The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  Anthony surveyed the room, admiring the transformation. Everything was new: the couch, the love seat, the coffee table—everything. Penelope loved to redecorate. She could spend hours poring over furniture catalogs and consulting with designers.

  Hennessy blasted out of the bedroom. He was a man of his word; he was out in under a minute. He was now wearing pants with suspenders hanging down from the waist, an unbuttoned dress shirt, unlaced shoes, and no socks. He had an armload of rolled blueprints, a suit jacket, a topcoat, a pair of socks, a shaving kit, Anthony’s bathrobe, and, for a reason unknown even to Hennessy, a black umbrella. The entire bundle was precariously held in place under the crook of his chin.

  “So, I’ll be going now. Great to see you, Anthony. We’ll have to talk. Lots to talk about. Here’s your bathrobe.” Hennessy tried to strip the bathrobe from the twisted pile in his arms, and the blueprints tumbled to the floor. “Damn.” He bent over to retrieve the blueprints and managed to get them stacked in his arms, but his foot was on the tail of his topcoat, and when he stood up the coat pulled out, taking with it the lion share of the laundry.

  Hennessy stared down at the limp pile of clothing like it was a coffin being lowered into a grave. He relaxed his arms and let the remaining jumble flop to the floor. With arms hanging loosely at his sides, he stood numbly for a moment as if offering a prayer of bereavement. Then, on its own volition, the umbrella exploded open. Hennessy, still mourning the “deceased,” heaved a long, slow sigh. “I’ll just pick this stuff up tomorrow sometime,” he said, giving the mound a timid sidekick. “Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Is that okay? I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s okay, Hennie.”

  “Good. Then that’s what I’ll do.”

  Hennessy turned for the door and then suddenly spun back around. “It was good to see you, Anthony,” he said pumping his partner’s hand, “real good to see you.” He paused and placed his hands on his hips and, not knowing what to add, repeated, “Real good to see you.” He looked at the pile again and shook his head. “Oh, you know, I need this,” he said, picking up a single blueprint at random. Got to have this one; big job, this one is.”

  “Well, bye for now,” Hennessy said, making for the door.

  “Goodbye, Hennie.”

  Hennessy whisked out the door.

  There was a moment of silence in the house. Then Anthony could hear his vice president unleashing a string of curses. The doorbell rang, and Anthony opened the door.

  Hennessy was standing with his arms propped against the door jamb like he was being frisked. “I forgot my glasses. I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”

  Anthony pointed at Hennessy’s spectacles, still perched on his head.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah,” Hennessy said, groping for the eyewear. He snatched the glasses and stuck them on his face. “Got ’em.” He shook Anthony’s hand again. “Well, see you soon.”

  “See you soon, Tiger.”

  “Right,” Hennessy said, snapping an about-face. With his chin in advance, he strode down the hallway, as if he were marching off to war.

  Again, Anthony closed the door and turned into the room. Then he noticed Hennessy’s car keys on the small table at the door. He picked up the keys just as the doorbell rang again. He opened the door, dangling the keys by the leather BMW key ring as if he were holding a mouse by the tail.

  Hennessy had his mouth open and a finger raised to the sky for exclamation. Anthony gave the keys a jingle.

  Hennessy said nothing, but the muscle under his right eye twitched. He delicately took the “mouse” by the tail.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Anthony closed the door and collapsed into one of Penelope’s new armchairs. He had to smile at poor Hennessy; he never was very good under pressure. But, for the first time in his life, Anthony realized that it was that very quality—that bungling schoolboy enthusiasm—that Anthony cherished in his friend.

  “Who was that at the door?” Penelope asked, gliding into the room like a runway model. She was looking very proper and Katherine Hepburnesque in a pair of wool trousers and a long-sleeve, high-neck blouse.

  “Oh, that was Hennie leaving.”

  “Hennessy left?”

  “Yeah, he said that he had a lot of work to do.”

