re planning to hear testimony on Capitol Hill from women who were abused as children in order to get support for his bill. He said we might be able to piggyback on that hearing.”

Vanessa frowned. “You mean, have teenagers testify?” She didn’t like the idea.

“Well, not necessarily. It could be adults who can talk about the difference a program like the AMC would have made in their lives.”

Vanessa reached up to touch one of the roses in the vase on her desk. Brian had sent them two days earlier. He’d been gone for the past five days but would be home tonight. Thank God. “Is there some cosponsor of this adolescent bill?” she asked Terri. “Someone other than Patterson we can communicate through?”

There were a few seconds of silence on Terri’s end of the line. “There’s no cosponsor yet, but why would you want to talk with anyone else? Patterson’s the best. There’s no one who can help us more, Vanessa.”

She felt the pressure starting in her temples. A few jagged lights, like sparks of lightning, flickered in the corner of her right eye. A migraine. Just what she needed. Wedging the phone between her chin and shoulder, she reached into her top desk drawer for a prescription bottle and shook a couple of the pills into her hand while Terri continued.

“At some point, you and I and a few others from the network should make a little trek to D.C. to have a face-to-face with this guy,” Terri said.