At Last

by Aliyat Lecky

  “Richard, I’m sorry for yelling. It’s just, I am feeling overwhelmed with the book and all. I didn’t get anything accomplished with it today, and now I’ll have to spend days catching up after the trip, party, and portrait sitting.”

  Richard took her hand to help her ease into the foamy water. She noticed he couldn’t help but smile at her reaction to the water. The suds enveloped her and the displaced water pushed clouds of fragrant comfort around her. The suds rose to her neck, over her shoulders, they hid her breasts, and kissed both sides of her face. Richard pulled up a stool from the make-up vanity to sit near the large bathtub.

  “Helen, I’ve been thinking. You’ve been working too hard. We both have.”

  The moment Helen closed her eyes, she was haunted by the sketches Noami shared with her when she was in the studio. One in particular: “Regret.”

  He continued. “We haven’t had a real vacation in years. Let’s get out of town for a while.”

  Helen’s eyes remained closed. She could hear her husband’s voice, but she was elsewhere. She was in Noami’s studio, paging through pictures of herself. Sketches that revealed glimpses of ambiguous thoughts that she had never allowed to maturate in her own contemplations. She was amazed that it took a complete stranger to force her to even ponder. At present, she could consider nothing else.

  Again, the disquiet of the plane ride washed over her like her bath water. Like a tidal wave of hot, aromatic self-reproach. Its scent was familiar, recognizable, yet she could not name it. So heavy was the scent that she could not abandon it. A smell from childhood which evoked a certain emotional response. A memory so hazy she could not recall enough to attach meaning—not with one sense. Helen only had a smell. The memory was not strong enough to push past years of life categorized and shelved by time. She needed the accompaniment of a taste, or sound, or perhaps a touch to make the memory crystallize. Otherwise, all she could manage was to sense the emotion it caused.

  Richard’s hand sliding down her thigh pulled Helen away from her rumination. She was so close to the answer that had evaded her for weeks. She felt sure that whatever was bothering her, standing in the way of life, a gatekeeper for her present lack of contentment, had to do with her past, which had come suddenly, anonymously, to hold her hostage without giving a reason as to why it had done so. Richard couldn’t know what he had done with his simple gesture of closeness, but he had pushed clarity out of reach for the moment. She was so close to figuring out why she was no longer comfortable in her life. Helen felt as though weeks ago she had put on her favorite dress, but found that for some reason, it did not fit properly. Except she was aware before trying it on that it would not fit, because although it looked like hers, she knew the dress did not belong to her, yet she owned it. She was so close. She tasted it on the tip of her tongue. An acidic flavor that had taken her weeks to recognize and days to make real.

  Helen opened her eyes and smiled thanks to him. He was being Richard, and Richard deserved an answer at least to the immediate question.

  “I thought you’d gone to sleep.”

  “A vacation sounds wonderful.” She gazed fondly into his handsome face. She wet the sides of his face with her dripping hands. “But, Richard, I cannot possibly get away. I have a deadline approaching, and a few days later, the second leg of my book tour. You have to understand. It’s too difficult a time now.” She released his face, smoothing away the soapy fuzz. Leaving wet skin, she knew the tender treatment wouldn’t be enough to deter his insistence or the desire she watched growing in his eyes.

  “You can take your work with you. I’m not talking about a working vacation for me. I don’t expect anything from you except to sit around and work on your book, relax, and do nothing else.”

  “I can’t.” Helen was keenly aware that Richard knew better. She was a creature of habit. She needed to be tied to her desk with all her research and notes in order to write. He knew her process. “How about after I’ve finished the tour? I’ll only be gone for a few weeks. How about when I get back?”

