“And your father?”
“Wolf.”
“Wolf? Your father was called Wolf?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, amused by her defensiveness. “You admit it’s an unusual name?”
“It’s a German name. He was German. I’m half-German. Technically it should be pronounced ‘Volf’—that’s how his grandparents said it—but we’re American, you know, so we say Wolf, which is what it means.” She took a breath, steadying herself. “A little more than a year ago, Wolf learned he had pancreatic cancer. It was terminal. The doctors said he might have three, maybe six months to live.”
“I’m sorry.” He put his hand on hers, but she did not appear to notice.
“When Wolf found out he had cancer he decided not to wait for the end. He took the canoe out on the lake late one night and shot himself.”
“Oh my God.”
“The shot woke me, and—”
“You were living here?” he asked, surprised.
“I moved back shortly after my mother died. I didn’t want Wolf to be alone.”
He thought of the photograph of Gretchen in her father’s arms and wondered if it had been taken before or after Mrs. Stark’s death.
“Anyway, I was saying—I didn’t know if I had dreamed the sound or if it was a crack of thunder. There was a storm building, like today. I got up and found I was alone in the house. But both cars were in the garage. Something made me walk down to the dock, and I saw the canoe floating, and I stripped off my clothes and swam out to it and found…” She choked and turned her head away. Even a warrior maiden is not invulnerable, he thought.
But when she turned back to him, her eyes were dry. “Now you know how I was abandoned by the man who meant everything to me—let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Sure. But I want you to know that I’m here for you,” he said gently. With his parents still alive, Brad had as yet little close experience of death. But of all the ways to lose a loved one, suicide must be the most heartbreakingly difficult.
* * *
—
Dinner was delicious: broiled chicken breasts in lemon-butter sauce, sautéed fresh asparagus, wild rice, and more wine, although Brad was careful not to drink too much. He wanted to keep a clear head.
After witnessing the grief her memories caused her, Brad made sure their dinner conversation stayed away from the past. He asked for her favorite poets, and they matched his with a spooky degree of accuracy—Yeats, Blake, MacLeish, Merwin, Harsent, and Simic, of course, and with every agreement he felt another link forged between them.
Encouraged by her show of interest, he itemized some details of his modest publishing career but was careful not to go on too long. “Enough about me,” he said at last. “Tell me about your work.”
She shrugged. “What is there to tell? I began to write poetry at the age of seven, and I’m still writing.”
“Have you been published?” When she shook her head he asked, “Where have you submitted?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t submit.”
“What? That’s crazy. I’m sorry.” He held up his hands. “But you are an intelligent, educated woman who has been writing nearly all your life. I refuse to believe you could not get published.”
“A lot of crap gets published,” she said crisply. “Why should I add to the steaming heap?”
He whistled. “Wow. High standards, lady. I’m impressed, but—are you happy writing only for yourself?”
She shook her head. “I would like to be published—but only if my poems are good enough.”
“You expect me to believe that you have never written even one ‘good enough’ poem—and yet you haven’t given up? You are still trying and failing?”
A flush rose in her tanned cheeks. “It’s hard to give up writing. As hard as giving up hope—hard as giving up on love.” Abruptly she stood and stepped away from the table.
He rose, too. “Let me help you with the dishes.”
She shook her head. “That’s very sweet, but…leave them for now. Bring your glass.” She picked up her own. “I thought we’d be more comfortable on the couch.”
He admired her rear view as she walked ahead of him, and a few moments later he admired her courage. He had thought she meant to change the subject, to keep things light, but as soon as they were sitting comfortably, she plunged back in:
“The night my father died, and the day after—I didn’t sleep for two days—I wrote like I never had before. It gushed out like blood. I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d tried. And…it was good. Not all of it, no, but in the end, I knew. I had a dozen good poems, and five or six of them may even have been great. I think even my father would have agreed.”
She gave a pained laugh. “But he wasn’t there to say! And if he had been there, I could not have written them. I was only able to write them because he had died.”
He heard her through, amazed. “Where did you send them?”
“I burned them.” Her shoulders slumped and she sighed. “I was a little crazy. Mad with grief. When I was young, I used to write a letter to Santa—did you do that?”
“Yeah, sure, but what—”
“Did you burn it afterward?”
“Burn it? No, why?”
“Tradition. You write the letter and then you send it to Santa up the chimney.” She gestured at the fireplace.
“My parents’ house didn’t have a fireplace.”
She smiled wistfully. “We always had fires in December. Anyway, I think that must have been in my mind—Daddy was Santa, and now he was even farther away than the North Pole, but maybe if I sent my poems up the chimney he could read them. Wolf was the only audience I ever cared about.”
Knowing it was a risk, he said, “I’d like to read something of yours.”
She turned to him, put her hands on his face and fixed him with her astonishing blue eyes. “No. Read me,” she breathed, and kissed him.
