“But I do.” She pressed her lips together for a moment, eyes moving away. “I do. Because I love you too, you see.” She looked at him. “And I’m so scared, Howard,” she murmured, closing her eyes, “I’m just so scared.”
He was over there in a moment, taking the glass out of her hand and putting it on the sill, and then taking her into his arms. “Amanda, don’t,” he whispered as she started to cry.
“I can’t help it, Howard. I’m just such a mess. You don’t know, you just don’t know,” she sobbed into his shoulder.
“No, Amanda, no,” he said, holding her tighter. “Darling, you don’t know what the world is like. We’re all a mess, we’re all just pretending to know what it is we’re doing, and the rest of the time...” He sighed. “The rest of the time, Amanda”—he kissed the side of her head—”we spend fantasizing about people we think can fix everything. And they never do. But we keep waiting for them to do it for us anyway. You know that—God, Amanda, in my book, you’re way ahead of the rest of us.” He kissed the side of her head again. “You’re writing a book—teaching—taking care of Mrs. Goldblum, of Rosanne. Amanda, you are not a mess. The world’s a mess, not you.” He stepped back to bring her head up. Her face was stained with tears, and he smiled, kissing her on the forehead. Then he reached back into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here,” he said, wiping her face. And then he held it to her nose.
“Oh, Howard,” Amanda groaned, swiping the handkerchief out of his hand. “I’m not that much of a child.” He laughed as she turned away to blow her nose.
Then he took her arm, and pulled her to the couch. He sat them both down. “Listen,” he said, taking the handkerchief out of her hands and throwing it on the table. “I have something I need to tell you.”
She looked at him, a touch of fear returning to her eyes.
He took her hands. “I didn’t leave Melissa,” he said. “She threw me out. She was also the one who filed for divorce.”
No reaction. And then, “Did you want the divorce?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did. But I didn’t want you to think I was able to come to that decision right away. It was made for me. And I’m glad, only...” He sighed. “I wish I could tell you I had been the one—”
“I know, darling,” she said, bringing up a hand to his face. They looked at one another, a bit sad, and then Amanda’s face came alive. “Try as you might, Mr. Stewart,” she said, sweeping her hand out to gesture to the apartment, “it will be very hard for you to minimize all that you are doing.”
Howard smiled, threw his arm around Amanda and pulled her in against his side. “Bet you never saw the Taj Mahal before,” he said, looking at the room.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Good,” he pronounced, “so now you know this is it. This is what all the hoopla’s about.”
She smiled and suddenly dropped her head to his chest. “I do so love you,” she sighed, holding onto him.
“I know,” he said, stroking her hair.
Her head jerked up. “Do you suppose I’ll ever be able to make love with you on Mondays—ever?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “God, Amanda!”
“Wait, wait!” she cried, scrambling to her knees, going up to hold his head between her hands. “Darling, Howard, you don’t know how hard it was for me to keep you away on Mondays! And for what? Ghosts!”
He closed his eyes, starting to laugh again.
She gave his head a little shake. “Don’t you know how I longed to be with you?” she scolded. “Whenever I could be?” She stopped shaking his head and simply held it, staring down into his eyes.
Howard reached up to take her hands. He kissed one and then the other. “I’m laughing because I thought you were seeing someone else while you were seeing me,” he said.
Her expression turned to utter amazement. She sat back down on her heels. “After you?” she finally said. She went back up onto her knees. “After you?” she repeated, slipping off his glasses and tossing them behind her. “Golly,” she said, holding his head, “you’re really quite as mad as I am.” And then she brought her head down to kiss him.
His arms slid around her and Amanda, still holding him, still kissing him, moved her leg over to straddle his lap. Once there, she raised her head from his mouth, looked in his eyes—smiling a mysterious smile—and slowly moved her hips down around him. He managed to move them both farther out on the couch and Amanda really smiled then, settling in and sliding her legs all the way around him.