  She sat up in the water, and the emergence of her breasts arrested his attention momentarily from his game plan, though that was not her intention. She seized his hand. “I’d be delighted to go with you after I’ve returned. Then it’ll be days, maybe even a week or so before the editors are finished and have sent it back. Think of it. We could go to Napa Valley, or Seattle to see my parents. We could leave at the end of the month. We do need a break, I agree, Rich.” Helen felt as though she wanted to add, “From each other,” but those were her own thoughts. She almost said as much. She opened her mouth to form the words, but instead, she betrayed herself. “I’ll think about it, okay? Give me until Wednesday. I will see what I can sort out. That will mean nothing extravagant. A quiet, short trip to the cabin, or Stillwater or further south, at one of the river town bed and breakfasts, if we can get in.”

  “Not a bad idea, Mrs. Muir.”

  Helen eased down slowly, completely submerging into the cooling tub, shutting off any more opportunity for discussion. The water was still warm enough to sting her face a little, but she took relief in the slight discomfort. He had called her “Mrs. Muir.” That was his mother. She had never taken his name, mainly for professional purposes and no other reason. Yet as she soaked beneath the soapy division, she was thankful for her decision.

  SIX

  THE NEXT DAY, Helen sat poised in front of her computer, thinking about the dream from the night before that invaded her musings and kept her hands still on the keyboard. She had been sitting at her desk most of the morning, attempting to extricate her heroine from a corner she had never meant to box her into in the first place, but she had been inspired and deviated from her outline. Now she regretted it. What Helen needed most now was a believable deus ex machina. Normally, using the creative literary device would have been easy for her, however, the images and emotions of the dream consumed her mental energy, and clouded her ability to pull the literary rabbit out of its hat.

  ***

  THE SNOW WAS coming down harder as they stumbled onto the steps of the cabin. They had only meant to take a short walk. In December, the wood blanketed in snow was so appealing that Helen wanted to share its beauty with Noami, but they had gotten turned around near the frozen lake and lost their way. By the time they found the path, the storm, which had threatened all morning, was coming down full force. When finally they arrived at the cabin, they were both soaked and chilled to the bone. Noami moved to rebuild the fire, and soon had it ablaze with such intensity, that it sent out enough dull illumination to dimly light most of the room.

  Helen came out of the tiny kitchen with mulled wine to join Noami on the sofa facing the fire. They sat in companionable silence, toasting their feet in the heat of the fire. A movement at her side caused her to turn. Noami had turned to face her, and as Helen’s eyes met hers, she reached to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her right ear. The touch was somehow intimate, and evoking a sense of a blooming relationship and mutual desire.

  They spent the evening much in the same way. Chatting, sharing philosophies, and accepting wisdom in a manner that intimated latent yearnings to progress past affable interaction to a relationship that held much more significantly different potential. Always present was the vague possibility of this relationship to develop into something more than a warm friendship. Even as they enjoyed their friendly fellowship of the other, an unspoken, yet mutually desired expectation, imbued the space between them.

  As dreams do, this one jumped to the next morning where Helen awoke to an empty cabin. She searched for Noami, both inside and outside, to no avail. A sense of a desperate need to find her drove her out into the snow to search the paths they had walked.

  She searched in silence, but not daring to call out to her. Their time spent at the cabin was a secret she did not care to share with any other. When finally she returned to the cabin, she was surprised by what she found when she stepped through the door. Richard was seated in the pl
ace she had occupied the night before. Noami sat opposite him. Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear secrets she had not shared with Helen the night before.

  ***

  THERE WAS NOTHING overtly provocative about her dream, except that it left her with the feeling that she had viewed one of her romance novels. Helen tried to rationalize that she had simply dreamed about two friends sharing an intimate moment together. After all, she and Angie had spent many similar winter evenings much the same way. Their faces close in secrecy at their cabin, away from Richard and Orlando. What bothered Helen most of all about the dream was her emotional response elicited by the dream. Her irrational, momentarily desire upon waking to shake her sleeping husband in order to apologize to him for an act she had yet to commit.

  Helen sat at her computer for most of the afternoon. She spent as much time trying to keep her mind from returning to the time she spent at Sappho’s Repose or in Noami’s studio loft, as she did actually working on her novel. She kept thinking about how pleasantly surprised she was to find that she felt comfortable in Noami’s studio. When she was asked to remove all but her blouse, she did so with initial trepidation, but once the top was free from her shoulders and tucked neatly into the cups of her bra, Helen felt oddly assured that the situation in which she found herself was perfectly natural.