  Penelope sat down in the loveseat across the room, keeping plenty of distance between the two of them. “It’s more likely that he was embarrassed.”

  “I suppose there was that too.”

  A pause.

  “You’re looking good, Penelope. Beautiful as ever.”

  “Thank you,” she said, not sure how to take the compliment. In fact, she was not sure how to take the whole situation. For months, all she could think about was the divorce, but now that Anthony was sitting there in the same room, she felt confused and unsettled.

  “Well, where do we start?” Penelope asked.

  “Penelope, if you don’t mind, I don’t think I have the strength to start anything tonight. I know it’s still early, but could we hold off until tomorrow? I’m hanging on here by a thread.”

  Penelope’s familiar sarcasm crept back into her voice. “Sure, why not? I haven’t heard a word from you in four months. What’s another night?”

  “I’m sorry, Penelope. Really, I do want to talk to you.” He furrowed his brow. “What day is today? I’ve lost all track of time.”

  “It’s Friday.”

  “Good. What have you got planned for tomorrow?”

  “Nothing much. I was going to do a little shopping for the apartment.”

  “It looks terrific, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” Penelope looked sideways at Anthony. He had never praised her about anything, and this was the second compliment within two minutes. She wondered what he was plotting.

  “I’ll tell you what. Remember how we used to love to visit Île de Ré?” Anthony was referring to the picturesque, low-lying island in the Atlantic, just off the coast from La Rochelle.

  “That was a very long time ago.”

  “Come on. It’ll be fun. If we leave at eight o’clock, we can be there by noon easy. What do you say? We’ll shop to your heart’s content in Saint-Martin-de-Ré. We’ll make a day of it and return Sunday morning.”

  “It’s the off season,” she said, continuing to protest.

  Anthony smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Penelope looked at Anthony as if trying to place the name of someone who was vaguely familiar. “OK. You’ve talked me into it.”

  “Good,” Anthony said, boosting himself out of the armchair. “I like that easy chair.”

  Penelope counted the third compliment.

  “I’m going to crash,” Anthony said. “I think I’ll take the bed in the guest bedroom, if that’s all right with you.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Goodnight then,” Anthony said, giving Penelope a peck on the cheek.

  “Goodnight, Anthony.”

  Penelope sat alone and thought a long time about Anthony and Hennessy and her life in general. Then she went to the bedroom and set the alarm for 7:00 a.m.—a God-awful hour, she thought. She propped herself up in bed, read for a couple of hours—at least pretended to read—and then drifted off into a restless sleep.

  ANTHONY AND PENELOPE LEFT THE house on time, beginning their excursion to Île de Ré. They drove southwest, past the gothic twin spires of the cathedral of Chartres, through the Loire Valley from Orléans to Tours, and from there on to the Atlantic. It was a four-hour drive, and Anthony took every moment of it to unravel the mystery of his four-month absence, glossing over the details of his flirtation with Savannah and romance with Lupita. Penelope listened intently, only asking a question now and then for clarity. By the time they crossed the graceful three-kilometer bridge that connected the port of La Rochelle to the island, Anthony was winding up the story of his Iberian odyssey.

  After crossing the bridge, they drove directly to the renaissance fish
ing harbor at Saint-Martin-de-Ré. The sky was blue and the air crisp. Despite the cool temperature, they both elected to eat outside. They found a table at a harbor-view café with blue shutters and a white canopy.

  When they had placed their order for lunch, Anthony began to talk about his affection for Diego. He took the olive medallion out of his pocket and handed it to Penelope.

  She read the inscription out loud. “Silence, love, charity, peace.” Penelope puzzled over the words. “What does it mean?”

  “It means a lot of things, but mostly it is a reminder for me to do the right thing—to listen to my conscience.”

  “And is that what you are doing today?”

  “I hope so. I’m trying.” Anthony shifted his body toward Penelope, hooking his arm over the back of his chair. “Look, I know our marriage has been a disaster for a very long time.”

