Cape May

by Chip Cheek

  She hid her face again and sighed. “Oh God,” she said. “I can’t, Henry. I don’t have the strength for this right now.”

  “You don’t have the strength?” He was trembling. Everything about her—her tone of voice, her posture, her whole physical being—it stabbed into him and wrenched his insides. “I don’t care if you don’t have the strength.”

  She gave him a dark look.

  “Effie,” he said. “How … how are you not—dying of shame right now?”

  “How am I?” she cried, slapping her hand to her chest. And then she bolted up from the couch and strode past him. “I’ll get the fucking aspirin myself.”

  He followed her through the dining room, calling her name, and stood at the bar counter while she went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. “Effie, you don’t talk to me like that. Do you hear me? Look at me, goddammit.” But she didn’t look at him. She took down a glass and began filling it at the tap. “Effie, do you hear me? I’m trying to talk to you. We have to talk about this.”

  She turned the tap off and spun to face him, water sloshing out of the glass, and cried, “What do you want me to say?” And for a second he couldn’t speak. Did she really think there was nothing to say?

  “Do you even remember?” he said. “Or are you going to tell me you were too drunk?”

  “I remember,” she said, turning away from him again. “Jesus, Henry, of course I remember.”

  “Because I remember,” he said. “I can remember every fucking detail.”

  She opened another cupboard and took down the bottle of aspirin, and he watched as she poured a small pile of the pills into her palm, threw them all at once into her mouth, and guzzled the water down.

  “I keep seeing you with him,” he said. “I see you and it makes me sick to my stomach, Effie. How you acted with him. I’ll never get it out of my mind.”

  She set the glass down and bowed her head, and when she spoke, her voice was weak. “You were doing it too, Henry.”

  “How would you know?”

  She glared incredulously at him, her eyes welling with tears. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You never looked at me,” he said. “You never once looked at me.”

  “Would that have made it better?” she cried. “If we were staring at each other the whole time? Jesus Christ, Henry, I saw you. You were all over her, and you were doing it—you were doing it with her right in front of me.”

  “No,” he shouted. “Not like you. We were fooling around—”

  “So were we, Henry.”

  “No—no, you weren’t. Don’t tell me that’s all it was.” He’d found his voice, and it felt good to shout. The words poured out of him. “What I did, it didn’t mean anything, but you—that was something else. I was looking at you the whole time, Effie. You wanted him, you were begging for him, I could see it. You made yourself his little whore. I’ve never seen you that way before. You’ve never been that way with me—never—that, I can tell you. You wanted him, you liked it, don’t tell me you didn’t.”

  Tears streamed down her face. “God, Henry,” she wailed, “how can you talk to me like that? You’re rotten. Do you know that? You’re a rotten son of a bitch.” She started out of the kitchen, and when he went to grab her she jerked with surprising strength away from him. “Don’t touch me, you bastard.”

  He followed her back into the living room. “Tell me you didn’t want him, Effie. Tell me you didn’t like it.”

  “Get away from me.”

  She started up the stairs, and he followed. “You wanted him all along, didn’t you? This whole time. You laughed at all his fucking jokes. You were dying for him.”

  At the second-floor landing she turned and shouted, “Get away from me, Henry!” and ran the last flight up to the attic room. He ran after her and caught the heavy glass door just as she was sliding it shut and shoved it open, so hard he thought the panes would shatter. She backed away from him, sobbing. “Get away, Henry, get away from me.”

  Behind her the attic room lay bathed in midafternoon light, and there was the bare mattress where they’d shared their first two weeks of marriage. She stood before it now, arms slack at her sides, and the way she cried made his heart ache for her. He wished he could go to her and hold her. “Do you love him?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Do you love him, Effie?”

  “No,” she cried. “God, Henry.”

  “But last night, when you were with him…”

  “I don’t love him,” she cried, “for Christ’s sake.” She held her hands out as if in supplication. “What do you want me to say? I wanted him—okay? I’m a human being. I thought about him. I wondered—I wondered what it would be like if…” She held her hands up, and then dropped them, as if words had failed her.

