Bad Desire

by Devon, Gary;

  You bastard.

  She hesitated, then as if nothing had happened, she signed it quickly “Love, Faith,” folded it into a crisp peak and left it on his pillow.

  She tidied up the side of the bed where she had been sitting. She grabbed up her bag and left the light burning on the nightstand so that it shone on the note. The hall was dim and silent. The Chinese runner sank beneath her hurrying steps, the walls shifted backward, but she felt as if she were hardly moving. It was impossible, but the air in the house seemed to tug back at her, as if it knew the depth, the limitless dimension of all she was leaving behind.

  PART

  THREE

  23

  Years had gone by since the trouble the last time—so much time that the past sometimes seemed like a long, bad dream to Faith Slater.

  They hadn’t been married a year when Henry lost their money, a great deal of money, including the inheritance she had received only a few months earlier from her father’s Winnetka estate. “I was set up!” Henry ranted. “The bastards set me up!” But no one had set him up. “You got in too deep,” she tried to tell him again and again. But he couldn’t accept it. “They’re vultures, Faith. Vultures! Christ, they’d take the damned shirt off my back, they’d pick my bones if I’d let them!”

  She remembered how frightened they had been, the wild paranoia of those last days in Chicago when they stayed up nights, trying to decide what to do, afraid for the phone to ring—the talk about filing for bankruptcy, the evening they returned to find their furniture and paintings gone, the foreclosure notices. Sleepless nights when it was finally decided that they would have to get away, as far away as possible, to begin again. They would go to California, he decided, and build a new life there. She remembered how Henry had pleaded with her to go when she didn’t want to—“Oh, my darling, please, this is home to me. This is my home, don’t you see?” she had begged him. “We can make it here. We can get by.” But he wouldn’t be swayed. “I’ll make it up to you, Faith—I promise. I started out with nothing when we met and I’ll make it all back again. Just remember: it’s you and me, Faith, no matter what happens. It’s you and me.”

  “Always,” she vowed, “always, always.”

  It’s you and me, Faith, no matter what happens.

  It’s you and me. You and me.

  Always. Always.

  And then to awaken this morning and know she was alone.

  Alone.

  Faith opened her eyes to the piping of sea gulls. Where am I? she thought. How did I get here? What in the name of God has happened to me? She was stiff and sore. When she pushed herself up in the car seat, she remembered driving the night before, driving and driving until she couldn’t go any farther. The parking lot where she’d pulled in and fallen asleep overlooked an empty white beach. Now, the air was crystalline and blinding bright. Faith ran her hands through her hair, put on lipstick and sunglasses, trying to get her bearings. Sliding over behind the wheel, she started the Mazda.

  It was the kind of day that the middle of June was supposed to bring, warm, fresh-scented, with an occasional chase of clouds across the blue sky. Half an hour later, she turned toward the old coastal highway, a road she hadn’t taken from this direction since the days when she had first arrived in California. She passed the Palomino Beach sign and turned to the right, still heading south. For the next few miles, the ocean and the long, bone-colored beaches skimmed by as slowly the elevation began to rise.

  The pavement narrowed to a two-lane blacktop that climbed steadily higher and higher through rugged terrain. This strip of road was among the most hazardous in the state, and for the next forty-five miles, she drove through its deep, twisting curves. Eventually she passed the entrance to the settlement for refugees coming in from Central America, and the church hospital where she did volunteer work every Friday and Monday morning.

  Five miles farther on, she reached the gas station-restaurant called Mama Emilia’s, the last outpost before Rio Del Palmos. Mama Emilia’s was a small cluster of buildings with corrugated tin roofs and beer signs blinking in the windows, but the place was always crowded with tourists this time of year. Mama’s empanadas were famous.