She sighed, smiling, and touched his hair. “The only problem is,” she murmured, “I can’t tell if that’s you or the material of my dress caught between my legs.
He squirmed slightly. “Both,” he said, stretching his neck to kiss her.
And then they went reckless with each other, not caring at all for the welfare of their clothes. Amanda’s dress was off before her scarf, Howard’s pants before his shirt, and this went here and that went there and Amanda’s bracelets were rolling about on the floor and she was reaching down into his shorts and he was ready to rip her brassiere apart out of impatience and Amanda was laughing and he was laughing and then Amanda sat up and said, “I don’t have my diaphragm.”
They sat there. She hit him on the chest. “The diaphragm you made me get, thank you very much.”
And Howard said not to worry, he had something, and went off to the bathroom and came back and found Amanda completely naked, standing about the pillows she had pulled off the couch. “How does one operate such a thing?” she wanted to know.
They did not get it right. First Howard had to hold Amanda naked against him. And then he had to remember her breasts. And then Amanda had to do something about his Jockey shorts and certainly, certainly, offer a warm greeting to all that had been carried in them and that seemed so eager for her to do so. But they finally did pull the couch out into a bed and they did carry on about the condom Howard had brought from the bathroom. “What do you mean you never used one, Howard, don’t tell me this is left over from high school.”
“Yikes, it’s cold, Amanda.”
“Don’t be silly, it will be more than sufficiently warm in a moment” —and their sex was a great, urgent, noisy affair, and both came very quickly and quite happily so, and within a half hour Howard was padding back to the bathroom again for another condom and they started in all over again, all over each other, and this time there was no fuss over the condom but instead over who might expire first, Amanda or Howard, in this splendid game of trying not to come, of trying to hold back—teetering, edging back, edging forward but—oh-not-quite, edging back—and then Amanda said, “I am going to die if I don’t come,” and so she did—very loudly so—and then Howard didn’t stand a chance, not with the kinds of things that Amanda was saying, and so he came too, making a great masculine-moaning event out of it, and it was only when he was still that Amanda started laughing into his neck, quite unable to stop, and Howard said, “What is it?” and she whispered in his ear and then he sat bolt upright and looked to the window.
They had not gone unobserved.
Howard dove back down and hid his face in her hair, asking now what was he supposed to do—”some literary agency, this is”—and Amanda couldn’t stop laughing, but when she did she wanted to know how on earth were they ever going to get up with all those people there.
40
SAM’S AFTERNOON
Sam and Cassy finished talking with the doctor and walked back into the detox ward. It was not a cheery place. In every bed lay a man rendered helpless by drug withdrawal. Alcohol, barbiturates, amphetamines, tranquilizers, heroin, crack... legal and illegal addicts alike, each was struggling against the horrors left by the chemicals listed on his chart.
Michael Cochran, with five days behind him, was the best of the lot. He knew where he was; he had not had a seizure for three days; he could eat something this morning and it had stayed down. Sitting at his bedside was his son Henry. Henry was pale beneath
his tan, thoroughly shaken by the sights the ward had to offer. Next to him, on Michael’s bedside table, was an enormous vase of flowers Cassy had brought two days before.
Following his father’s eyes, Henry turned around. His face eased slightly. “Here comes Mom,” he said. Michael, fingering the neck of his hospital gown, did not say anything. His eyes followed Cassy as Sam steered her to his bedside. Cassy sat down opposite Henry; Michael raised his hand slightly and Cassy reached to take it. Hold it. Sam, standing next to Cassy, cleared his throat. Michael continued to look at Cassy; Cassy was trying to offer Henry a smile of reassurance.
Cassy turned to Michael. “Michael—”
“I love you,” he said.
Cassy was near tears. She rose from her chair and leaned over the bed to hold her husband for a moment. “Don’t be frightened, sweetheart,” she whispered.
Sam cleared his throat again. Cassy released Michael—he held onto her arm as she sat down—and she looked up at Sam briefly. She coughed. “Michael,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “you have to do it.”
