* * *
Althea and Paul were preparing dinner. It was after eight o'clock, and the late August sun had sunk past the horizon, leaving a velvet-blue sky striped faintly with pink. The mild air smelled of wild roses and meadows and the sea. The kitchen in the little house was scarcely more than an alcove, yet it was airy, with a wide window open to the deck and the curtains blowing. In the kitchen there was a stainless steel sink with a gooseneck faucet, a gas stove, cabinets, a medium-sized refrigerator, and oddly-matched implements that Althea thought might have been assembled piece by piece over the years.
She had poured two glasses of white wine. Paul was shucking corn. The pale silks splayed over his hand and then slipped and fell into a brown paper bag. A fillet of bluefish, its satiny gray flesh exposed, lay on a baking sheet. Althea was making a sauce for it, squeezing lemon juice, mixing it with fresh dill, olive oil, minced garlic, and mayonnaise. There was a loaf of Italian bread, green beans, a tender Boston lettuce, and a ripe red tomato.
Pots of water were heating to a boil for the corn and the beans. Althea slid the side of fish, spread with the sauce, into the preheated oven. Paul snapped the beans while she made the salad. They chatted as they worked, their shoulders occasionally brushing in the confined space. All was easy again between them. From time to time Paul let drop titbits about his life which she immediately gathered and filed carefully away in her memory.
The corn and beans were boiling, the fish was almost baked. Althea put the bread in the oven to warm it and poured them each more wine. They set the table. She lit candles, which multiplied in glossy reflections in the dark windows.
The sky had grown dark. The stars were coming out, she knew, though she couldn't see them from the windows. She and Paul brought the food to the table, sat down, and filled their plates. Paul admired the result: "delicious."
"It's nice to cook and eat together," Althea said. "I don't get a chance to do it too often. Who usually cooks, you or Bryce?"
Paul flashed her a warning look, yet replied, "It depends. We often cook together. But I guess Bryce probably does more. Sometimes we go out or order out. When I'm performing, we rarely eat together."
"But you know your way around a kitchen."
"I should. I've been on my own a while."
"And you do a lot of entertaining."
"That's Bryce's influence. Before I moved in with him, I rarely bothered. Too lazy or disorganized, I guess. But Bryce has got me so that I enjoy it."
"But it was your idea to invite me to your party?"
Paul smiled. "Yes, it was."
"I guess you'll reschedule it now."
"I expect so."
"Will I be included again?"
"Do you want to be?"
She stared into Paul's unfathomable blue eyes. He does not realize how desperate I feel, she thought. She lifted a forkful of fish to her mouth and chewed and swallowed it. She took a deep breath. "Will you tell Bryce about me?"
"No."
Paul's lips tightened in a thin line. She knew it was a mistake to ask him. She sat silently, miserably. Then she said, "All right. It's your life. You be the judge of it." Yet an icy shiver of dread washed over her as she spoke. Then it was gone, leaving a shadow. The fainter the light, the fainter the shadow, she thought. But she said, "Have some more wine."
* * *
After dinner they sat on the deck, bundled in sweaters, listening to the sea and watching the star-studded night sky. Every few minutes, it seemed, a shooting star would fall through the heavens, a white fireball burning itself up until it disappeared. "Oh!" exclaimed Paul with delight as a vivid streak illuminated the dome of the sky.
Althea was somber. Today's Friday, she thought. Jeanne arrives tomorrow. Before Paul came, I was looking forward to Jeanne's arrival, but now I wish she weren't coming. It makes me uncomfortable to think of Jeanne observing me with Paul. "Why are you involved with him? It's crazy," Althea could imagine Jeanne asking her. But I need her to come, she reminded herself. I'm depending on her to transport me and my canvases and supplies luggage back to New York on Labor Day. That was the deal we struck: a weekend vacation in exchange for a free ride.
She knew she ought to inform Paul of these plans, but she didn't. Once more, with my question about Bryce, I damaged the harmony between us, she thought. She felt aggrieved. She was chilly and tired. She stood up. "I'm going to bed," she announced.
"All right."
"Will you come, too?"
"I'm wide-awake. I'll be in later." Paul sounded remote; his eyes were still fixed on the sky.
Her spirits fell. She couldn't help it; she felt rejected. I'm too sensitive for my own good, she thought. She did not bother to wash her face or brush her teeth. She dropped her clothes in a soft heap on the floor, except for a tee-shirt which she wore as she slipped between the sheets. She closed her eyes. She felt she was sliding, though she lay still. As if I could feel herself moving with the rotation of the earth, she thought, before sleep overcame her. When she awoke in the morning, Paul was beside her.
* * *
Althea and Paul had gone out and come back. The sun was high in the sky, the weather still and hot. Althea poured two glasses of lemonade, which she and Paul drank quickly in long swallows. She fretted, I still haven't told him that Jeanne's coming. I'd like to make the most of our time left together.
"You look melancholy," Paul observed.
"Summer's almost over."
"Yes, that's a sad thought." But he did not sound sad. He took the empty glass from her and set it in the sink along with his.
"I haven't finished my paintings yet."
"You will. I have faith in you."