  Making a U-turn, Faith pulled her car across the road onto the shoulder, where there was barely enough room for one small car to park. It was rare that anyone else used this space because it was so narrow. Off the passenger’s side of the car, the drop was so precipitous that to look down at the waves crashing below made her stomach crawl. And yet, she loved this view of Rio Del Palmos more than any of the others: the miniature city in the swollen green lap of hills, the ocean sparkling in the bay, the mission-style domes and spires all but unrecognizable at this distance. I don’t want to live anywhere else, she thought. This is what I want.

  Taking her purse and keys, Faith got out of the car, crossed the old highway on foot and went through the crowded parking lot to the restaurant, inside.

  “Ah, Mrs. Slater, how’re you today?” said Miguel from his usual place behind the counter. “You’re running a little late. Same as always, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said, nearly shouting above the noise in the crowded room, “but please put them in a bag today. I’ll have them while I’m driving. I’m afraid I can’t stay.”

  “Sí, Mrs. Slater.”

  Leaving her car on the brick driveway, Faith went toward the house. Immediately, she could sense it: Henry wasn’t there. Her beautiful, white morning glories were thriving, choking the porch posts of the veranda, but the desolation she felt extended beyond the familiar eloquence of the flowers. This was the life she had elected to live—a mild, protected life, removed from the chaos she knew life could throw her way. I wanted a home and a husband and this is how I end up, she thought.

  It was 9:35 when she stepped into the hollow sanctuary of her own home. She had tried to keep the world at arm’s length, and by and large she had succeeded. Her marriage, her life with Henry, was not something to be tampered with. And yet, today, the house had an unfamiliarity about it, the same as it sometimes did when she returned from vacations. The living room looked as if everything in it had been slightly upset by some thorough but urgent cleaning. Absurd as it was, Faith kept wanting to blink her eyes and set things right.

  I can’t help it if he loves her, she thought. I’m his and he’s mine; he belongs to me.

  “Luisa,” she said, shuffling through her telephone messages and finding nothing from him, “did Mr. Slater have a good breakfast this morning?”

  “No,” the maid told her, “Mr. Slater, he say, ‘Only coffee. Black.’”

  The first thing she did was to call his office, simply and directly, as she would have done if nothing had happened. Faith had to find out what he knew about last night. This would be the first time she had talked to him since discovering him with Sheila and she dreaded it. Stay calm, Faith told herself as she dialed the telephone. Act normally.

  “Abigail,” she said, “this is Faith. Could I please speak to my husband?” She waited until she heard his voice on the line.

  “Good morning, Henry,” Faith said, as cheerfully as she could. “I just got home and thought I’d check in. How’s everything?”

  If Henry noticed her strangeness, he didn’t let on. His voice flowed into her ear, full of its old music; she could feel it in the pulse behind her knees much as she had felt it, last night, when it came through the farmhouse window. She couldn’t stop seeing that young girl on top of him. The flood of images was driving her wild. Why do I ask for this? she thought. Why don’t I just go?

  Suddenly, she tasted the salt of tears on her upper lip and licked them away.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked. Her entire body trembled with the effort not to sob. Removing herself from Luisa’s hearing, she carried the phone, trailing the cord, out onto the balcony. The tears ran. Burying the receiver against her shoulder for a moment, Faith fought for self-control.

  “… but it was fine,” she heard him saying. “I turned
in early.”

  She wondered how he could miss the emotion flooding her voice. “Don’t forget,” she reminded him, struggling to sound calm, “about dinner … tonight at the Parkinsons’.”

  The line was dead with silence. “Christ, what time?” he asked.

  Below, as far as she could see, sun struck the cresting waves in an ocean of sparkling light. “They’re serving cocktails”—Faith put her head in her left hand and then wiped her eyes—“at six-thirty.”

  Henry said, “Sounds like you’ve picked up a cold.”

  Tempted to spit out the truth, she hesitated a moment, then held it back. “Oh, I’m … okay,” she answered.

  Alone.

  When she hung up, her hands were shaking so badly that Faith couldn’t make them stop; she went quickly down the hall to the bathroom to straighten and repair her face. God, that was close, she thought. Too close. I mustn’t do that again. He can’t ever know that my life is torn apart. I’d rather die than give him the satisfaction.

