“Hey.” Art poked her shoulder. “You awake?”
“Just resting my eyes.”
They were inside an echoing steel barrel like a space capsule, looking out a porthole, the pitching rapids spinning them, making the crowd groan as if they were seasick. A jagged rock loomed in 3‑D, and they banged off it, jarring the frame. They surged past the old scow and the powerhouse, gaining speed, whitewater sloshing all around them, the sky tilting crazily. Ahead, the railing at Table Rock bristled with sightseers, a rainbow rising out of the mist. The sound system rumbled, vibrating up her spine. On the verge, as they were about to go over, he reached across the armrest and laid a hand on her leg, as he habitually did during the final preparations before takeoff. She thought he might be making fun of himself, or the film, since there was nothing to fear, and so no need for reassurance. At the same time she couldn’t ignore it, and rather than give him a reason to doubt her, she covered his hand, patting it as if to say they’d be fine.
Odds of a lover proposing on Valentine’s Day:
1 in 17
Outside, the wind had picked up and the clouds lowered, making it seem colder. The day was almost gone—Sunday, with its promise of solace and rest, a fleeting respite from the week. After the cab ride back they didn’t feel like going anywhere. The lobby jangled like a pachinko parlor, driving them upstairs. Housekeeping had renewed the room, leaving fresh roses, a box of truffles and a stuffed chimp holding out a heart embroidered with WILD ABOUT YOU, which he hoped would soften her and which she accepted with open yet gentle skepticism, noting that he hadn’t actually chosen it himself.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I think I’m going to go lie down.”
“Is there a certain time you want me to wake you up?”
“I need an hour to get ready for dinner, so whenever that is.”
They’d been together all day, and were ready for some alone time. Art took a water from the minibar, sank into the couch and turned on the Olympics, while she retired to the bedroom and traded her clothes for a hotel robe. There were too many mirrors in the bathroom, providing her with unflattering views. She peeled away the flap of dead skin on her heel, leaving a stinging oval the color of raw pork. She had some Neosporin in her bag and was dabbing on a thin coating when her phone rang, a quick trill to let her know she had a Facebook message.
Usually it was nothing pressing, distant friends posting something amusing on her wall, a forwarded YouTube video or a link to a site they thought she might like. She saved them to go through at night, sitting with her laptop on her knees like a heating pad while they watched TV. Art gave her grief, saying she was addicted, but it was just another way to pass the time, and more interesting than his PBS shows. And it could be useful, like now. The message was from Emma. It said: ANSR YR FON!
Though it hadn’t rung since she’d turned it back on in the cab, she had two new voice messages. She hated AT&T.
The first was from Emma: “Hey Mama. It’s Sunday, around three-thirty. You’re probably out having fun. I’ll try you later. Love you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
The second was too, except now the background was a wash of noise: “Hey. It’s four-fifteen. If you get this, give me a call on my cell. We’re heading out and I really need to talk with you. Okay, bye.”
The alarm clock/iPod dock on the nightstand said it was four thirty-five.
She sat on the edge of the bed to call.
The line rang, then rang again too soon, as if she might get sent to voicemail. A blip and Emma was saying, “–just because you lost. Stop. Hey, Mama. Sorry. We had a bet and someone’s being a poor loser.”
“What’s up?”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your big romantic weekend.”
“Unlikely. We were at the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Museum.”
“Believe it or not.”
“Exactly. Where are you? I can barely hear you.”
She was being loud herself, attracting Art, who peeked in the door. Emma, she mouthed, pointing to the phone.
“I called because I wanted you to be the first to hear our big news.”
“I had a feeling.” She thought she knew what it was but didn’t want to take the pleasure of delivering it away from her. They should have moved in together last June, except Mark’s nana disapproved.
“Mark proposed.”
She thought she’d misheard, but no. Proposed.
“Mom?”
“It’s about time,” she joked, to disguise her shock. Though Emma was twenty-seven, three years older than she’d been, her first reaction was that she was too young.
“What is it?” Art asked.
“Mark proposed.”
“Congratulations, Bemmy!” he shouted.
“Did you hear that?” she asked.
“I heard. Thanks, Dad.”
He sat on the bed, jostling her.
“Do you want to talk to her?”
“When you’re done.”
“And you accepted, I take it?” she asked.
“I did. We’re heading over to his folks’ place right now.”
“Have you picked a date?”
“We haven’t gotten that far. I’m still freaking out. It was a total surprise.”
“Believe me, it’s an even bigger surprise here. Congratulations. We’re so happy for you. Tell Mark we don’t care that he’s a Steelers fan.”
She asked after the ring and told Emma she loved her, and Mark too, that it was wonderful, they were absolutely thrilled, yet after handing the phone over to Art, she wondered how this would complicate things. How were they to share their love as parents but not otherwise? For all her daydreams of life on her own, practically she was unprepared. She had no plan, no strategy, just a vague and hopeful sense of freedom that involved only herself, making her fear it was imaginary.