  “If what?” he said, his voice faltering. He was dying inside.

  “I’m ashamed,” she said. “Do you really need me to tell you that? I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.”

  He said nothing.

  “You should have stopped it,” she said. “You should have done something.”

  “This is my fault?”

  “You’re my husband, Henry, and you should have been there to protect me. But you let it happen—you son of a bitch—you just let it happen.” She put her face in her hands, and sobbed.

  * * *

  He left her there, and made his way downstairs. In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of water and drank it down. He paced the den. He imagined grabbing his suitcase, right then, without another word to Effie, and going to the train station. He could take the train to New York and find Alma, somehow. But his thoughts were wild. He wasn’t thinking of Alma, he was thinking of Effie’s bewilderment, her desolation and ruin.

  He needed to bathe. Last night lay like a film all over him. In the second-floor bathroom he ran the shower hot and scrubbed himself twice over with the washcloth and soap. Then he stood, letting the water beat down on him, and wept.

  He had never felt his heart break like this. The pain seared his insides. He remembered Ida June and how miserable she’d made him. But it was nothing like this.

  He’d never be able to look at Effie the same way again, he thought.

  He remembered how she’d been there, after Ida June, to offer him solace. It was she who had asked him to the homecoming dance, not the other way around, as she always told it. And he’d been grateful for her. He’d liked how assertive she was. How clear the world was to her. She is white trash and that is all, she’d said, and it had flattered him—more than that, it had touched him deeply—that she liked him, because her judgments could be so severe. He’d always thought she was pretty. A little more short and plump than he liked. (Sturdy, his mother had said, a word he could never quite erase from his mind.) But when she’d brought his attention to her, he’d wanted her. And as they’d grown closer, and he’d begun to imagine her as his wife, part of what had comforted him was knowing that she’d never be capable of making him miserable, the way Ida June had, because she’d never have that kind of hold on him. If he lost her, he’d thought, he’d be sad, but he’d get over it.

  And now here he was, and the pain seemed unendurable. He would not get over it—he didn’t see how he could.

  He loved her. He hadn’t realized, until now, how much he loved her.

  Women, Uncle Carswall might say, if Henry could somehow tell him what had happened in a way that removed the sordidness from it, and his own culpability. Damn them, son, they’ll bring you nothing but misery. But you have to bear it.

  And he would. He knew this already. He wasn’t going to walk out on her. She was his wife, and she belonged to him.

  He’d brought his suitcase up to one of the second-floor bedrooms—a bright-yellow room with white curtains—and he dressed there and, taking a moment to collect himself, went up to the attic room. But Effie wasn’t there. He went down to the living room and she wasn’t there, either, and he panicked, calling h
er name—until he found her, to his relief, sitting out on the back porch steps. She glanced back at him miserably.

  He sat down beside her. Streaks of sunlight lay across the fallen leaves in the backyard. Fall had arrived.

  “I can’t stop crying,” she said. “I knew if I started…”

  She wept, hugging herself, and after hesitating a moment, he put his arm around her. She leaned into him, and rested her head on his shoulder.

  * * *

  For supper they ate at the diner they’d gone to their first day—almost three weeks ago now—and sat at the same booth by the window. It was a Friday evening, and a few other people were there. A man in a plaid shirt and suspenders, eating alone. A trio of women in nurses’ uniforms. Their waitress was an old woman with horn-rimmed glasses. Henry ordered the chicken-fried steak, Effie ordered a Cobb salad, but when their food came, she only picked at it. Her stomach didn’t feel right, she said. Neither did his, he said. But he hadn’t eaten in over a day, and so he forced himself. They said little. On the radio behind the bar a news program was playing. The Soviets had sent a machine of some kind up into outer space, and all the world was in a clamor. It was enough to draw their attention away from themselves.

  “Huh,” Effie said. “That’s interesting.”

