Cape May

by Chip Cheek

  He started toward it without thinking. It was three houses down. When he reached it he saw that the light was coming from the balcony door they’d entered the other night, and he climbed the metal staircase, the grating digging into his feet. He crossed the porch and tried the door, and it opened with a chirp, the hinges creaking. Down the narrow hall, the big game room was aglow. He stepped inside, pushed the door closed behind him—the panes rattled loudly—and as he turned and made his way down the hall, he considered for the first time that Alma might not be here, that it might be the owners of the house come to stay for the weekend. But as he entered the big room, there she was, in the hallway across from him, holding her hand to her heart.

  “Jesus,” she said. “You gave me a heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “I saw the light. I thought it was you.”

  They both looked at it, a small lamp of frosted glass, which she’d left on an end table by the sofa. She crossed over to it and blew it out, and for a moment all was dark. And then he saw, at the end of the hall she’d emerged from, soft light spilling from an open door.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He could just make her out, the line of her shoulder, the side of her head. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. He took a step toward her. “I saw the light, and I figured … I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “You should go,” she said.

  “But Alma—”

  “What do we have to talk about?”

  He wished he could see her face, because her voice wasn’t cold. There was something gentle in it, willing—he wasn’t sure. It was enough to encourage him. “Last night,” he said. “What happened…”

  “Nothing happened,” she said. “It was a mistake, I get it. It didn’t happen. We don’t have to discuss it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Alma, please.” He came closer to her. She didn’t move away. “I’m…” Not sorry. Or she would scream. “I acted like an idiot last night,” he said. “I mean after. I shouldn’t have acted like that. I was—I wasn’t in my right mind. I was stupid.”

  He waited, but she said nothing to this.

  “I thought about you all day,” he said. “I couldn’t think of anything else. And tonight, at dinner—I wanted so badly, so badly to…” To do what, he didn’t know, all words failed him. Still she said nothing. “Alma…”

  “Henry,” she said gently, “you should really go.”

  “I don’t want to go,” he said.

  She made a halfhearted sound of annoyance, but there was nothing more to say. He knew with every nerve what he wanted, and there was no need to put it into words. He stepped closer and took her hips and pulled her toward him, felt her crossed arms against his chest, but after the slightest resistance she uncrossed them and put them around him. She rested her head on his shoulder, and they held each other. He was shaking. “You should think very carefully about what you’re doing,” she said. He lifted her chin and found her lips, and she sighed and seemed to collapse inward, giving in. He gripped her behind, held the back of her head. She bit his lip. He kissed her nose, her chin, tasted the salt on her neck, took her earlobe into his mouth, smelled the sun in her hair. And then she pulled away and took his hand and led him down the hall, toward the lighted doorway.

  It was a bedroom. He remembered it from the other night. An old tin hurricane lamp stood on the nightstand, beside a heavy four-poster bed with a thick blue duvet almost completely buried in dresses, which Alma must have been taking from the open closet and inspecting. The wallpaper was blue, and by the wall opposite the bed stood a heavy oak dresser and mirror. She pulled him toward her by the front of his trousers. Suddenly their movements were rushed and urgent. She unbuttoned and unzipped him, he began gathering her dress up her hips—but it was faster to do it themselves, so he stepped away and hurriedly unbuttoned and removed his shirt, dropped his trousers and underwear in one go, hopping on one foot to free the other, and when he looked up, free at last, Alma was naked—fallen back onto the bed, up on her elbows, legs dangling over the side, so beautiful he felt light-headed. She had a neat V of straw-colored pubic hair. Small, upturned breasts, bright pale where her bathing suit had covered them. A constellation of moles on her stomach, one prominent one, raised like a third nipple, just under her left breast. Her secrets. He could have turned back. He could have apologized again and gathered up his clothes. She would have screamed at him, thrown the kerosene lamp at him and burned the place down, but he could have run, and convinced himself that he was still a faithful man. But he was standing there naked himself, his cock sticking out from him like a bowsprit, and there was no turning back. He must have been standing there at the precipice for a long time, because at last she raised her knees and spread her legs and said, “Do you just want to stare at it all night?”