  When the sitting session ended, and Noami guaranteed she could finish the rest on her own, her offer of dinner pleased Helen, as it provided her with an excuse to lengthen the time she would spend in Noami’s creative company. Helen was amazed as to how at ease she was with her. She was extremely interested when they were talking about Sappho’s Repose and the gossip surrounding female relationships. She was intrigued by the stories, and not repulsed or self-conscious. Most of all, Helen was startled by her desire to learn more about the patrons who frequented Sappho’s Repose in all their color. She was stunned by her growing fancy to spend more time with Noami and get to know her better.

  ***

  MAGGIE STOOD SILHOUETTED against the amethyst night. Helen stood back in the shadows watching the amber light of the moon play tricks in the waves of her scarlet mane. She and a dozen other members of the Dramatic Society, including Maggie, decided to forgo the Fall Wrap party in order to spend the evening camped out on top of Agassiz Theater, the college’s performance arts theater. Maggie had spent days convincing the group that hanging out there was a better alternative to wasting the night striking the set in the main theater below with the rest of the cast and crew. She had confided to Helen and the others that this was to be her last undergrad theater experience, and wanted her last evening with her friends to be special. She never bothered to tell them why she didn’t plan to take part in the spring production, only that she wouldn’t. When Helen asked, she only shrugged in a noncommittal way and sighed something about being too busy or having other commitments.

  Helen navigated past the bodies scattered in various positions strewn across the rooftop. It was well past midnight, and many of her friends were already asleep, or lay still due to an inevitable paralysis set on by too much beer and excitement. Only a few remained awake or sober enough to continue their celebration. Helen tripped over a bulky mass in a two-man sleeping bag. Looking over her shoulder, she counted their heads as she found her balance.

  “Careful there, Lady Puck.” Maggie did nothing to hide her amusement. “You’re like a little puppy, Helen.”

  Helen ignored the remark. She was used to Maggie’s benign abuse, knowing she meant no harm. It was simply her way of talking. Besides, Helen understood that despite Maggie’s joking façade, she was mourning a loss. There were times when Helen and the others had to shield themselves from Maggie’s dramatic wrath. She was a temperamental actress who could be brutal at times without notice or provocation, but there was no chance of that on an evening filled with so much sadness as well as promise. In addition, Maggie was not quite herself. She had been rendered harmless by a secret she had kept close to her heart. To Helen, Maggie was amazingly beautiful on the rooftop that fall evening, and Helen didn’t fear the sharp edge of her perilous tongue.

  Maggie had shared with Helen earlier in the semester that she would be playing Titania for the last time. While Helen did not immediately understand the significance of the declaration, Maggie’s final performance gave meaning to the revelation. Maggie’s last performance was a passionate, absolute execution—flawless. Helen watched from the wings, her eyes, Maggie’s private spotlights transfixed, followed Maggie’s every action, as if she felt compelled to capture every nuance to memory.

  Helen reached out to accept the help of Maggie’s outstretched hand. Standing on the ledge with her back to the evening sky gave Maggie the appearance of an ethereal being, befitting the grace of the costume she still wore from the evening’s performance. To Helen, that evening, Maggie was Titania, queen of the fairies, mate of Oberon, and an honored guest atop a rooftop wonderland. Helen allowed Maggie to pull her into a warm embrace. The intimate physical amalgamation spoke more than friendship. Helen leaned appreciatively deeper into Maggie’s offered intimacy in anticipation of what would follow. Like so many times before, Helen turned her face to receive the touch of Maggie’s lips on her own. As she surrendered to her mouth, she felt the thrill of promise trickle down her back and into her sides.

  The next morning, as the hung over collection of young adults stumbled down the back stairs, Helen convinced herself yet again that there was nothing iniquitous in their intimate exchange. As so many times before, like so many others before them, Helen and Maggie told themselves that they were only experimenting. Becoming comfortable with themselves in anticipating for inevitable marriage. After all, countless other girls experimented as well, did they not? There was nothing wrong with it.

