Acts of Love

by Judith Michael

  "Then don't say it. We don't have to, don't you understand? Our lives have changed; you can come with me now. My God, Jessica, give us a chance! You don't have to decide anything about the theater for as long as you want, but come with me; marry me. This week was our beginning; I won't let you throw it away."

  "I would never throw it away. It has all the memories I'm going to hold

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  close. Luke, you cannot make this happen by wilHng it. What did you do, tell yourself you'd decided I was going with you to New York?" She saw his face change. "So you did. You decided. Oh, Luke, my dearest Luke, this time you're not the director. And you can't control what happens to us, though of course you'll try. But what do you think will happen if I go with you.f' What do you expect me to do? Go back to the stage? I can never do that. Live with you and watch you direct plays with other actresses in roles I'd love to play? Never, never, never."

  She looked at his impassive face. "I'll tell you what I think would happen. One day I'd get a phone call from some director or producer with a too-hearty voice, offering me a part. He wouldn't tell me that you'd called him and asked him to do it, but I'd know it anyway. Or maybe you wouldn't have to ask any of them to do it; you're powerful enough that some of them would think of it on their own. And when I turn down the part, I'd go back to the life I'd made for myself on boards of directors and committees putting on benefits, and doing volunteer work in schools and hospitals—whatever I can find to feel useful and busy—while everything in me is aching to be where you are, in the place I . . ."

  "In the place you love best in all the world," he finished.

  Her head was bowed. "Luke, go back to New York. There's no happy ending to this fairy tale. I knew that, but I let it go on because I love you in a way I've never known before and that was so extraordinary that I thought it would be all right to . . . But it wasn't. I should have stopped it. Please, Luke, I don't want this to turn into an awful quarrel. I want to kiss you good-bye and remember that everything was perfect and very beautiful."

  "Spoken like a true martyr."

  She drew in her breath. " 'A formidable and harsh foe,' " she said.

  "No, you can't get away with that. The truth may sound harsh, but it's still the truth. You're wallowing in your suffering and you have no right to do that to us."

  "Wait. Wait. There are so many things wrong with that. It's not the truth. Do you know what you've just done? Ignored almost everything I've tried to tell you. Accused me of wallowing, which I'm not doing; I'm making a life out of a wreckage that I have to deal with every day and every night, and no one can tell me how I should do that. No one! I have every right to live my own life the way I want, the way I feel comfortable. And

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  if that affects us, I can't help that. I didn't ask you to come here or to stay or to love me; you came into my life on your own and if what I do offends you, that's just too bad. Oh, damn it, Luke, now I've said things we'll remember with pain, and I didn't want to do that. Luke, please, can't we have one more night and then say good-bye as friends? Please. I'm asking you for that."

  Luke stood up and paced around the living room, through the dining area to the greenhouse and studio, then back, and once again made the same circuit, as if trying to see the house as a whole for the last time. He came back to the couch and stood behind Jessica. "Let's have a cognac, before we call it a day."

  He left early the next morning. He had called Angie's Cab Courier at some time during the night and he was gone before Jessica woke. She had not slept until some time after dawn, when she dozed and woke and dozed again, and then reached out and found the other side of the bed empty. The fog had lifted and a weak sun filtered through the lace curtains. So they'll be able to fly. He won't need a bed for another night. But even if he did, it would not be hers. Not ever again.

  Blankly, automatically, she did what she always did: she dressed for riding and drove to the barn and took down her saddle, debating which horse to ride. No, not that one; that one is Lul{e's.

  She began to open the other stall door, then stopped.

  Yes. That one. Lu/{e is gone.

  She heard the drone of a plane and limped outside to look up, just in time to see it climb through the pale sky and bank toward Seattle. The pilot had flown low over her house and then had turned east, leaving Lopez Island behind. Jessica felt faint and leaned against the barn. It was so quiet. No companion's voice cut through the cold morning air, and no birds sang.

  There should be birds. And there had been. And they had laughed. Perfect timing. But it wasn't, she thought. We should have found each other years ago, when I was whole. Constance would have been with us then; she would have smiled upon us and the three of us would have been a family.

  She was crying silent tears, leaning against the barn, shielding her eyes and trying to focus on the blurred plane as it grew smaller, becoming a

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  fragile speck that vanished into tall clouds towering above Puget Sound. // will be winter soon. I need more firewood.

  She rode all morning, and the next morning and the next, not thinking, going through all the motions she knew so well. Riding. Breakfast. Work. Dinner. A fire, a book, music. Bed. Again and again./I rhythm and a pattern that are immensely comforting. No, she thought. Not comforting. Numbing.

  On the fourth day after Luke left, the telephone rang and Jessica almost fell, running to it. But it was Warren Bradley, her publisher, wanting to know how the new illustrations were coming. They had added a story; could she do a few more? Of course she could. That was her job.

  "By the way," Bradley said, "I didn't know Luke Cameron was a fan of yours."

  Her heart began to beat wildly. "What?"

  "He owns all your books. Did you know that? Jessica? Are you still there?"

