‘To try and save my marriage — our marriage — while there’s still time? No, you didn’t. But you should have, judging from the way you’re acting,’ he replied.
‘It’s over.’
‘It is not over.’ And now his eyes fairly blazed. ‘It’s not over until we make it be over, and that, dear lady witch, we have yet to do.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ Ruth shuddered even as she snarled at him, shuddered at how those few words could so easily stab her like a knife, could so easily demoralise her.
‘You used to like it,’ he remarked quietly, not really arguing with her, but making his point none the less.
‘It used to mean something,’ Ruth replied coldly.
‘It still does,’ Kurtis said, his eyes as cold as her words.
‘Maybe to you,’ she sneered, but kept her eyes averted. She couldn’t say that and meet his gaze. And he knew it, she realised.
Fingers cupped at her chin, lightly lifting her head so that she had to meet his eyes.
‘To you, too, and there’s no sense denying it, Ruth, any more than there’s any sense in trying to deny that you loved me, and still do.’
‘Which means nothing, especially to you,’ she replied. ‘If it ever did, which I doubt.’
‘That’s a bit heavy, don’t you think? After all, you have it in writing, and many times over, if I may say so.’
‘Me and how many other girls?’ she snapped, reality now creeping in to put a firm texture to her pain. ‘I bet there are thousands of your so-called love letters floating around, tucked away in bureau drawers, buried in a thousand glory boxes.’
The fury of the challenge seemed to miss him; he sat and regarded her soberly, his eyes soft now with feelings or memory, his voice when he spoke equally soft.
‘And where do you keep yours?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Under the kitchen sink with the rest of the rubbish,’ she cried, lying and knowing he knew she was lying, knowing herself it was a smaller lie than she’d intended, that she’d really wanted to tell him she hadn’t bothered to keep his letters, not daring to admit she couldn’t even imagine not keeping them.
Ruth could feel the tears gathering behind her eyes, could feel the hot coals of frustration building inside her tummy. How dared he come back into her life now! How dared he dredge up the feelings and emotions she’d so carefully buried? It wasn’t fair, she wanted to cry, but she didn’t, because that, too, would be an admission of how strong her feelings remained.
‘Every word of every letter I ever wrote you was the simple truth,’ he said, and his voice dared her to deny it, even to try to deny it. ‘Every word!’
‘At the time, perhaps,’ Ruth grudgingly admitted, although it really wasn’t an admission so much as a fruitless try to make him shut up, to make him change the subject.
‘I don’t recall putting a time limit on anything,’ he said then, and she could have screamed with the frustration of it all. She didn’t want this discussion, didn’t want him there, sitting across from her, able to touch her with his eyes, with his very presence.
‘And especially not on your so-called “trap line”,’ Ruth replied, and could have bitten off her tongue. It wasn’t what she had intended to say, wasn’t what she’d wanted to say. She couldn’t even begin to imagine where the words had come from!
Kurtis raised one eyebrow and his mouth quirked into a semblance of a grin, but it was a grin without humour, chilling in its coldness.
‘Ah,’ he sighed, then fell silent. But the single exhalation was enough to drag Ruth back into memory, back into the wonder of his letters, his weird, convoluted mind, his inane sense of humour. And one letter, especially, which had arrived about a week after his second visit to Hobart, after he had taken Ruth to her own bed in an explosion of emotions and sheer physical delight that she never would, never could, forget...
In the letter Kurtis had used, as he occasionally did, an alter-ego servant to put into words what he apparently felt uncomfortable about saying for himself.
‘You, my lady witch, admit not planning for romance on this year’s agenda. My master, lusty fellow that he is, did, of course, plan on it, but only in terms of casual dalliance. His trap line — about which more later — was set with quick-release equipment. A good workman never blames his tools, so my master suspects he, himself, has lost his touch. Or else, he wonders, has he strayed too far afield and wandered into a witchly snare, forgotten and unnoticed? Or, most likely, a bit of both and isn’t it bloody wonderful? Sorry, my mistress, I was carried away by the magic of it all. Is it not truly amazing, however, how the best laid plans ... etc? And even more wonderful how impossible it is to release something that is already free, and cherished for it?
