by Warren Adler
“Just to go out. A simple date. Maybe just a walk in the park on a Sunday afternoon.”
“You don’t understand about Sundays. Sundays are with my in-laws.”
“Tell them you’re with a friend.”
“There aren’t any,” she admitted with some trepidation.
“Yes there is,” he protested. “Me.”
“I can’t tell them that.”
“So make someone up.”
She hadn’t answered. But he had triggered her resolve. Despite her inability to be a truly good liar, she did make someone up, a friend at work, and she gave her a name. Sally. A nice innocuous name. When she was with Charlie and Molly, she would make sure to talk about her friend Sally. She had even given her a bit of history, a widow with one child, like Frances. They had a lot in common.
“You must bring her around,” Molly told her. “It’s nice for you to have friends. Especially now.”
“Do you good,” Charlie had agreed. “Keep your mind off things.” How could she explain to him that her entire life was not absorbed by grief?
But the lunches continued. Then, as Sally became more real and her friendship with Peter deepened, Frances would spend an hour after work with him in a bar, which meant that either Molly or Charlie had to pick Tray up from school, a chore they both welcomed. There were other worries in that. Charlie never missed an opportunity to mythologize his golden prince to Tray. By then, Chuck had become a heroic figure in Charlie’s view and surely in Tray’s mind, a man of true courage who had risked his life and limb for his loved ones and died covered with glory in a foreign land. What protection could she muster against that? Certainly not the truth—that Chuck had been a neglectful father who had not wanted his own son, who had wished to be as far away from family responsibility as possible.
“Why can’t you stay?” Peter would press. “We can have dinner.”
“I’ve explained that.” Actually her explanations had been sketchy, but he hadn’t pressed her for more than she was willing to tell. She had not, at that point, painted an unflattering picture of Chuck. He was simply her young husband who had died far away from home and had left her a $20,000 life insurance policy and in-laws who doted on her son and treated her with a little too much concern.
“You have your own life.”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
It wasn’t exactly an argument. They had already begun to hold hands under the table.
“Is it me?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why?”
“I have obligations, responsibilities.” It was much safer to be vague and general.
He was far less reticent and much more specific than she. His ex-wife, a professor of mathematics at Syracuse University, the area where he had been brought up and where his parents still lived, had not wanted a family, had preferred childless independence. He had thought that was an idea that time would dissipate. It hadn’t, and soon she was advocating open marriage, which, to him, had been a devastating suggestion.
“Imagine that,” he had told her. “She had absolutely no concept about the meaning of marriage as a commitment, a solemn bond. I mean, you don’t just lend yourself to the institution. The lines are very clear, honed by years of societal acceptance. Could you imagine advocating a group marriage? It’s humanly impossible.” He had winced, showing the residue of pain.
“Did she give you a bad time of it?”
“To put it mildly. One day, I came home and there she was, in bed with a student.”
“How awful.”
“Neither of them made any attempt to move. You know what she said? ‘Stop being a child.’ Imagine that.”
“Did you love her?”
“I thought I did.”
“And then?”
He had looked at her for a long time before answering.
“It’s another thing you just don’t lend yourself to. If it’s there, it’s there all the way.”
There was no mistaking his intensity, and she had sipped her beer to avoid any further references to that subject. There was no question about his intentions. It was her own that were confusing. Despite her widowhood and the long months of loneliness before, she still felt married, and the daily proximity to her possessive in-laws reinforced the feeling.
“There’s nothing worse than being alone,” he said.
“Sometimes you can be with somebody and still be alone.”
“I wonder which is worse.”
“They’re both pretty terrible.”
She watched Peter turn the steaks and cough away the smoke. Although he was smart enough to be an engineer, he was not an expert at barbecuing. But he was tenacious, and although dinner at his place had taken her by surprise, she was determined to be sophisticated about it, whatever that meant.
She sipped her martini, which was already making her slightly light-headed, listened to Mozart, sat back in the soft leather chair, and raised her feet to the hassock, continuing to observe him.
Peter Graham was wiry, smaller than Chuck, no more than an inch or two taller than she. His face was round and a bald spot was spreading on the top of his head, which was impossible to hide because of his tight curly hair. He wasn’t ruggedly handsome like Chuck, but attractive in a neat, spare way.
She watched him come inside in a swirl of smoke and poke around in the dining room, where he had set an elaborate table. Earlier, he had opened a bottle of red wine to “let it breathe.” She had had no idea that wine breathed.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” she called from the den. He had given her explicit instructions to be a total guest, that it was his party all the way, and she had obeyed them. Besides, a sense of euphoria was taking possession of her, and the music and candlelight created the illusion that a magic carpet had spirited her away from the sober realities of her predicament.
He came into the den, bowed, and made a courtly theatrical gesture, offering his arm. She laughed, rose, felt slightly dizzy for a moment, took his arm, and let him lead her to the dining room.