  "Yes. Did he tell you . . . you saw him?"

  "We were at a dinner party the other night and someone mentioned buying The Greenhouse —your first for us, wasn't it?—for her six-year-old, and Luke went on and on about how magical your illustrations were. Like dreams, he said, and of course I agreed. He also said—and you'll find this interesting—that he's thinking about adapting a couple of them for the stage. For adults, of course. He said he'd spoken to a children's writer, Son-dra Murphy, about the same thing and they agreed her books wouldn't work on the stage, but he thought yours might. Who knows? Fd never discourage him from exploring it." There was a pause. "But maybe you know all this. Did he ever get out there, to see you? He was all over our offices, trying to get your address a while back. Finally called me and of course I wouldn't tell him anything, but then he asked if you still lived on Lopez and I was so surprised I gave it away that you did."

  "I don't see many people, Warren, you know that. Next time perhaps you'll be able to keep your surprise under control."

  "Hey, what is this? He already knew it, Jessica."

  "Fm sorry; I shouldn't have jumped on you. You've been wonderful, and I do appreciate it. I have to go now. Send me the new story; I assume you're extending the deadline."

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  "By a month. Are you all right, Jessica?"

  "Of course. Would you send me a letter confirming the new date?"

  "It's being written. Til fax it tomorrow. Take care of yourself; you don't sound tiptop to me."

  "I'm fine. Good-bye, Warren."

  The next day her routine was back to normal and that day and the next passed in silence. But the next day, she found herself so hungry for another voice that when she rode she turned toward the Inn at Swifts Bay and found Robert in the kitchen. "Was it a good visit?" he asked casually.

  "Yes. Tell me about your guests, Robert."

  "Only one couple right now; slow time of year, you know." But he recognized her hunger for conversation and he talked entertainingly about the couple staying there, and went on with tales of other visitors in the past month. In bet
ween, he filled a plate with pancakes and fruit and put it in front of her on the kitchen table. "Eat. You're too thin."

  "I'm always thin."

  "You're thinner than always."

  She smiled slightly. "Thank you, Robert. What a good friend you are."

  When she left, she rode home slowly. The fields were turning brown, the trees were bare, and clouds scudded across the sky so that it seemed the world was speeding away from her. The world will go on, right past you, but you'll stay here and dry up —

  Stop it! That was what she did lately: she clamped down on her thoughts, to keep them from swirling back to Luke.

  But that day, riding silently through the stark forest on trails covered with soft, fallen leaves, she could not push him away. You'll crumble. The world will go on and you'll dry up. . . .

  The world will go on.

  And suddenly she knew that she did not want that to happen. The thought surprised her and she repeated it to herself I don't want the world to go on without me. I don't want to miss it. I want to be part of it.

  Why? Why now, all of a sudden?

  But it really was not so sudden. For a week Luke had brought the world into her house, and they had talked about everything she had known and loved, almost as if she really were a part of it. And she knew that her feeling of loss as she watched his plane disappear was not only that he was gone, but that the outside world was gone, too.

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  Except that it wasn't. She could find her way back to it.

  But what could she do?

  The obvious thing. She was an illustrator of children's books; she could go where her publisher was, and be in the center of the publishing business. But that was New York.

  Then go to New Yorl{. Go to Luf{e. He's waiting.

  She shook her head wearily. She could not face those arguments again.

  But what else was there?

  The theater.

  No, impossible. I told Luke . . .

  Yes, but what about the theater without Luke? What about the theater without New York?

  Doing what? Not acting, not ever again. But there were other jobs. She could help agents and producers evaluate and choose plays. Or she could be an assistant director, the kind of thing she had done with Pygmalion. Everyone had said she had been invaluable in getting that play to opening night.

  I could do that, she thought. I could be an assistant director in a small town. It wouldn't be Broadway or London, but it would be the theater and I'd be part of it.

  But... a small theater? In a small town? How long could I do that? It would be worse than here because it would be like nibbling at a feast I could never sit down to enjoy.

  Well, then, a large theater. A city. And why should I be an assistant? I could be a director.

  Why not? I know as much as most directors, probably more than most of them. Not more than Luke, but more than a lot of them. And I've thought of directing. Constance and I talked about it a lot.

  A city. It can't be New York or San Francisco or Los Angeles. But maybe London.

  No, London and New York are practically next door to each other. We all went back and forth all the time; we all knew everything that went on in their theaters and probably in their beds as well, and they knew what went on in ours.

  So I can't do it.

  The horse, left to itself, had taken her back to the barn. She dismounted and began to curry him with long, regular strokes. The rhythm soothed

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  her and her thoughts slowed. I'm fine here; I know what I'm doing; I don't have any surprises. Why would I leave it? Well, it's settled. I won't.

  But that night, restless in her bed, finally getting up and sitting in the living room before the cold fireplace, she knew it was not settled. And the more she thought about it through that long night, the more Luke's words hammered at her.

  — wallowing in your suffering.

  You'll stay here and dry up.

  The world will pass you by.