  He’s still lying to me, she thought, returning to the bedroom. He must be going out of his mind with worry. Suddenly she realized: He doesn’t know who it was. He had no idea who it was out there last night. If he knew it was me, why would he lie? He’d know that I had seen him. With her. Faith felt like laughing out loud. He probably just thought I wasn’t feeling well. Faith’s got the sniffles. Whatever his imagination had conjured up, she thought it could hardly measure against the reality she had already seen and suffered.

  So, what now? It occurred to her that she could talk to Father Vasquez, but she immediately dismissed it. She knew there was no one. And yet, thinking about the priest brought to mind her commitments, the people who were counting on her.

  Opening the appointment book on her lap, Faith dialed the chancery’s number. When the housekeeper answered, she asked to speak to Father Vasquez, and when he came on, she said, “Father, this is Faith Slater. I’m running behind this morning. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The morning and the evening were hardly connected. At her vanity, Faith studied her reflection in the mirror. With a fingertip, she wiped away a faint red smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth. Opening the bedroom door, Faith straightened her back, drew herself up to full height, and gracefully moved down the hall toward the living room where her husband waited.

  This was the hardest part—to meet his eyes and not flinch—to face the fact that a malignancy, buried deep within them, had been secretly growing for so long. Faith, approaching through the dining room, paled at the sight of him. Tonight, he smiled with what seemed to her a terrifying cheerfulness. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I think so.” It amazed her to see him performing like this, to show no sign of nervous fatigue or whatever it was he must be feeling. A defiant hardness rose in her eyes. Well, if he can do it, so can I. Faith had learned long ago to discipline herself and she did it now. Composed, she left the house at her husband’s side.

  In spite of how she had braced herself against him, Faith realized Henry hadn’t said a word about how she looked. And why should his opinion still matter to me now? He rarely complimented her anymore. It would be demeaning to ask. A bone to a dog.

  “So how do I look tonight?”

  “Fine. You look fine, Faith.”

  She sat next to the window while he drove and watched the lights of the city melt into the darkness. After what seemed only a few minutes, she felt the Cadillac losing speed, pulling to the curb. The night air smelled of jasmine and almond. Haunting and lovely.

  The Parkinsons’ dinner party was held in the garden. She asked for wine.

  “Oh, Faith,” Anna Parkinson said, “why don’t you let loose? We’re having old-fashioneds.”

  “No, I’ll stick with wine.” Don’t you know? she thought. Faith doesn’t let loose. Faith never loses control.

  She was constantly aware of the other guests around her, touching and withdrawing, voices on the air, laughter, muted guitars. In her mind, Faith sat, calm and strangely removed, just listening and waiting to see what would happen next. As she heard the others talking around her, she felt that they spoke of things from another world, to another race blind to the realities of life. I don’t care what they think or how they live or how many husbands they’ve had or who they sleep with. I couldn’t live like that; I’ve never wanted to live like that.

  Faith watched as Henry talked with Anna Parkinson, who was sitting at the head of the table. She saw how the light of the lanterns overhead played over his hands—they were like beautiful carvings, masculine and hard and strong.

  Now she felt an icy shiver of desire. His hands. Desire had overtaken her in an instant. There had been a time—long ago—when the more they fought, the more they wanted each other afterward. I’d explode, she remembered, and even now, she could almost feel her body keening towards him. God damn, she thought, oh god damn. I’m still in love with him.

  After dinner, home, in the garage, came a moment that might have changed everything for her. When Henry pushed the door open to the laundry room and Faith stepped into the house, she passed within an eyelash of his face. Again, she felt the passion. The instant they were inside the house, she wanted him. But he shrank from her, pretending to give her room in the narrow entrance.

  The moment for her was gone.

