Strangers on a Train

by Ruth Wind

  "Sure." Her voice showed her perplexity. Ben didn't look at her. When she spoke again, her tone was cool and polite. "It's right over here."

  A shred of sanity settled on him just as he picked up the phone. "I'm in no shape to go anywhere now." Although he'd tried to gentle his voice, it sounded harsh. "I'm going to call for a ride home."

  Something wounded showed in her eyes an instant before an opaque shutter slammed down. "No explanation is necessary. I understand."

  Ben reached John and gave him a message that would let him know why Ben needed him, then gave him Heather's address. After he'd hung up, he turned to look at Heather. She'd busied herself with sprinkling food over the fish tank, and didn't look up. Ben limped to the couch and sat down with a sigh.

  "Can I get you something?" she asked.

  Ben shook his head and Heather went to the kitchen. He heard her fill a kettle with water. He knew he was behaving badly, but his legs felt frozen and heavy, and any words of apology he might have found were buried beneath his shame. He sensed Heather's confusion, and yet the silence continued to stretch between them, thick and cloudy. It began to annoy him. "Don't you have any music in this place?"

  Without speaking, Heather moved to the stereo and flipped it on. Then she went back to the kitchen to pour a cup of tea.

  Under the long-cultivated barrier of polite acquiescence to a guest's wishes, Heather was seething with rage and hurt. He was being just like James. She remembered well his sudden, inexplicable irritation that shut her out like a pestering fly—the quick harshness, springing up in place of tenderness. She swallowed a lump in her throat. For a little while, tonight, she'd thought…

  There was obviously something in her manner that rubbed a man the wrong way. Perhaps a man without the internal struggles that James and Ben faced wouldn't be so quick to shut her out. After all, how could a man share a war with a woman?

  She glanced at Ben and her heart twisted painfully. His face was milk white. He'd leaned his head against the back of the couch and covered his eyes with one forearm. Only a few minutes ago, she had been wrapped in his embrace, feeling protected and loved and womanly. Now he would rebuff her if she tried to touch him.

  She had to admit that was what she wanted to do. She wanted to stroke his brow, help him to get comfortable, bring a pillow for his head, serve him a healing cup of tea. She wanted to play a soothing melody on her guitar until he fell asleep. But she knew he wouldn't let her, not any more than James ever had.

  She didn't understand it—not at all. With a resolute squaring of her shoulders, she promised herself that she wouldn't be hurt by this kind of situation.

  A knock sounded at the door and Ben answered it before Heather had even risen. A thin, bespectacled Indian stood on the porch. "You ready?"

  Ben nodded. "Give me a minute."

  Heather folded her arms and in unconscious defensiveness, raised her chin slightly. She didn't cross the room.

  At least he had the grace to look ashamed. "I'm sorry about tonight, Heather." His voice still carried harsh undertones.

  "Don't worry about it."

  He tsked softly and touched an eyebrow with one finger. "I know from experience that I'm not going to be in any shape to make conversation until I get some rest.

  "You could see me out," he said quietly, when Heather didn't respond.

  She sighed and left her post by the stove to walk toward the door. "Thank you, Mr. Shaw." She couldn't help the edge of sarcasm that shaded her words. "I had a lovely time."

  He reached out and took her hand. The violent trembling was back in his fingers and for a fleeting second, Heather was moved to sympathy once again. Then she drew her hand away.

  He closed his eyes as he paused, then swept them open to pin Heather where she stood. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "Good night."

  "Good night."

  Heather closed the door firmly behind him, fighting the unexpected disappointment she felt at his leaving.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  « ^ »

  Hours later, Heather lay in her bed in the darkness, staring at the ceiling. Every five minutes, her brain played back a full-color film of the entire evening from the moment Ben had appeared at her dressing-room door. It was fast forward for the scenes at the theater and through the party, up until the moment they danced palm to palm in Mike's candlelit living room. The film slowed down to illustrate Heather's easy response to the charismatic Ben Shaw, then sped through the car-drive home. It slowed again for the bedroom scene.

