Bad Desire

by Devon, Gary;

  She looked around at the passersby to see if anyone she knew might have heard what he said. Then she laughed, lightly and naturally. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you mean.” There was, now, a dry patch at the back of her throat. “Of course, we are both very fond of Sheila, as we were of her grandmother.” The boy was staring straight at her and it was then, exactly then, Faith realized what was wrong with him: he was drunk.

  “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” she said. She tried to be firm, but her voice sounded weak to her. All at once, she felt weak all over. Faith wondered if he noticed it, too. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I really have a great many things to do. I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”

  “No, I’m not drunk, Mrs. Slater. Let me tell you something—”

  But she was leaving—it happened so fast. Before he could even reach for her, Denny heard her high heels striking the tile mosaic as she rushed away. Jesus, he thought. She’s running away from me.

  Faith was across the street, headed into the parking plaza by the time he caught up with her. “Get away from me,” she snapped, glaring at him.

  He said, “Don’t you know what’s been going on? Don’t you know what they’re doing?”

  She was walking so fast he could hardly keep up with her. A passerby parted them temporarily. Denny grew even more intent. “Sheila’d say anything to pump things up and make them more exciting. Okay, look, I love her, okay, but she doesn’t know what she gets herself into sometimes. You don’t know her, Mrs. Slater.” But he found himself rushing along beside an impenetrable silence. “Maybe you could talk to her—”

  Faith would not look him in the face. “You’re drunk,” she said.

  “Mrs. Slater, maybe if you’d talk to her …” he implored. “She seemed to like you … trust you. Maybe you could straighten her out.”

  Abruptly Faith turned on him. She was far beyond charity now. “You force me to say things, you force me to be unkind. I don’t know what’s happened between you and Sheila. Whatever it is, I don’t care.” Faith lowered her voice to emphasize the importance of what she was saying. “But—but if you think I’ll stand by and let you make these ridiculous accusations, you’re badly mistaken. How dare you say these things! There are laws against this—against harassment and against libel. I don’t think you understand the seriousness of what you’re saying of realize who you’re going up against. If my husband gets wind of this, he’ll file charges against you …”

  Red-faced, Denny looked away; Faith stared straight through him. “I know, for a fact, that my husband’s old car is home right now in our garage. So forget about what you think you saw and leave me alone. We’ll always help Sheila as much as we can. But I won’t allow you to spread this madness. Do you understand? Don’t repeat it. Not one word, or I’ll go to my husband myself. I’m doing you a favor, believe me.”

  He put his hands into his pockets and quickly took them out; he shifted his weight, but in the end, Denny stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the sidewalk. “Christ,” he said, “I thought you were nice.” His voice was ragged and he cleared his throat. “Okay, so I won’t say anything. But, Mrs. Slater, if you don’t believe me, why don’t you follow them sometime? You’ll see I’m not lyin’.”

  “Not another word,” she said. She was white with anger and fear; she was trembling, but her eyes didn’t move. She could see that he was just as upset and afraid as she was.

  Slowly he lifted his hands in a hopeless gesture, crossed in front of her and walked away. She realized her teeth were clenched so hard they hurt. What gets into people; my God, what got into me!

  I don’t believe this, Faith thought. I swear to God I just simply don’t believe it. The last several minutes had been like a bloodletting. She had done what she had to do, what any wife would do, she told herself. Only now could Faith allow herself to feel sorry for the boy. His pain had been obvious and honest. They’ve had a big falling out, she thought, and the damned thing lands on me. When her eyes brought him back into focus, Denny Rivera was receding with every stride. Faith looked at her watch again. Time to get home. I know it’s not anything, she thought, it can’t be. Only I don’t see how … She shook her head.

  The traffic she drove through that late afternoon seemed as distant and removed from her as the background traffic in a movie. Don’t be silly, she kept thinking, Henry and Sheila Bonner; it’s impossible.

