Garden of Lies

by Eileen Goudge

  Then she remembered, and felt a surge of joy. We’re married, truly married. And tomorrow we’re going home!

  Home.

  Mama, God help her, would probably faint when she heard the news. No nice Jewish doctor or lawyer for a son-in-law. Instead, here she was, Sylvie’s daughter, the bride of a penniless Irish Catholic. But, damn it, she was happy. She felt happier than she ever believed could be possible. Mama would see that, and she would come to love Brian just as much.

  And Daddy would have approved of you, Brian, she thought, smiling. You’re strong like him, you know, and gentle.

  “I love you,” she said, rolling over and nestling herself against his side, her curves fitting snugly with all his hollows. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

  “Tell me again when I’m fully awake, otherwise I might think I dreamed all this.”

  He held her tightly. She could feel his heart beating fast. She wished they could stay like this forever, just the two of them; and then they’d never have to explain themselves to anyone else.

  But a dream, a ridiculous dream, wasn’t it? Sooner or later, they would have to face other people. And when that came, she wanted to be on firm ground.

  “Tell me about Rose,” she said softly.

  Rachel felt him immediately stiffen. She was struck by an awful jolt of fear. If just the mention of Rose’s name still had such power over him, God, what might happen when he saw her again, as he inevitably would?

  There was a long, terrible silence before Brian said, “I grew up with her. She and I ... I guess you could say she was the girl next door.”

  “Would you ... have married her?” And then waiting for his answer, Rachel held her breath.

  Brian lay rigid as a plank of wood in her arms, silent for what felt like an hour. “I married you, isn’t that what matters?”

  “Yes, but only if it’s what you truly want. If you’re sure you won’t regret it someday.”

  [281] Why was she doing this? Why was she torturing herself this way?

  Beside her, Brian lay without speaking. Rachel felt terror gather in her chest. Suppose he was already regretting it? Had Rose—or did she still—mean that much to him?

  “Let’s not talk about ‘someday,’ ” Brian said at last. “Let’s just think about now. I love you, Rachel. More than any other woman.”

  That’s not good enough, she wanted to shout. You’re not answering me, not telling me! But at the same time, Rachel felt ashamed for wanting him so desperately to reassure her. She was being a little hysterical, wasn’t she? After all, he had married her, not Rose. God forbid she should ever turn into one of those wives always clinging, always begging for proof of her husband’s devotion like a dog begging for scraps under the table.

  Leave it alone, she ordered herself. Why force him into confessing something you couldn’t bear to hear?

  He stroked her breast, then cupped it, gently teasing her nipple with his thumb. “Mrs. McClanahan. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? The last woman in my family to take that name ended up having seven kids. Think you’re up for it?”

  Now she felt herself grow cold, rigid. What a hypocrite I am! she thought. Asking him to tell me all about Rose, while I hold back the truth about myself.

  No, she thought. A marriage had to be built on honesty, total trust. She had to tell him. He would have to know eventually. From the very beginning, back when she used to sit on his bed at Corpus Christi, reading his journal, listening to him dream aloud about the future, he’d been plain about wanting a family.

  “Brian ...” But her throat seemed to seize up.

  This was such a perfect moment, perhaps the most wonderful day of their lives; it wouldn’t be fair to spoil it. No, not now. It was too soon. And it was too late as well. She felt like a coward. She should have told him before, given him the chance to back out before that drunken chaplain slurred his final blessings. But everything had happened in such a blur ... except for the one thing that stood out clearly, then and now. She could not lose him. Not again. It would shrivel her up, make her want to die.

  “... don’t stop,” she murmured instead, letting herself feel the [282] delicious chill of his hand sliding down her belly. She opened her legs, allowing his fingers to move into her. “Oh yes, oh God, like that, just like that ... oh darling, if you don’t stop I’m going to come.”

  “Wait ...”