Sitting across from him, she sipped the full-bodied red wine and ate her charcoaled steak. She watched the flickering candles cast shadows over his face.
“This is beautiful, Peter.”
He lifted his wine glass.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
She could not remember if Chuck had ever told her that. Besides, she hadn’t felt beautiful for a long time.
“And you’re exaggerating,” she joshed. To her mind, she was far from beautiful. Maybe pretty, in a well-scrubbed sort of way.
“Take my word for it.”
“I hadn’t expected this, Peter. Your place is wonderful.” It was certainly a long way from her own cramped little apartment in Dundalk.
“To tell you the truth, I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I know you said that you would. I trusted that, of course. But I felt that some unknown force would intervene at the last moment. Is it really you?”
“Really me.” She felt a lump form in her throat. “Whatever do you see in me?” she asked.
“The future.”
“Nobody can see the future,” she told him honestly. She did not yet want to put it into words.
Earlier, she had told Molly and Charlie that she and Sally were going to take in a movie. They volunteered, of course, to take Tray overnight. “It will do you good,” Molly had told her. She felt a sudden stab of guilt, which annoyed her. How dare they intrude? she thought.
“I’m so happy that you came,” he said.
“Bet you say that to all the girls.” The remark seemed shallow and stupid, which triggered the old worry about her inadequacy.
“No. No, really,” he protested. “I’m not very good with the ladies.” She knew he felt uncomfortable about having her to dinner at his house. She had assumed that when he said dinner, it would be at a restaurant. “Please don’t feel pressured,” he assured her. “I just want you to see me on my turf.” A test, she knew. For her, as we
ll.
“The steak is marvelous,” she said, sensing the intensity of his inspection.
“I can’t take my eyes off you, Frances,” he blurted, the words expelled as if with regret. “Not from the beginning, from when I first saw you.”
“Well then, you need glasses.” She wondered if she had gotten into the habit of self-deprecation.
“I wear contacts,” he said.
“Really?” She took another sip of wine and sliced into her steak.
“I can’t think of anything else,” he said, momentarily confusing her.
“You can’t? But what?”
“But you.”
“Me?” She smiled. “You have your work.” Her hand swept the room. “Your music. Your books. Your paintings.” She had none of these.
“Entertainments,” he said. “To make up for what’s missing.”
She shrugged, secretly flattered but suddenly cautious and guarded.
“Some people are crazy,” she said, deliberately choosing the light touch. She concentrated on chewing her steak.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Put yourself down.”
“Do I?”
“All the time.”
She felt a tingle of belligerence.
“You do, too,” she said. “Telling me how bad you are with the ladies.”
“I am. I’m all thumbs.”
“Not with me.” It wasn’t quite true. He blushed often in her presence, and he sometimes seemed vague and uncomfortable, although she was always catching him looking at her, following her with his eyes.
“You’re either very kind or very unobservant.”
“Maybe a little confused,” she said. It was, of course, more caution than confusion. Not to mention being frightened.
“About what?”
“You,” she said, quickly averting her eyes. She finished the wine, and he started to pour more, but she put her hand over the glass. Her eyes darted around the room, as if seeking protection. She was beginning to feel defenseless.
“Do you want to get me drunk?” she asked.
“Not so you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I always know what I’m doing,” she said. She laughed suddenly. “Now there’s a fish story for you.” She didn’t elaborate.
“God, I’m happy you’re here.”
“Happy to be here.”
Across the table, he watched her.
“I’m crazy about you, Frances.”
He couldn’t be that, she told herself. Crazy about her? She repeated the words in her mind, wondering. To put your trust in someone required an enormous act of faith. She wanted to trust him, yearned to trust him. Hadn’t she lied for him about Sally? Or had it been for herself?
“It’s the wine.”
“There you go again.”
“Well, what do you expect me to say?” The fact was, she didn’t know exactly how to behave. But don’t stop, she said in her heart. He seemed to have heard her.
“I’m telling you how I feel. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Just sit here and say nothing.” I’ve done that most of my life, she thought.
“I don’t think of anything but you. I think I’ve already told you that.”
“What about computers?”
“A far second.”
It was strange to hear these things. But it was refreshing, like a glass of water after a long thirst. Was he really talking about her?
Despite Chuck’s death, she still could not shake the discipline of marriage. Hadn’t she been a true and faithful wife? Had she ever known another man in an intimate physical way? Chuck, she was sure, had felt some macho sense of pride in being the first, even though it had happened before they were married. Whether or not she had felt the pleasure that sex was supposed to bring was another story. The fact was that she had felt nothing. Nothing.
“I’m courting you, Frances,” he whispered. “I’m so in love with you, I can’t stand it.”
She looked at him and bit her lip. Her gaze drifted about the room.
“I know you must think that it’s happening too fast. I mean so soon after—” He cleared his throat. “I just can’t keep it in anymore, Frances. If I’m out of line, forgive me. It’s a fact, and I’m acknowledging it. I know I’m taking an awful chance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know. Going all out. Baring what’s in my heart.” He paused. “And the other.”
