“She’s a beauty,” Raymond whispered to me, “But she’s not for me. How about a date this evening?”
I laughed and pulled out a chair. Raymond sat down beside me. The honeymooners took their positions at the head and foot of the table. By then, Suzanne had already unhooked one of her cones and was handing it to Jim.
“I hear you’re a real pro at work,” Raymond began. “Or do you deny it?”
“I let people judge for themselves.”
“I always do. How long have you been married?”
“Four years. How long have you been single?”
“Four years,” he said. “Same as you. I was married once.” He looked at me with crystal blue eyes, so clear they stunned me. Then he turned and raised his voice.
“I’d like to make a toast.” He stood and waited for everyone to quiet down, then began to speak in the cadence of Shakespeare. “Let me not to the marriage—” he began, looking first at Dave and Lydia. The word marriage sent me down a silent tunnel until I heard “’Time’s fool,’” and I exited. Raymond finished and sat down.
Both David and Jim clapped for more.
“Thanks,” Raymond said. “But it’s the only one I know by heart.”
“How did you learn to recite like that?” I asked.
“I’m a man of many selves. Stockbroker, occasional actor, occasional fool,” he nodded, laughing.
“Fool?”
“In love.”
“A fool in love like the rest of us,” I mumbled before taking a long sip of my drink. I’d been busy writing contracts, returning phone calls. What did I know about love? All day I talked about slopes in the floor, cracks in the kitchen wall, leaks, divorces.
“Glasses!” Jim announced. “Here’s to love and a long marriage, communication,” he said with emphasis, “And a great sex life!”
Everyone laughed.
I smiled.
Raymond nodded.
David carved the leg of lamb while everyone helped themselves to beans and potatoes and salad. Jim talked to Suzanne and Lydia. David interrupted Jim. Raymond and I talked to each other, mostly about work.
“One of my clients disconnected his phone,” I explained, putting my fork down. “He put his house on the market then changed his mind. But he was afraid to tell me. I called and wrote. Finally, I drove to his house at seven in the morning and surprised him. We worked it out. He just called me the other day. He’s thinking of selling again.”
“That’s why you’re successful. You don’t give up.”
I shrugged. “That’s business. Tell me about acting. What’s the most important thing?”
“Credibility, of course, though I’m no pro. You have to connect with just one person out there in the audience. Like you,” he said suddenly. “You need to connect—”
“How would you know?”
“Sixth sense.”
That unnerved me and I turned to Jim watching Suzanne making a point with her red polished nails. Both earrings were on the tablecloth beside his plate. I was about to excuse myself to go to the ladies room, when the doorbell rang.
“I asked some friends for dessert,” David said, getting up to answer the door. Several couples piled into the hallway creating a squall of laughter.
“Wife,” Jim said to me, his voice loud from champagne and wine. “I want to dance. Let’s start the music.”
“Jim, later. Not now.”
“Come on, Laura. Dance. Come on.”
He came around and pulled me into the living room, toward the stack of records.
“I’m not in the mood right now.”
“You’re never in the mood,” he said, walking away.
I went upstairs to the bathroom and sat on the rim of the bathtub. The doorbell rang several more times. More laughter. Someone put on a Beatles’ album. I whispered the phrases I knew from the songs and traced a moldy line of caulking between the floor tiles.
“Where did you disappear to?” Raymond asked when I reached the bottom of the stairs. “You’re my date, remember?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
We walked back to the living room. Several couples were dancing. Other couples passed between rooms carrying plates of brownies and ice cream, nodding hello. More people arrived. In the middle of all this, Jim danced with Suzanne. Her arms hung all over his shoulders.
“I think, actually, we may leave soon,” I said.
“One dance,” Raymond said. “It’ll boost my self-esteem.”
Always, after I finish running, I mount the steps to my cottage two at a time, snapping past the grasses that are tough and poke at my skin.
Raymond’s shirt was soft against my chest the night we danced. He pressed his hand to my back and we moved in a small arc, not turning. I smelled the shampoo in his hair and for a moment, I closed my eyes. Then the music changed to something fast again. Jim came over and said it was getting late.
“It was a pleasure to dance with your wife,” Raymond said. “Maybe she’ll show me some houses sometime. I’ll call you about it,” he said, looking at me.
Jim clamped his arm around my waist, pulling me in.
The man and his dog are already gone at the end of my run and I start thinking that the problem isn’t just a problem but a matter of fate, like that man and his dog. Fate runs if you run, walks if you walk. No matter what, it stays by your side.
That night after David’s party, Jim swerved the steering wheel back and forth, his idea of a joke, his idea of everything under control. The car skidded across the snow and landed completely turned around in someone’s driveway.
“Jim, Christ!” I said. “What are you doing?” The purple white light from the street lamp made our skin look stiff as shopping bags.
“You’re drunk,” I said. “Let me drive.”
He put the car in reverse. I opened the door and planted one foot in the air. “I’m getting out.”
