Counterpointe

by Ann Warner

  “Really. It’s no trouble.”

  “You’re sleeping in here now?”

  “I moved in here, while I was painting the other room.”

  She left him then and he returned to the master bedroom. He checked the bureau and the closet to find his clothes had been returned to their original places from the spare room. A good thing, since the clothes he’d brought back from the jungle needed to be burned.

  He took a shower then slipped into a pair of slacks and a sports shirt, enjoying the simple fact he had clean, pleasant-smelling clothing to wear. In the jungle, they’d had to boil their clothes so they wouldn’t begin to smell and then rot.

  He found Clare in the kitchen putting together a salad while two pots simmered on the stove. It represented a major change from the last meal she’d prepared for him.

  He pointed at the pots. “I hope neither of those contains rice or beans.”

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “I’ve eaten enough in the past six months to last me the rest of my life.”

  “Oh. No. I thought spaghetti.” She turned away, cutting tomatoes for the salad.

  “You look good, Clare.”

  She ducked her head and began to shred lettuce. “Was it a good trip?”

  “Depends on how you define good.” So many memories, he had no idea which one to share with her. “What about you?” he said, instead. “Have you kept busy?”

  She nodded and turned to add spaghetti to the one pot before she took the lid off the second and stirred its contents. Then she bent over to check the oven, and he caught a glimpse of rolls browning. He was suddenly ravenous.

  While Clare finished cooking, he set the table. Then she handed him two plates of spaghetti. It smelled delicious. She sat in her usual spot, kitty-corner from him, and unfolded her napkin. “So. What else did you eat besides rice and beans?”

  “Lots of manioc, fruit, fish.”

  As they ate, he told her a couple of stories about the trip. They weren’t about anything important, but he was working hard to be polite, and the stories were adequate for that.

  “We stopped talking,” Clare said. “Before that day.”

  He looked at her in surprise. He knew exactly which day she was referring to. The day he’d taken her to the Cape to show her the cottage.

  “Yes. Why do you think that was?”

  She tipped her wine glass toward him. “It hurt too much.”

  He hadn’t yet drunk enough wine to agree with her. An odd reversal of roles. Clare sharing and him backing off.

  It made Rob uncomfortable, sleeping in the master bedroom while Clare slept in the guest room, but she refused to move. He stretched out in bed, and sleep—deep and dreamless—came swiftly. He awoke in the dark and turned his head to squint at the alarm clock. Only five fifteen, but he was slept out.

  He pulled on a pair of jeans but didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes. In the kitchen, he foraged in the refrigerator for sandwich makings and carried the resulting sandwich and a fresh cup of coffee into the living room where he sat eating and sipping coffee, watching the sky begin imperceptibly to lighten.

  In spite of the coffee, his eyes grew heavy. He didn’t feel like moving, so he reclined the chair and dozed where he was.

  When she got up at seven, Clare found Rob asleep in the living room. With the worry lines smoothed out and the sadness in his eyes veiled, he looked younger than the day they met. God, he was thin. As if he were recovering from a serious illness rather than returning from six months in the jungle. Then she noticed the scar. A scar that hadn’t been there when he left Boston.

  She raised her eyes to his face to find he was awake and watching her. She nodded toward the scar. “What happened, Rob?”

  “Acute appendix.” His voice was uninflected.

  “While you were in the jungle?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had surgery in the jungle?”

  “Lucky for me, we had a surgeon with us.” His tone was casual, but he was obviously assessing her response.

  She stood transfixed, letting the knowledge seep in—Rob could have died. “I’m so glad he was there.”

  “The surgeon was a woman. She said I went right to the edge.”

  “The edge?”

  “I almost died. Tends to focus the mind.”

  Sadness slipped through Clare. “When you focused, what did you see?”

  “All sorts of things. I’m still thinking about them.”

  He stared past her, out the window.

  “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

  His eyes refocused on her. “No. Thank you.” He went back to staring out the window.

  It was too much. Rob’s sudden, unexpected appearance, their awkward dance around the things they needed to say to each other, and now this announcement he’d nearly died.

  She left him to his contemplation of the dawn and went to get dressed. When she stepped out of the bedroom she found Rob, dressed and obviously ready to leave for Northeastern. So why hadn’t he left already?

  “I’ll be moving today,” she said, relieved her voice was working reasonably well.

  He looked puzzled.

  “I found a place to stay until I leave for Cincinnati. It’s available today.”

  He frowned and Clare wrapped her arms around herself, trying not to shiver.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “I can handle it, but thank you.”