  The film had played three dozen times already, but Heather couldn't seem to stop it. Over and over and over again, she saw herself reaching up to the shoulders of her gown and letting it fall away from her. The memory now created a mortified strangling in her throat, a weight of shame in her chest. In her entire life, even with James, she'd never behaved so wantonly. The word was old-fashioned, but it fit. And though Ben, like any man, had responded, she doubted he thought much of her now.

  Her face burned and she squeezed her eyes tightly against the scene replaying itself again. All he'd done was kiss her, tease her, play with her—a normal reaction to her invitation to her bedroom. Had she subconsciously wished to tempt him into making love with her?

  He'd wanted to. She didn't really know why he'd stopped, but she knew it had taken much effort on his part to pull away from her. When she'd been changing for their late supper, she'd thought his control a kindness, a chance to let her grow more accustomed to the idea of their becoming lovers. As she'd dressed, her skin tingling with the lingering impression of his lips and hands upon her, she'd looked forward to the rest of the evening.

  Again the film had slowed, to show Ben with a stricken expression on his face, his hand on the doorknob of the workroom, and a ghastly gray tone in his skin. She'd called out to him in fear, knowing it was a seizure, and he'd slipped to the floor—not unconscious, but something far more terrifying. All manner of myths and facts about seizures had flown in and out of her mind. In the end, she'd done nothing except kneel at his side as he stared sightlessly into the hall.

  Then he'd turned on her, become snarly and irritable, like a wounded animal. Like James. In each man, the swift mood changes meant they were in pain, but Heather had lived too long under the threat of that biting ugliness to chance facing it again. Although a deep hunger stirred within her at Ben Shaw's touch, she knew she couldn't see him again. She was infatuated with his gentleness and the sweet mystery of him, and he'd undeniably awakened something sexual within her; but she realized she couldn't face the instability she'd experienced with James—not ever again.

  * * *

  He called the next morning, as Heather had supposed he would. She was braced for it and answered the phone with a carefully cool "Hello?"

  His voice, with its softly blurred consonants, nearly shattered her reserve right at the outset. "Heather. I'm really sorry about last night."

  "I already told you that no apology is necessary."

  "Oh, hell. Drop the chilly bit, would you? I acted like a jackass."

  She wavered, the movie reel slipping past her mind's eye in a flurry. When it paused at the moment of their palms touching in Mike's house, a wash of new desire for him almost wiped away her decision. Then she remembered him snapping at her, shoving their date aside in hasty disregard for her feelings, and she straightened. "No big deal," she said.

  "Will you let me make it up to you?"

  "I don't think so. I'm really not interested in dating right now."

  A pause rife with doubt traveled over the line. Heather thought of his lips on the vulnerable flesh of her lower neck and swallowed. "Heather." He sighed.

  She couldn't answer for a moment, and he saved her the effort. His voice was suddenly brisk and distant, a sound that sent a crush of disappointment through her middle. "All right. You know where to find me."

  The line went dead. Heather hung up slowly. He wouldn't fight for the second chance, then. So that was the end of th
at. The realization brought no relief, but she hadn't expected relief; she would rather suffer this little pain now, than much more, later.

  When she arrived at the theater for the Saturday-night performance, another white box had been delivered, a box that weighed more than something its size should have. Heather considered sending it back, but back where? To the messenger whom no one knew? She opened the box to find a bracelet of the same cast silver as her ring and necklace, the huge tree of her necklace forming its center, with lifelike elves dancing in a circle around her wrist. Around her wrist, that is, if she put it on, which she did not. Nor did she wear the necklace or ring.

  As she walked onstage for the performance, the first face she saw was Ben's. He was seated in the front row, in the seat closest to where Heather would play. Tonight he wore a crisp suit, elegantly tailored, with a cream-colored silk shirt and an understated dark tie. In spite of the hair curling around his collar, he looked like an ad for some line of expensive clothing, with his square chin and broad shoulders hinting a masculine power balanced by the gentleness of his softly fringed eyes. There was no humor on his features as their eyes met, only a penetrating intensity Heather found daunting. Her body rippled with a strange awareness of his crackling sexuality, and she wondered breathlessly as she sat down if every woman in the room could feel it.

