Enchanted Islands

by Allison Amend

  The landlord lived on the bottom floor, and one day his wife knocked on my door just after I’d gotten home from work. She must have been waiting for me to arrive. I invited her in; she claimed she couldn’t stay but a moment and stood in the hallway.

  “This is delicate,” she said. “I’ve seen a man, coming over, several times.”

  I wasn’t going to help her out. I smiled.

  “And sometimes I see him leaving. In the morning.”

  I continued to offer her nothing.

  “It’s just that, for the sake of the other tenants, families, you know…I thought you were married. Your husband was helping the war effort?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Ainslie’s in the Pacific.”

  “Well, we appreciate his service, of course. So brave, but I’m just wondering who your visitor is, then.”

  I was taking a grim pleasure in her suffering, like a dog toying with a chicken he’s caught. “You must be referring to my cousin Joseph. He was recently widowed, so he comes over and I make him dinner, the poor dear, and sometimes it gets late and he stays on the sofa. Not that it’s any of your beeswax.”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly. “I’m just making sure you’re safe.”

  “I believe I’m safe enough with my cousin.”

  Red-faced, stammering, she left.

  I laughed about this with Joseph. He was smoking in bed, a habit he shared with Ainslie that I abhorred.

  “Well, cousin,” he said. “Thank you for consoling me. And all the meals.”

  “Were you ever married, cousin?” We had never spoken about our lives. He knew I was married, saw the picture of Ainslie and me on the entry table, but he never asked about it. He never asked me about anything after that day at the luncheonette.

  “I might still be,” he said, “though I doubt it.”

  I looked at him.

  “When I came here, I offered for her to come, but she said she didn’t want to until I was settled. So I got settled, and then she said she needed a year. And then she said she didn’t want to leave home. I was preparing to return when the war broke out.”

  “And…what happened to her?”

  Joseph looked up at the ceiling as he shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “There is no communication there.” He rolled over to stub out his cigarette.

  “How can you be so…” I trailed off.

  “So?” he asked.

  “Callous? Cavalier?”

  “What is my choice? We were estranged before I left. At least we had no children. I hope for her sake she is alive and married elsewhere. More likely she is dead. But I do not expect to see her again in this life.”

  I lay back against the pillow, aghast. I pulled the covers up over me with a shiver. With whom was I sharing my bed?

  *

  “You’re strange,” Rosalie said, as we were getting our hair done on Saturday afternoon. I was reading The Woman in White and Rosalie was reading Woman’s World magazine while we sat under the silent dryers, waiting for our set hair to cool enough to remove the curlers.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  “You’re queer, somehow, cagey.”

  “And you’re paranoid,” I said.

  “You know,” she turned to me from the bubble of her dryer, “you never said what you do all day at work.”

  “You’ve never asked.”

  “Okay, fine, what do you do all day?”

  “Mostly I answer phones, type letters, fill in budget reports.”

  “But for whom?”

  “I told you, navy intelligence, which is not an oxymoron, despite the name.” I looked across the salon at the clock, whose hands were moving slowly. Another ten minutes to dry.

  “As in, spying?”

  “Ha.” I threw my head back, overselling it, perhaps, as the curlers bumped the dryer. “More like observations. Cargo ships, aircraft carriers, cruisers, what they see.”

  “And do you get any information from the Pacific?”

  “Well, yes,” I answered truthfully. My boring job had gotten even more boring, now that all the real intelligence was done in the central OSS office. “But mostly it’s just in the form of data, so it’s not particularly interesting. It’s not like I’m decoding messages from the Japs or arranging prisoner-of-war exchanges.”

  Rosalie nodded. “Why is life never as glamorous as we imagine it?”

  “So that there is a market for fantasy.” I pointed at her magazine.

  Rosalie returned to the page. I could tell something was brewing, though.

  “Fanny?” she asked. “The magazine says that there are five signs that your man is straying, and, well, Clarence has some of those.”