  But the Jaguar was not in the garage, as she had believed it would be. She closed the overhead door and went swiftly toward the house. Now, all at once, everything felt disrupted, uprooted. Luisa was just beginning to start dinner and Faith dismissed her. “Take yourself to a movie,” she said, “and have a good time.” On the nightstand in the bedroom, she found a note from Henry.

  Picked up the old bucket—motor needs a tune up. Meeting in Pacific Grove, maybe poker after. Home late. H.

  Faith looked at the clock. Ten after four. She took up the telephone and dialed Henry’s office. “Abigail, this is Faith. I know Henry’s in that meeting in Pacific Grove, but I’ve misplaced the number he left me. Do you have it? I never know when I’ll need to get in touch with him.”

  Abigail Giddings gave her the number.

  She told herself she would put it out of her mind. But some great doubt refused to be still. He’s just involved with his work, she thought. At this stage in a marriage, you have to expect this sort of thing.

  Maybe he was giving Sheila a ride somewhere. That would be like him. A harmless ride. But then why didn’t he mention it in his note? And what was Henry doing in Vandalia—why meet her there?

  For a second, she thought of going out again and doing something, anything. She could go to the club. At least there would be someone there to play tennis with. But it was only a moment’s attempt at escape. Faith knew perfectly well that she would stay right where she was. This was her place—the one place where she belonged and she would stay.

  But how quiet it was. How lonely.

  The desolation of the house was complete without him, like a deserted fortress: the emptiness of the bedroom, the useless opulence of the dining room, the vast silent efficiency of the kitchen. Her life was one of tranquility and service. So why did it now seem filled with portent?

  At ten till five, she called Pacific Grove and asked for him. A secretary took her number. Faith put the receiver down and kept waiting for it to ring. Standing right beside the telephone, she took off her earrings. She tried to think of something to say to him when he called her back. What would she say? She was so consumed by her thoughts that when the telephone did ring, it startled her; Faith jumped and snatched it up. “Oh, Vern,” she said, “is Henry still there?”

  No, the ex-senator told her. Henry had been gone for about half an hour.

  “Did he say by chance where he could be reached?”

  “Sorry, Faith,” Tripplet said, “but I assumed he was headed back home.”

  “I think Henry mentioned something about a poker game.”

  Tripplet chuckled. “If there’s a game, he damned well better have invited me along—but he didn’t. I’m sure he’s on his way home.”

  As soon as Faith had hung up, she flushed with embarrassment. What would he think of her calling about her husband? Would he mention it to Henry? How stupid she had been to invite such humiliation—and Henry’s volcanic temper.

  Toward evening, trade winds blew through the rooms, cooling them, but afterward when the winds died down, the house felt hotter than ever. Twilight was well advanced; the sky was growing darker. She thought, If he was only giving her a ride, Sheila’s probably back home by now. In the bedroom, she dialed the McPhearsons’ number, and on the third ring, a woman answered.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Faith told her and then without hesitation, in a move to protect herself, she did something she had never intended to do. She lied.

  “I’m Mrs. Marilyn Hughes,” she explained, “and I knew Rachel Buchanan
years ago, when she was teaching school. I understand that her granddaughter is staying with you.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” the woman said. “Sheila’s practically a member of our family. She’s always welcome here. We’re grateful that our daughter, Mary, has such a good friend.”

  “Mrs. McPhearson, would it be possible for me to speak to Sheila?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hughes, but she’s not here right now. Sheila spent the day with a friend and I’m not quite sure when she’s getting back. Should I have her call you?”

  Faith wound the telephone cord on her finger. “No, it’s really not at all important. Please don’t bother her. Won’t she be moving soon, to live with Mrs. Sanders?” She listened as the woman explained the arrangement. “Then I’ll call her there in a few days, once she’s settled.” As quickly and tactfully as she could, Faith hung up.

  She’s not there.

