by Susan Wilson
The Japanese tourists passed us by, nodding a little in our direction and then the place was ours alone.
Ben gathered my left hand between his. “I think the most important thing you should know is that this is not your fault. It wasn't your fault the first time and it isn't your fault now. What I mean to say is, Sean's affair most likely has nothing to do with you, with your worth or even with how much he loves you. Sometimes things happen that are beyond our control, or the control of those people hurting us.”
“I don't understand.” I meant I didn't understand how he knew so precisely what I was feeling.
Because he hadn't spoken of this to anyone, he stumbled at first, then warmed up and began to tell the story, picking up rhythm as he went along. “I was all wrong for Talia. I was too old, too goy, too former rock musician. I was everything her parents feared for her, so I was, in her eyes, perfect. For a while that was enough. For a while our mutual interest in getting her jazz career launched was enough. But the truth is that we were opposites, the only thing we had in common was music. We only saw eye to eye in that. She craved fame, I'd had it. She liked being the wife of a former rock star, I wanted only to create a quiet home. In the end, she wanted freedom and I represented constraint.”
Ben pulled himself into the present. “Sorry, I don't mean to digress, but you should know the background so that you understand the ending.”
“Tell me the story any way you want. We have all the time in the world.”
His voice had become soothing, melodic in a way I hadn't noticed before. I leaned into his story, happy to devote my concentration to it instead of to my own. I understood the power of the bedtime story. Even though the ending would prove to be scary, the telling of it would be cathartic for both of us.
He took a moment and then continued. “I believe we had what might be termed a tumultuous marriage. Sometimes the only thing I was certain about was that we loved each other. I was certain we did because the music we played together was proof of it. It was like our child, newly created each time. We could begin the day screaming at each other about her traveling too much or my wanting to be here instead of at some New York publicity event, but when we got to the studio, my God, it was all forgotten as her notes shadowed by mine described a love affair with sound.”
I realized that as he spoke, Ben had drifted into that lonesome abyss where memory becomes acute, where it becomes present time. It was what he was seeing, it was what he was reexperiencing, and I was only audience to his private soliloquy. I waited for him to tell me why I should accept no fault for the mess my marriage was in. Waited for him to pick up the story of his own shattered life.
“Sometimes I think that I fell in love with the music, not the woman. The first time I heard her play it was if she was an enchantress. She used her whole body, swaying and dipping with the sound of her own creation. Her eyes were closed and she was as mesmerizing to watch as to hear. How could I not have fallen in love?”
I stroked his forearm, let him know I was there and listening. It seemed as though we were alone in a vast wood. It was growing late and no more groups of Japanese tourists wandered by as we continued to sit on the flat rock near the outcropping. The incessant rush of water lay as background music to Ben's story. I thought to myself— what a cutting thing it is to love someone.
“Eventually we grew apart. The distance between us was physical. Talia was on the road more and more, and she was resolute in not letting me do more than join her for a weekend if the tour took her close by. She said that she respected my distaste for touring, she didn't want to interfere with my composing, she loved me but it was better that she go it alone.
“I allowed for her age, her natural desire to be young among youth, not dragging an old man around with her, who might disapprove of some of the choices she made. Choices endemic to such a lifestyle.”
I thought I knew what he meant by choices. Although he didn't come right out and say it, I assumed that he meant he had turned a blind eye to the drugs. As we sat in the shadows of the woods and the sun began to lower, cooling the air around us into a comforting breeze, Ben talked.
“By last year, Talia had pretty much stopped coming home. She'd only come twice to the cabin on Cameo Lake in the previous six months. So it was a complete surprise when I heard the taxi horn blowing and there was Talia, standing at the boat ramp, waving this big straw hat she only wore here.
“She was so radiant, even from that distance, I could see the luminescence in her smile. Even knowing that she graced everyone with that smile didn't diminish its impact on me each time I saw it.”
I thought of Sean's practiced insurance-man smile and knew exactly what Ben meant.
Barefoot, Ben had jumped out of the canoe before it crunched onto the pebbly surface of the beach and taken Talia up into a big swooping greeting in his arms, grateful for her returning embrace. “Why didn't you call and tell me you were coming?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
He wanted to ask how long she would be there but was reluctant to burst the bubble of happiness. Inevitably it would be too short and he would try to convince her to stay longer. Save the argument for later, he told himself.
Sitting in the bow of the Old Town, Talia trailed her fingers through the still water of the July lake. She didn't talk but seemed content to let him paddle her home in silence. Ben stroked slowly, unwilling to let the moment pass too quickly.
Talia seemed very tired, almost lethargic and went to bed immediately for a nap. Subsuming an overpowering desire with concern, he tucked her into their bed and went back to review the music he'd been working on. The handwritten notes on the staff made no sense to him as he could think only of Talia sleeping in their bed and his need to touch her. As quietly as he could, Ben slid in beside the sleeping form of his wife. In the lingering July sunset, he could see that she seemed faded, paler than usual, and the dark circles beneath her closed eyes made him wonder if she was eating properly—or had she replaced food with something more satisfying? While she slept, Ben ran his fingertips down the inside of her left arm, and then her right. He knew he was looking for signs of needle marks and was immensely relieved not to see any, and then ashamed he had even considered such a thing. There was something about the way she had come home unannounced, her pensive silence, and the quick retreat to bed which alarmed him. He had the fleeting thought that she'd come home to tell him something, and then changed her mind.
