"Oh, right!" He slapped his hand against the side of his head. "Genital dictation. Silly old me!" He smiled and leaned over to give her a kiss. "Stay the night."
"I can't."
"Sure you can." He looked at his watch. "It's almost eleven. Call home and say you'll be back in the morning."
"I don't know," she said, wavering.
He reached across to the phone on the coffee table and set it down in her lap. "Call home, Eva."
"If I do this, she'll know for sure we're having an affair."
"She already knows that," he said. "She probably figured it out after our first date."
"I didn't sleep with you on our first date."
"No, but you thought about it."
"So did you," she countered.
"Damned right, cupcake. Now call home." He gave her another kiss, then sat back to wait.
Feeling like a guilty teenager, Eva dialed and listened to the ringing start on the other end. On the second ring, Bobby answered. Relieved, Eva said, "Hi. It's me. I hope I didn't wake you."
"Oh, no," Bobby said in a hushed voice. "I was just sitting here, reading.”
"Well, good. I wanted to let you know I won't be home tonight."
"Okay."
"Would you mind locking up?"
"No, I don't mind. Anything else you want done?"
"No, thanks. I'll see you in the morning."
"Okay, bye."
Eva hung up out of breath.
"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Charlie said.
"No comment." She returned the phone to the coffee table and drank first a swallow of coffee, then one of the liqueur. Ray was singing "You Don't Know Me." She pushed off her shoes, then swung her legs up and across Charlie's lap. "Well"—she sighed—"now Bobby knows as well as Aunt Alma."
"They'll have the sex police out after you," he quipped.
She laughed and took hold of his hand, threading her fingers through his. "Where do your kids go for Thanksgiving?"
"Home to Bets. Why?"
"Want to come to my house?"
"Sure, I'd love to."
"Okay. Good."
"So," he said, "care for another dance?"
She shook her head. "I'm too comfortable."
"I could put the speakers on in the bedroom."
"That'd be nice."
"Let's do it," he said, lifting her legs off his lap. Going over to the stereo system, he threw a switch, then waited as she got up carrying a drink in each hand.
Charlie dreamed he was at a convention in a huge hotel. Doctors crowded the corridors, filled the escalators going in both directions. Bored, he removed the badge from his lapel and dropped it into his pocket. He fished a room key out of his pocket and strolled toward the bank of elevators, thinking he'd pack his bag and catch a plane home. He not only hated conventions, he also hated hotels. There were always windows you couldn't open and heating or air conditioning that made the room too hot or too cold and couldn't be shut off. He disliked water glasses in little inverted paper bags, plastic convenience packs of shampoo, diagonal strips across toilet seats, and hotel furniture, particularly the beds.
He got off on the fortieth floor and headed for his room, determined to call the airlines and get on the first flight back to New York. His car was parked in the long-term lot at LaGuardia. Traffic permitting, he could make it home in thirty-five or forty minutes. He'd call Eva and maybe she'd be able to come over.
Inserting his key in the lock, he turned the knob only to find the chain in place on the door. "What the hell?" he muttered.
"Just a moment," came Bets's voice from inside, and the door closed briefly.
The sound of her voice gave him a sick, guilty feeling. He heard the chain being removed, then she called, "Okay. Come on in," and he pushed open the door to see her sitting naked on the edge of the table by the window. The sight made his stomach clench like a fist. Why wouldn't she give up the fight and get on with her life? Why did she have to keep making these dismal plays to get him back? He hated to see her losing her dignity. "What are you doing here?" he asked tonelessly.
"I know how much you hate these things, Charlie," she said, her hands on her knees, which were slightly parted, her feet swinging gently. "So I came to take you home."
Closing the door, he turned and stared at her.
"Come here," she said, holding open her arms. "We've just got time to do this before our flight."
He kept his distance, trying to think how to get her to go. She was only doing this to compound his guilt.
"Bets," he said. "I thought we'd settled this a long time ago."
She leaned back, regarding him with calculating eyes. "It'll never be settled," she said, her thighs parting a little more.
"Don't do this," he pleaded. "You're only making things more difficult."
"We have fifteen minutes before you have to zip me into the suitbag," she said.
"Look, this is ridiculous," he said. "I've got patients to see."
It was true. He looked over his shoulder to see half a dozen people sitting in straight-backed chairs reading old copies of National Geographic.
"I've got to go home anyway," she said, slipping down off the table. She began dressing, and he felt relief easing the tension in his chest. He hated the way she insisted on clinging to something that was long dead. "I've got a cab waiting," she said, and went out, leaving the door open.
"Am I next?" asked an elderly woman, setting aside her magazine and getting to her feet.
His throat choking closed, he nodded, and the woman hobbled toward him. He shut his eyes and when he opened them he was standing in a deserted corridor trying to remember where Eva had said she'd be waiting. He started walking, badly needing to see Eva. Please be there, he prayed.