  On the nightstand was last month’s copy of Art & Antiques. She turned on the lamp, took up the magazine, opened it in the middle and forced herself to focus on the text. But her heart was beating so hard, she could hardly get her breath. The article had to do with Gauguin; still, Faith’s thoughts were so muddled, she didn’t know what she read. No matter how much she tried to concentrate on the words, she couldn’t. Finally she realized she was waiting for the sound of Henry’s car outside on the drive, convinced that he would appear at any moment. But on Condor Pass, nothing moved.

  Faith lay back on the bed, on top of the covers. Her wild imagination kept growing, feeding on her adversity. As each minute passed and he still had not come, she grew increasingly distracted, and she was aching. Faith burned for him. The violence of her feelings surprised even her.

  In her hands, she held the stiff sheet of notepaper that once had been white but was now creamy with age and cross-sectioned from its many unfoldings. Some serious trouble has been brewing a long time that you should know about. This has to do with Henry.

  17

  At six, Slater found her waiting in the deserted lobby of the Casa Del Mar Hotel, where he had arranged for them to meet. No one else was about except for a solitary businessman at the desk. Sheila was sitting in a canvas chair under one of the huge, beige, market umbrellas. When she saw him, she smiled, but just as quickly a cloud of doubt crossed her face, as if she was uncertain she’d done what he wanted. She rose from the chair, gathering her things, and he had what he’d asked for.

  She was transcendant. She wore a pale blue-gray evening gown, devoid of ornamentation except for its thin braided straps. The gown clung to her body, eased softly over her waist and hips and fell tapered to the floor with a little excess flare of cloth off her ankles. A slit ran to mid thigh on her left side; it parted as she came toward him. He watched as her long leg slid in and out with each step. Her lips and nails were coral, her beautiful eyes sea colored and her hair more abundant than he’d ever seen it.

  She smiled, anxious for approval. “How do I look?” she asked.

  He was filled with incredulous pleasure. “You’re spectacular,” he said, taking her hands. “But we can’t stay here on the street. Let’s go.” A subtle perfume hung over her. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms. Instead, he gathered the three boxes of clothes she had worn earlier and they went around the corner.

  “Mr. Slater, don’t you like what Mrs. Holt picked out for me?”

  He laughed. “Of course; I told you—”

  “Yes,” she said, “but don’t you think I’m pretty?” She stepped out in front of him and did a pirouette.

  “Oh, you’re prettier than pretty. You’re exquisite.”

  Sheila lit up at his praise. “I’ll settle for pretty,” she said.

  His eyes had a look of mischief Sheila had completely forgotten, one that reminded her of the first time she had seen him when she was ten. Seeing it again this evening erased all the years.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Here.” He was smiling, his face was glowing. “Come, look,” he said, directing her toward a polished white Karmann Ghia convertible.

  Sheila looked at him. “No,” she said, her eyes sweeping the lanes of parked cars for the Jaguar that wasn’t there. “Stop teasing me. Where is it?”

  “Come and look,” he repeated, smiling at her over his shoulder. “Get in.” He opened the door for her and started to laugh. “Actually, it’s not my car. It’s your car.” He held the keys out before her.

  “No,” she said. “No, Mr. Slater, it isn’t either. This is going too far.”

  “All right,” he said, “calm down. I’m having some work done on the Jaguar, so I rented this for the evening. And right now we’ve got to go.” Leaving the passenger door open for her, he stashed her boxes of clothes in the trunk and then got into the driver’s seat, beside her. “The truth is, you ought to think about it, Sheila. This is a good little car. If you like it, I could help get it for you.” She could see that devilment still in his eyes. “Or maybe you’d rather have a new one?”

  “Mr. Slater, you know I like it,” she told him. “But I can’t afford this. You can’t seem to get that through your head. I have to face facts and get by on my own and I’m broke.”

  “Yes, but all that’s changing.” Then he turned her words around and gave them back to her. “You don’t seem to get the point. I said I’d take care of you. I’ll buy you this car if you want it. You can test it out on the way home.”

  He assisted her into the Karmann Ghia, got behind the wheel and they moved into traffic. “You need a good little car,” he was saying, “something that suits you. You can’t run around forever in that old station wagon. The damned thing’s falling apart.”