"You do?" She waited for him to ask to see her work at last. But he did not.
"Yes. You're one of the most disciplined people I know."
Was his comment meant as a compliment? She did not think it sounded like one. "Oh." She shrugged her shoulders, dejected.
"Althea." There was both exasperation and tenderness in his voice. She looked at him, her eyes wide, and felt his returning gaze filling her, discerning her desire. She sensed his wavering and his capitulation. She felt him preparing for the weakening in himself when he would touch her.
"Come," he said. She let him lead her down the hall to the bedroom. He brought her close, folding her into him, kissing her, until they fell dizzily on the bed, the blue-and-white spread bunched around them.
"Do you want to?" he asked, as if the impulse were his.
She nodded. They undressed. He pressed against her, his weight full over her. She was aware of the heat, the silence. His shoulder fitted into the curve of her neck, and over it she could see out the window to a pure patch of brilliant blue sky. The blue-and white curtains, the same material as the spread, looked faded next to that blue.
He instantly broke into a sweat that coated her skin. She wrapped her arms and legs across his back as he strained into her. There was resistance between them. It was not a force of will, but an impediment that had to be worn away. Their need to go deeper was an effort. They were struggling.
She felt herself dissolving, softening. He turned her around and crouched over her. She bent under him and he into her. The silence was broken by her small, sharp cries. His breathing was labored.
It seemed to her that the world had shrunk to just this—the blue-and-white room and the bed and the fathomless blue of the bottomless sky. In a sense he was distant from her, for they were like animals, and yet they had never been so close. He was both procrastinating and urgent, pulling her back with him. She felt pain like the stings of needles deep within her body, and at the same time pleasure stretching her, opening her, taking her in its charge.
She wondered whose force did this, his or hers? He stopped for a moment, stilling her, as if to listen. Without moving, she felt him swell inside her, and then he withdrew. She sighed, but not in protest, as he guided her round and possessed her again. She was moving under influence, as in a dream. She looked s
traight up, at the blue void and his face lowering to hers; then her eyes closed involuntarily, and his tongue filled her mouth.
It seemed as if he might bury her, but she rose against him. Their bodies no longer matched blows; they were as one: the same wave bore them aloft and brought them down. The creaking of the bed entered her awareness. In what she held, in what was holding her, she felt the turbulence resolving, until it exploded into release.
So much had been grappled with to be set free that she hadn't been certain how far Paul was with her. He paused, as if he balanced on an edge, while he waited for her, and then leaped, falling through her, taking her, too, past the sensations still shuddering through her.
It was all they could do, afterwards, to lie prone, their bodies still locked into each other, as motionless as the dead. Only their breathing was close and regular and deep as they shared the air between them. A stray breeze lifted the curtains and dried the film of sweat on their bodies. Sighing, he withdrew, and they lay apart, with only their fingers entwined.
She felt the comfort of their shared contentment. She thought this a great moment, for both of them. It was not his grace, his skill, and instinct that she'd been aware of as much as this other, creature consciousness of him. She felt drained and fulfilled. This love, because it went further, was both more terrifying and satisfying than the sweeter love she'd shown to him before.
When she spoke, it was to shatter the mood between them. She roused herself to check the clock and saw that they had half an hour to meet Jeanne's boat. At last she blurted out the news to Paul that she was expecting her friend for a visit.
"How secretive you are." He gave her a quizzical look, obviously amused. She wanted him to recognize that she shared this trait with him; she thought that he did. "We'd better hurry, then," he continued, "if we don't want to keep your friend waiting."
Chapter 4
Paul lingered at the top of the street that led to the harbor and let Althea ride ahead of him down to the parking lot. He wondered, Why have I come with her to meet her friend? It's the polite thing to do, but I'm usually not inspired by politeness. I'm curious, I admit it.
He couldn't tell if Althea wanted him there or not. He held himself back on purpose to watch the reunion. The ferry had already docked and was being unloaded. There was the usual hustle-bustle in the harbor. Althea braked, approaching. She walked her bike through the crowd. She spotted Jeanne already in the parking lot, waiting for her car to be driven off the boat.
"Jeanne, I'm over here," she called out.
"Althea! Hi there."
Althea put down the kickstand of her bike and stepped clear of it. She and Jeanne met and embraced. Althea babbled on for a few seconds before she realized that Jeanne wasn't paying attention. She saw Jeanne's eyes widen, but not at her. She followed Jeanne's gaze, and it led her to Paul, coming up behind her.
Paul was suddenly lightheaded, seeing Jeanne with Althea. He felt unreal. He was dizzy without being sick. It was a marvelous feeling. "It's you!" he exclaimed to Jeanne as if they were alone. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you’re Althea's friend!” He heard himself laugh—loudly, boldly. He so enjoyed watching Jeanne blush that he did not notice Althea's reaction.
Althea was confused. She opened her mouth and closed it. A sense of unease, of dread, as yet nameless, pervaded her. "What's going on?" she asked, looking from Paul to Jeanne.
Paul spoke first. "We've met before, but we didn't have the pleasure of exchanging names," he explained. "This woman ran away from me," he added, to tease Jeanne.
"I got off at my stop," she corrected him.
