The Night, The Day (13 page)

chapter 20

M
artin Rosen was nervous as
a schoolboy while he waited for Cheryl Manning to answer the door. He painted on a broad smile as he heard her footsteps from inside the apartment. The door opened and she was smiling back at him, her eyes on the bouquet of red roses in his hand.

“Hi,” Martin said, handing her the flowers.

“Hi yourself,” she replied as she took the roses and smelled them. “You shouldn’t have.”

She took his hand and led him into the living room.

The décor immediately struck him as very much “single woman on the run.” The floor was oak, natural finish, slightly worn and covered with a simple black-and-brown-checkered area rug. The couch and loveseat were cloth, ivory-colored, and separated by a faux redwood coffee table. There were two end tables flanking either side of the couch, same style as the coffee table, a few framed reproductions of famous paintings, and a wall-unit bookcase, also faux wood, with a TV, stereo, some hardcover books and a bunch of paperbacks. He noticed that there were no special ornaments or tchotchkes, nor any hint that someone had gone to great lengths to put all this together. It appeared somewhat expedient, though he had to admit that it somehow worked.

He glanced at the book titles, hoping they would tell him something about his hostess, but there seemed to be no particular theme to her interests. As one who enjoyed getting the jump on others by analyzing their literary proclivities, he found this somewhat unsettling. And there was something else about the collection that bothered him, something he couldn’t exactly put his finger on but felt was there. It was akin to what occasionally happened to him with patients: he would find himself uneasy, yet unable to pinpoint why.

Suddenly, he stopped himself, realizing what he was doing. Though it was as natural for him as breathing, it was a certain hindrance to his enjoyment. He turned around to her, the smile back on his face.

She gestured to the couch and they sat down. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “I have wine or diet coke.”

“Wine sounds good.”

She got up, went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses. “I guessed you would opt for the wine,” she said. “I’m not always right, but it is good to know that some things are predictable.” She put the glasses down on the coffee table and began tearing the wrapper from the top of the bottle.

“By the way, what’s that I smell cooking?” He inhaled deeply, smiled and said, “Veal Marsala?”

She kissed him gently on the lips. “Such a smart man.”

He looked at the label on the bottle, assuming it would be a Merlot, and was surprised. “Pinot noir?”

“You like?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never had it before?”

“I’m a Scotch man, remember?”

“Yes I do. That’s why I got the wine.”

He looked at her curiously.

“To celebrate
new
things,” she explained.

“Aha.”

She handed him the bottle and corkscrew. “Would you like the honors?”

“If you insist.”

She smiled as he struggled with the corkscrew, but eventually he got it.

“Not bad for a beginner,” she said.

“I’m a fast learner.”

She took the bottle from him, poured some into a glass and handed it to him. “I believe it is the man’s job to taste the wine.”

“A bit chauvinistic, aren’t we?”

“A traditionalist.”

“Oh.” He smirked as he held the wine up to the light. “I suppose this is how they do it.”

She giggled.

“Nice color.”

“You know the difference?”

“Shh, I’m trying to look sophisticated.”

He brought the glass to his mouth, took a sip and swished the wine with his tongue. “Not too shabby,” he said, surprised at how pleasant it was.

“I’m glad you like it.” She poured for both of them.

“To
new
things,” he said, holding out his glass.

“To new things.”

Watching her drink was sensual, as was everything about her. He sat back on the couch, sipped the wine and said, “Who are you, really, and what were you before? What’d ya do, and what’d ya think, huh?”

“That line sounds awfully familiar. I think I’ve heard it in a movie.”

“You have, have you?”

“I thought we said no questions,” she said with a grimace and the best Swedish accent she could muster.

“Did we?”

“
That’s
not your line! Come on, you know what comes next.”

“I do?”

She frowned.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” he admitted.

“Well then, let’s hear it.”

“Okay,” he said, raising his glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

She chuckled. “That’s more like it.”

“But in all seriousness, I do have questions.”

“As do I.”

“How about we each reveal one thing to the other,” he suggested.

“But it has to be significant,” she added, feeling an inexplicable urge to step out of role and say something honest. Quite dangerous, she knew, and a complete violation of all the rules, yet with him she knew she could. And the most unnerving thing of it was that she wanted to.