  “No thanks to you, I might add.”

  “You’re right. I was unfair to you. No, that word is not strong enough; I was ‘cruel.’ And I certainly wasn’t faithful.”

  “I suspected that for years.”

  “I know, and at the time I was totally indifferent. I did exactly what I wanted and could have cared less about your feelings.”

  “I didn’t do much better,” she admitted.

  “We both messed up.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Penelope asked.

  “I’m not sure. I know that two key events have happened in the last four months. First, I know that you have filed for a divorce.”

  Penelope’s neck stiffened. “How do you know that?”

  “Lucy told me.”

  “When did she tell you?”

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  Penelope glared at Anthony.

  “I know. Why should I talk to her and not to you?”

  “Exactly,” Penelope huffed.

  “I called Lucy, because I knew I could trust her. I wasn’t sure I could trust you—not after living through our cold war. Lucy helped me get a new passport and updated me on news from the home front. I wish I could have trusted you, but I didn’t.”

  Penelope nodded, knowing that he was right. “You said two events have happened in the last four months. What was the second thing?”

  Anthony looked past Penelope at a gleaming luxury sailboat easing into the harbor. At the wheel was a man with a white captain’s cap and a pipe clenched between his teeth, the bowl hanging upside-down. At his side was a blond beauty—unnaturally tanned for the month of January. She was not wearing a rain slicker or a squall jacket, but a full-length, artic-white fur coat, clutching its uplifted collar at her neck.

  “Penelope, take a look at the skipper on that sailboat coming in just now.”

  “The one with the trophy wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  “That was me four months ago: A man with the world by the nape of the neck.”

  Penelope looked again at the boat. “And I suppose I’m the bimbo.”

  “No. Please, Penelope. I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about me—about my spirit: the greed, the ego, the self-indulgence. All that has changed now; I want a new life for myself.”

  “What kind of life?”

  “A simple life. I don’t want to prove that I’m the toughest, meanest son-of-a-bitch on the block anymore. I hate that.”

  Penelope searched Anthony’s face. “What are you talking about? What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t have to make a million dollars a year for one thing. I don’t even have to make a hundred thousand. In fact, I’d be happy just getting by on practically nothing, if I loved my work and my family.”

  Penelope blew a toneless whistle and spoke very slowly, drawing out the words. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “I know, Penelope. We get used to the easy life. We think we can’t get by without this year’s Mercedes or the chateau on the lake or the apartment on the Côte d’Azur.” Anthony took Penelope’s hand. His words quivered with fervor: “But you can. That’s what I’ve discovered. You can say goodbye to the excess and be incredibly happy.”

  Penelope withdrew her hand. She spoke slowly at first, but then her pace gradually quickened, and by the end of her speech, she was preaching to him. “But I like the excess. I like my life the way it is: my $100 body massages, my vacations in Venice, my diamonds and furs and outrageously expensive shoes. I don’t want to give that up, Anthony, because you suddenly got religion.”

  Anthony searched for the right words to say and could find none. The silence was interrupted by the waiter, who stepped to their table and asked if he could serve more wine.

  “Non, merci.” Anthony said. He paid the bill and looked at his watch. It was two o’clock; the stores would be reopening soon. “Why don’t we visit some of your favorite shops?”

  Penelope beamed. “You know I want to.”

  “Oh, yes,” Anthony sang out with a smile.

  They strolled through an archway and onto a cobblestone side street with a treasure house of galleries, clothing boutiques, and high-end antique shops. Penelope was in her element: trying on hats, selecting a few leather-bound books for the library, poring over a collection of original gold jewelry. But she spent the most time in an import shop that featured racks of Oriental and European tapestries. She was determined to find just the right piece to hang over the fireplace in the apartment den. She sought out the salesclerk, who was refolding a stack of fisherman-knit sweaters: a twenty-something woman with a floral scarf and a silk dress over a faded pair of jeans.