"I also left a message on your machine without knowing it was you," he said, smiling.
"The message for Althea, yes."
Althea flinched to hear herself being discussed as if she weren't there. "I still don't understand," she complained.
Now Paul registered Althea's anxiety, and he gave her his consideration. Matter-of-factly he mentioned the encounter that had taken place two weeks ago on the line of the Lexington Avenue local subway. "Someone makes an impression, whom you never expect to see again, and then by coincidence she turns out to be the friend of your friend."
"A coincidence," Jeanne echoed. Unlike Paul, she did not smile. Althea wondered what impression Paul had made on Jeanne. What can I do? she asked herself. I'm their hostess. It seems to me that I have very little choice.
"Let's go," she said, taking charge. "We can continue this conversation later. Because we came by bike, we'll have to follow you," she explained to Jeanne.
"But I don't know the way," objected Jeanne.
"I'll tell you," said Althea.
"I'll ride ahead. You can follow me," Paul offered.
The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Jeanne's car off the ferry. Jeanne claimed the pale yellow Nissan compact with a hatchback. While she climbed in, Paul took off on his bike without waiting for a decision.
Althea let Paul and Jeanne ride ahead of her. The bike and the car merged into the traffic on Water Street. She watched as they rounded the curve past the Surf Hotel, with its weathered clapboard and wide porches, and then disappeared.
She followed slowly behind. She felt inclined not to return to the house, so that they would have to think about her and wonder where she had gone. She admitted to herself that she was afraid of Paul's interest in Jeanne. She felt like a teenager again, jealous of her boyfriend's attraction to her girlfriend. Except that when they really were teenagers, she'd never experienced this jealousy about Jeanne. She remembered Paul's weakening when he touched her. At least she had that hold on him, she assured herself. Jeanne couldn't take that away.
As she rode along on her bike, these thoughts absorbed her. Soon she'd left the town behind. She felt the wind at her back. She passed marshes and crossed a bridge over a pond. New Harbor came into view, and, rising on the high hill behind it, the island cemetery. She liked the fact that the beautiful vista belonged to the dead. Instead of houses climbing the slope, there were only the weatherbeaten tombstones and silence among the overgrown grasses. She imagined that the spirits of the dead watched over the island from their high hill. Who were they? Fishermen who knew of storms, and the women who once long ago had watched them set out and waited for them to return.
She could feel her body anticipating each dip and turn of the road, so well had she come to know it. Between breaths, she repeated to herself, like a litany, the catalogue of blessings that was her hedge against depression: painting, the act of love, caring friendship, engrossing conversation, a sense of the earth's lovely variety and of man's possible and unlikely genius, and the knowledge that, in my absence, I am missed.
Meanwhile, the weather was changing. Low clouds blew in, bringing fog and mist. She thought of how she had been happy with Paul. She wished that she could make Jeanne disappear.
As she pedalled into the yard, she saw Jeanne's car parked on the grass and Paul's bike leaning against the side of the house. She found them drinking lemonade on the porch, each sitting in one of the blue-painted Adirondack chairs.
"Welcome back," said Paul.
"We were wondering where you were," Jeanne chimed in. Her voice betrayed no anxiety. She did not bother to spring to her feet, but remained seated languidly in the slanting chair. "There's lemonade in the kitchen," she told Althea.
Althea felt her face turning red. She had mixed the lemonade herself. She did not want to look at Paul. She went into the house. Entering, she noticed Jeanne's sunglasses and scarf lying on the dining table and overnight bag sitting, already opened, on a couch. It appeared to Althea that her house had been invaded. As her days in it were coming to an end, it suddenly seemed much less like hers. She felt misplaced, or replaced.
It was mid-afternoon, a time she'd been accustomed to work, but she couldn't bring herself to paint now. The thought of it was impossible. She'd never be able to concentrate. In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of lemonade and found a bag of potato chips. We
aring a careful smile, she returned with them to Jeanne and Paul.
A white cloud of fog was blowing up the hill from the sea, blotting out the view. They could not see beyond the stone wall at the yard's edge. The fog seemed to be anchoring itself to the lawn's sharp grassblades, like a diaphanous tent.
"I was telling Jeanne that she brought the bad weather," Paul said to Althea in an attempt to include her in their conversation.
"I like fog," Jeanne commented. "I think it's romantic. But I guess the weather reporter got fooled. The forecast I heard over the radio this morning was for sunny skies."
Althea noticed that Jeanne's mood had changed. She was no longer languid, but animated. Soon she was chattering about her trip, her impressions of the island, the house. Listening, Althea was reminded of the flighty teen-ager who she thought had vanished forever under Jeanne's grown-up polish. She watched Jeanne jiggle the ice cubes in her lemonade and laugh nervously as the fog crept through the yard. She observed Jeanne's agitation, and, in contrast, she grew calm.
"I still can't get over the fact that my subway stranger is your friend," Paul remarked to Althea. He recounted the meeting again. Hearing the excitement in his voice, Althea thought, It doesn't occur to him to conceal it. He is thinking of himself, not of me. He will never think of me before himself. Not as I think of him, she realized. And that is my own misfortune.
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