  Then he was inside her, really inside, moving on top of her with strong, trembling thrusts of his body, each one bringing its own small burst of pleasure. She arched her spine, curving to meet him, and at the same time running her hands over his buttocks—oh, the lovely concave shape of them!—feeling the pebbly tightness of his gooseflesh and, reaching lower, the little puckered seam leading like a trail to his testicles.

  Oh Brian, if only I could give you a child someday ... if only ...

  She felt a hot burst of sensation, a sexy powerful rush all through her, one made all the more exquisite by the fierce intensity of her longing.

  Then Brian was coming too, she could feel him spilling into her. And at that moment she felt suddenly lost, cut loose from Brian, spinning out of his orbit.

  No way to start a marriage. It’s wrong, she thought, all wrong, deceiving Brian like this.

  Tell him, she commanded herself. He’ll understand. He loves you.

  She opened her mouth, tried to whisper the words, but she could not push them past her throat. For a horrid moment, she once again saw in her mind the blue-white light on the surgical steel curette in David’s hand, and heard David’s angry, frightened voice: You’ll regret this someday. You’ll regret making me do this.

  Then the image faded. There was only the moist warmth of Brian’s body enveloping her, his hands cradling her head to him—hands so big they made her think of when she was very little, her earliest memories of her father holding her, her tiny skull nestled like an egg in his hands.

  She let out a muffled sob.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she lied. Then, her arms about the birdcage of his ribs, she squeezed so hard she could hear the sharp chuff of air leaving his lungs. “I’m so happy, that’s all. I cry when I’m happy, and when I’m upset or nervous, I laugh, really giggle like a madwoman.”

  [283] “In that case, I hope I never make you giggle.” And what Rachel hoped with all her soul was that it would stay just like this between them. Always. And she would tell him about the abortion ... soon. And he would understand. He would. Then it really would be perfect. No lies between them. The way it had been between Mama and Daddy.

  Chapter 17

  Since Brian had gone overseas, Rose had become an avid newspaper reader, sifting both the Times and the News every morning for reports of battles, bombings, any progress in peace negotiations, any scrap of information, however slight, to bolster her hope that the war might soon come to an end, that Brian might come home before his tour was over.

  She had gotten through the Times on the subway, and now she settled in at her desk—always immaculate and clear of papers first thing in the morning, pried the lid off her coffee container, and opened the Daily News.

  On page three, she saw a Vietnam story, and a grainy photo caught her eye—a guy in a tuxedo jacket embracing his bride. The caption read: WEDDING BELLS FOR HERO AND HIS LADY DOC.

  Rose skipped the opening lines full of names and ages, and jumped into the story, skimming quickly through it. A riveting tale of a woman doctor in a combat zone, and the dying soldier whose life she saved. The same soldier who later, defying orders, went AWOL to go behind enemy lines to rescue her. A love story, a fairy tale. Rose smiled, her heart lifting a fraction. You see, happy endings do sometimes exist. They’re not impossible.

  Rose glanced up again at the first paragraph, wanting to know these people, their names, where they were from. One name jumped out at her: Pfc. Brian McClanahan. 121st Infantry.

  The newsprint swam before Rose’s eyes, the photo blurred. Not
her Brian, no, this had to be another soldier with the same name. A coincidence, of course, that’s all it could possibly be.

  So then why was her heart burning so? Why this icy feeling in her gut? Oh Mother of God, could it be him?

  She felt dizzy, her mind whirling madly, as if she might go insane. And yet she knew she wouldn’t. Sanity was right here, all [285] around her, this desk, her work. Yes, this was what was real, sane, this steaming paper cup on her desk, this cassette of dictated letters waiting to be typed. And in a few minutes, Max Griffin striding down this corridor, flashing her his you-and-me-against-the-world grin, and wishing her a good morning that always lifted her spirits.

  But this photo, this face posing as Brian’s, was choking her, opening a black abyss in her mind that she could feel herself beginning to tumble into.