  “I’ll get the lights,” he said as she walked silently down the hall. Looking back, her hand on the bedroom doorknob, she saw his eyes watching her, his face, like an actor’s mask, sculpted with light and his tall shadow flung back across the ceiling and wall. How many times had his hand reached beneath the shade to turn off that same lamp before coming to bed? Night after night after night. Suddenly, she felt sick—sick to death of loving him.

  I might as well be dead, she thought. But I’m not. I’m here; I married him, and he’s mine. I won’t let her take him away from me. For a minute Faith tried to put this hellishness out of her mind, but it wouldn’t let her alone. Slowly and decisively, she called up the possibilities: she was going to keep him. She could easily imagine destroying Henry and the girl and herself in the bargain.

  I’ll make this affair impossible for them both. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll behave like an angel. Sweetness and light. I’ve got to get close to this girl. I’ll get to know her very well. She’ll be my best friend.

  For as long as it takes.

  It would be a war and Faith would have to fight. And win.

  Oh, I want, I want—

  Unable to go to sleep, she waited until she was sure Henry had drifted off, then she got out of bed and began to roam the room. She would have to learn how to move as a shadow moves. Secrecy was necessary to her. Outside, a breeze ran through the trees, shaking their branches, and the smooth surface of moonlight exploded into a thousand flashing pieces.

  But Faith hardly saw it. Almost protectively, she listened while her husband slept, his every breath deep now and softly measured, while in the night, her eyes burned, feeding on the darkness with the fiercest black glow.

  24

  Sheila was invited to all the parties that early summer, but she didn’t go to them. The word circulated that she was still depressed about her grandmother’s murder, which was true, but the excuse also suited everyone concerned—in particular, she thought, Henry Slater. She often talked on the phone with the girls she knew, although she relied mainly on one or two of her closest friends, like Mary McPhearson, if she wanted to go downtown.

  In the mornings, two or three times a week, she put on shorts and a T-shirt and drove out to the house on Canyon Valley Drive to spend the day sorting through Rachel’s old things. Sheila poured over old photograph albums and forgotten letters tied in bundles—some were from her own mother, who she remembered vividly. She wondered why Rachel had failed to show her the letters: after her mother had died she had missed her desperately, and now, reading these things written in her own words was like stumbling upon a secret room.

 
Every day shortly before noon, she’d slip on a bikini and unfold a lawn chair in the backyard. The neighborhood seemed deserted at that hour. Lying in the sun, she dozed or thumbed through magazines or tried to read a book, but after a while—after a shorter while every day, it seemed—boredom set in and Henry Slater occupied her thoughts. They were drowsy, disconnected thoughts: the stirring sound of his deep laugh, things she remembered him saying. He had said he wanted her more than anything else in the world, and she held on to that.

  Sheila was driving the Karmann Ghia again—Henry had replaced the wires and belts and hoses. His Jaguar was back in the shop waiting to have the upholstery redone a second time. He had given her a key to a new place, an isolated beach house north of the city. “When you go there,” he’d told her, “you’ve got to be careful, more careful than you’ve ever been before.” His office had changed to summer hours, and as often as he could he left at three and she met him there in the late afternoons.

  A staircase led up to the loft, where the only bedroom was. Sheila liked to arrive early, shut the blinds and drapes and be waiting for him in bed. Eventually she’d hear him come in; she’d watch him getting undressed in the semidarkness and hold the sheet up as he slipped in beside her. They always made love, only to part streaming with sweat, spent but never surfeited.

  With the edge of the sheet, he always rubbed her down while she lay limp, eyes closed, heart thudding wildly under his hand. He was always the one who said, “It’s time to go,” and none of her prowess ever stopped him. She didn’t ask him where he was going. She knew. To Faith. To his other life. It sometimes made her feel incomplete, as if she wasn’t quite all that she should be. He was older and sophisticated and she had so much to learn. When she stayed behind, Sheila waited for ten minutes, as he had asked her to do. Then she was dressed and driving back to Mrs. Sanders’s, telling herself it would never end.