  “Well, be sure to ask if there’s anything I can do. You know how to reach me.” He picked up his briefcase.

  She focused on the back of the chair she was gripping, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I’d like to hear more about your trip.”

  “I guess we could have dinner sometime.”

  “That would be nice.”

  He nodded. “It’s a date.” But he didn’t suggest a day and time.

  He left, and she forced herself to eat breakfast. Then she finished filling the boxes and carried them down to the car. Luckily, she didn’t have much. Clothes, records and tapes, a few books, and the heirloom dishes her mother gave them as a wedding present.

  She unloaded everything at the new apartment then made a trip to the mall to buy an air mattress, linens, a pillow, and enough kitchen items to allow her to cook and eat simple meals. Next she went to a grocery store.

  After unloading the car the last time, she drove back to Rob’s apartment. She wrote him a note telling him the divorce papers were on his desk, and she left the note along with keys to the apartment and car on the dining room table.

  Then she walked out, pulling the door shut behind her.

  It was done.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  One of the first things a boy learns with a chemistry set is that he’s unlikely to get another one.

  Anonymous

  Rob checked the spare bedroom and found the boxes gone and the closet empty except for the parrot hat he’d given Clare that first Christmas. It was shoved into the corner. Seeing it brought tears to his eyes. Why did she leave it? As a final nonverbal punctuation point to their relationship? Or did she overlook it?

  He found a note with her new address and phone number along with keys on the dining table. The note said the paperwork for the divorce was on his desk. And so it was, neatly stacked to the side. He stared at the pages, his gut clenching, then he noticed a humming noise. When he hit the space bar, the computer screen lit up and filled with words.

  Dear Rob,

  I believe we truly discover ourselves only when we face difficulties. I discovered I am less courageous and less kind than I thought I was. Although that’s painful for me to acknowledge, I doubt it approaches the pain I inflicted on you.

  There’s no way I can fully make up for hurting you, but I have tried to make what small amends are in my power. Since the failure of our marriage was my fault and mine alone, I have instructed my attorney to neither ask for, nor accept, any support or other payments.

  You’re a go
od man, Rob. My greatest regret is that I was unable to love you the way you deserve.

  Timing is critical, my love, not only in dance, but also in life. Our timing was

  He frowned at the note. Unfinished like everything about his relationship with Clare. Still, how odd of her to leave it for him to find at some random time. He reread it, stumbling on the one sentence...my greatest regret is that I was unable to love you the way you deserve…and on those oddly intimate words, my love. Words she’d rarely used as a form of address.

  He stared at the screen until the words blurred.

  “Rob, dear, it’s wonderful to see you.” His mother hugged him then stepped back with a frown. “Clare isn’t with you?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Alice. Let the boy get his breath.” His father thumped him on the back. “It’s good to have you home, son.”

  “Good to be home.” Rob went over to hug Lynne, arching over her bulging midriff to do it. “Looks like my niece or nephew is ready to put in an appearance.”

  “Tomorrow would be fine with me, but the doctor says it’ll be at least another month.”

  Pain squeezed his throat at the memory of the infant he and Clare had lost. Thank God his family didn’t know about that.

  “Now Rob, you never said. Is Clare joining us this evening?”

  “No, Mom, she isn’t.”

  His dad and sister glared at his mother.

  “Well, we do have a right to know what’s happening. We’re family, after all.”

  “Clare and I are getting a divorce.” Just words. They hurt only if he let them.

  “Well, I should have guessed. After all, she refused to join us for the holidays. Not much of a family girl, that one.”

  He clenched his jaw, trying to let his mother’s comments flow past without their sharp barbs doing any damage, something that was taking more of his energy tonight than usual.

  After the obligatory cocktails, they moved to the dining table. Lynne passed him the mashed potatoes and he added a small scoop to his plate.

  His mother frowned. “You need to eat more than that. You’ve lost a lot of weight. You haven’t been sick, have you?”

  He summoned a smile. “No, of course not. I’ve gotten used to smaller portions, I guess.”

  “What was it like?” Lynne asked.

  About as different as something gets from this. At his family’s expectant expressions, he struggled to string words together. “Primitive...but fascinating. We ate mostly rice and beans. So this is a nice change.” He continued in that vein for a time—how they had chewed coca leaves for altitude sickness, the horrible road conditions to and from the river, his encounter with “Ronald Reagan” in Cuzco—until his mother was satisfied and turned her razor attention to Lynne and the details of her pregnancy.

  He forced himself to eat as his family’s voices ebbed and flowed around him as if he were a stone in the middle of their conversational stream. He glanced across the table to where Clare should be sitting, remembering the first time he’d brought her home. For Thanksgiving. They’d been in silent cahoots that whole day, exchanging quick, laughing looks as the others talked.