  She didn't glance at him at all throughout the performance, and when she looked up at the end, he was gone.

  Apprehensively she headed for her dressing room, afraid to find him there, afraid she would not. Only silence greeted her, the undisturbed clutter of her street clothes scattered on the dressing table. A little pinch of disappointment touched her chest.

  Mike joined her at the door. "I saw your sweetie in the audience," he said cheerily. "Are you seeing him tonight?"

  Heather didn't look at him. She shook her head as she moved into the room.

  "Why don't you come over for a late supper with us, then?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  Mike stepped into the room, frowning. "What is it?"

  Heather moistened her lips. "I told him I didn't want to see him again."

  "Oh, Heather." Mike sighed deeply. "Come here, baby." He held her in a gently rocking hug for a long moment, a wordless gesture of comfort. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so, right now." She looked at him. "I guess I have to work it out on my own."

  He nodded and released her. "Well, you just call me if your big brother can do anything, okay?"

  She smiled halfheartedly. "Thanks."

  When he had left her alone, Heather sank down into the chair in front of her mirror. The yards of velvet in her skirt soughed around her ankles. Make up your mind, Heather, she said to herself. Do you want him or not?

  There was no question about the wanting, really. Only about the suitability of it—for both of them. When she thought with her brain, she knew what she had to do. She wouldn't let emotions cloud her thinking. With lips pressed together in resolve, she called Rose to help her to change her clothes.

  But she hadn't reckoned on a man like Ben.

  Every night, she emerged onstage to see him sitting in the same spot at the edge of the stage, his eyes burning into her as she walked to her seat. Every night she was as mesmerized by his appearance as she'd been the night before, and every night she ignored him and went back to her room.

  He never followed her, never phoned, never attempted to whisper something to her as she played through the intermission. Nevertheless she could feel him watching her with an unwavering absorption.

  By Tuesday, she had begun to dream of him at night—dreams filled with a kind of passion she'd never imagined she would feel for anyone, dreams that she would never have described aloud to another soul, dreams that made her face flush when they stole upon her in the morning; dreams that began to build a tense anticipation within her, an anticipation she had no means of controlling.

  She didn't know when Ben would be at the theater again, but she wondered how she could possibly stand up to his physical presence when he did.

  * * *

  Outside Ben's window on Friday afternoon, a sharp wind rattled the pines, tossing branches at the glass, and the sky promised snow. The first real snow of the year—at least in Colorado, he thought, remembering the Kansas storm that had stalled the train.

  Ordinarily, Ben anticipated the first snow on his ranch with high pleasure, but this afternoon his gaze wasn't fixed on the sky. Nor did he hear the hum of his electric typewriter as it waited for another word to be picked out in his slow manner. The last word had been typed ten minutes before, despite the fact that he'd paused midsentence.

  He kept imagining Heather's face that night at her house. The wounded expression in her eyes seemed to show that she'd expected him to act as he had.

  Suddenly the image became too much for Ben to stand. "John! Bring me something to eat."

  "Yes, Mr. Shaw. Coming, Mr. Shaw," John replied, in a slow drawl dripping with sarcasm.

  Ben lit a cigarette and clicked off the typewriter. The answer to this puzzle lay with James—or more specifically, with his suicide.

  Ben remembered James only vaguely as the younger brother of one of his friends. In high school, he'd been quiet, serious. He'd rarely dated and had often gone to church two or three times a week—a habit that had earned him considerable ribbing from his older brother and his friends.

  While Ben was being patched back together, James had been drafted and shipped out to Vietnam. Ben remembered thinking at the time it was a terrible place for a man with any kind of faith, but James had surprised everyone.