  * * *

  It was dawn before he knew it. She lay against him, trailing her finger over the soft skin at his hips. They’d kept the lamp burning and no time seemed to have passed, but suddenly the windowpanes stood out blue behind the blinds. He got up on an elbow. She rolled over to see. “It’s late,” she said dreamily. “Or early, depending.”

  “Shit,” Henry said, and sat up. It must have been five thirty at least, maybe six. The Art Deco clock on the wall read eleven fifteen. “Shit,” he said again. “Effie’s going to be up soon. If she isn’t already.”

  It was the first time he’d said her name, and now Alma looked up at him sharply, and her foot, which had been caressing his calf, halted. He bent down to kiss her and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I have to go.”

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Alma—I have to.”

  She smiled and pressed her fingertip to his lips. “I know. It’s okay.”

  He pulled himself out of the bed, and while he picked up his scattered clothes and put them on he wondered, in a detached way, whether he had already ruined his life. Effie might very well be awake. It was Sunday morning, and she’d probably want to go to church. He wouldn’t have the opportunity for a shower before she saw him, and Alma’s scent, hers and his, was all over him—the room was dense with it: the smell of semen, of Alma’s vagina, of something feral they’d made in common, which hung close to his skin like musk. They’d made a mess of the bed. The dresses, which they hadn’t bothered to push aside, were probably ruined.

  Alma rolled over onto her stomach, resting her head in the crook of her arm, and smiled back at him as he zipped and buttoned his trousers. She was posing for him: displaying her behind, giving him one last peek through the star-shaped gap between her thighs and buttocks. How could he leave her, even for a moment? He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand over the smooth skin, the hairs at the small of her back, the raised mole between her shoulder blades. Incredibly, he felt himself getting hard again. He had to go.

  “I’ll wait a while after you’re gone,” she said. “Before I leave. In case anyone’s passing in the street.”

  He smiled. “You can’t be too careful.”

  “I’ll see you soon?”

  “In just a few hours. Hopefully.” He caressed her hair. “We’re going to be roommates now,” he said.

  “That’ll be interesting.”

  He kissed her long on the lips and kissed her head, breathing her in. If the worst happened, he might never see her this way again. But he got to his feet and crossed to the door, and after one last look at her from the doorway, he made his way out.

  New Hampshire Avenue lay clearly visible in the dawn. The detachment he’d felt about his future was beginning to wear off, now that he was walking back to the cottage. His carelessness astonished him. It was as if he were courting ruin, as if he wanted to be caught. But he didn’t, he knew he didn’t. He went inside the house and up the stairs like a condemned man. It was just after six.

  She was still asleep. He stood at the doorway and looked in on her. She was sprawled diagonally under the covers, like she’d tried t
o reach for him and found nothing. Maybe she’d gotten up sometime in the night to look for him. The thought of her padding downstairs, checking the den, the front and back porches, calling his name—Henry? Henry, boo, where are you?—made him sick with love. Or pity. He had a strong urge to hold her, to tell her it would be all right, as if not he but somebody else were breaking her heart.

  He went down to the second-floor lavatory and ran the shower. The sound of the water calmed him. He was safe. She could wake up now, and he could tell her he hadn’t been able to sleep, that he’d gone for a walk in the early morning and then, since he was up, had decided to take a shower. He leaned his head against the tiles and relished the hot water on his skin. He emptied his bladder where he stood. It burned. He’d been up for twenty-four hours, and most likely he wouldn’t have time to sleep now.

  Back in the attic room he put his clothes into his suitcase, over his bundled-up wedding suit, and stepped into his last pair of clean underwear. When he turned around, Effie was rolling onto her side and squinting up at him.

  “How long you been up?” she asked, pulling her hair away from her face.

  “A little while,” he said. “I had trouble sleeping. How are you feeling?” He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her shoulder.

  “Okay, I guess.” With effort she sat up, coughed and winced, and held her hand to her chest. Then she smiled at him and laid her head on his shoulder.