  “Do you think?” I asked. Her eyes were wide and glistening.

  “I don’t know what to think. He goes down to Los Angeles every other week. He could be doing anything.”

  “What are the signs?” I asked.

  She read: “ ‘He’s secretive about his plans, and he often comes home late.’ True, but that was always the case. And he’s not secretive, he’s just not…communicative.”

  “That doesn’t seem damning,” I said. “What else?”

  “ ‘He seems distracted.’ He does. I commented on it a couple of days ago at dinner. It’s like he’s physically present but his mind is somewhere else entirely.”

  “What did he say?” I was still unconcerned. One of the great advantages of living on the Galápagos was freedom from the women’s rags, which were invented to make women feel incompetent and inferior, not to mention fearful and insecure.

  “He said work was stressful.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “ ‘There is an increase in presents, bought for no reason.’ He brought home this brooch just last week saying it made him think of me!”

  “Well, it is a rose,” I said, “so it probably did make him think of you.”

  “But why was he in a jewelry store? Fan, this is bad.”

  “It’s a women’s magazine,” I said. “It’s not like it’s for real.”

  “It’s real enough for”—Rosalie searched for the byline—“Dr. Ellsworth Mercer.”

  “We both know that’s a bunch of malarkey.”

  Rosalie continued reading. “ ‘He’s become more particular about the way he dresses.’ ”

  “Well, that’s not true,” I said. “See?”

  Rosalie continued. “ ‘He’s no longer intimate with you as before.’ ”

  I looked at her. She looked down at her hands. The manicure was chipping—her standing appointment was for Monday morning. “It’s been a while,” she said. “You know how it is. I…I’m changing. I don’t feel so much like…Wait, have I driven him away? Have I not given him what he needs so he has to go elsewhere?”

  “I’m sure not,” I said. Rosalie was breathing hard now, her eyes bright. “I’m sure that’s just a stupid article and you’re overreacting. What proof do you have that he’s with someone else? He adores you!”

  Rosalie let a few tears run down her cheeks. “It just feels like…something’s changed.”

  “Of course something’s changed,” I said. “I mean, I haven’t been married as long as you, but our relationship changes all the time. Of course it does. We grow, we change.”

  Rosalie began to weep softly into her handkerchief. I hadn’t seen her cry in ages, not since I told her I was leaving for the Galápagos, and the sight upset me. I put out my hand to pat hers. I couldn’t quite reach with the dryer’s arms in the way.

  “And, really, even if he is…going elsewhere…does it matter? Isn’t it a bit of a relief?”

  Rosalie jerked her head up, her eyes sharp. She opened her mouth to say something, but the hairdresser swooped in and the moment was lost.

  *

  “Why do men cheat?” I asked Joseph. We had settled into a routine, Tuesday and Thursday nights. Sometimes a matinee on Sunday.

  “Why are you always asking me questions a
bout all men?” he asked. “I’m not all men. I don’t understand how they think. How they spend money, maybe—”

  “But I mean, do you know married men who cheat?” I was married to a man who cheated and was cheating on him with a man who was married. But our circumstances were exceptional.

  “Of course.”

  “You do?” I sat up on one elbow.

  “Yes.” He reached for a cigarette and lit it.

  “Do you cheat?” I was worried.

  “On you?” He blew out a ring of smoke. “You are the cheat, cousin.”

  “Right.”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “Rosalie and I were reading this women’s magazine. I know, it’s dreck, but it was talking about—”

  “Oh, Clarence has a mistress.”

  The wind was knocked out of me. “What?”

  “He has had this one in particular for a while. Usually they are less durable.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. I got out of bed to put on my robe.

  “Believe me or don’t, it doesn’t change the fact. It makes very little economic sense.” He reached down for his pants.

  “Where? Who?”