Her mouth was open and warm and wet, her tongue darted in to meet his, and the kiss went on and on. They remained connected this way even as they slid down on the couch, stroking and caressing and pressing their bodies against each other. It was intoxicating, but also frustrating—he wanted more, wanted to be closer still, and so did she. Moved by a common desire, they struggled to undress each other until finally, giggling and breathless, she extricated herself, peeled off her top and shorts, and sprinted away.
Struggling to get out of his own clothes, Brad hurried after. In the master bedroom they grappled and rolled together on top of the deep blue silk bedspread.
Gretchen took charge immediately, flexing her finely toned muscles, and when Brad tried to assert himself, she quickly reestablished her dominance. Delicious though it felt, he could not let her get away with it, and although it required more of a struggle than he’d expected, he soon triumphed, forcing her onto her back, pinned down and at his mercy.
He saw a flash of panic in her eyes as she realized she could not escape his grip, but then she stopped resisting, and her eyes went vague and glassy as she arched her back and offered herself up to him with a long, low moan.
Their lovemaking was vigorous, almost violent, with little tenderness about it. But they were well matched. And when Gretchen once more asserted herself, he let her take the dominant position. Brad had never been with a woman who was so clearly his physical equal in strength, and if the occasional feeling of being her plaything was disturbing, it was also intensely exciting.
Gretchen was the warrior maiden, he was her stallion, clutched between her thighs, rearing and bucking, whipped and driven to obey her, because only he could carry them both beyond the bounds of earth, into the stormy sky. He was lost in a delirious dream, a passionate encounter b
eyond anything he had ever experienced.
Finally they fell back to earth, onto the soft pillows, exhausted, sweat-soaked, spent and satiated. Brad closed his eyes and took deep breaths, letting the chill from the air-conditioning cool him down. He was drifting on the edge of sleep when he felt Gretchen’s hand press on his ribcage. “Don’t leave me.”
His eyes snapped open. Her face, sad and beautiful, filled his gaze. “Are you kidding? Do I look like I’m going anywhere?”
“You looked like you were going to sleep.”
“That’s not allowed?”
She shook her head. “Not without me.”
He patted the bed. “Lie down; I’ll take you to dreamland.”
But she slid away, out of bed, and walked over to the vanity table where she found an elastic band and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. She looked over her naked back at him. “Don’t say I’ve worn you out already.”
Why did she have to spoil the mood? It made him angry. Determined not to show it, he managed to force a smile. “Come back to bed and we’ll see who’s worn out.”
“I want to go for a swim.”
“In the dark?”
“I love swimming at night. Have you ever tried it?”
He heard a faint, distant rumble of thunder. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a storm coming.”
“It’s miles away.” She turned to face him. “What’s wrong? Can’t you swim?”
“Hell, yes, I can swim,” he said, stung. “I’ve even worked as a lifeguard, so I bet I know more than you about staying safe.”
“I’ve been swimming in the lake for years. Day and night. And right now, I need it. It’s wonderful. Come on, Brad, let me show you.” She turned and stretched out her arms to him, a beautiful, seductive siren. The sight made his heart turn over; he almost gave in to this strange whim of hers, until a flicker of lightning reminded him what a stupid idea that was.
“Come back here and I’ll show you something better,” he said, trying to match her seductiveness.
She stared at him a moment, and then, with a sigh, she walked away, disappearing into the bathroom.
He sank back but could not relax. He remembered his last night with Letty. The last time they had made love, the last time they had fought. When, finally, he could take no more of her goading, and hit her. And saw the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, and realized that he had done just what she wanted. She wanted out of the marriage, but on her own terms—so she could claim she was an innocent victim. The realization had made him even angrier, but somehow he had managed to walk out, rather than beating her senseless as she deserved.
He didn’t have to put up with Gretchen’s nonsense. He could walk out now, get dressed, get in his car, drive away, and never see her again.
But then, unwanted, the image rose in his mind of that disturbing photograph of Gretchen in her father’s arms, and he thought of her waking, perhaps in this very bed, hearing the sound of a shot echoing across the lake.
Her father had died last summer, during a storm on the lake she was so determined to swim in now. Tonight might even be the anniversary of his death. Suddenly he thought of Sylvia Plath, the famous poet suicide—not represented in Gretchen’s library, but, like her, a tall and physically striking German American goddess with unresolved daddy issues.
Gretchen emerged, her glorious golden body concealed in a blue terrycloth robe, a towel tucked under one arm, and walked past the end of the bed without looking at him.
He sat bolt upright. “Hey.”
She stopped in the doorway. “Don’t worry, I won’t beg you to come. I don’t expect you to understand—but I really need a swim right now.”