  The story had come to Ben a couple of years later, from Mike. Though James had been reticent about the whole experience, Mike had pieced together enough about the battle to know that James probably ought to have received a more distinguished medal for bravery than the Purple Heart awarded to anyone wounded in battle.

  The war had been nearly over by then, had become an embarrassment to the country, and everyone had been trying hard to forget it. Ben stubbed out his cigarette, exhaling on a sigh. Including me, he thought. When the news of James's suicide had appeared, Ben had wished he'd been a little more thoughtful, that he'd gone by to see James, or something. The wish was unrealistic, given the distant relationship between the two men, but the tragedy had upset him.

  Now he wondered how Heather fit into the puzzle. What had made her feel responsible? What had James been like after the war?

  John came in with a pitcher of lime Kool-Aid and a sandwich. Ben looked at them and realized he had no appetite whatsoever. "You hungry?"

  The thick black glasses reflected the opaque light of the gathering storm as John shook his head. "I already ate."

  "I'm grouchy enough for both of us, Rodriguez."

  "Yep."

  "Let's go to town." Mike would have the answers Ben sought, he decided, as he stood and stretched. "You can have the night off to see your—what's her name?"

  "Elena."

  "That's the one. Elena of the sultry eyes." He wiggled his nose in consideration. "I hope you don't plan on getting serious about somebody."

  John shrugged. "It ain't me cryin' in my Kool-Aid."

  * * *

  Thursday had been a disaster, and so far, Friday had been worse, Heather thought, as she struggled with her makeup for the last performance of Twelfth Night. She'd smeared eyeliner halfway down one cheek and dotted mascara all over one eyebrow, then dipped lipstick over her entire chin. Needless to say, her hands had developed a slight tremor.

  Last night, after an entire week of her seeing Ben's face in the audience, he hadn't appeared. Heather had gone home feeling deflated and uncertain—though her dreams had shown no uncertainty. They'd been all too vivid for Heather's comfort, and she wondered for the thirtieth time what had gotten into her.

  As she slipped into her stockings, a knock sounded at the door. Before Heather had gathered herself together to open it, she'd tor
n a hole in the delicate nylons, upset a bottle of perfume on the vanity and nearly knocked over her chair. Her heart completely forgot the rhythm it had been repeating thousands of times every day from birth and tripped into something unrecognizable. At the door she paused, her palms as wet as grass at dawn, her mind a whirl of possibilities. "Who is it?" she called.

  "Tom, from your Thursday-morning class?" He ended on a question, as if he weren't sure he would be welcome.

  Heather let go of her breath and opened the door. "Hello. I'm so glad to see you," she greeted sincerely.

  Tom wore a poorly made brown suit sans tie, and the telltale color of his shyness crept up his cheeks toward his eyes. In his hand he held a single pink rose. "I just came by to wish you luck," he said.

  Heather was moved by his discomfort. Why did he always feel as if he didn't belong? "Come in. I'm almost finished." She turned away from the door and sat at the vanity to put on her shoes. In the hallway, the excited voices of the company floated down airily. "Did you have a chance to look over the piece I brought you yesterday?"

  "I did, Heather." The color receded from his face and he approached her eagerly. "I'm here tonight to tell you that I think you should play it."

  She paused, her hand at her ankle. "I think you've been talking to my brother-in-law."

  "You're right," he admitted. "But I'm not stupid. You have something good with that steel-mill thing. I picked it out last night—not real good, you know—but enough to understand a little bit of what you did." He sat on a stool near her, his eyes very serious. "What are you doing here?"

  Heather didn't know what to say. She cocked her head for a moment in indecision. If her instinct was right about Tom, he was a latent genius on the guitar, which meant his ear was acute. She frowned. "It isn't really quite finished," she said.

  "Yes, it is, Heather. You have to stop polishing it and let it go." He moistened his lips and leaned forward. "Play it tonight."

  "It's too long for intermission," she protested.

  "Mike wants you to play it afterward—a kind of special addition or something." He paused, a smile coming to his mouth. "If you'll do it, I'll go to the university Monday morning and talk to the guy you wanted me to see."