Kurtis’ ‘trap line’ was something they’d discussed more or less as a joke, he insisting it was so little used as to be irrelevant, Ruth not particularly concerned one way or the other until their going to bed together had made it exceptionally relevant — at least in her own eyes.
The exquisite Rosemary had emerged then, as if in some rude parody of their private witch-warlock personalities, and hovered spectre-like over Ruth’s feelings about Kurtis and their entire relationship.
She had therefore been of two minds when confronted with the way his letter continued…
‘My master bids me to report that the aforementioned trap line has fallen into such general disuse as to be abandoned. Except, of course, for the Hobart spur! The trap in the herb garden, unfortunately, has a release mechanism tangled with a certain amount of undischarged obligation, and, lest innocent plants be injured in the untangling, my master begs your indulgence, faith, and understanding in this matter. This is all, of course, his own fault for not sticking to the agenda, but dear my mistress, he does have a conscience, truly he does...’
Ruth had read those passages so often she knew them by heart almost a year later, and still they had the power both to quicken her heart and stab it with icicles at the same time.
At the time it had been easy enough, her romance so buoyant, so all-encompassing that understanding of a sort had come easily, almost willingly.
Of course Kurtis had been involved with Rosemary, and of course there were ‘undischarged obligations’; they were, after all, linked in business together. He had never admitted nor even suggested a physical involvement, and Ruth knew that at the time she had never truly considered one. Had never wanted to, had shrugged off as much as she could the elegant woman’s insinuations in that direction. Now, of course, she could see that as selective seeing and hearing; there had been a physical involvement and only a love-struck fool could have missed it!
Only a love-struck fool, only a woman obsessed with love for its own sake, could have so blithely ignored Rosemary’s needling remarks, could have ignored the woman’s possessive attitude, her haughty, self-assured smugness.
But I was in love, gullible, naïve — especially naïve — and I got exactly what I asked for, Ruth now thought, looking at Kurtis across the restaurant table but not really seeing him. What she was seeing was herself, those many months ago, when he’d followed up that particular letter some weeks later with a gesture so typically flamboyant, so totally outrageous, that it had knocked her flat. Just as he’d intended, the devious, cunning swine that he was!
The parcel had arrived without a return address, without a note inside, without a single word of explanation. Not that it had needed any, really. Or so she’d thought upon opening it to stare with initial bewilderment at the contents.
Tidily packed in an audio cassette’s plastic case, sealed with a stick-on heart, had been a mousetrap with a sprig of green plant caught under the killing bar.
Ruth had stood staring at it, bemused, for some moments before the message fairly leapt out at her. The sprig of green was rosemary, and what Kurtis had sent her was, if his convoluted logic meant anything at all, the trap from the herb garden!
She had laughed then, only to find her laughter waning to tears of
relief at the unlikely token and at just how really significant it was, tears of joy and wonder that he would recognise her needs, would bother to pander to them.
It couldn’t be clearer, she’d thought at the time. He’d abandoned his trap line, just as the earlier letter had promised, and this was the final trap, the one clogged with what he’d so tidily called, through his servant, ‘undischarged obligations’. It was probably what Kurtis occasionally referred to as a ‘definitive statement’, she’d thought at the time. And had been pleased to accept that definition, delighted to accept it.
Her relief must have been obvious when he’d telephoned a few days later and casually, late in the conversation, had asked if she’d received ‘the parcel’.
‘Yes,’ she’d replied.
‘No problem understanding it?’
‘No,’ she’d said, only to wonder if the parcel had contained some other message, some more subtle message that she somehow might have missed.