“The other?”
“My first marriage.” The mention of marriage pounded home the message. His candor stunned her. But he continued relentlessly. “It crippled me, Frances. I can still see them both looking at me as if I was the mad one. Eight years and it’s still with me.” His voice broke with emotion.
“People make mistakes,” she said foolishly, wondering in what other way she was expected to respond. She knew that she was speaking for herself as well. We’ve both been crippled, she wanted to say, but didn’t. She did sense that she was beginning to look at him in a new way.
“I’m dead serious, Frances,” he said. In the flickering candlelight, his eyes seemed moist and glowing.
“I’m not questioning that, Peter,” she said gently.
He smiled boyishly and showed her his palms. They were damp with perspiration.
“I feel like an adolescent. Dammit, I’m thirty-eight years old and I want to write you love notes and carve our initials in trees.” He paused for a moment, and she felt pressured to respond in some way.
“It’s just that I’m not prepared . . .” she stammered. Prepared for what? Had she ever been prepared for anything? “I’m a widow with a small child, Peter.” She looked around the room. “And my real life is far, far away from here. Really it is. You’ve never been to Dundalk.” It was a working-class section of Baltimore, actually a bit of a joke in some circles, which triggered in Frances a pride in it that it didn’t deserve.
“Actually, I did go once. After you told me where you lived. I found your place, and I wanted to come up and visit you, but I didn’t have the courage.”
“Courage? You needed courage?”
“Cross my heart.”
“So now you know.”
“Know what?”
“That Dundalk is different. In two words, the pits.”
“I didn’t think so. I thought it had character. An honest place.” He hesitated. “It doesn’t pretend to be what it isn’t. Besides, you live there, and that made it important to me.”
“Really, Peter. There is a difference. I don’t mean age. Thirteen years is no big deal. But how about mental distance? Here you are with I don’t know how many college degrees, and I just barely got out of high school. You know very little about me. Very little.”
“I know what my heart tells me.”
“How do you know you can trust it? Engineers don’t think like that. Do they?”
“All right then. Let me explain the way an engineer thinks. I know I have this need . . . to be with someone . . . to love someone . . . to share with someone . . . to love and protect and support . . . to make me live at optimum potential. I know that’s my missing link. So, subconsciously, I surely have been looking around. Ever since . . . well, I won’t go into that again. Then you cross my path. Aha, something in my engineer’s mind reacts. Even engineers have instincts. That’s it, I acknowledge to myself after giving the matter a great deal of thought. . . . I have found the bit of machinery, the device, that eliminates the missing link.”
Yes, she thought with a sudden burst of emotion, that’s it exactly. The missing link. Was it possible for her to find it as well? In Peter? Yet she had been deprived of love and sharing and friendship for so long, she distrusted her own sense of need. She did not, however, distrust her growing feeling of confidence. She had, after all, seriously engaged this man’s full attention. Considering her long history of disappointments, that was no small achievement.
“How can you be so sur
e?”
“I’ve been programmed to know.”
“People aren’t computers.”
“Thank God.” He reached out and took her hand. “So there. I’ve declared myself and my intentions. So that’s my half of the equation. What’s yours?”
“Mine?” She rolled the question around in her mind, watching him as he waited eagerly for her answer.
“I want the best for my son.” She had expected some sign of discouragement. None came.
“Granted. But what about you?”
Whatever was happening, it was going too fast for her to comprehend. She felt slightly disoriented by the speed. So far, except for Tray, life had been a maze of dead ends. Nothing had turned out in even the remotest proximity to her dreams.
“Let’s postpone me, Peter,” she sighed. “For the time being.”
“When you’re looking at forty, things go much faster,” he said. “Time gets more precious. I’ve just stood up to be counted. Could you at least tell me where you stand?”
“I’m not sure,” she said honestly. With Chuck it had all seemed so simple. There had seemed to be less at risk. She had been living with Uncle Walter and his family, hating the sense of obligation and charity with which she had had to contend. He had a bakery in Timonium, and she had worked long hours there all through high school for room and board and spending money. She had felt like an indentured servant, and the job at the radio station had meant freedom and independence. Then Chuck had come along, offering more promise, a home of her own, a family. That disappointment dulled the promise of Peter’s words. Still, she had to think beyond the lessons of bitter experience. She felt like a cork on a wave. Go with the tide, she begged herself, wondering if she could muster the courage.
They finished their dinner in silence. Then he led her back into the den. He poured two brandies in snifters, and they sat on the floor and took off their shoes. He reached out and caressed her arm, and she felt the rise of goose bumps on her flesh.
“I’ve been very empty for a long time,” he said. He bent over, brought her free hand to his lips and kissed it. So she was not the only one in the world in desperate need, she thought.
“I’m very frightened, Peter,” she said finally, after she had let him kiss her deeply.