When Art got off, he took her in his arms, his happiness precluding any dissent.
“It’s the best Valentine’s Day ever,” he said.
“It’s definitely a surprise.”
“This calls for champagne.”
“Later. If I don’t get some rest I’m going to fall asleep at dinner.”
“Want company?”
“I want to sleep. Go watch your thing.”
Alone in bed, she felt like a traitor. It was partly his fault. Why did it annoy her that he would do anything to please her? In a way it was an imposition, an unfair demand. She thought she should call Celia but lacked the will. She left the drapes open, dusk drawing a curtain on the gray day, leaching the color from the room. On the dresser, her rose was black. In the dimness, the distressed armoire that housed the TV and the striped wallpaper and the tacked‑up crown molding all seemed elaborate, needless fakery.
The bed was too hard, the pillows too spongy. She tried lying on her back. Directly above, a smoke alarm flickered red, ready, and she rolled over. In the hall, a lock clacked, a door opened and closed heavily. The elevator cables sang. She drifted, picturing Emma’s wedding, a garden in June, white folding chairs ranked on a lawn, a program on each seat, bees meandering, lighting on purple irises, their legs sugared with pollen, and then she was in a vaulted train station in Paris, sometime in the past, like an old black-and-white romance, waving on the platform in a cute cloche and a trench coat, but whether she was meeting someone or saying goodbye, she couldn’t say.
In the sitting room, he lay on the couch with his arms folded over his chest, the TV a bright square mirrored in the coffee table. He watched it on mute so as not to bother her. He cared nothing for cross-country skiing, lanky Scandinavians in bodysuits following doggedly in one another’s tracks, but quickly found he was rooting, out of some warped principle, for the leader to fall.
Emma’s news was welcome, a source of joy, except now he had to figure out how to pay for it. It would be too obvious if they waited till after the wedding to declare bankruptcy. He wished he’d known six months ago.
Simply, they had to win. Statistically
, the Martingale method was sound, a classic negative progression. When they won, they’d bank their winnings and bet the same amount again. When they lost, they’d double the bet, and keep doubling it so that when they eventually won, they’d recover everything plus their original wager. Because eventually, with near even odds, they’d win. It was a question of patience and the willingness to lose big. Starting with forty thousand dollars, opening with a thousand-dollar bet and assuming they banked absolutely nothing, they’d have to lose five times in a row. He was betting that wouldn’t happen. Most likely, somewhere in that sequence of five escalating bets, they’d win, recouping their losses and banking another thousand. The key was not being greedy and overreaching. It might take them five minutes to win that thousand dollars or half an hour, and they might have to risk thirty-one to do it, but the odds were overwhelmingly in their favor, and with each thousand they’d be that much closer to a sixth saving bet, making their odds even better.
As often as he reassured himself, after everything that had happened, he still harbored some doubts, the most troubling of which was that five wasn’t a very large number. He wasn’t deluded, as Marion thought. He understood that, though the odds favored them, they could easily lose. He acknowledged the possibility as he acknowledged his hangover or her disenchantment, preferring to put his energy into overcoming it.
All day he’d tried to be positive for her. Now the fatigue he’d held off settled on him. He welcomed it, tired of bearing their failures himself. Half a lifetime ago he’d made a series of complex and terrible decisions he deemed not simply necessary but urgent, vital to his happiness, his very existence in the world, yet which now seemed foolish and immature—desperate, ugly flailings under pressure. It was possible he was doing it again, just overcompensating the other way. He was afraid of letting her down again, or was it already too late? He didn’t have the energy to pursue the thought. The couch was soft and warm, the skiers’ clockwork striding hypnotic, and soon his eyes went unfocused, then closed, commercials flashing over him as, outside, night fell.
For a time, while they slept, the gorge lay invisible, a blank described by the lights around it, until, silently, all at once, as at the press of a button, the great banks of floodlights popped on, tinting the Falls and, faintly, their separate rooms, the color of love.
Odds of winning an Olympic gold medal:
1 in 4,500,000
He was right to be afraid to wake her. Disorganized at the best of times, she hated being rushed and, flustered, turned on him. He knew she needed an hour. It wasn’t her fault he fell asleep. She was sorry, they’d just have to be late.
He absorbed this ultimatum casually, as if it were no big deal, which further annoyed her. To underscore her point, she dawdled in the shower, letting the steam open her pores, only to discover, on getting out, that he’d called down and changed their reservation. He seemed pleased, as if he’d solved the problem. He understood nothing, though she couldn’t say this without seeming unreasonable, and instead told him he could use a haircut.
“I know,” he said. “It’s on my list.”
Besides having a jacuzzi, the bathroom was twice the size of theirs, and still they were incapable of sharing it. His timing had always been terrible. She sat on the bed in her bathrobe, waiting for him to finish shaving so she could dry her hair.
After thirty years he’d learned to rinse the sink.
“Do you want the ironing board out?”
