Fearless

by Rafael Yglesias

  Jonah. If not for Jonah, Max would not have minded the necessity of running away. He was even willing to lose New York City. He knew it too well. He could go to the prettiness of San Francisco; or relish Chicago’s earnest skyscrapers. Parody didn’t interest him so LA was out of the question. But he was willing to abandon buildings altogether—seek the spareness of the western desert. Or get out of the United States—confront Europe’s dead ambitions.

  The truth was, he’d rather visit them. He didn’t know where to go to live. Perhaps someplace no one wanted to—like Oklahoma. A place where people left to come to New York. There Max could walk on a landscape without challenge. Maybe he could draw again; build himself a house that wasn’t fit for a family, that wasn’t fit for summering at the beach, that wasn’t fit for a person, but that fit only the earth and sky. A useless house, a child’s dream. Maybe after that he could believe in the practical world again.

  He felt better as soon as he got away from his apartment and was alone outside in the city. He walked carefully, concerned that he was fragile, but nothing hurt. He felt well enough to go as far as Columbus Circle before hailing a cab to Grand Central.

  Carla looked beautiful. She had nothing of the pale despair of her grief. The profound black of her thick hair framed her long face. Her chocolate eyes shined out of their deep setting. Her lips were a bold red against the glowing white of her skin. She was a beautiful animal and she didn’t know it. She moved with energetic grace but its flow was unconscious. And this healthy Carla had a clarity to her that was also beautiful. There was no guard at attention ready to stop the expression of her true feelings. She asked him whether he was crazy, and nodded at his answer as if that were all the reassurance she needed. She told him about making up with Manny, and yet when she added that she didn’t want to sleep in the same room with him anymore she made no attempt to justify her aloofness from her husband, despite his apologies and contrition. She said, I don’t like him enough to sleep next to him every night. She was honest in the only way it’s possible to be honest—by not knowing there was any other way to be. Max realized that when he was a young man he would have thought her dumb. She was a prize.

  “Do you think I ought to work?” she asked while she enjoyed the Oyster Bar’s ridiculously sweet and slightly stale chocolate cake.

  “When I worked I loved it more than anything,” he told her.

  “I don’t think I could feel that way about a job,” she said. “And I don’t mean I should get a job for money. I mean I should do something good, you know? Maybe I could volunteer at the Foundling Hospital. I asked Monsignor O’Boyle if he could ask them.”

  Max smiled to himself at the thought that no one would pay for her to do good in the world. Of course she was right.

  “I wish I could teach,” she said. “I don’t know anything to teach. But I wish I could spend time with kids. Not only sick kids. Healthy kids deserve attention too, right?”

  “You want to have another child,” Max said.

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “But I’m a coward. I can’t carry a baby and think about losing it all the time. I couldn’t take that.”

  “You wouldn’t lose a baby.”

  “No?” She smiled broadly. Her teeth were big and bright. He hadn’t noticed them before.

  “No.” Max was positive.

  “That’s good to know,” Carla smiled again. Her mouth opened wide with a laugh and he saw all those teeth again. Why hadn’t he noticed them before?

  Because she hadn’t been smiling or laughing, he realized, and felt dumb. He was so tired from his walk and the big meal that he forgot to ask Carla if she would come with him to the Plaza before heading off to it. When she didn’t object to his instruction to the cabdriver he asked her to come with him on his flight from New York. She didn’t answer.

  The desk clerk smirked when Max told him his bags would be arriving later. Max had forgotten he would need clothes whether he was going to Rome or Oklahoma. Maybe I’m not serious about leaving, he doubted himself.

  The view was great. All of Central Park was spread below, the details of its paths, footbridges, hills, buildings, and lake exposed by the fuzzy brown leafless trees. Their room was high enough so that the rectangular borders of tall buildings on all sides could be seen, although the northern end was small. But the height proved the awesome truth that the park was made by man: nature re-created where it had been killed.

  This city is what I’ve loved all my life, Max thought, appalled. A place.

  “Lie down, Max,” Carla said. He turned and couldn’t find her. She had gone into the bedroom. He was surprised by this forwardness. He walked from the huge sitting room into a narrow bedroom. They must have created this suite from a larger one, Max decided. The bedroom seemed to be for a servant. Carla had drawn the drapes. Only a faint glow of the day’s gray light illuminated her. She had drawn the bedspread down but left the blanket and pillows untouched. Her shoes were off, tumbled onto to the floor at the foot of the bed. She had lain down on her side, fully dressed, facing the door.

  “Come here and get some rest,” she said. Her hand touched the empty place near her.

  He yawned. It was hot in the room. He pushed his shoes off and stumbled to her. The pillow was cool; its fabric smooth, but hard. He faced Carla. His hands folded into each other and lay beside her beautiful face. Her eyes were shut. She moved closer. Her hair spilled down over her shoulder and dripped black curls onto his hands. He smelled the sweetly dank fragrance of her hair and he smelled the lunch’s shellfish on both their mouths.

  “I love—” he began.