  They walked back to the cottage in the last light of dusk. Halfway there he took her hand, and she smiled up at him, her eyes watering, whether from emotion or because of the wind, he didn’t know. They passed Clara’s, on the opposite side of the street, and made no comment. The downstairs windows were alight. He could smell chimney smoke in the air.

  Effie didn’t feel like making up the bed in the attic room. They could sleep in the yellow room—or wherever he wanted, it didn’t matter. The room was fine. While she was in the bathroom washing up, Henry changed into his pajama bottoms and T-shirt and got under the covers. The bed was comfortable, and the thick duvet enclosed him safely. They would put this all behind them. They would forget it had ever happened. He could feel it receding already. For the first time since they had arrived, he was looking forward to going home.

  Effie returned in her slip, her face shiny with cold cream, and knelt at the side of the bed to pray. She didn’t do this regularly, as it had turned out—the last time she’d done it had been their first night at Clara’s—and what made her do it, or not do it, was still a mystery to him. When she was finished she got in under the covers, and before turning out the light she lay there looking at him. Her expression, it seemed to him, was full of remorse, her eyes big and dark.

  “I love you, Henry,” she said softly, and he felt the sting of tears. She’d never said those words to him without irony. He told her he loved her too, and kissed her, and she turned out the light, and they settled down to sleep.

  He drifted off soon after, feeling depleted but warm.

  And was startled awake, only seconds later, it seemed, by a hand pushing at his shoulder, and out of the dark came a familiar voice, clear and smooth: “Henry, my love? Did you forget about me?”

  Thirteen

  He’d swept her out of the bedroom and down the stairs before he was fully conscious what he was doing. Effie hadn’t stirred. He didn’t think she had.

  “I waited for you,” Alma said as she followed him, and he tried to shush her. “At the house, like we planned. I watched the sun rise. I slept on the couch all afternoon—you would have seen me there. You never came.”

  When they reached the den he turned and whispered, “What are you doing here? Are you out of your fucking mind?” He couldn’t see her in the dark.

  “Why didn’t you come?”

  “But”—he could barely speak, he was so bewildered—“what are you doing here?”

  “You were supposed to meet me,” she said, making no effort to conceal her voice. “Did you forget? I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He took her arm—she was wearing her cardigan—and pulled her through the dining room and kitchen and out onto the back porch.

  “Why didn’t you come?” she asked again. She was a shadow in the dark. It was cold out, and the stars were dazzling.

  “I thought you went to New York,” he said.

  “What?” She laughed. “I didn’t go to New York, Henry. Are you an idiot?”

  “Max said you got on the train. He said he saw you.”

  “I didn’t get on the train,” she cried, and he took her shoulders and begged her to be quiet. She wouldn’t. “I got on, I got off. How could you not know what I was doing?”

  “Alma, please, please be quiet.”

  She dropped her voice, finally. “How could you not know? Honestly, Henry, how dumb are you?”

  “I thought you’d gone.”

  “Well, I didn’t go. I’m here.”

  “Alma”—he squeezed her shoulders—“Alma, I’m sorry,” and he felt her shoulders relax.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered, and brought her hands to his stomach. “You’re dumb, but it’s all right. I’m here. I didn’t leave.”

  “Alma.”

  “You can’t go like this.” She felt the waist of his pajama bottoms. “Can you change? Or we can find you something at the house. A clown suit, maybe.”

  “Alma,” he said, “I can’t go with you.”

  She stiffened. He braced for her to strike him, or worse, to scream, but she did nothing.

  “Alma—I’m sorry.”

  She stepped back away from him. “I knew it. I knew it before the sun came up.”

  “Please understand. I wanted to, I really—”

  “Did you change your mind?”

  “No,” he said, “it’s not like that. Alma, please. I thought you’d gone, and then Effie and me…” But it would be impossible to explain last night to her, and where he and Effie stood now. He couldn’t explain it to himself. At some point, he supposed, she would hear from Max some version of what had happened, and she’d draw her own conclusions about him. He was glad he couldn’t see her face. “I can’t go with you,” he said. “You know I can’t. We weren’t thinking straight. We let ourselves get carried away.”