  Now the room was somehow tilting, her chair and the carpeted floor beneath it rolling out from under her. She grabbed the edge of her desk to steady herself, and knocked over the steaming cup by the phone. Coffee poured over the open paper, seeping through to the glass-topped desk, dripping onto her lap. And then she felt the heat, searing pain, as if a hot iron were pressing against her thighs. Hurts ... oh, it hurts ... Brian ...

  She forced herself to peer at the photo, closely this time, straining to bring it into focus. His face, oh God, it was his face. Even though now the photo was sodden and buckled, she recognized that face, its long beveled shape, those haunting eyes.

  Brian. Her Brian.

  Her worst fear of all. Brian in love with someone else. No, even more monstrous than that ... worse than she could have imagined. He was married.

  Black fury gripped her. He should have been killed, that would have been better. At least he’d still be mine.

  Rose sat back, trembling. God, she really was losing her mind. Had she actually thought such a thing? Brian dead? No, not that ... never that.

  This isn’t happening, she told herself. I’m just tired after last night, that phone call from Nonnie, all her whining about how everything hurts, how no one visits her. The old bat still thinking she can pull my strings, even from Syracuse. How could I sleep after that? No wonder I’m exhausted. Yes, this has to be some kind of hallucination, a sort of nightmare. ...

  With a fierce sweeping motion, Rose gathered the sodden newspaper up and shoved it into the wastebasket. Nothing there now, nothing at all. Why don’t I just clean up this mess? And this dress, this pretty flowered dress Brian bought me for my last birthday, I’d better soak it in cold water or it’ll stain—

  [286] Yes, that’s what she should do. Go home, now, this minute. Before the stain had a chance to set. Because once it set, no amount of scrubbing would get it out, no amount of soap or spot remover. Brian’s pretty dress. It might be ruined forever.

  And then that picture projected itself into her mind, and the words below.

  ... The young Columbia graduate was to be sent home from Okinawa with a Bronze Star ... but forged orders to return illegally to the combat zone where he almost had been killed weeks before ... defying virtually insurmountable odds to rescue the beautiful doctor who had saved his life ... the woman he loved. ...

  The woman he loved, Rose thought. But that’s me. I’m the one Brian loves. We’re going to be married. As soon as he gets home, as soon as—

  I have to get this stain out. Damn, it’s probably set by now. I must get home. I must ...

  Then she was rising, feeling disjointed, like a marionette with its strings tangled, her arms jerking at odd angles, her legs buckling, out of control. She was reaching for her purse, her arm stretching on and on forever, as if made of elastic, her hand at the end of it like something viewed from the wrong end of a telescope.

  Now she was walking, the corridor lined with doors leading to lawyers’ offices stretching before her, a tunnel that seemed endless. The carpet made of quicksand, dragging at her feet. Keep going. Go home. Yes, got to get this stain out, so Brian can come home. ...

  The massive double doors to the elevators. A car sliding open, then another. People pouring out into the hallway, streaming past, some nodding to her. All except one man, who held back as the others headed for the office doors. A big man, not tall, but solid—she imagined him solid all the way through like a tree trunk—wearing a tan jacket, carrying a briefcase, his broad, handsome face ruddy, as if he’d dashed up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, his graying brown hair crinkling up from its comb tracks. Max Griffin.

  Rose felt her confusion recede a little. This man would help her. He had before, hadn’t he? With that scholarship for the fall. And his talking to her, not like a boss, but like a friend.

  A corner of a paper, she observed, was sticking out from his [287] battered leather briefcase. She saw it as if looking through a magnifying glass, his hand gripping the briefcase’s worn leather handle, his powerful-looking wrist—all those appointments at the racquet-ball court—and the stainless Rolex strapped to it. The face of the watch was scratched, which he probably hadn’t even noticed.

  But now he was dropping the briefcase, stepping forward to grip both her elbows, seeming to support her whole weight almost.

  “Rose! What is it? You’re white as a ghost. Are you sick? Did you hurt yourself?”

  She shook her head. Why should she be sick? And how could she have hurt herself? No ... nothing so awful ... just this silly stain ...