  * * *

  To his profound relief, she wanted to skip church that day. Jesus would understand. That preacher was abysmal. And they had enough to do.

  “We’ll just be sure to thank Him throughout the day,” she said. “For whatever. Not aloud, but in our minds, like. ‘Thank you, Jesus, for this cup of coffee. Thank you, Jesus, for toast and butter.’”

  And Jesus was pleased, obviously: a little later the radio in the den came to life—rousing orchestral music—and the end-table lamp shone. It was a miracle. Henry cried, “Thank you, Jesus!”

  They spent the rest of the morning cleaning to music, following King George’s instructions—sweeping and mopping, wiping the counters and dusting, stripping the sheets off the bed and leaving them in the hamper, throwing out the perishables—and then Effie bathed and dressed and they packed their suitcases and brought them down to the den. In order to avoid a full-blown diplomatic crisis, Effie said they’d better try and restock the bottles they’d used. And so after a sandwich for lunch they headed out, to see if the liquor store was open.

  Another beautiful day. He thanked Jesus for this too. As usual, they took the long way to the town center, down along the promenade, and unaccountably, Henry wanted to whoop for joy. It was the music, it was the eternal sea beside him, it was how alive and invincible he felt, now that he’d escaped ruin, the night still white-hot in his nerves, on his skin, the day and the night to come already trembling with promise. He wasn’t tired at all—only time felt strange: it was incomprehensible to him that only six hours ago he’d been with Alma in the blue bedroom, and that that time was continuous with dinner at the Salty Dog and also with this bright, clear, perfect afternoon, while the waves struck the shore again and again like a metronome. The secret to life was hidden from us, Henry thought, because we couldn’t be awake to see every moment of it. If you could forego sleep a little while and see it uninterrupted, something essential would be revealed to you. But you could only just grasp it, because eventually the veil had to be lowered, you had to sleep. He wished he never had to sleep.

  The liquor store was open. They bought a bottle of Cutty Sark, a bottle of Remington’s, and two bottles of Beefeater’s gin—one for Uncle George, another for Clara’s. Maybe Effie would have her daddy wire them the extra money after all. The clerk provided them with a box to haul it. “Must be some party,” he said.

  Back at the cottage they latched all the windows, locked the front door behind them, and left the key in the hanging pot with the dead fern.

  “Bye, little place,” Effie said from the sidewalk. “I guess I’ll never visit you again.”

  “We’ll be back,” Henry said. “One of these summers.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  They let themselves in at Clara’s and dropped their suitcases in the foyer. No one was in the den, but all the windows and doors were open, drafts played through the house, and here too classical music was coming from the record player. “We’re here,” Effie called, and from above Clara cried, “My loves!” and then Henry saw her—Alma—out by the pool, lying in a deck chair in her white bathing suit and sunglasses, reading a magazine. When he came to the patio door she glanced at him, drew her lips taut—the faintest trace of a smile—and returned to her reading.

  Ten

  Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: the days passed in a haze. The hours were strange. Henry only slept in short, deep bursts, when he laid his head back, wherever he was, and closed his eyes, and time jumped and someone, usually Effie, shook him awake, laughing at him, and he leapt up to follow whatever they were doing—another excursion into town or out on the boat, another drink, another meal, another game. If he was acting strange, no one seemed to notice. They’d all given themselves over to some kind of enchantment. They drank all day. In the morning Max and Clara worked, and these were the quiet hours. Effie lay out by the pool. Alma slept upstairs. Henry napped fitfully in the shade. In the afternoon they took the boat out. At night they danced in the den. They played hide-and-seek in the house and out in the yard. They sat around the fire and played games. In the first couple of days Effie never made it to midnight: she would fall asleep on the sofa, and Henry would wake her and take her up to their room, where he’d lie beside her for a while, listening to her steady breathing, waiting for the house to still, until he could get up and slip away, downstairs and outside, a shadow in the night, down the street to the Bishops’ house, where Alma would be waiting for him.