  “Shh,” she said. She touched his temple. His eyes shut as if she had pressed a button to close them. “You’ve helped a lot of people, Max,” she said. “You deserve to rest.” He felt a soft kiss on his forehead. He smiled and slept.

  Carla woke to find Max’s hand under her cheek. He was asleep in the deep rest of a baby—eyelids smooth, brow untroubled, jaw slack.

  The early sunset of winter had completely darkened the room. Through the open door to the sitting room there was a sickly amber light from the street.

  She eased herself off the bed hoping not to wake him. He moaned faintly as she departed; but he stayed asleep. She went into the sitting room. It was a quarter after five. Manny was either home or soon would be. He might be patient about her absence for an hour. Then he would explode. She had to call him soon.

  She turned on a lamp. Its switch made a loud noise. She listened for Max. There was no movement. The room—for a place in New York City—was very quiet. Only the occasional faint sound of a car horn or a siren could be heard. Sometimes a dim flow of water from one floor to another in the walls. Otherwise there was only a stillness that left her nothing to hear but the blood rushing in her ears.

  She had to make a choice. Delay was no longer possible. Max needed her. He was lost. Although he was the same smart handsome man who had saved her sanity, he was troubled and distracted. But he was not crazy—except maybe about Brillstein and his wife. She could believe the lawyer might want to put Max away, although she had reason to think he was trying to settle the cases; besides she had told Brillstein she was going to tell the truth about what she did in the plane and the lawyer hadn’t threatened her. Nevertheless he was capable of putting Max in a funny farm if he could get more money. But she didn’t believe for a minute that Max’s wife would go along. The woman she met wasn’t capable of such a bad thing. Take Manny as an example. He wasn’t an especially good man and he loved money so much he could kill for it; still, he wouldn’t put Carla away to get more. She couldn’t believe Max had married someone more untrustworthy than she had. No. Max wants to run away, she told herself. She understood that much; she understood that Max couldn’t abandon his family unless he believed he was forced to and so he had made it up. To her there was nothing crazy about such a delusion—it was desperate common sense, a way of surviving.

  She knew how to stop him from running. She knew what he nee
ded. She didn’t even like to think about what she understood because it made so little sense to her outside of knowing Max and it was a mortal sin, against everything she had been taught and believed herself.

  Well, whatever she decided she had to phone Manny.

  Her husband answered on the first ring. “Hello?” Manny said in the slightly hushed and cautious tone of a child calling into a dark room. When she answered he came to. There was an angry snap to his tone. “Where are you!”

  “I’m with Max.”

  “What!”

  “Listen to me—”

  “You listen to me! You come—”

  “Shut up, Manny, or I’m going to hang up on you,” she said in a calm but rapid tone. “Either I’ll come home tomorrow morning and I’ll be your wife or I won’t and you won’t have to see me ever again. But I owe him my time tonight. You can like it or not. If you don’t want me to come home tomorrow no matter what, tell me now.”

  In the silence that followed her demanding question she heard him breathe through his nose. The inhalations and exhalations were fast and getting quicker as if he were blowing up a balloon. “You’re crazy,” he said abruptly and said no more.

  “Manny, I need an answer. Do you want me to bother to come back or not?”

  She heard him breathing fast again and then he made a sound that could have been a groan of disgust or a moan of pain. After that the line went dead.

  Carla hung up angrily. She tossed the receiver onto the cradle. It made a racket and fell off. She replaced it carefully this time and then tiptoed to the bedroom to check on Max. He had rolled onto his back. His head was turned in her direction, but the eyes were shut. His mouth hung open in a mute plea. His right arm stretched across the bed onto the empty side. The hand reached into the air for help. His position reminded her of something but she couldn’t identify it. She returned to the sitting room. The furniture was big and heavy. Even the drapes that hung beside the glittering city views weighed a ton. The carpet was so thick it swallowed the curved feet of the chairs and coffee table. She felt alone. Not lonely. But isolated.

  She dropped to her knees. They sank into the thick rug. She hadn’t prayed outside of church since she was a girl. And she prayed for something new. She prayed for Him to explain Himself.

  There was no answer or comfort this time. The calm she was used to feeling afterwards—even for only a few seconds—didn’t descend. Rising, she was as alone as when she knelt.

  “When you don’t feel He is with you,” Monsignor O’Boyle had said to her months ago, while she was in the dense fog of her grief, “then He is in you, waiting for you to bring Him forth. He wants you to choose Him.”

  She hadn’t understood that. It sounded sneaky if true and she didn’t believe it anyway. While stuck in despair she knew He was there every minute. During her madness she believed He had killed her baby. After all, she had neglected Him once Bubble was born. For the two years of her baby’s life, filled by the happiness of being a mother, she had even forgotten He lived. She believed He had punished her for that sin; and she had hated Him for it. She went to Old Saint Pat’s in those days, she now realized, hoping to forgive Him—not to be granted forgiveness.

  He had been merciful. He had sent Max, with his bravery and his love, to save her from madness.

  But to do what?

  Now where was He?

  What game was He playing with Max?