  Sheila looked at him, full of uncertainty. “But what would I tell people?”

  “You could say you bought it with the insurance money,” he told her. “But that’s lesson number one. You should never tell anyone what you’re doing.” His voice had hardened. “It’s none of their goddamned business.”

  “Okay,” she said and she smiled. “What’s lesson number two?” And they both laughed.

  The coastal town of Clementine was in deep shadow when they arrived; they could feel the melancholy of dusk in the air. To the west, the sunset still etched the tops of clouds, leaving the streetlights with the spent, empty glow of imitation pearls. They rode down avenues of palms, headlight beams flickering over gray trunks wrapped in ragged gauze.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  He lit a cigarette and let the wind snatch the smoke from his mouth. “Far from home,” he told her.

  They turned into a street that seemed hardly more than an alley. A mugginess hung in the air, a sticky heat that saturated their clothes. It was even worse when Slater stopped the car and the wind flowing around them suddenly ceased. In the stillness that rushed in, they could hear telephones ringing in houses half a block away.

  The restaurant was called simply C’est Bien, its name written with small white lights across its tall brick front. “I think you’ll like this,” Slater told her, opening her door. He extended his hand, and Sheila’s grip tightened in his fleetingly as she swung her legs out of the car, oblivious to the flashing of a nylon-darkened thigh, so taut, so secret and quick it swiped his eyes.

  They entered through a small courtyard, with a trickling stone fountain—a narrow walled garden where fig trees and roses and tiny-blossomed star jasmine grew. Vines grew up the walls and over the entryway; tendrils hugged the white awnings. It was quiet and discreet, with an oriental air of privacy. With his hand grazing the small of her back, he led her up the steps between topiary elephants to a black louvered door set in a large archway fitted with black shutters. As if on signal, a gaunt majordomo, his black twill uniform trimmed in gold, opened the door and stepped aside.

  Sheila walked by him and felt a cocoon of breathtaking opulence wrap around her. The air was scented and cool; she felt the chill of the marble floor even through her satin slippers. From the corner of her eye, Sheila
saw Henry Slater step inside and heard the shuttered door gently close behind them.

  The majordomo went behind his large carved desk, hardly looking up as Slater spoke to him. He nodded, checked his reservation book and pressed a button. “Thank you, Matthews,” Slater said, watching her now to see her reaction as he came to her side.

  “You’re making me feel very grown up,” she whispered, delightedly. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course. What makes you think it wouldn’t be?”

  But Sheila hardly heard him, she was in such an excited state. “I don’t know.” The aroma of hot baguettes, fresh and crusty from the oven, drifted toward her from the kitchen. “Is this a private club?”

  “No,” he said, warmed by her enthusiasm. “If it were private I couldn’t bring you here. I’ve got a little stake in it, that’s all.”

  “Are you serious?” Her face collapsed behind her hands in soft laughter. “You mean you own it?”

  “No. I have an investment.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He winked. “No one knows about my part in this, Sheila, except for the few people I do business with. And now you.” Odd the effect she had on him, as if, in all the world, there was not enough air. He felt tight inside, ready to burst out and say things he knew he shouldn’t. He could see the enchantment waiting in her eyes.

  “I love it here,” she said.

  Whatever happens, he thought, it will be irrevocable. He knew he was coming to the end of something.

  The lobby ran the full depth of the building to another archway, which was glass-enclosed. Three stories up, a long skylight let in illumination that died somewhere above their heads. The walls were lined with mirrored panels; huge crystal chandeliers hung suspended in the air.

  A waiter led them down the long corridor past period furniture, plump sofas, soft lamps receding at intervals before them, and Sheila thought there must have been a thousand candle flames flickering—all multiplied a hundred times over in the cross fire of mirrors. And flowers: old fish carts laden with them, huge tubs and pots overflowing with ferns and gardenias, orchids, flowering fuchsia, hibiscus, delphinium and more.