He looked at the windows of the tall buildings that had been checkerboard lit and dark in the night. Now, in the light of the morning, they were all uniform squares of reflective anonymity. People moved behind them invisibly carrying on as if nothing had changed in the world, always looking forward in time as though they would see no end of it.
Somewhere in the glittering skyline was a single window that looked into his Back Bay apartment. Their apartment. He thought of the bare walls beyond the window. Carol had taken the art, leaving behind blank white squares where the time hadn't been allowed to dim the walls’ luster. They were a faint reminder of the purity of the first time they'd stepped foot into their home. She'd taken the paintings down and placed them, along with her half of the closet and the clothes in the drawers, along with her books and CDs, and everything of hers that could be packed into boxes, by the door. There they sat waiting for the men to come to take them. Strangers who take lives away to other places.
He'd asked her to stay. Asked her to remember all of the wonderful times they'd had. He reminded her of their days together in college, of their wedding in Vermont, their tenth anniversary spent in Capistrano, and a dozen other memories immortalized in digital photographs never printed out. Ephemeral images that only existed in ones and zeros. He tried to move her not to leave. "Don't you remember how good it used to be?" he asked.
She reminded him of the hard times—of law school and endless billable hours as an associate at the firm, the miscarriage, the second miscarriage, not making partner, the fights and broken dishes, all the moments that had left her feeling alone in a house full of things while he was gone. All the things that made her feel like a thing. "I remember our life," she said. "That's why I'm leaving."
And he understood.
Sitting in a bare living room, he stared for hours at a television broadcasting one program after another empty of meaning or relevance. He listened to her music, digitized on his iPod—more ones and zeros—hearing the sounds that had moved her but never him. He read the same paragraph in a forgotten book a dozen times never seeing the words, instead seeing her reading it on the sofa, in the bathtub, in bed. And he understood. There was a profound emptiness in the house. His life was outside of it. And he'd left her there in the middle of all the nothing he'd amassed, desperately looking for something to make the days stand out from one another.
And so she had.
Thinking of the empty squares on the wall reminded him of her face every time she brought home a new painting. Some scrawl of chiaroscuro paint more texture and passion than technique. A half-illuminated face of smears and drips that had stared back at him from above the television. She'd thought it was funny to have the portrait above the set, watching them watch it. The joke wasn't all that amusing to him, but he got it. He stared at that face, not seeing it, for years. Pale shoulders beside breasts that emerged like bare islands from a dark sea. A long neck stretched above them in the gloom beneath a shrouded face, darkened and sad. The model’s eyes were lost in twin pools of gloom, framed by gaunt cheeks that hinted at the figure's skull hidden just beneath the skin.
That painted woman had watched him, grimly anonymous and unrelenting in her gaze. He'd never realized it was a portrait of his wife; not until she took that face from the wall.
He turned away from the city view to look at Carol lying in her hospital bed. Her face now was a mottled mess of bruises and cuts and smashed and reconstructed bone and swollen flesh. Maroon deposits of dried blood inhabited the cracks of taped together incisions, lacerations, and scrapes. Her eyes darted left and right under trembling, thin eyelids. Her chest rose and fell softly to the hiss of the machine beside the bed.
"It'll work out. She’ll wake up," the doctor had said. "She will open her eyes. And you'll be the first thing she sees." He’d smiled while he said it, expecting that the promise she would behold him before all other things would bring Paul a measure of comfort and satisfaction. The surgeon assumed that Paul was the loving center of Carol’s world. Their relationship, the bedrock upon which they built their lives.
The ambulance had brought them to the hospital together: her lying on a gurney, him sitting beside her on the bench, trying not to topple over as the driver serpentined through traffic. It had been late, but there was always traffic in Cambridge. There was always someone sitting in a car, annoyed at the siren that broke through the bubble, forcing him to detour off to the side of the road while another life was carried forward. Given priority. In all the years he'd driven in the city, Paul had never thought about the fate of any occupant of an ambulance passing him. It was always a nuisance. A distraction from real life as he tried to get from point A to point B with a minimum of delay. At the sound of the keening wail, he would begrudgingly pull over to make way and then immediately dart back out into the emergency vehicle’s wake, trying to take advantage of the swath they cut through traffic, indifferent to the sick and dying leading the way.
Then he rode in one and it all came into focus. These men and women drove through the city, siren screaming, trying to keep people together, keep death at bay, save lives, save families. The wailing was the sound of people hurtling toward the team waiting to pull souls back from oblivion—hurtling toward people dedicated to keeping a mother, father, son... or your wife from leaving before you were ready.
And who was ever ready?
Staring at her lying in the bed, he thought back to before the ride. He recalled standing in the dim light spilling out onto the third floor deck, speaking to Carol in hushed tones, both of them trying not to make more of a spectacle of themselves at the party than they already were. She was on her fourth glass of wine. For a change, she wasn't driving. When the party wound down, and the last guests left, she'd remain. With Glenn. The artist.