  ***

  “HELEN? HELEN!”

  “Yeah? What?” Helen looked up, puzzled, and still a little disoriented by being snatched so suddenly from a memory. She gazed into the bewildered eyes of her husband.

  “You were a thousand miles away. Did you hear anything I was saying to you? I was telling you about the meeting I had with Meyers.”

  “Meyers? Just Meyers? Wasn’t Orlando there?” She rose from her comfortable chair, setting her edit sheets in place. Normally she worked in her office, but the organic light streaming through the large glass doors of her bedroom had been so inviting, she decided to work there.

  “Haven’t you been listening at all?” He did nothing to hide his exasperation as he yanked much too hard at his tie. “Of course Orlando was there. He set up the meeting.”

  Helen struggled to liberate him from the tightening noose he created with each yank. “Yes, I’m sorry. Stand still or I’ll never get this knot loose. Have you had dinner?” She checked her watched. It was only three in the afternoon, and she had an appointment with Noami to make and she wanted to be on time. She adjusted. “Lunch?” She realized she had only been working for a few hours. It felt like much longer. The passing of time was hard to gage when the past and present converged so artfully. Lately, memories of Helen’s young adult years began to congregate in great numbers and increasing frequency, and crowded out the present.

  “Lunch, no. I don’t need lunch.” Richard was growing testier by the minute. “What I need is to have my wife pull her head out of the clouds and listen to me. No, what I really need is for my wife to give me the answer she promised me she’d have days ago.”

  “Richard, really.” She protested only because she felt she should have. She had been expecting this for days now. Helen was able to avoid this particular confrontation much longer than she had supposed. She knew she would be pressing her luck if she tried avoiding it for much longer. For a while, when Richard broached the subject of going out of town together for a short vacation, she was able to sidestep the matter. Now, however, the combination of her week-long evasions and moody quiet became too much for Richard simply let to go, or allow to be pushed aside by a sweet expression or turn of a complimentary phr
ase.

  He waved away her protests. He began to pace as he pulled feebly at his shirt collar.

  Helen raised her brow against his insistence. “Richard,” she protested again, but knew it was no use. He would be put off no longer. “I simply cannot leave town.”

  “Won’t.”

  “Cannot. As I have explained to you before, it’s just not feasible.” She looked in to his hard eyes and softened. “You had a lovely idea, dear, but honey, it’s just not practical for me right now.” She tried to seize his eyes so that she could express in another way that she didn’t intend to hurt him, but he avoided her altogether by moving across the room to struggle alone with his tie. Helen made another attempt to calm the waters. She wanted to lessen the growing intensity of their discussion, which had yet to reach argument level. Helen wished to avoid one. She needed to leave soon. Helen had a final viewing appointment with Noami that she didn’t want to miss. What was more, she was in no mood to be cornered by Richard.

  The next words she spoke rather deliberately. “Honey, I tried.”

  “Helen, you didn’t try to get away.” He stepped toward her, jerking the silk tie over his head.

  Helen recognized it as the one she had gifted him last year for his birthday. Each time she presented him with a tie, she gave him a tying lesson as well. When he tied his own tie, it always looked fine at first glance, but Helen knew the knot was a disaster. She reached for it as he approached.

  “Can you imagine what’s going through my mind lately? You’ve been so distant. I don’t know what to make of it.” He surrendered the tie without really looking at her. He couldn’t.

  Guilt caused Helen’s hand to tremble as she attempted to work free the knot. “Richard, how do you manage to tie—?”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Rich, I am here.” She hated that his feelings for her made him vulnerable, especially since she intuited somehow that she needed him to be strong. “I am here with you. I’m listening, but I don’t know what you want me to say.” She lifted his shirt collar in order to retie his tie for him. He was silent while she worked. She looked into his eyes, an apology filled each word she spoke to him. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” She smoothed down the collar of his slightly ruffled shirt. “My schedule hasn’t changed and arguing won’t change that.”