“But I’m fine, Cass,” he said. “In a few days—”
“You’re not fine, Michael.” Pause. “You’re very ill and you have to get well.” She sighed, looking down, taking his hand in both of hers. “I want you to do what the doctor says.” She brought her eyes up to meet his. “And it’s not just the drinking. It’s the pills too.”
Michael shook his head. “Come on, Cass.”
Sam nudged Cassy’s leg with his foot.
“You’re addicted to alcohol, Michael, and you’re addicted to pills. I’ve just been with Dr. Warren—Michael, he knows, he knows what he’s talking about. And he says if you don’t go for treatment, you might—”
Michael pulled his hand away from her and crossed his arms. “What?”
Pause.”—I don’t want you to die, Michael,” Cassy said, starting to cry. “Please—Michael, you’ve got to get some help.” Sam handed her his handkerchief.
“I’m not going to drink anymore, Cass,” Michael finally said. “I learned my lesson.”
“There’s no lesson left to learn,” Sam said quietly. “There’s only a choice. Whether or not you want your life back.”
“Christ, Wyatt,” Michael muttered.
Cassy raised her head. “If you don’t go for treatment—” Michael’s eyes narrowed. “—you can’t come home,” she finished. After a moment, “I mean it, Michael. You leave here and you’re on your own.”
Michael turned to Henry. “What do you think about that? Your mom’s throwing me out of my own house.” Henry looked to Sam. “Stop looking at him and answer me, Henry. Do you think this is fair?”
Michael paused and then went on. “You heard what I told her—I told your mother I’m not going to drink anymore. You believe me, don’t you? You know I won’t.”
Henry turned away.
“Henry.” He looked back at his father. “Do you think she’s being fair?”Michael asked him. “She isn’t, is she? No, she’s not.” A sob from Cassy made Michael’s head swivel in her direction. “For Pete’s sake, Cassy, what the hell are you bawling about? I’m the one whose family’s walking out.”
“Dad—”
“Even that bitch of a mother of yours didn’t walk out on your father—”
“And he’s dead!” Cassy screamed, standing up. “God damn you, Michael!” she cried, pounding the bed. “Don’t you get it? You’re dying, Michael. You’re going to die just like he did!” She recoiled suddenly, covering her mouth. She spun around, blindly pushed Sam out of the way, and ran out of the ward, heels echoing down the hall.
A nurse hovered nearby, watching.
Sam sighed and dropped down in Cassy’s chair.
Across from him, Henry was crying. Silently.
Michael covered his face with his hands. “Leave me alone,” he said, bowing his head.
Sam’s eyes shifted to Henry. Henry wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Dad,” he said, touching his father’s shoulder.
“No,” Michael said, jerking away. “I don’t want you to see me like this. Go away.”
Henry looked at Sam, wiped the side of his face again, and tried again. “We want you to come home. More than anything. But you have to go to that place first. It won’t be for long.” Pause. Sniff. “Dad, Mr. Wyatt went there. And he’s okay now.”
Silence. “Henry,” Sam said gently, “why don’t you go see if your mother’s okay? I’d like to talk to your father for a while.”
Harriet heard the front door close. “Althea?”
“Guess again!”
“Sam?”she called. “I’m here. In the bedroom.”
Ina minute Sam appeared in the doorway, carrying a quart bottle of spring water. “What are you doing home?” he asked, tired, leaning heavily against the door frame, twisting the cap off the bottle.
Harriet was still in her work clothes, lying on top of their bed, a copy of Publishers Weekly resting on her stomach. “I’m on strike,” she announced. “What about you?”
He raised the bottle and chug-a-lugged several mouthfuls. “Ahhh,” he said, lowering the bottle and moving into the bedroom. He loosened his tie, looking out the window. “I went to see Cochran with Cassy.” He put the bottle down to take off his jacket.
“How did it go?” Harriet asked, propping her head up with another pillow.