He scooted off the edge of the bed and was beside her before she had finished speaking. “You’re right. I don’t understand. And I don’t like it. But I won’t let you go by yourself.” He put his arms around her and felt the tension in her body before she briefly surrendered to his embrace.
Then she pulled away, smiling. “I’ll fetch another towel and a flashlight. Put your pants on and meet me in the kitchen.”
He wandered back to the living room, picking up the clothes he had left strewn along the way, and put on his jeans. As he did, he heard a distant sound, muffled and familiar, a rhythmic dull tattoo on the night air: bass note of bum-bum-bum. What was it? Then he remembered: That was the noise that came from the tailpipe of Carlos the yardman’s van.
Gretchen came through and he stopped her, a finger to his lips: “Listen.”
They stood for a few moments in strained silence before she demanded, “What?”
“I thought I heard…Does Carlos ever come out this way at night?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought I heard his van outside.”
“Oh, God.”
“What?”
“It’s started. I should never have told you about him. You are jealous.”
He waved it off impatiently. “I’m telling you, I heard an engine noise.”
She stared at him coldly. “Somebody drives along Caldwell Bay Road—maybe a couple of teens looking for a place to park—and you think it must be my yardman—”
“Your ex-lover.”
“—coming out to murder us?”
A tense silence fell. Then Brad said stubbornly, “It sounded like his van. I noticed before that it made a particular noise. I know what a bad muffler sounds like.”
“You think it’s the only vehicle in the county with a bad muffler? Anyway, I didn’t hear anything.”
“Neither do I, now,” he admitted. “Maybe whoever it was is gone. But I did hear it.”
There was another peal of thunder, sounding closer this time.
“If you want to leave, go now,” she said quietly. “Just go. Don’t bother with excuses. I was alone before I met you and I…I should be used to being alone. I’ll feel better in the water.”
She walked away, and for a moment he was tempted. He could walk out of her house, out of her life, right now. Maybe she only wanted a swim—but what if she was determined to die? He could not take the risk. He knew he would never forgive himself if he heard in the next few days that a body had been found in the lake. So he followed her.
Outside, he paused to look up toward the fence and the still-open front gate. He could not see the van or any other vehicle.
“This way,” said Gretchen, and he turned. After the pale spill of light in the walkway, the beam of her flashlight illumined their barefoot descent down a long flight of concrete steps.
“We can take the canoe and swim off of it,” she said.
This seemed to him even more foolish than simply diving off the dock; they would be so much farther from land, it would be harder to get back quickly if the storm struck while they were in the water. As for the canoe—he saw it now, upturned on the grassy shore, not fiberglass or wood as he had expected, but aluminium—that surely would be a target for the lightning.
Yet there was no point in arguing with Gretchen, who seemed to be exhibiting compulsive behavior. Did she feel driven to reenact her father’s final journey, under the illusion that she could still save him, or to punish herself for her perceived failure? Maybe by going along with Gretchen now, Brad could help her break the cycle of guilt and regret.
When she dropped her robe on to the weathered slats of the dock, he stripped off his jeans and followed her without a word along the shore and helped her haul the canoe upright. It was an easy task, for the craft was no more than twelve feet from stem to stern and surprisingly light.
“You get in first, then I’ll push us off,” she instructed, and he settled himself on the rear seat. The muscles in her shoulders and biceps bulging like iron plates, she thrust the canoe into the water with one powerful shove, then, in
a well-practiced move, leapt in at the last second.
As they paddled out, a dark horizontal blanket of clouds moved slowly across the low sky. Thunder sounded, very close.
“Here, this looks like a good spot,” she said, and, squatting amidships, she sprang out into the water. A moment later, he followed her in.
The water felt surprisingly good, warm and caressing, as he swam after her. She vanished, then reappeared, facing him, treading water, smiling. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” They swam together for several minutes in the warm and dreamy dark, and Brad relaxed and began to think that everything was going to be all right. His fears for the woman beside him must be misplaced—she looked too happy and relaxed to be a potential suicide. Maybe she just had a thing about going swimming after sex. He would have preferred a shower, himself, but there was something attractively primal about swimming in a state of nature, surrounded by the night.
Then came a hard, jolting boom of thunder and a great bolt of lightning struck down to the west, on the far side of the lake. As if by magic, the bolt hung suspended in the dark sky, like a great inverted tree of light, laterally stretching out long sizzling branches that curled into a monster’s claws.
Brad sucked in a shocked breath. “That’s too close. This is crazy. I’m going back. And if you have any sense, you’ll come, too.”
Without waiting for her reply, forgetting everything else in the imperative of self-preservation, he began to swim. When he reached the canoe he looked back, and saw Gretchen coming after him. He sighed with relief, and waited a few moments for her to catch up before grasping the portside gunwale and pulling himself up to where he had a dim but unobstructed view of both dock and shore.
Volume Ten Page 16