  At every moment his intention was fixed on that one object: to be alone with Alma. Sometimes she seemed so much herself, so natural and indifferent to him, that he was sure something had changed, that she was no longer accessible to him, and he’d feel panicked, he’d try to meet her eyes, he’d want to clutch her and beg her, out loud, for a sign, and then he’d feel rotten and ashamed of himself. But then she’d do some little thing—a passing touch, a smile, the way she said hi to him—that would carry him for hours, and the secret was almost as sweet as the thing itself. He loved to see her around the others, ignoring him. He loved to see her in her clothes and know that, in a few hours, he would take them off.

  They took The Mistral out most days, even when it threatened rain. Clara pointed them into the wind, and they pitched and dove through the waves. Alma stood on the deck, holding on to the mast, facing the elements. Slate-gray sea, low, racing clouds. Her tan calves flexed as she kept her balance, her hair whipped behind her.

  Now the sails were down, the sun had returned, the boat rocked drowsily. Picnic basket, gin, ice from the marina. Strawberries and grapes and soft cheeses. Henry sat with his back against the bulkhead, and Effie rested her head in his lap. Alma sat on the deck above him, her legs dangling by his side. Softly, when no one was looking, she caressed his arm with her toes.

  At the fish market by the marina she joined him at the lobster tank and said, as if commenting on the lobsters, that she was soaking wet.

  The others stood safely by the scales. Nearby, an attendant was scrubbing the inside of an empty tank.

  “I only thought you should know,” she said. She was up on her tiptoes—her flexed calves—looking down into the churning water. “Every time I look at you, I get wet.”

  “You’re giving me a hard-on.”

  “Let me see,” she said.

  He laughed, looking around. No one was paying attention to them.

  “Just a peek,” she said. “Come on.”

  And so he pulled the elastic of his trunks out and down, exposing it for an instant, and she smiled at it and left him there, by the tank, to st
are at the lobsters and cool off.

  Max fried scallops for dinner and they ate outside in the dusk. Alma had showered and changed into her green dress, the one Effie had borrowed. She sat away from him, out of his reach. He felt a hand on his leg—Effie’s—but she was looking at Max and laughing at something he was saying. She was feeling much better. It was all the gin, she’d said. A grape fell to the flagstones and Clara picked it up with her toes and, lifting her foot to Max’s mouth, fed it to him.

  They played hide-and-seek. It was Max’s idea. Clara thought it was stupid, but now she was It, and the rest of them scattered throughout the house and outside while she went into a closet and counted to fifty. Henry went outside, and Alma followed at a distance. He called to her from behind a cluster of chinaberry trees. He only wanted to steal a kiss, maybe a quick feel up her dress, but she got to her knees and pulled his trunks down to his ankles, and while her head bobbed at his groin, and he ran his hands through her damp hair, he could see Clara through the windows, searching the den, now stepping out onto the patio to search the dark brush on the other side of the yard—“Christ, where is everyone?”—and Henry bit his lip so he wouldn’t make a sound.

  Later, Alma sat in her chair by the fire, absorbed in a book of maritime ghost stories. Shades of dirt on her knees. Max was giving Effie and Clara a tarot reading. He’d found the deck in a junk drawer and was making everything up, but Effie was riveted. “Don’t worry,” Max said, “it doesn’t mean death. Not necessarily. It means … it could mean a new beginning…” After a while Alma got up and drifted out to the patio. She wouldn’t be back. Effie gathered the afghan around her. It was just after eleven o’clock. Soon, she would be asleep.

  But not soon enough—never soon enough. Monday night he didn’t get away until almost one in the morning, and outside, he jogged down the street—to Alma, his Alma.

  The Bishops’ house was all theirs. She’d leave the front door open, and he’d walk in and feel his way through the dark rooms until he caught a sliver of light and found her. She was always inspecting some curiosity—a nested doll, a collection of lacquered fans, a jack-in-the-box that wouldn’t open—and she’d pretend at first that she wasn’t interested in him. “Maybe it’s a joke,” she said, shaking the jack-in-the-box. “I don’t hear anything inside.”