  They would not leave her alone; they stayed with her on her morning ride, and at the table where she had her breakfast. It isn't fair, she thought. I was all right until he made me want more. I was satisfied. Now I'm so hungry for everything he's gone back to, I can't stand it that others are part of it and I'm not, that it's passing me by, yes, he was right, that's exactly what it's doing, passing me by ... oh, God, I want it again and I don't know how to get it.

  Go away from here. It was as if Constance was standing beside her. You must not turn your bac on that world; it is your nourishment, your life, your being.

  I know that! she thought angrily. But I won't go to New York or London, so what good does it do to . . .

  There's Australia.

  She stood up sharply, as if listening. Australia. I never thought of that.

  She cleared her breakfast dishes, her mind racing. She and Constance had both been to Sydney; audiences had loved them there. And what could be farther away from the places where she was known?

  But... so far away. With nothing and no one to turn to if. . .

  But wasn't that what she wanted? Nothing and no one familiar. A new place, to begin again. She remembered the nurse who had been so good to her when she was in the hospital, a young woman from Sydney who had written the letters she had dictated to Constance. A lovely young woman, warm and comforting, unpretentious, friendly. Maybe they're all lie that. Constance and I did thin everyone was so hjnd, when we were there. Maybe they'll mae me feel at home and give me a chance to make my way.

  Sydney. A vibrant city, English-speaking, with a famous opera house, a symphony, and lots of theaters. And Melbourne, with its theaters, close by. Mostly new theaters with good equipment; productions that were

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  polished, if not as sophisticated as those in New York and London; enthusiastic audiences.

  And so far away, she thought again. As far from New York as one could go without beginning to circle the globe back again.

  If I did go there ... if I really did ... I could work for the Sydney Theater Company. Or, if they don't want me, I could find a producer and we could rent a theater together. We could do two plays a season, or three, as many as we could handle. I'd be in the theater again, not on stage, but part of it; I'd be where I belong.

  She went to her studio. Luke had restored the bed to a couch and had left everything exactly as he had found it. It was as if he had never been there. Jessica sat at one of the easels, gazing blankly at an unfinished painting. Without thinking, she reached for a brush and a tube of paint, and as she did so, she felt the rush of comfort that always came when she was working and settled in the closeness of her studio.

  If I left, I'd be visiting all this. Why would I do that?

  Because, it seemed, she might not have that rush of comfort forever. Already it was diminished by the memory of the world Luke had brought her, and by the things he had said to her.

  Sydney, she thought again as she painted. I could do it. I have the money to start again, and even back my own plays for a while, if I had to. I could do it.

  Alone?

  Yes, just as I've been for the past years. I know how to do that.

  Her heart sank. / don't want to be alone. I want to be with Luke.

  But she could not do that. Perhaps someday, after she'd become a successful director, with her own prestige and influence, she could go to him. . . .

  Nonsense. He won't wait that long, and why should he? He has his own life to make. I can't think about that.

  Think about making a new life instead. Think about making my own way, my own place, my own name. Not sitting on the sidelines letting the world get away from me, but part of it, part of the theater. Luke thought love was enough, but it isn't. I have to have my own value, my own self. That's what I have to create. With no connections to the past. And no connection with Luke.

  And if it doesn't work out, I can always come
back here.

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  Of course it will woy out. I haven't been gone that long; I remember everything. I can do this. I know I can. LuJ^e is right: I can do anything if I really want to.

  At the end of the day she left her studio and went into the hving room. She had forgotten to turn up the heat when she left and the rooms were chilly and forlorn, as if she had already gone away. She looked around, at the familiar rooms that had sheltered her for so long, and felt a moment of pure terror at the thought of leaving them. She waited for it to pass, but it did not. It settled within her, like a small knot at the base of her stomach. What am I thinking of? I can't go out there, facing people, trying to . . .

  huke thought I could. Constance thought I could.

  If they really believe that I should, too.

  The terror was cold and heavy within her. Well, I'll just have to live with it. . .for a while.

  She walked through her rooms and back to the greenhouse, and absently began picking yellowed leaves from a geranium plant. Robert can find someone to rent the house, or at least to ta^e care of it. And the horses, too.

  There were no more reasons not to go. After dinner, she made a fire and sat before it, as if warming herself before going out into the cold. The wind had come up and a branch scraped the window, causing the dog to bark. Jessica patted the couch and she jumped up, nestling beside her, her nose nudging for attention. Jessica stroked her sleek back and head. I'm leaving everything else behind. But I'm taing Hope with me.

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  nee again she looked out at water, but this time from far above, as if her white stucco cottage with orange-tile roof was floating through the pale blue sky above Sydney Harbor, its great glass windows framing the busy scene below. It was like a theater, Jessica thought, sitting in her living room and watching sailboats and ferries, catamarans and water taxis, yachts, freighters and ocean-going liners crisscross the harbor, miraculously avoiding collisions that seemed inevitable until the very last minute. And it was the closest to the theater she had come in the ten days she had been in Sydney.