“Okay, you first,” he said.

“Not a chance. It was your idea, so you start.”

He hesitated. “It has to be significant?”

She nodded. “Your idea.”

“All right.” He thought for a moment. “My parents are Holocaust survivors who have never met their granddaughter.”

“That sounds like a quite a story.” It was a story she already knew, yet hearing him say it somehow moved her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“It is, and the rest of it would probably take the entire evening and then some.”

“I understand,” she said, sensing his discomfort. “We said one thing, and that certainly qualifies.”

“Thanks,” he said, doing a somewhat poor job at hiding his relief. “Now you!”

“Me?” She was pensive, realizing that she was about to break her cover. A small break, but a break nonetheless. And there was nothing she could do to stop herself. “Me too,” she said.

“You too? What?”

“My parents are also survivors.”

“Survivors? Are you Jewish?”

She nodded. “Also a long story.”

He saw that she too would prefer not to go any further, at least not for now. “That’s okay. We did say one thing.”

“Yes. We did.”

The veal Marsala was served with roasted new potatoes and broccoli sautéed with mushrooms and garlic. Martin was impressed. The food was better than he’d anticipated and, after two glasses of wine, he stopped feeling the need to turn away from her whenever things grew intense.

After dinner, he helped her clear the table and do the dishes while they indulged in a pint of coffee Häagen-Dazs. They shared a single spoon, passing it back and forth, observing each other carefully, until she took an entire spoonful for herself.

“Where’s mine?” he protested.

“Here,” she said as she pulled him into a cold, silky sweet kiss.

He awakened a few hours later, bathed in sweat, jolted into consciousness by a dream he couldn’t recall. His heart racing, he wondered where he was until he felt her hand on his arm.

“Are you all right?” she asked, half-dazed.

He wiped his forehead with his hand. “Yes,” he responded hesitantly, suddenly realizing it was the middle of the night. “What time is it?” He turned to the night table and saw that it was 1:15. Earlier than he’d thought but later than he’d hoped.

“One-fifteen,” he announced as if it should mean something. He pulled the sheet off and sat up on the side of the bed. “I really should go.”

“Yes, I suppose you should.” Her disappointment was evident.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that…”

“I know,” she interjected, maneuvering herself up behind him. “You don’t want to have to explain to your little girl why you were out all night.” She wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder.

He was surprised to feel himself once again aroused. They had already made love twice, and now his body was telling him that he still wanted more. He was beginning to worry about this power she had.

She began kissing his ear. “Do you have to leave this minute?” she whispered.

“I suppose I could stay a while longer.”

He made love to her again, yet still it didn’t seem enough. Nothing could quite bring him to where he wanted to be. Trapped in his physicality, all he could do was follow his cravings. It was the only way he knew to join her, to become part of her. And when it was over, he was left once more with emptiness and the certainty that separating from her would grow ever more anguishing with time.

He dressed as she lay in bed, listening to the sound of her breathing. When he was finished, he looked at her. She lay naked on top of the sheets, facing him.

“I’ll call you later,” he said.

“Wait!” She got up, wrapped herself in the sheet, took his hand and led him to the front door. “A lady should see her visitors out.”

They reached the door. She put her hands on his face as the sheet dropped to the floor. They brought each other closer and fell into a long, hard kiss.

“Good night,” she said, turning the door latch.

“Yes, it was
,
” he replied.

He turned to leave, when a sudden unsettled feeling came upon him. He figured it was probably a reaction to the dream that had awakened him, though he still couldn’t recall its content. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the bookcase in the living room, remembering that something about it had bothered him earlier, though he was still at a loss as to what. He wondered for a moment if the dream and the bookcase were somehow connected.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sure.” He hesitated. “Just tired.”

She looked at him with a curious expression, as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay then, talk to you later.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Later.”

They parted with an awkward embrace, reflective of the abrupt, inexplicable turn in his mood. And as he walked down the hallway, he wondered what exactly had happened – whether his mind was playing tricks on him for fear of a relationship, or if there was something else that he didn’t have a handle on. He was angry with himself; it was just like him to bring a lousy end to a perfect evening.

Once again, it became apparent that it was indeed time to consult his own shrink.