Sam slid his tie off and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He tossed the tie on the chair, picked up the bottle, and moved over to the bed. “Cassy’s flying him out to Hazelden.”
“Oh, thank God. That’s wonderful, Sam.”
Sam sighed, sitting down by Harriet’s feet. He took another slug of water. “Man, it wasn’t easy,” he said. He bent over to untie his shoes.
“It’s wonderful, Sam. You should feel very good.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, slipping his shoes off. He held the bottle in one hand and scooted up on his side next to Harriet, propping himself up on one elbow. He kissed her on the mouth.
“Hi, handsome,” she said, smoothing his eyebrow.
He rested the bottom of the bottle on her forehead for a moment, leaving a ring of moisture on her skin. He smiled, took another swig, and reached over her to put the bottle on the night table. “So you’re on strike, huh?”
Harriet closed her eyes, smiling. “Sperry went crazy today in preliminary sales conference and I walked out!’ Sam curled up next to her, resting the side of his face on her chest. “You did?”
“I sure did,” she said, stroking his hair.
“Do you want to quit?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She laughed.
Sam chuckled too. “What?”
“He knocked Layton over backward in his chair.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. We were just sitting there, listening to Patricia doing her presentations, and—”
“Patricia?”
“MacMannis.”
“Oh, right.”
They lay there for several moments, all quiet but for their breathing.
Sam propped himself back up on his elbow to look at her. “Do you want to go to Kenya?”
Harriet’s eyes opened. “Kenya?”
“Uh-huh. We were talking about it this morning. Paul thought it might be a good idea if I could see the machines coming off the assembly line with my own eyes.” He traced her mouth, lightly, with his forefinger. “What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
He laughed, bending to kiss her neck. “You’re a big help. Do you want to quit?” he said, nuzzling her ear. “’I don’t know.’ Do you want to go to Kenya? ‘I don’t know.’”
Harriet squirmed, ticklish. “But I don’t know.”
Sam raised his head. “I think we should go. You’ve got a hundred and ten years of vacation coming...”
“But everything is such a mess at work right now—”
“It’s always a mess—”
“What abou
t the girls?”
“We’ll get your parents to come up. It’ll just be for three weeks.”
“Three weeks!”
“I thought we might take two weeks and travel around...”
Harriet pulled him down on top of her, slipping her arms around him. “I’m scared to think about it, it sounds so wonderful.”
“Good. Then we’re going. I’ll tell Paul tomorrow.”
“Sperry will hit the roof—”
“Let him,” Sam said, gently pressing himself against her.
“It will have to be after sales conference—”
“Right, right...
“Sam—”
“Mmm?”
“Honey, close the door. Althea might—”
Sam groaned, rolling off her. “Kids,” he growled, getting up and closing the door. He turned around.
Harriet waved. “Hi.”
He took a running leap and Harriet shrieked.
41
SUNDAY
PART I: BREAKFAST AT AMANDA’S
“Hi! We’re here!” Rosanne called, taking her keys out of Amanda’s door. “Hey, hold on a minute,” she said, nabbing Jason by the collar of his baseball jacket. “Come on, sweetie, let’s take off your jacket and hang it up.”
“Hi,” Amanda said, sailing into the hall, cotton caftan trailing in behind her. “We’ve only just sat down to breakfast.” She bent over to kiss Jason. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Would you like some waffles?”
He nodded. “Is Missy here?”
“She’s been waiting all week to see you.”
Rosanne was hanging his jacket up in the closet. “Say hello to Mrs. G first, Jason.”
“’Kay.” He was off.
“Man, this cat,” Rosanne sighed, closing the closet door. “He’ll probably want to sleep with the thing.”
Amanda smiled. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay, I guess,” Rosanne sighed. “But I’ll sure feel better after we move in. The Rubinowitzes...”
“Fortuitously,” Amanda said, ushering Rosanne ahead by the elbow, “we must only wait for a few more days.” The women walked into the kitchen where they were just in time to see Mrs. Goldblum give Jason a bite of her waffle.
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