  “Some coat check girl. What does it matter? The Italians have a great word for it, what is it?…It means, how do you say, a side dish. You know, nothing serious. But it costs so much money. To keep her happy. To keep the wife happy. Pfft.”

  “I wish you hadn’t told me,” I said. “Now I have to keep it a secret from Rosalie.” My stomach turned. I cinched the robe’s belt tighter.

  “You asked!” he said. “I don’t understand you.”

  I was angry with him. “You don’t even try!”

  “And now you’re mad at me. And now we’re fighting?”

  “I’m just tired,” I said.

  “Yes, well, you go to sleep and I’m going home.” He finished dressing and left without kissing me good night.

  I poured myself a small drink. I felt like I had when I found out about Ainslie, like the foundation of my life had crumbled without warning. Rosalie would be so hurt when she found out. Would she find out? Did I have to tell her?

  I thought about it for a while. I had a second drink. No, I didn’t have to tell her, I decided. I heard about it secondhand. Plus, I couldn’t tell her how I found out. When she found out, and, because she was Rosalie I had no doubt she would, I would simply console her. I would hold her and tell her it was all right, and I would help her decide whether to leave or to stay.

  She would stay. I understood. I stayed too.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was easier to keep this secret from Rosalie than I thought it would be because finally, just as it seemed it would never do so, the war ended. The day Japan surrendered everyone took to the streets, shedding tears of gratitude, throwing confetti. I tried to leave a message for Joseph at his university housing, but those messages often got lost. I got a telegram from Ainslie that he was being sent home. He’d arrive in a week, more or less. This sent me into a flurry of activity without there being anything to do. I went to the market and got his favorite foods, which I knew he’d be missing after his long absence, and his favorite fancy cigarettes, but beyond that, there was little else that needed tending to. I took the day off of work on Thursday, waited for him.

  I cooked what he had always said was my “best” dish: lasagna. I debated whether or not to light candles. It was not a romantic homecoming, but candles did make the apartment look better. It dulled the assault of the blue flowered wallpaper in the kitchen. I was expecting him around dinnertime, but he was coming in on a ship, and it was hard to predict when he’d arrive. It was late, almost nine thirty, and I was rereading the same page of my book when I heard footsteps on the stairs, the heavy, hurried tread that could only be Ainslie.

  He rang the doorbell. Of course he did; he had no key. I opened the door and there he was, my tall, handsome husband. Hair a little thinner, eyes still bright, smirk still on his mouth. He grabbed me and swung me around, kissing me on the cheek.

  “Frances Conway, a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “You look wonderful!”

  His hug was welcome, tight and fond. Though I’d been intimate with another man for months, there was affection missing in Joseph’s embrace. Ainslie was impulsive but genuine. Joseph was calculating, hidden.

  He set me down and walked into the kitchen. “Smells terrific, wife of mine. Sorry I’m later than I thought. Spend a week with the boys at sea and then when it comes time to leave you want to have some pints!”

  So he’d stopped off at a bar. I could tell by his walk that he wasn’t drunk, so he had, in his hyper-social way, come straight home.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  “Famished. Especially if you made lasagna.” He sat down and poured himself some wine. “Ooh, candles, fancy.”

  “I did make lasagna.”

  “You know how to welcome a man home!” he said. And he ate my lasagna as though he hadn’t eaten in days. “The food on the ship,” he said. “It’s like it’s cooked by people who hate to eat!”

  He asked what I’d been doing since he last saw me. I had so much to report, and yet nothing I could tell him. I mentioned Rosalie, but didn’t say how much time I’d been spending with her, and I could not say Joseph’s name. So I told a story about some people he knew at work, and we talked about them for a while.

  “But that’s so dull,” I said. “Tell me about Baltra.”

  “I was stuck on a base in the middle of the ocean with a bunch of goon recruits. Once that place was built it was as boring as watching vines grow.”

  “Vines can grow quickly.” I picked up our plates and brought them to the sink.