  “Was this all just a joke to you?” she said.

  “No—Alma—of course not. It meant everything to me.”

  “Have you been toying with me?”

  “How can you ask me that?” He stepped forward and took her shoulders again, and she let him. She felt weak in his hands, as if she’d fall over if he let her go.

  “You told me you loved me,” she said.

  “I do love you.”

  “You told me you loved me and you wanted to be with me.”

  “I do, Alma.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve had your way with me, and now you’re done with me.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, shaking her. How could he make her understand? He wished she’d gone to New York—then their nights together would have been sealed off in the past, perfect and complete. And it could still be that way, he thought, if only she would understand, and kiss him, and go away. He loved her, he said again, but he couldn’t run off with her. He had a wife. He’d made a commitment to her. He couldn’t just leave her. Didn’t she see? But as he tried to explain these things she began to laugh, slumping forward against him, pressing her forehead to his chest. She was delirious, he thought. He glanced back at the house. He’d left the sliding door open, but everything was dark and still.

  “Oh God, Henry,” she said. “That’s rich, really. A commitment. You amaze me.”

  “I don’t see what’s funny about anything.”

  “You’re such a devoted husband, aren’t you?”

  He drew away from her. “You don’t have to be cruel.”

  “Who’s being cruel?” she cried. She wasn’t laughing anymore. “You led me on and said you wanted me, and now you’re tossing me aside. Like I’m nothing. And now I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “That’s not true,” he said—quietly, hoping she would be quiet too. “You have Max. You have a
home in New York.”

  “I’m just a burden to Max,” she said. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t want me. Nobody wants me.”

  “I want you, Alma.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re casting me off.”

  “I want you,” he said, and drew her to him again. “If I could lead two lives, I would. Don’t you understand? I’ve never wanted anyone so much in my life. But I can’t do it—I can’t just run away with you. I have a responsibility here.”

  She leaned against him. “You only have the one life,” she said after a moment. “You shouldn’t waste it.” She was speaking softly now, into his ear, which he was thankful for. She slid her hands under his shirt, like ice on his back, but her body was warm. He loved the smell of her unwashed hair. “It could just be the two of us,” she said. “We could go anywhere.”

  “We can’t. You know we can’t.”

  “I don’t know that. You told me we could. It’s as easy as coming with me to the train station.”

  “I wasn’t in my right mind. You know that. You know you make me crazy.”

  “You make me crazy too.”

  They spoke like this for some time—she beckoning, he refusing—until he felt her tongue on his neck, and after glancing again at the house, and seeing nothing there, he closed his eyes. She kissed him, and he sank into it. He couldn’t resist her. They would have this moment, he thought, and then he would make her understand. He couldn’t bear to hurt her. He wanted to leave her warm and intact. He squeezed her and ran his hands over her, as if to memorize every curve. She reached her hand, warmed now by his skin, into his pajama bottoms, and stroked and kneaded him until he was stiff. She whispered, Come with me, come with me, and he whispered, I can’t, you know I can’t, and dug his fingers into her back.

  “Alma—God. I wish I could. But I can’t. Can’t we just have this? Then you’ll be with me, always.”

  To his relief, she gave in. He knew it by the way her muscles slackened in his arms, how she withdrew her hand and laid her head on his shoulder. They held each other a long time. He kissed her head, breathing her in. He felt expansive and generous. He asked what she was going to do. She didn’t know. She’d go back to New York. Maybe go to the station tonight, catch the first train up to Penn Station in the morning. He mentioned, by the way, that he and Effie were leaving in the morning too, on the ten o’clock to Philadelphia. She would hide, she said, if she wasn’t gone by then—he didn’t have to worry. He wasn’t worried, he said, and ran his fingers through her hair.