  “Rob, is something wrong?”

  At his mother’s sharp tone, his body jerked. “Oh, sorry. Those two days of rough road took their toll.”

  Lynne’s expression was full of sympathy. He wasn’t fooling her. She knew him too well.

  When they finished eating, he pushed back his chair and stood. “Great meal, Mom. Thanks, but I’d better head home before I start having trouble keeping my eyes open.”

  “But, we’ve hardly seen you,” she said.

  “I’ll stop by again after I get the lab squared away.”

  He climbed in the car and closed the door on the identically furrowed brows of his mother and sister. A relief they’d let him go with only token resistance. He should also be relieved he wouldn’t have to face Clare back at his apartment. Instead, remembering her absence, a letdown that was more than simple fatigue washed over him.

  Rob spent a second day slogging through his mail and meeting with his research group. By six thirty he’d had enough. As he headed across campus, he was behind a man and a woman walking together. Then the woman’s quick, light way of moving registered. Clare.

  She and her companion reached Huntington Avenue where they stopped and continued to talk intently. The man clasped Clare’s arm briefly before turning and walking back toward Rob. Rob examined him as he approached. Good-looking he supposed, if you liked the hippie type.

  As he looked back toward Clare, the southbound trolley pulled in, blocking his view of her. When it pulled out, Clare was gone.

  “I’m having trouble with that one bit,” Denise said.

  Clare sighed. Her life had become so much more complex lately as she juggled her day job at Northeastern with evening visits to Hope House and the hospital. And now rehearsals with Denise and Stephan had been added to the mix.

  “You try it.” Denise sounded exasperated. “You’ll see it’s tricky.”

  Clare had no intention of putting her losses on display. “Let’s focus on getting the other steps learned. We can work on the difficult parts later.”

  “It’ll take less time if you’d show me how to do it.” Denise might be sunny most of the time, but when she dug her heels in, even ballet directors walked carefully.

  “Fine. Stephan, Wilson, take a break. Come back in fifteen minutes.” Clare slipped off her shoes. “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning.” She began marking the beats, as she went through the steps with Denise. Then she played the tape she’d brought along in case Wilson wasn’t available. When the piece ended, Denise turned to the door where Stephan and Wilson stood watching.

  “That’s it!” Stephan walked toward them, a big grin on his face. “Not a man and a woman, but the two of you.”

  Understanding dawned and panic set in. “Oh no you don’t. I won’t do it. I can’t.”

  “You have no idea, do you, Clare?” Stephan said. “You were wonderful, and just think of the human interest. Everyone loves a comeback story. We’ll prime the dance critic at the Globe. Attendance will skyrocket.”

  “To watch me fail. No. No way.” Her body trembled. “I’m completely out of shape. An embarrassment.”

  “Okay,” he said. “If that’s your objection, here’s what we’ll do. Tomorrow, I’ll video the two of you dancing. If you see anything embarrassing or flawed in your performance that can’t be smoothed out with rehearsal, we’ll stop bugging you. But, you’ve got to give it your best shot and an honest appraisal.”

  “You’re not going to leave me alone until I agree, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  Damn him. He didn’t need to sound so smug. “You have the music and the choreography. I’ve done what you asked.”

  “Call us greedy,” Stephan said. “We want more. We want you, Clare.”

  She wondered if that had been the plan from the beginning.

  “Okay, Clare, here we go.” Stephan popped the tape out of the camera and prepared to play it back.

  Her hands clenched as the tape began to play. On it, two women danced, one wearing pointe shoes and moving with assurance and a youthful vigor. The second dancer, who was barefoot, moved with a muted grace.

  “There. You see it, don’t you?” Stephan said, pointing. “There. And there again...see that. You’ve caught it perfectly. The dancer and her shadow self. It’s going to be stunning.”

  Clare looked away from the video screen, biting her lip. Did they think she was a fool? It was one thing to dance as part of a practice with only the four of them present. Stephan was insane if he thought she was stepping onto a stage.

  “This piece plays directly to our theme. The beauty of the dancer in her prime, stalked by the fear of age and injury,” Stephan continued, oblivious.

  “No.”

  Stephan rewound the tape. “You don’t see it, do you? Look at this dancer, Clare. Forget it’s you. Look at her face. At the
way she moves. The point isn’t to match Denise. This is a character part. Not a prima role. This role requires wisdom, Clare, and an understanding of loss.”

  What did he know about loss? Damn him.