Did he have to ask? And why now? “Do you need me to iron something for you?”
“Just a shirt.”
“What about your pants?”
“I think they’re okay.”
“Gimme. I might as well do them while I’ve got it out.”
He didn’t resist, knowing it was futile. She did his things first, her hair wrapped in a towel, while he sat at the kitchen counter in his boxers. For years she’d wondered out loud why he couldn’t just learn to iron, a mild complaint he’d come to agree with from sheer repetition yet never acted upon. He accepted that he was a burden on her. These moments of domestic helplessness were his penance and tribute.
“Thank you,” he said, taking his pants.
“You’re welcome.”
He ceded the bathroom to her, using the mirror in the entryway to tie his tie, a bright scarlet befitting the occasion. The suit was his best, last worn to a job interview that hadn’t panned out, and he worried it might be unlucky. Too late.
She was still in her bathrobe, curling her hair, and he turned on the Olympics—the pairs figure skating, which she enjoyed.
“That’s great,” she said when he announced it, “but I can only do five things at once.”
He couldn’t sit down for fear of wrinkling his suit, and circled the room, stopping at the window and looking out over the American Falls and the city beyond, red lights blinking atop electrical towers marching off into darkness. Emma was getting married. The fact should have given him some extra perspective on what they were doing there, yet the connection eluded him. They’d have to tell her the truth, an eventuality he didn’t dare contemplate. So much of being a parent was protecting one’s children from one’s own mistakes. That was the greatest failure, he thought. It shocked him now, but when he was with Wendy, he didn’t care, he’d been willing to sacrifice everything.
The Russians’ music was lush and brooding, dark strings and spooky woodwinds building to a crescendo, then a quiet passage, their skates scraping the ice as they set up for a jump. It seemed unfair that one slip could undo a lifetime of dedication, but there it was, the late takeoff and rotation, the awkward sprawl as the crowd gasped, and then, up again, the trouper’s smile as she resumed the routine. They showed it in slow motion, the girl’s painted face, so composed, opening in shock as she landed hard on her hip, an arm outflung. He needed a drink, and looked in to see if Marion wanted anything.
“I’m coming,” she said, leaning over the sink to draw on eyeliner. He’d had to convince her to buy a new dress for tonight. The one she chose showed off her arms and shoulders, two of her best features.
“No rush. I like the dress.”
“You just like the cleavage.”
“I like the straps and the way the waist goes in.”
“Stop. This isn’t Project Runway.”
“And the cleavage.” He couldn’t deny he’d peeked.
“It’s old cleavage.”
“It’s always new to me.”
“Now I know you’re lying. What are you having?”
“Vodka. They’ve got the Citron.”
“I’ll take a white wine, I don’t care what kind. Can you grab my jewelry out of the safe?”
He delivered her glass to her, then opened the closet and punched in the combination. The velvet box sat right beside her jewelry bag, and though he felt slighted, he left it there rather than press the issue.
She needed help with her freshwater pearls, a task he was happy to perform. She stood with her head bowed while he battled the tiny clasp, squinting like a surgeon. For his reward, he kissed her neck—warm and smelling of her moisturizer.
“Okay,” she said, ducking away. “I’m trying to get dressed here.”
She spritzed both sides of her throat with perfume, down her cleavage, and finally one wrist, rubbing it against the other as she headed for the bedroom.
“You have to stop following me,” she said, and he retreated to the sitting room with his drink, swirling the ice cubes and watching the Falls. He thought of ordering champagne for later but didn’t want to jinx things.
The Canadians were leading, and he wondered if it was rigged, since the games were in Vancouver.
She came in with a lace shawl over her shoulders and stopped as if posing for him. “Well?”
“You look great.”
“No.” She pointed to the floor. She was wearing two different shoes. “Which one?”
He’d faced this question hundreds of times and seldom got it right. The key was to be ho
nest rather than try to outguess her. At least then when he was wrong he’d have his integrity.
The one on the left was dressy, crushed velvet with a high heel, elaborate straps and a needle-nosed toe. She loved them but they killed her feet. The one on the right was plain, but much more comfortable.
“The right,” he said.
“You really like that one better?”
“I do.”
“You’re so boring.”
“You’ve got a blister, and the restaurant’s at the end of the mall.”
“You’re right,” she admitted, but when she returned from the bedroom she was in her stocking feet, the fancier pair dangling from one hand. “When else am I going to wear them? I’m just going to have to suffer.”
“You said it, not me.”
“How long do we have? I’m not putting them on till I absolutely have to.”
“Five minutes. Before we get going, I’d like to get a picture of us.”
“You haven’t taken enough pictures today.” She thought it was typical of him, wanting to commemorate their adventure. He’d already chosen where he wanted her to stand. She could see it being used against her in the future, but couldn’t refuse him.
“You don’t have to put your shoes on.”
“I do if I don’t want to look like a dwarf next to you.”
They were too narrow, and crushed her toes, her bunions flaring with every step.
Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) Page 12