  “What gives, Franny?” he asked. “You’ve hardly said two words since I’m back.”

  I didn’t know how to answer him. Instead, to my humiliation and surprise, I burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong? Franny? What is it?” Ainslie’s concern was real.

  “I’m not sure, I’m sorry.” I wiped my eyes with my apron. “I’m just, I guess I missed you, and now having you back is—”

  “Overwhelming, I know. We’ll have to get to know each other again. Or know each other in the real world. It’s like getting married all over again.”

  I smiled. It was nice to know he was nervous too.

  “Are we still married?”

  “This is a conversation we should have with a drink,” he said. “Multiple drinks.”

  He brought the dishes to the counter and I washed them while Ainslie made us whiskeys. I had restocked the liquor cabinet when Joseph finished the bottle of whiskey.

  Ainslie held it up. “Acquired the habit too then?” he asked. I didn’t answer him. But I did take the glass and join him on our love seat.

  “I didn’t want to bring this up on my first night back, but…we have the opportunity to go back to the islands. Would you want to…do you…?”

  “But for what?”

  Ainslie smirked, uncomfortable. “There’s a rumor that Hitler escaped and has gone to live there. It’s ridiculous, I know. But you’ve obviously heard about the Central Intelligence Agency. Well, it’s creating some redundancies here at home, and they’ve asked me to take a post elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere than San Francisco? Why didn’t Childress mention this to me?”

  Ainslie drained his glass. He was pouring another and not looking at me. “Clearance.”

  “Why am I always the last to know?” I drained my glass too, letting the liquor be the fire instead of my temper. I held it out to Ainslie and he obediently refilled it. I could hear the whining in my own voice. I have a lover, I wanted to shout. I make decisions too. I have secrets. Someone wants me!

  “That’s the government for you,” Ainslie said. “I am obligated to go. I hope you’ll come with me, Frances. I want you with me. I need you. I’ve been so lonely without you.”

  “Have you?” I asked. My voice was sharper than I meant it to
be. “Have you been so lonely?”

  Ainslie turned red and swirled the ice around in his glass. “You know how much I care about you, how much I enjoy your company. How much I love you. Even if I don’t show it in certain ways.” He downed his drink and came to kneel in front of me. He held my face, kissed me, and then let his hands slide lower to my breasts. Now that I’d been with Joseph, I could feel the lack of passion in his touch. He was doing his husbandly duty, nothing more.

  “Let’s not,” I said. “Let’s just not.”

  Ainslie sat back on his heels, below me, looking up.

  “Can I think about it?” I asked. “Can we just live for a month or so and think about it?”

  “Sure.” Ainslie nodded. “Sure we can.”

  *

  Over the next two weeks, Ainslie and I were the picture of domesticity. We went to our separate offices—Ainslie was reporting to the Federal Building, working for the Office of Strategic Services. I told Rosalie they’d given him a desk job.

  He was home every night for supper. On weekends, we went for a sail around the bay, had seafood at a nice restaurant, hiked along the coast. We had fun, and there was even a night when the fog cleared enough to actually see the fireworks. The end of the war had brought a vitality to the population. All over, people were reuniting, falling back in love, celebrating the end of a four-year winter. And probably, many were as awkward as we were, having gotten used to living apart, trying now to build lives together. I imagined people as bubbles, the way sometimes two can stick together, then either become one or grow too big and pop.

  Joseph knew that Ainslie was coming home. I knew he wasn’t like that, but I had hoped he’d be a bit jealous. Not Joseph Hradistsky. He didn’t even try to call me or see me. Finally, after two weeks, the longest we’d been apart since we’d started together, I called him. When he came to the extension I asked him to meet me for lunch.

  We met at our usual diner, and I got there early. It was a cold day, and I was wrapping my hands around a cup of coffee when he walked in. He had trimmed his beard and he looked somehow simultaneously thinner and more robust. I was struck with desire for him and kissed him recklessly.