“Don’t get hysterical, Laura.”
“I’m getting in the back seat.”
“Go ahead. You do what you want anyway. You had such a good time with your new friend; next time I’ll stay home.”
“I see. Is that what’s going on here? You certainly had a good time with your new friend,” I said.
“Get in, Jesus,” he said looking into the rear view mirror at an approaching car. He yanked on my coat and reached across my lap to shut the door. “Don’t make a scene. This could be their driveway.”
“You’re the scene,” I laughed bitterly.
During these six weeks of living alone, I have twice walked into the kitchen and started stripping everything off. I imagine myself on film, the camera following me around my three small rooms. After I’ve unhooked my bra, the camera closes in on a shot of my clothes on the kitchen floor. Next thing, I’m in the shower. The window is open and the air is mixed with the smell of soap and the sea. I dress, put on make-up and walk out to the parking lot to a cheering crowd.
“Who’s unhappy today?” I ask the receptionist, a small-breasted college student who works part-time at the realty office. I usually stop at her desk when I come in.
“Mr. Raymond Martell. He’s called twice.”
I collect my pink slips and walk down the aisle of cubicles. Mine’s at the end. On the way, I’ll stop to chat with the others unless it’s the lunch hour. That’s when all the realtors are out. For a few weeks, Jim called almost every day around twelve-thirty.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“The same. You?”
“When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.”
Raymond is dark like Jim, but shorter. The night we danced our ears touched. For months I remembered, until the picture of him was so deep down in my mind I couldn’t see it anymore; until he reappeared one morning knocking on my cottage do
or, emerging out of the dark like a diver coming up for air.
“Remember me?” he said through the screen.
“Yes. Of course. Do you always get up this early?”
“When I want to see you. How about a walk?”
I hesitated. A bird fluttered behind him.
“I’ve been feeding them,” I explained, opening the door. “Now they expect to be fed.” I closed the door and got a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. “Take some. “ I opened the door again, handed him the loaf but stayed inside.
“I left two messages,” Raymond said, persisting. “Did you ever get them?”
“Yes. I did. I’m sorry I never called you back.”
Several more birds surrounded Raymond’s feet.
“That’s enough!” I shouted. The birds started fighting for the crumbs. I opened the door again and waved them away. “Sea pigeons. That’s what they really are.” My bathrobe was flannel but I crossed my arms, afraid he could see through it.
“Would you wait here a moment?” I said, disappearing into the bedroom. I grabbed a blouse and shorts and dressed frantically in the bluish morning light.
“This is crazy,” I said, joining him outside.
“Fools are crazy, remember?” he said, smiling at me.
“Maybe they are, maybe not.”
We stopped on the steps to watch the sun burning up the sea.
“I’m still looking for a house,” he said.
“How do I know you’re serious?”
“I fell in love at a party.” He turned away and started down the stairs. “That’s serious enough.”
I followed him down, amazed. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, his sturdy arm muscles so unlike Jim’s wiry, runner’s arms. We crossed the sand and walked alongside the water.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “I’m going in.”
Icy smooth waves gleamed and cracked.
“I have to watch this,” I said.
He unzipped his pants but kept his underwear on, then tossed his shirt and dungarees on the ground.
“Here’s to something good,” he added and dove in.
I caught a glimpse of his firm, round butt in spite of myself and laughed when he sauntered out dripping. Jim would have gone back to get the bathing suit, the towel, the latest style in slippers before going in. I laughed again.
“You can use my shower,” I offered.
“‘A women’s beauty,” he recited, grinning, “Is like a white/Frail bird … ’” He was cheerful, waving his arms in the air. Then he stopped. “You feeling happier these days?” He rolled up his clothes and tucked them under one arm.
“I don’t know about happy.”
“I was talking to Dave about you,” he said, touching my cheek.
I looked down at the hairs on his legs, smoother than a seal’s.
“You don’t love Jim. I knew that evening at Dave’s.”
“That’s my business.”
“Nobody else’s.”
I started walking away toward the stairs.
“Where you running to?” he called after me.
“Listen. I’m sorry,” I said, stopping. I feathered the sand with my toe. “Would you like some coffee?”
At the house, Raymond showered quickly, drank a cup and went home. When he left I sat absorbing the new air in my house, as if it had blown up from the dunes. My mind felt lighter, full of jet streams. The phone rang once but I let the machine take care of it. Finally, I got up to take a shower only to discover his underwear in a clump under the pedestal sink. It startled me; soft white jockey shorts on the hard white ceramic tile. I left them there. Should I have thrown them in the wastebasket? One way or another, it wouldn’t have mattered in the end.
More days passed, ten eleven hours when my mind undulated upward and back. I got home from driving around, turned on the machine, stared at my hands, waited for some kind of answer to wash ashore, some kind of relief. But only work thoughts like invisible organisms filtered in: how I needed to call a bank, or a house inspector or the surveyor of someone’s land, and once again I began listening to messages, rewinding the tape, returning calls, setting up appointments, convincing Mr. And Mrs. X why a certain house was perfect for them, well-priced, why they shouldn’t wait.