  “I spilled my coffee,” she told him. “And now I’ve got it all over me, and I ... I have to get home. My dress. I’ll make up the time. Please. I have to go home.” Her voice, she thought, sounded tinny, strange.

  Max was looking at her oddly ... his square prizefighter’s face seeming to grow even squarer, his blue eyes sharper.

  “Come on then,” he said gently. “I’ll take you home.”

  She felt boneless, unable to protest. “Yes, home.”

  He steered her into the elevator, gripping her arm hard. Then they were in a taxi, swerving through the traffic, the windows rolled down and the sticky summer air rushing at her. Yet she felt cold, so cold, as if there were snow on the ground, snow all around her, inside her, freezing her heart. White noise like a blizzard roared inside her head.

  And everything was running together, all the colors of the city, the bright summer dresses of the women, the gay patchwork of magazines lining the shelves of a newsstand, the hot dog vendor’s striped umbrella, all smearing together, turning muddy.

  She began to shiver, her teeth chattering. She wanted to make herself stop, but she couldn’t.

  Max, his voice seeming to come from a great distance, through buzzing static, was saying, “You’re ill, Rose. I think I should take you to a doctor.”

  A doctor? What for? There was nothing wrong with her.

  She shook her head, and wrapped her arms about herself, determined to stop the shivering. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “This is silly. [288] You shouldn’t even be here, wasting your valuable time like this. You have to be in court in an hour.”

  “Never mind court. I’ll get a continuance. It’s you I’m worried about, Rose. You’ve got to tell me what happened. You look as if someone died.”

  Yes. A voice rose from the rushing static in her head. Brian, he’s gone. The same as dead.

  Rose brought her hands out in front of her as if to ward off a blow, as if the terrible thought was being aimed at her from outside, about to strike her.

  “No,” she cried. “No!”

  Max held her then, pinning her arms. “Rose, for God’s sake, what is it? What happened? Tell me!”

  She shook her head, violently. Please ... don’t make me say it. If I tell you, that will only make it more real.

  “I only want to help you,” he pressed. “But I can’t unless you tell me what’s wrong. Rose? Rose?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” She was struck by a sudden violent wave of nausea. “Oh, Max, I think I’m going to be sick.”

  But he only held her tighter, and she felt her nausea recede a li
ttle. Then, an interminable time later, he was helping her from the cab, supporting, no, carrying her almost up the dozens of stairs to her tiny studio.

  “It’s going to be okay, Rose,” Max soothed her. “Whatever it is, it will get better. And I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  No, she wanted to cry out to him. No. It was Brian who was supposed to take care of her. Brian always had taken care of her, hadn’t he? Only where was he now? She needed him now, more than ever before.

  But she felt so weak, hardly able to move. She allowed Max to pull off her shoes, then her dress ... her ruined dress ... and now, in her slip, shivering in the stifling heat ... she let him tuck her into bed as if she were a child.

  The room seemed suddenly too small, too dark, this Lower East Side studio she’d been so thrilled with when she first signed the lease. Quaint, the doll-size kitchen, the deep clawfoot tub, this couch that folded out into a bed. But now she was seeing how dark it truly was; no sun ever reached her back-alley window, with its [289] grim accordion gate. She saw that the geraniums she’d put out on the fire escape were dying, all droopy and brown. Her special place seemed now like a prison cell, gray, dangerous somehow.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Max was saying again. “You don’t have to talk about it. Just rest. Here, drink this.” He was pressing a glass to her lips, making her swallow something. “I’ll be here. I won’t leave you.”

  His kindness triggered something inside her, as if he’d pressed a button, releasing something awful, pain, the pain of knives piercing her, cutting her.

  She couldn’t move or breathe.

  She would die, surely die, from this pain.

  “Help me.” She found her voice. She grabbed for Max’s hand, his capable hand with its smooth broad palm and strong fingers; she clutched it between both of hers as if she were drowning, hanging on for dear life.

  “I’m here,” she heard him through the roaring in her ears. “I’m here, Rose.”

  Part II