Paul hadn't been invited to the party. But he'd heard about it from a friend who had been asked to attend. One of their friends. He found Glenn's name and address on an old receipt for a different painting—the one Carol had bought him for his office at the firm—stuffed in a file cabinet back in his study. The piece still hung above his office chair. He faced it every day when he entered, but never saw it again as he always kept his back turned to it. The painting had cost her two thousand dollars, and since he hung it up at work he wrote it off their taxes as a business expense. A double gift.
Her face as she first opened the door to Glenn's apartment studio was astounding to him. She stood shaded, lit from above and slightly behind, the living embodiment of the painting she'd taken from above the television. The mole on her collarbone stood out, casting a small shadow and he wondered how he'd ever missed it in the portrait. For years he'd asked her to have the blemish removed. She reacted as if that imperfection made her unique and asking her to slice it off was like asking her to become a faceless Stepford wife.
In the doorway, she didn't ask what he was doing there. Neither did she didn't ask him to leave, however. She simply said, "Paul?" As if that single syllable communicated everything else that needed to be said. This is not where you are meant to be. This is not our life. It's mine.
She wore a lightweight, peasanty-looking dress that hung loosely over her pronounced bones. It looked vaguely Indian and reminded him of the outfits that the waitresses at their favorite restaurant wore. Somehow, though, it also looked right on her. With her kinky hair up in a bun, errant strands poking out here and there, she looked loose and relaxed, like when he'd first seen her in college. She certainly looked nothing like the woman in the form-fitting Little Black Dress he took to the various firm functions when they were together.
"Carol," he said. She stood in the doorway staring at him sadly, waiting for Paul to say something else. When he didn't speak, she filled the empty space.
"I'm surprised to see you." She gave him a peck on the cheek, bending at the waist, keeping as much space between their bodies as she could while still making contact. Tenderness at a distant remove. Her warm lips brushed against his smooth-shaven cheek. He smel
led wine on her breath. She inquired of him how he'd come to know about the party, but he didn't sell out their friend. Paul figured she'd put it together eventually. Pamela was the only one who'd refused to take sides. Their last living connection.
"I was hoping to see you," he said. "I just wanted to... see how you're doing."
"I'm good. I'm happy."
"Are you?" he asked. She stepped back from the door into the light and changed from the sad woman in the painting to a fresh new Carol. Not the Carol he'd married. An older, experienced Carol. One who smiled.
She raised her eyebrows in that way she did before saying something she expected might upset him and said, "If I invite you in, will I regret it?"
He grinned. "Of course not. We're adults, right? No reason we can't be friends." Although he knew she disagreed with that last statement, she gestured for him to come inside anyway. A crash and a tinkle of glass sounded from deep in the room behind her. She excused herself and hurried off. Paul closed the door behind him.
The space was a built-out studio on the third floor of a triple-decker near Harvard Square. Low tables struggled under the weight of books. On top of them rested glasses half-filled with white or red wine. More books were stacked on the floor in front of shelves covered in seemingly endless and dusty bric-à-brac and objets d’art. When they'd been together, she insisted on hiring a cleaning service to come once a week to dust and polish the empty surfaces of their condo. He wondered how she lived with such clutter in this apartment.
The walls were covered with paintings similar to the ones she'd been buying all those years. Although they maintained a thematic style, they showed a progression—growth as an artist. Half of them were portraits. Many of those were recognizably of the same model.
Carol.
His estranged wife.
Someone else's muse.
As guests drifted around the space looking at the art on display, he shuffled off to a black and brushed aluminum IKEA kitchen island that had been moved into the living room to serve as a bar. He set about fixing himself a gin and tonic while he waited for Carol to come back. Taking a sip, he turned to face the room, scanning for anyone he recognized. Although their friends had divided themselves after the split, he saw none of the ones who'd taken up with Carol's camp. This is Glenn's show, after all.
And then he saw them, huddled in the far corner. Reva and Andrew, Jean and Willa, Julia and Ryan. Julia cast a glance over her shoulder at him before turning away when she saw Paul looking back. Her husband, Ryan, said something and a couple of the others chuckled. The rest just stood, lips pursed, and nodded at whatever sage bon mot he'd dropped. Whatever he'd uttered, it fell on them with more gravity than levity.
Emerging from the kitchen, Carol went to stand with their friends. She upturned the dregs of her glass of wine before holding it out for one of the assembled tribe to fill. Julia picked up a bottle of something red from a nearby bookshelf and filled the glass practically to the rim. Carol took another big slug off of it and excused herself from the group. As she broke away, Ryan laid a hand on her shoulder. Paul read his lips as he said, "We're here for you." Carol moved away, weaving slightly as she glided through the space.
Paul put on his best I'm-happy-for-you face and held out his hands, palms up. Carol laid her empty hand in one of his and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. She withdrew from his grip as soon as he let up the pressure. "It's good to see you," he said. "You look well." She flashed a small smile and looked down at her feet and said something about feeling well. He was unconvinced. She took another drink.
"The place is... nice.”
"Why are you here?" she asked.