She had rushed to extricate it from where it lived, with every letter he’d written, in the drawer of her bedside table, and had examined the box from every possible angle without learning anything new. It was, quite obviously, the trap from the herb garden, Kurtis’ definitive statement that Rosemary was no longer an issue. If there were any other message involved, she’d have to wait for him to explain it.
Which he never had, although not for lack of opportunity, and it wasn’t until after they were married and it was too late that Ruth had realised why!
But another tribute to her innocence, her sheer naïveté, she thought now. If Kurtis himself had given her no startling clues to what was really going on, Rosemary herself had provided a multitude, each typical of her devious sophistication.
‘It was all a lie, wasn’t it?’ Ruth asked, making the question an accusation, her voice icy, her bluntness deliberate. Enough of this, she suddenly thought. If he wanted meaningful dialogue, he’d damned well get it. Perhaps then he would leave her alone, get out of her life once and for all, leave her to go on in her own way, without him, without his damnable letters, his damnable ability to turn her on and off like a light switch.
‘What was all a lie?’
‘You had ... Rosemary in your bed before you met me, and she never really left it, did she? She was always there, even after ... after we were ... were married.’ Ruth had to struggle to get the words out, found Rosemary’s very name seemed to cloy on her lips, found the thought of Kurtis and Rosemary together just as sick-making as it had, almost a year ago, when she’d left him.
Kurtis didn’t reply immediately. He stared across the table at her, glanced down at his coffee, then up to meet Ruth’s eyes once again. His own eyes were unreadable, merely pools of bleak emptiness.
Then he shook his head, sadly, and finally said, ‘You really believe that. Which makes it an impossible accusation to refute, because I can see that you’re not going to believe me no matter what I say.’
‘Probably.’ Ruth’s voice was as bleak as his eyes, deliberately.
‘And is that what all this is about?’ he asked in a voice so low she could barely hear him. ‘Is that why you left, why you ran, why we’ve spent the past near as dammit a year apart? Just that?’
‘Just that? I would have thought it was more than enough,’ Ruth replied hotly. Although it wasn’t just that. That was only a tiny portion of what had gone wrong, had been wrong from the very start, if she’d only had the sense to realise it, Ruth knew. And even now the problem was putting it into words, because that would mean admitting her own flaws.
It would mean admitting that her own lack of self- worth, her own sense of inadequacy, her lack of sophistication and her lack of confidence had all been contributing factors. That because she couldn’t feel comfortable in Kurtis’ high-flying lifestyle she had run from it, and from him. Rosemary was only an excuse and Ruth knew it; knew she could have forgiven him Rosemary, but she couldn’t forgive herself for not being able to compete, for never really trying.
‘It would be enough if it were true, I suppose,’ Kurtis mused, not bothering to meet her eyes. He wasn’t trying to fight her accusation, didn’t seem much fussed about it all. ‘It might even be enough if that were all there was to it, which we both know it isn’t,’ he continued, now gazing sombrely at her but without even the beat of anger in his eyes, just a placid calm that was somehow more disturbing.
‘I know what I know,’ Ruth retorted. ‘What you know, or think you know, isn’t my concern any more.’
‘Want to bet?’ And now his eyes flashed with ... something. It didn’t appear to be anger, although Ruth couldn’t be totally sure. Kurtis was slow to anger, she knew, and during the length of their relationship she had hardly ever seen him truly angry. And never, she realised, truly angry with her!
‘Anyway,’ he said abruptly, ‘this isn’t getting us anywhere; I don’t know why I should have thought it would.’
And, rising to his feet, he stalked across to the cashier without a backward glance, paid the bill, then shot an impatient look at Ruth and walked over to the exit, where he stood waiting until she joined him.
Once on the footpath, he walked swiftly to where the car was parked, while she, with little alternative, could only follow at her own pace. He drove back to her flat in silence, but it was too much to hope that he would simply drop her off and leave — oh, no! He was right there with her when Ruth unlocked the door, had followed her in before she had any chance to object, and seconds later was ensconced on her lounge suite, his eyes directing her to sit in her habitual chair.