  Max had done His bidding, saving those He wanted saved. Was Max being humbled because his pride wouldn’t allow him to acknowledge the Lord? Or was this another part of Max’s saintliness—his martyrdom?

  No. Max’s unhappiness was aimed at her. The Monsignor was right. Christ was hiding in her, behind these choices, ready to greet her if she chose correctly. And do what if she chose wrong?

  Was she afraid of Him? Yes.

  Was that what He wanted? Fear? Was that the purpose of the crash? Did He want her to be afraid?

  She thought if Max believed in his family again then he would be all right. Of course Carla would lose him; even as merely a friend she would inevitably lose him once he was truly back with his family. Was that the point? Was that her lesson? That she had to return her angel or He would destroy Max? Just as He had destroyed Bubble because she had loved her baby too much?

  She held her head with her hands and pressed as if she could squeeze these ideas out of her skull. It didn’t help. She moved to the cool glass of the window and watched the black park. It was infiltrated by the snaking headlights of cars, moving up and down its length and across its middle toward a city that was dark and alien.

  She was afraid.

  Afraid of sin? Afraid of love? No.

  Afraid of God. That was His lesson.

  She was thrilled. Doubt left her. The fear was keen, but she wasn’t cowed.

  All her life she had relied on others to teach her, to explain what was right and wrong. She could fight them or could obey—she had never solved a mystery for herself.

  She undressed in front of the window, a slice of cold cutting her thighs, her head warmed by the radiator blowing hot air.

  Once she was naked she felt strong. She went to the sleeping Max and lay beside him, curving into the curl of his body.

  Still asleep he embraced her. His clothes were cool but his face was hot. His soft hands moved slowly and lightly down her back as if they were creating, not feeling, her shape. She kissed his cheek. The eye she could see opened. The pale blue circle focused on her; her legs tingled in response. His eye was smart and cold and wary. She kissed nearer to his mouth. His lips parted. They were dry. She dabbed them with her own moist lips. Max’s hands molded her arched back, skimming her skin, beginning to form her buttocks. The whisper of his touch brought each nerve alive.

  “I’m thirsty,” he whispered.

  She slid up onto the pillows and brought his head to her neck. She pushed him down. His mouth closed on her nipple. He was so gentle the touch could hardly be felt at first. A hot wet drop—his tongue—circled the nipple until it hardened. Then he sucked steadily and evenly with the patient greed of a baby.

  She cupped the back of his head and gradually turned him onto his back, keeping her breast at his mouth. She peered down at him and saw he looked blissful. All of her came awake, her skin stretching into life. She moved his head to the crook of her arm, unbuttoned his shirt and then edged down to open his pants. Max broke off feeding and kissed her underarm, her shoulder, burrowed into her neck, insistent and loving. She reached below and took hold of his yearning penis.

  I’ve fed this big baby, Carla said to God, and now I’m going to take the man into my womb.

  22

  Max woke alone. He heard the shower running in the bathroom. He yawned and dominated the bed, stretching his arms and legs until he nearly reached all four corners. Outside it was a bright sunny morning and his body had a conviction that he was young again.

  They had made love twice, after their nap and then after their late dinner—a romantic meal served in their sitting room. Max drank more than half a bottle of wine and it didn’t make him draggy or gloomy. In fact, he felt more vigorous. When they went to bed again he explored Carla’s lean supple body thoroughly, wishing to memorize every detail, because she had told him, over coffee, that it would be their last time together.

  She had an exciting body, and not only because of her figure; it had energy and tension even when she lay perfectly still. Her physical responses were the same as her emotional responses—direct and passionate.

  She had been blunt about why this would be their final time together. “You have a family, Max. They need you. I have a husband. He needs me.”

  Max felt simple. He wondered aloud, “How do you know?”

  “Anyone can tell that a wife and son would miss someone like you, Max,” she said. They were having strawberries and cream for dessert. Max had tasted one of the strawberries, but he left it unfinished because it wasn’t sweet enough. Carla ate them as though the
y were delicious. She cocked her head back and sucked the berry in most of the way before biting off a piece. “And Jeff’s children. They need you.”

  “Jeff’s boys?” Max didn’t know why she thought of them; he didn’t think he had even mentioned them to her once.

  “I know it isn’t fair, Max, but you gotta take care of them too. He was your partner. And you loved him.”

  Max hesitated at her saying he loved Jeff. He had been about to dismiss her directive to take care of Jeff’s children when she said it. Max heard Jeff’s hurt tone answer him at the airport, “We’re not second-rate, Max.” And what had he added? “At least you’re not, Max.”

  “You loved him, Max,” Carla said again. “And you miss him.”

  This made him feel grief. He thought of his partner’s greyhound head, buying cheap tickets and worrying about the security of his wife and sons. He remembered his own pleasure at informing Jeff that they were going to die. He covered his face and wept into his hands.

  She left the strawberries, pulled his hands away, and dried his tears with her kisses.

  After that, they went to bed again. He had watched her skin meticulously—peering at every pore—desperate to memorize her forever.