Paul looked over her shoulder at the pack of friends whose houses they used to go to for brunch and cocktails and dinner parties. They all stared at him. He nodded. The two men nodded back. The women just stared. The artist, Glenn, wandered over to them and cocked his head. Jean pointed her weirdly long finger in Paul's direction. Glenn turned around. From across the room Paul could still see his eyes narrow and his thin, pale lips purse underneath the oh-so-boho hipster beard.
"I just wanted to see you, Carol,” Paul said. “Ironically, I figured the party was my only chance to actually get you alone for a second to talk." He didn’t add, because I know you’d do anything to avoid me making a scene in front of our friends. He was sure she had gathered that already.
"We don’t have anything to talk about," she said. And she was right. He'd come to the party with a hundred things on his mind. More entreaties to come home, more reminisces about the early, bright days of their courtship. But when he saw her, he knew that it was over. There was nothing he could say that she couldn't counter with "No."
Glenn appeared and slid an arm around Carol's waist in a practiced way like he'd been doing it for years. He had a painterly look, like he spent more time indoors than out, but there was something else beneath it. Paul's own carefully crafted appearance was meant to belie the indoor softness of his profession—he worked hard to make himself look strong and sun-kissed and vital. But where Paul had cultivated gym muscles and sun-bed tan, there was something primal and savage in Glenn. His eyes were wild like a French fur trapper from a history book. He was pale, but hard-looking. Like stone. He made Paul feel like a pretender.
"How are we doing?" Glenn asked. "Is everything okay?" Although he addressed them both, it was clear he was inquiring only of Carol’s well-being.
She nodded and awkwardly introduced her lover to her husband. Paul held out his hand for Glenn to shake. "Pleased to meet you finally." The wildman took it and gave a firm, but not overbearing single pump before letting go.
He shakes hands like a lawyer.
Glenn smiled with half his mouth and gestured at the apartment-slash-gallery. "So what do you think?" Paul was uncertain how to respond until Glenn glanced left and right at the paintings on the walls.
"Oh! The show? Very nice. I've admired your work for a long time."
"Glad you could make it then," Glenn said. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to introduce Carol to someone. You can find your own way out, I'm sure." Paul marveled at how well the artist controlled the situation. He'd appeared courteous, but was firm and gave an order in a way that sounded like small talk. Paul was certain that before the man became a hippie layabout, he'd been in his tribe: a litigator.
"If I could just have one more minute of Carol's time, I'll be on my way. I don't want to overstay my welcome."
The look in the wildman's eyes said, too late. But after silently consulting Carol he said, "I'm sure you won't," instead. He bent down and gave her a lingering kiss on the lips before saying, "Don’t keep us waiting too long."
Marking his territory.
Carol squeezed Glenn's hand and let go, allowing him return to the huddle to observe and whisper with the others. She turned back to Paul and asked what it was he wanted to discuss that couldn't wait. He tilted his head toward the deck and asked if she'd step outside with him. It was a warm spring, but the nights were cold. No one was standing outside, not even to smoke. She rolled her eyes and led the way.
The sliding glass door jammed halfway and she had to put her shoulder into getting it open enough for the two of them to step through. Paul followed her out and pulled the door shut behind him. The thump of the jamb sliding home pleased him.
"So what is it? What do you want?" she asked.
He reached for her hand but she pulled away. He sighed loudly and said, "I'll sign the papers. Have your lawyer send them to my office."
She gave him another expression he recognized—the squint-eyed what's-your-angle look—and said, "You're kidding, right?"
"No bullshit. No fights." He made another grab for her hand. This time she let him take it. "I can see you have something here. I won't stand in the way."
She hugged him, carelessly dribbling wine from her glass down the back of his sport coat. He held her tightly, feeling the softness of her body against him, her breathing, and her breasts pressed
against his chest.
"I’m sorry. We just grew in different directions." she said. “It’s not you or me, it’s just... us, I guess.”
"Oh no. It's definitely you,” he breathed into her ear.
She pulled back to look into his eyes, screwing up her face in frustration at his need to have the last stab at whatever piercing game of emotional pain they played. Like always. She let go and backed up to the wooden railing of the deck, wavering slightly. "You should go. I'll make sure you get the papers." The wine in her hand seemed to have an equal chance of slipping from her fingers and toppling over the edge as it did being raised to her lips.
He thought about that it would be like to fall over the side—the sensation of slipping through the cool night air. That last moment of quiet, pure panic right before hard ruin on the concrete below.
He nodded and reached for the door. Struggling with it, he banged and clattered the door in its track.
"Ugh! Let me get that. There’s a trick." She balanced her wine glass on the edge of the rail and staggered over to him.
"I got it," he said, yanking hard. The door jerked open to the sticking point. His hand slipped off the handle and he jammed his elbow into her. She gasped and staggered backward clutching at her breast. He cried out, lurching at her. She slammed up against the rail and toppled over. He snatched at her, catching her wrist. Her weight jerked him down and he thought for a second that she might pull him off the platform after her. But they both hung there suspended in air for a moment, the rail between them folding him in half, holding him in place. The wine glass shattered on the concrete below in a soft tinkle of devastation.
Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction Page 7