‘We’ve had enough coffee for now, I think,’ he said gravely. ‘But not enough of what is euphemistically termed “meaningful dialogue”. Ignoring, for now, this rubbish about Rosemary and me, what other things contributed to the downfall of our marriage, Ruth?’
And then, to her horror, he clammed up. He sat there, silent and disapproving, his presence seeming to fill the room like a giant black cloud, demanding answers, demanding that she respond. They sat staring at each other for what seemed hours, Ruth determined not to be dominated, Kurtis so totally at ease that he dominated without any effort at all. Ruth broke first.
‘I don’t see why we should ignore the issue of you and Rosemary,’ she began, only to have him wave her comment aside with a swipe of his hand, a contemptuous wave.
‘Stop being evasive,’ he growled. ‘If s a load of rubbish and you either know it or you should.’ And then, with frightening insight, ‘Besides, if that’s the best argument you can present for having run like a rabbit, I’m wasting my time even being here because my judgement is so totally questionable as to have no value at all.’
His eyes glowed now, his gaze roving over Ruth with a casual familiarity that fairly screamed out possession, intimate knowledge. ‘And my judgement was never that bad,’ he said, his voice soft-edged but firm as cement.
‘Maybe,’ Ruth heard herself replying in a voice she could barely recognise, ‘that’s been the problem all along. Maybe your judgement of me has always been totally questionable.’
His snort of derision was as explosive as the movement which suddenly had him before her, his hands clasping her upper arms to lift her to her feet, forcing her to face him from inches away.
‘Hmmph!’ he snorted. And his mouth then swooped down to capture her lips, his kiss punishing, a fearful blend of hot and cold, gentle and rough, seeking and demanding.
Ruth had no chance to avoid the kiss, no chance once begun really to fight against it. His lips forced her to respond; his closeness was a ruthless assault on her personal space, her determination not to let him touch her.
The kiss went on and on and on, his grip on her arms holding her still while his mouth plundered her own, his breath sweetly mingling with hers despite her objections. Never in all their relationship had he kissed her with such impersonal and yet intimate effect; never had he used physical means with such strength, such anger.
But then, as abruptly as he’d begun it, he
stopped. Ruth was quite unceremoniously released, to land with a thud back in her chair. The impact was sufficient to blur her vision, and when it returned she saw Kurtis back in his own seat, glaring at her with what could have been hostility or just plain satisfaction.
‘Right ... enough of the bulldust,’ he growled. ‘You have the floor, my lady witch, and I would advise you to make the most of it, because otherwise we’re going to be at this for a very, very long time.’
Ruth could only stare, her mind a kaleidoscope of images, her emotional state so thoroughly confused, she hardly knew what she felt. Even her anger had been disrupted; she now felt only a kind of disorientation.
Kurtis remained silent, watching her with the patience of some great predator, his eyes revealing nothing, his posture showing only a readiness to get physical again if such were needed.
Ruth dropped her eyes, fighting for control, struggling to find some order to her thoughts. But Kurtis grew impatient with her delaying tactics, and spoke before she could.
‘Let’s start with the premise, dear Ruth, that our whole relationship went too fast for you right from the beginning, which is my fault in a way, although before God I did try to keep the speed down to something manageable. Obviously, I failed, or is that putting it just too simply for you?’
‘It ... yes, it was too fast,’ she finally managed to say. But that wasn’t a sufficient explanation and she knew it. ‘But ... it wasn’t really your fault; it was mine more than anyone’s.’
How it hurt to utter those words, yet how great the relief actually to say it out loud! Ruth sighed with the relief, sighed with having taken that undeniable fact out and laid it between them, finally visible for what it was.
Kurtis sighed too, but his sigh was one of anger, of rank frustration.
‘I should have known,’ he muttered softly. ‘I asked you often enough, and even though you always denied it the fact that I was prompted to ask should have warned me.’
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