“I’m looking for a house; can you help me?” Raymond asked. It was his opening line three weeks ago when he walked into my office for the very first time.
“Possibly,” I said.
I showed him an old Victorian not far from Saltwater Pond, just outside the city. An elderly man lived there for thirty-six years.
“‘Call out dear secrets!’” Raymond shouted to the empty walls. Not a single chair had been left behind. He started up the stairs. I followed.
“It’s got four bedrooms,” I explained. “Three on the second, one on the third floor. What do you think so far?”
“I think there’s plenty of room for you and me, and guests, if we feel like it.”
“Fantasy life,” I said.
“Bet you have one, too.”
He inspected the bathroom, the medicine chest, the drawers in the linen cabinet. He turned on the faucet and we watched the water drain slowly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “This plumbing could dampen my fantasy.”
“It’ll cost you. The master bedroom’s to the left.”
I walked down the hall. The floors creaked and my heels clattered against the floorboards. Raymond wore sneakers. He disappeared into the master closet, suddenly, soundlessly. I opened the window in the bedroom and saw an old discarded pillow lying under a tree.
“Let’s go downstairs,” I called to him.
He reappeared and followed me down. “Are you going to go back to him, Laura?”
I gripped the banister. “How can you ask?”
“You ought to make up your mind.”
“Why?”
“So I can make love to you.”
“Oh, God,” I said, sitting on the step.
He looked at me and his eyes asked me to open up.
“I can’t yet,” I said gently.
He nodded. “Listen,” he said, sitting beside me. “Dave told me you were a lot happier in college.”
“Everybody was.”
“That’s cynical.”
“How do you know David?” I asked.
“We grew up together. Same neighborhood. Same schools.”
I looked through the balustrade at the empty hallway below. Several keys were available. I knew any realtor could walk in.
“We’d better go,” I said.
I dropped him off at his car in front of my office and went back to my desk to check messages. The man who had been afraid to put his house up for sale called me back once again.
“Laura,” he began when I answered. “You won’t believe this, but I’m not ready to sell. I don’t mean to sound crazy,” he added, coughing into the phone, “but damn, it just doesn’t feel right.”
“Go with your feelings. You don’t want to force it. Call me when you’re ready.” I wished him well and hung up.
That same day I went back to the Three Stars bookstore.
“They stimulate consciousness,” the woman said, boxing up the crystal. “Make sure it gets plenty of light.”
When I returned to the cottage I put the quartz rock on the windowsill next to the bed. Jim would have thought it was foolish. “Where’s your brain, Laura?” he would have said. Maybe most people would have thought so too. A crystal is like a heart. If you look into it long enough you’ll see the essence, your emotions pared down to clear matter.
A few days later I called Jim.
“We need to talk.”
“You mean you’re ready to end your vacation from me?”
“It’s not a vacation.”
; “Okay. Stay there. I’ll be over.”
I sat on the front step of the cottage, no longer waiting. He came just before dark, carrying sandwiches and a six-pack of beer, looking thinner, more determinedly himself. He sat next to me, his long legs stretched out.
“Okay, Laura, what’s the problem?”
I began slowly. “We don’t see things the same way. Do we? I mean. Maybe we haven’t for a long time. Maybe we never did. I’m not trying to find fault.”
He nodded to himself. “I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking. I think you want a baby. It’s time. I think you’ve really blown this out of proportion. We’ve both been busy.”
I bit into the sandwich but I didn’t want it.
“You know,” he said, finishing his beer. “You’re always upset. I think you should see a therapist.”
“What’s therapy got to do with this?” I asked, standing.
“All you think about is Laura. It’s pathetic.”
“I’m pathetic then,” I said.
He stood up and went inside to go to the bathroom. I watched a whirl of bugs bang stupidly against the kitchen light.
“You goddamn bitch!” he said, kicking open the door.
I flinched. “What? What!”
“Collecting men’s underwear? Didn’t take you long.”
“That’s not true!” I said, reaching my hand out. “Jim wait! Jim!” I screamed.
He started to sprint and quickly turned the corner out of sight. I went inside and started scrubbing the coffee stains on the stove. I scrubbed the sink. I washed the floor. I kept looking at the clock. The hands hardly moved. When I was certain he would be home, I pushed the automatic dial on the phone. No answer. I pushed it again. The continuous ringing numbed my ear. He had to be home. I slammed down the receiver and ran to the car.
When I arrived at my old house, every room was lit up, none of the shades drawn, except one. For a moment I sat in the car but I guess no dog or master of fate needed to tell me what to do. I rang the doorbell. No response, except the sound of the CD’s bass vibrating through the door. I went around to the basement and let myself in.
In the dark I smelled our laundry soap and the clean linoleum tiles. I started up the basement stairs. He opened the door.
Women in Bed Page 9