Glancing over at the luminous dial of the clock on her bedside table, Alma saw it was nearly midnight. She folded her right arm back, tucking her hand beneath her head, and contemplated the darkness. It felt odd without Eva in the house. It was one of the few times she'd spent an entire night with Charlie. Alma didn't mind. After all, Eva was a middle-aged woman, not some naive teenager. What bothered her was the way Eva's life seemed to be mirroring her own. Being witness to another woman's evolution was now acutely painful to her. It made her miserably aware of all that had once been and could never be again. It required considerable effort not to become envious and bitter when confronted by that other woman's still-firm flesh, by the multiplicity of possibilities that still existed for her. What made it bearable, of course, was the love. But even so, it wasn't easy to look into that empty mirror, knowing it needn't have been that way.
And once again she found herself reviewing that so well remembered evening forty-three years before, scanning it as if for details she might have missed.
They'd been sitting on the glider, talking quietly so as not to be overheard by her parents and Cora in the living room only a few feet away. Then, abruptly, Randy had said, "Let's take a walk. There's something I have to tell you." And with a sense of dread, she'd followed him off the porch.
In the darkness of the cool summer evening they walked along the road, the music from the radio thinning, then disappearing, the farther they got from the house. She felt an icy stabbing in her heart, an apprehension that was so palpable she could almost see and taste it. It was strange, but she'd never until that moment realized that fear could leave a metallic taste on the tongue, or that it could envelop one like a heavy second skin.
Randy was talking, but she didn't hear the individual words so much as she absorbed an overall sense of their meaning. "Something I never meant to happen... You have to believe I'd never hurt you … It just happened …" His words hovered in the air between them like frozen crystals, and all she could think was that she'd been played for a fool. And it hurt. There'd never been a pain quite like this, not even when, as a child, she'd fallen down the flight of stairs leading from the attic and had fractured her arm. That had been a localized pain. She'd been able to vi
ew it objectively, even with awe. At the age of five it had never occurred to her that the interior of her body was capable of being broken, that inside her flesh were countless fragile bones. She'd thought of herself as all of a piece. But the cracked radius proved graphically that she was comprised of many parts, any of which could sustain damage.
At twenty-four she was no longer a child. But she was as shocked and dismayed by this new form of pain as she'd been by that old injury. No one had ever warned her of anything as vicious as the damage she was suffering internally as a result of what Randy had to say.
There was another woman, and he'd made her pregnant. He had no alternative but to marry her. He'd been making love to both of them. Alma had had the wits to take precautions, the other woman had not. Did that make Alma the better or wiser of the two? Perhaps. But there was no satisfaction to be gained from being better and wiser. She felt simply foolish. And coupled with the pain was a gathering rage at the realization that she'd been used and was now being discarded.
"You have to believe … How sorry I am … I swear to God I never … You're the one I really love … "
She was unimpressed by his tears, by his apologies and explanations; she scarcely heard them. She was all at once actively engaged in the process of ripping from her interior the roots of her considerable affection for this feckless young man.
Without a word, she turned and ran, leaving him alone on the dark road with his seemingly limitless supply of words. She ran, feeling the impact jarring her spine, rattling her teeth. Her jaws clamped shut, she ran and ran.
Her father had taken one look at her and he'd known. It still amazed her that the person she'd deemed least likely to perceive any change in her, knew instantly that her world had been upended. Saying nothing to disturb the newly pregnant Cora or her mother, who were playing a game of rummy, her father set aside his newspaper, got up, caught Alma at the foot of the stairs, and directed her to the kitchen.
"I think a drink is in order," he said, sounding very like a doctor giving a prescription, and took a bottle of scotch and two glasses from the cupboard. He poured a measure of the liquor in each, handed one to Alma, and said, "Drink that. It'll help."
She obeyed like an automaton, then shuddered as the scotch seared its way down her throat.
"Would you like to talk about it?" he'd asked, his heavy brows drawn together in concern.
"I can't," she'd managed to get out, praying he wouldn't persist. If she had to speak, she'd go to pieces, perhaps never recover.
"I understand," he'd said, his sympathetic eyes boring holes in her resolve.
They'd stood in silence for a few moments, then her father had said, "I know right now you feel you've lost everything of consequence, but if you take the time to think about it, you'll see that you've actually gained something."
"What?" she'd asked hoarsely, unable to see any possibility of gains. All she could feel were the losses. She'd been carrying around mental portraits of her children and suddenly those images had been eradicated. She was in a state of mourning, as if actual children had died.
"You've gained a new insight," he said. "Consider it, Alma," he'd counseled. "There's a lesson to be learned in every experience."
"Oh, yes," she'd said bitterly, with a tremendous effort of will keeping her spine straight, her chin up. Her body wanted to collapse in on itself.
"We've all of us had our hearts broken, one way and another. It's part of the human experience. I know you don't want to hear any of this," he'd said, again demonstrating his uncanny awareness, "but in time I believe you'll see the truth of what I'm saying."
There was another brief silence as they gazed at each other. She was tempted to throw herself into her father's arms, allow him to comfort her, but she couldn't do it. She refused to display any hint of weakness. Her stomach roiling from the scotch, she'd said, "Thank you, Father. I'm very tired. I think I'll go up to bed."
"Of course," he'd said. And as he did every night, he kissed her on the forehead, then busied himself returning the liquor to the cabinet and rinsing the glasses in the sink.