At that moment Talia wakened and looked up at him looking down on her. She raised the arm he had so recently been examining for marks and brought his head down to hers.
Afterward they went out to dinner. Talia was quiet in the car, watching the familiar scenery pass by, offering measured responses to his attempts at conversation. She was a little livelier in the restaurant but faded back as they ate. Until he mentioned a piece he was working on for her.
“Tell me about it.”
For twenty minutes they forgot everything which lay between them and focused on a new composition Ben had planned to surprise her with on their anniversary. As he hummed the tune, described his vision of the harmonies and where the voice of the flute would soar over the accompanying piano, Talia looked at Ben with the only kind of love she seemed capable of expressing to him.
“I can't wait to hear it.”
“Let's go home and I'll play it for you.”
An odd thing happened then, Ben told me. They rose to leave and were stopped at the cash register by a disheveled-looking man. Stringy hair hung down over the frayed collar of his work shirt. He had the sallow skin and deep under-eye pouches of a hard drinker, and when he smiled at Ben, his grin was snaggletoothed and gapped. “Hey, aren't you Benson Turner?”
Ben shifted a little away from the guy, then put out his hand, “Yeah. I am.”
The man grasped Ben's hand in a painfully enthusiastic crunch. “God, I followed you across this country three times in 1983. I . . .”
“Come on Ben, let's go.�
� Talia pulled him toward the door.
“Hey, I gotta tell you, I love you, man!” The guy stumbled back against the counter. “You were the best.”
Ben felt Talia's tug and called back, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Jesus, Ben, you can't be letting people like that get in your face.” Talia's voice was loud in the quiet street.
“Hey, it's been a long time since anyone did that. It feels pretty good.” Ben's own voice was a little louder than he intended and he was a little embarrassed as people they knew from the lake walked by.
“Well, if you hadn't squandered your talent, it might happen more often.”
For some reason, the whole incident soured the moment. They climbed into the car, Ben behind the wheel. He tried to leaven the moment with a joke—”I just realized, we only went across the country once in 1983.”
Talia shrugged. “At least my fans are clean.”
“Hey, he's just a local burnout case. I'm sure not all of my fans turned out like that. Some of them might even have grown up into investment bankers.”
“Still. He was pretty disgusting.”
“Talia, come on.” Ben was losing patience with her. Losing patience altogether, and suddenly his restraint was gone. “So, how long can I expect you to be around?” He hadn't meant for it to come out with so much hostility, but her attitude had gotten to him.
“I'm leaving tomorrow.”
“You can't be serious. You just got here.”
“I assure you, I am serious. I have a concert in a couple of days.”
They drove home in silence and Ben wondered when their relationship had become so fragile.
“There was something there, something which had brought her to the lake, something which she was holding back from me. I knew it and I was so afraid of it that I couldn't ask her what was bothering her. Maybe if I had, things would have turned out differently.”
“Ben, it does no good to think that way. Like you said, some things are simply not our doing. Not our fault.” I wanted him to go on, to tell me exactly what had happened that night, but instead he stood up and pulled me to my feet. “Look, it's getting late and the park will be closing.”
“Ben, don't stop now.”
“Cleo, I can't. I will, I promise, but right now I need to stop.” He walked ahead of me and I scrambled to keep up.
Twenty-four
Ben opened the screen door of the porch for me. “I'll stay if you don't want to be alone. Right here,” he gestured toward the porch glider cluttered with the detritus of my first printed draft, crumpled papers flung in exasperation at the inconsistent printing of my old Epson.
“You don't have to, Ben. I'm all right. This is a familiar place, after all. I've been in this position once before. Eventually the hurt dulls and I go on.”
“Okay, but only if you're sure.” There was something in those gentle brown eyes. Telling even this truncated story to me had left him bleeding a little, the scab picked. He had hurt himself by trying to comfort me. I knew that new healing could now take place for Ben, but he hadn't yet recognized that fact for himself.
“Unless you want the company . . .”
He didn't respond.
“Stay with me. I've got an open bottle of wine.”
“Thank you, Cleo.” Ben reached out a little, as if he was going to touch me but didn't and instead slid his fingers into his pocket.
We sat on the glider and stared out over the calm lake. It had still been a little light out when we got home and I hadn't put on any lights. We sat, shadowed from one another in the growing dark. The moon was just rising and still low in the East, giving only meager light to the reflecting pool before us. We were quiet, content for the moment in our silence, lost in our own thoughts. The wine was crisp and cool and went down very easily and was gone too soon. Grace had left a bottle of whiskey under the sink and I fetched it .