  “Could you help us please?”

  The clerk offered a patronizing smile, clearly preferring to be left alone.

  If Penelope saw that the clerk was put out, she ignored it. She made the salesclerk show her everything, which turned the young woman’s patronizing smile into a feebly disguised sneer.

  “I don’t know,” she would say, pondering over an English foxhunt tapestry or a French hanging of a medieval fortress with approaching riders. She would step back and hold her chin and ask Anthony what he thought about the choices.

  Anthony gave his best perspective, commenting on how the color of one might better match the leather chairs or how the design of another was in keeping with the theme of the room.

  In the end, Penelope was unconvinced and thanked the salesclerk for her time.

  “Je vous remercie, madame,” the clerk said, in a tone that sounded nearly civil.

  Penelope left the shop without a purchase, but that didn’t seem to matter. It was the thrill of the hunt that excited her.

  Before they knew it, the shops were closing and the day was gone. They found their car, placed their packages in the trunk, and took one last tour around the harbor at that magical time of the evening when the sun was setting and laid a veil of muted gold over the whitewashed cafés and storefronts.

  The air was noticeably cooler now, and they stepped into a restaurant to warm up.

  When they settled into their chairs, Penelope looked long and quizzically at Anthony. “You were wonderful today,” she finally said.

  Anthony smiled. “I never realized how passionate you are about shopping. My goodness, you’re a world-class athlete.”

  Penelope laughed. “It’s all in the conditioning.”

  “So what did you think of the day?” Anthony asked.

  “I loved it. And I adored you. I’ve never seen you so patient, so much in the moment. It made me wonder if I had made a mistake in filing for the divorce.”

  “One day does not make a marriage.”

  “No, that’s true. But you were wonderful. What has changed?”

  Anthony squared up on Penelope. “I haven’t told you about the second key event.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember, I said that there were two key events during the last four months.”

  “That’s right; I forgot. What is it?”

  Anthony paused and Penelope did n
ot break the silence.

  “I have fallen in love.”

  “The Spanish girl?”

  “Yes. Lupita.”

  “I see. Are you happy?”

  “It’s incredible. There is a spiritual connection that I cannot explain. I feel like we were perfectly designed for each other.”

  “I bet she has nice tits too.” It was a cheap shot, and Penelope knew it. Quickly, before Anthony could respond, she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I guess I’m a little jealous. No, I’m a lot jealous. That’s what I want; it’s what I have always wanted.”

  “I’m sorry, Penelope.”

  “Then why today? Why did we do this?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I wanted to find out about us.”

  “And are you sure now?”

  “I think I am.”

  “You think you are.”

  “Yes.”

  Penelope took his hand. “And what if I decided to fight for you?”

  Anthony half smiled. “I can’t control what decisions you make for yourself.”

  Penelope fingered her wedding ring. “I wonder if you can do me a favor?”

  “I can try.”

  “Unless contested, the court will finalize the divorce next Thursday, January twenty-fourth. That is just five days away.”

  “Okay. What’s the favor?”

  “Would you wait until that day to make your decision?”

  Anthony thought for a moment. “Yes, I can do that. But I have a favor to ask of you. Actually, I’d like us to be agreed about something. If either one of us decides to go ahead with the divorce, the other must honor that decision. Whatever the outcome, I would like us to be civil—more than that, I would like us to be friends. Are we agreed?”

  “I agree.”

  “No hedging?”

  Penelope smiled. “No hedging, Anthony. You have my word.”

  After dinner, the two walked to the Hotel de Toiras, a small but lovely port hotel with fine furnishings and an attentive staff. They got separate rooms. When Anthony walked Penelope to her door, she lifted her eyes, looked at him dreamily, and stepped forward

  Anthony took a step back. “No, Nel,” he said. “It’s been a wonderful day, but let’s not confuse things.”

  Penelope’s face darkened. The rebuff smarted, and Anthony knew it.