She'd started for the door, telling herself to turn back and seek her father's embrace, take the comfort he was then, and always had been, prepared to offer. Go over and let him put his arms around you, she told herself But she kept going. Her legs moved, taking her to the hallway, to the stairs, to the landing, to her room. Not bothering to turn on the light, she sat on the bed, feeling the marrow dry in her bones, going to powder. She was as hollow as a woodwind, the breeze making a faint moaning noise as it penetrated the dusty interior of her bones.
She did learn something that night, but it wasn't what her father would have wished. She'd discovered to her horror that, her contempt notwithstanding, she had the capacity to be a silly female. She'd been one with Randy Wheeler. She'd never do it again. Even if she found someone else to marry, she would never reveal herself completely. She would always, no matter what, keep a part of herself safely in reserve.
Ten
Ruby arrived Monday morning as the school bus was pulling away. "Hair looks real nice," Ruby said, with a smile as they entered the house together. "Real nice." Bobby thanked her, and went downstairs to make the beds while Ruby collected her cleaning materials and went off to Eva's office.
On her way up to get Alma, Bobby stopped in the kitchen to glance at the refrigerator. There was a check, but it was for Ruby, and Bobby scrupulously avoided looking at the amount. Eva came in with Alma's tray just then, instantly misinterpreted what Bobby had been doing, and said in frosty tones, "Ruby is paid roughly the same daily rate as you are."
"Oh, no," Bobby said, fairly stricken by the thinly disguised accusation
that she'd been snooping. "I wasn't looking at that." "It certainly looked as if you were." "No, ma'am," Bobby said. "I was just seeing if there was a check for me." Oh hell! Eva thought, setting the tray on the counter. Why was she such
a bitch to this woman? "I'm sorry," she said, turning from the counter to see that Bobby was chewing on her lower lip, visibly upset. Eva wanted to take hold of her by the shoulders and shout, "Fight back! Don't just take this crap from people!" What she did say was, "I'll give you your check before I take my aunt for her doctor's appointment."
"Okay," Bobby said. "That'll be fine. I'll go on up now." "I'm sorry," Eva said again. "It'll take us a while to get used to each other." "Yes, ma'am," Bobby said, and fairly flew out of the room. "What's the matter with you?" Alma asked at once. "Nothing. I'm fine," Bobby said, moving the wheelchair over by the bed.
"Did you have a good night?" "What, in your opinion constitutes a good night?" Alma asked gruffly. "That'd be one when I slept right the way through without waking three
or four times." "You do that?" "Uh-hunh." "Why?" "I have bad dreams," Bobby said, getting Alma settled in the chair. "Every night?" "Uh-hunh. But I'm used to it. D'you sleep right the way through?" "Usually," Alma said. "Mind you, I sleep at least two hours less a night
than I used to." "My grandpa did that, too. The older he got, the less he slept. Until he took sick. Then he woke up every couple of hours. I'll be right here waiting," she said, leaving Alma alone in the bathroom.
On impulse, she busied herself straightening the bedclothes while she waited, folding the top sheet back, then plumping the pillows. Alma called for her and she went to start the water going in the tub before getting Alma out of her nightgown.
"We oughta do them exercises," she said.
"We ought to do those exercises," Alma corrected her. "And to hell with it. They're pointless."
"But that Dennis said they'd help."
"Dennis is well-intentioned but misinformed."
"Well, I think we should do them anyway. It won't hurt."
"Feel free to do them, then," Alma said. "I'll watch."
Bobby shook her head with a smile as she eased Alma into the warm water. "You sure are stubborn."
"That is correct."
"Today's a hair-washing day,
right?"
"I suppose it is."
"Okay," Bobby said, and slipped off her shoes and socks before rolling up her pant legs. Aware that Alma was watching her, she said, "What?"
"The hair makes a remarkable difference. You're really very pretty."
"Oh, no," Bobby said, abashed. "I'm real … really ordinary."
"When someone pays you a compliment," Alma said sternly, "accept it and say thank you. Don't twist it into a pretzel."
"Okay. Thank you. Would you like me to do your back?"
"I would, please."
Alma handed her the soap and Bobby knelt at the side of the tub to lather up the washcloth. "I dreamed about you last night," she admitted.
"Did you? What did you dream?"
"We were sitting out on the back lawn, and you called me by my real name."
"Did I? And what is your real name?"
"Barbara."
"That's an infinitely more appropriate name than Bobby."
"What does that mean?" Bobby asked.
"It means simply that it suits you better. It has more dignity."
Bobby shook her head and said, "I don't have any dignity."
"Of course you do."
"I had any dignity, I wouldn't've stuck with Joe for so long."
"Perhaps not. But that's self-esteem, not dignity. And I'd have to agree you're somewhat deficient in that area. It's hardly surprising, though."
"I guess I had it beat out of me."
"Beaten."
"Yeah."
"You assumed you were always in the wrong, I suppose."
"Uh-hunh. I was forever trying to do things exactly right, so's not to make him mad. It took me a long time to figure out there was never going to be any right way. I'd always be wrong, no matter what."
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