Ben poured out a little for himself but I refused it. After a few minutes he sighed, a profoundly unhappy sound. “May I put my arm around you?”
“Yes.” Our voices were very soft.
“I need to tell you the rest of it. The rest of my story.”
“I'd like to hear it.”
That night they had arrived home safely, leaving the Wagoneer at the boat ramp and taking the canoe across the lake. “It was as still as it is tonight. The moon was low in the West, but I could see my shoreline easily. Talia sat in front of me, still silent, still brooding. The white of her dress literally glowed as we glided by the raft, and if we had been in better moods I would have called her my moonbeam.”
It wasn't terribly late when they got home and Ben thought that maybe they could retrieve part of the evening by looking over the composition he'd started. “Would you like to hear the piece?” he asked her. All Talia's earlier enthusiasm for the piece was gone, leaving in its place a kind of weary good sportsmanship.
“Okay.”
Ben retrieved the composition paper from a pile on the piano. “It's still really raw, but I think you'll like it.” He began playing, aware of Talia standing behind him, reading along as he played, softly whistling as she added her own interpretation to his notes. “That's good, Talia, that's a nice counterpoint.”
He ran out of notes and he stopped. Talia placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned her cheek against his head, filling him with despair because he knew before she said it that she was leaving him.
“Why, Talia? Haven't I given you enough freedom?”
“I'm in love with someone else.”
“As if she couldn't stand the cruelty of her own words she left the room. As if the only way to stop them was to run. I couldn't move. My fingers still rested on the keyboard but I couldn't feel the keys beneath my fingers. I could still feel her breath on my ear. ‘I am in love with someone else.’
“I heard the French doors open and then slam shut. I knew where she was going. She wasn't a good swimmer. The moon was gone by now and it was fully dark. The raft was a stretch for her and she seldom got that far, but she did that night. Last summer was very hot and dry. The level of the lake was down and the rock even closer to the surface than usual. But she hadn't been to the lake all summer, she didn't know that. How could she have known? I should have warned her. Reminded her about it. But I stayed at the piano, slowly tearing the music into a thousand pieces like ashes. She would never play it. No one would ever hear it.” Abruptly Ben put his face in his hands, his story over.
No, I knew that his story wasn't quite done, there remained a missing detail. But I knew that I wouldn't hear it tonight. Maybe I would never hear exactly how Talia came to go off that raft. I forced back my natural curiosity and stroked the back of his hand still covering his eyes. Then I rubbed his back, conscious of the muscle which lay below his cambric shirt, aware of his scent, made pungent by his emotion. I lay my cheek against him, inhaling his scent, suddenly understanding the power of pheromones as my craving for his touch grew. We were the wounded, the wronged. But I refused to give ground to the thought. It would be too easy to take advantage of each other. I stood up and Ben got to his feet, going to the screen door. Understanding me exactly.
The humid oppression of the heat coupled with the humid desire Ben had inadvertently triggered made sleep impossible. I lay naked on my bed, windows wide against a breathless night.
Doglike, it circled me, a sudden comprehension of Sean's temptation. I understood at this moment what it was like to feel the power of new desire. I beat it, the empathy, back. No, I chastised it, it wasn't the same at all. The empathy panted, teeth bared—oh, yes it is. No, I said, this is his fault, Sean's. And Talia's. Ben and I were but two sad souls meeting over our lovers' betrayals.
I heard a splash. It was like a call to me and I left my bed to walk along the path to the water's edge. The risen moon illuminated my way. The water shimmered in its beam, laying a cosmic road to the raft. I swam in the cold silky lake water, slow even strokes, counting them like beats in a measure as I swam toward Ben
. The water eddied around me as I reached the ladder. I took Ben's hand and climbed up, the water on my body shining in the moonlight.
Later I would analyze my actions. Later I would examine my motives. Later I would feel sinful. Now I simply reveled in being physically loved by a man who didn't know every contour of my body, who spent forever exploring it, reveled in touching a man whose skin was new territory, whose taste was a new flavor. We moved together on the hard raft like we had moved together on the dance floor, our hips aligning perfectly, his fingertips startling me with boldness. He was rougher than I would have supposed, given his gentle nature, and I found I liked the hard grip of his hand pulling against my hair. Excited by the daring of our act, I allowed Ben exploration I had never allowed Sean.
Sean was my first. Until now, my only. I couldn't honestly say that I would have done this thing had Sean not betrayed me. But once done, I kept it for myself. Ben, in loving me so well, celebrated the part of me which had foundered. It was no longer about Sean, it was about me. Both Ben and I needed the reassurance of physical love, proof that we were still worthy of it. By Ben's loving, I was taken completely out of this world and lifted to that place where nothing but touch exists, where no thoughts except of release, can form. I cried out against Ben's hand across my mouth. A second later I covered his against being heard. First we cried, little salty tears of grief and joy, and then we laughed and held each other. Then we lay still, as nature untangled us. The breeze across our sweaty bodies was gentle, stroking us cool.
“If you were writing this, writing a story about a woman who discovers her husband is philandering, how would you portray her?”