Counterpointe

by Ann Warner

  “If Denise and I dance this, the symbolism is lost. With you and Denise, though. It’s pure magic.”

  “Stephan’s right,” Wilson said. “If you won’t take his word for it, take mine. You had me in tears, Clare.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Stephan said. “Come back Thursday. We have a full rehearsal scheduled. You and Denise dance this piece and see how the group reacts. If they don’t get it, we’ll leave you alone.”

  Denise, who had been standing silently off to the side, finally spoke. “He doesn’t keep his word, he’ll answer to me, Clare.”

  Not that it was any comfort.

  Clare peeked in the doorway. Dancers milled in one corner of the room, stretching and lacing up pointe shoes or slippers. Stephan nodded to Wilson, who began playing her music. As Denise took the first steps of the dance, Clare slipped into the room to a quick flurry of whispers.

  She had gone over the dance in her head and decided that as the piece progressed, her movements should gradually fall behind Denise’s. Concentrating on that, she ignored the group gathered by the piano watching.

  As the music ended, Denise did a quick pirouette then lifted her head and arms in triumph while Clare slowly completed the last turn, then stood with her head bent and her arms by her sides. For a long beat there was silence, then the other dancers surrounded them, their clapping and exuberant exclamations bouncing sharply off the mirrors. Several were wiping tears from their eyes, a reaction that had none of the tentativeness of pity. With a flare of excitement, Clare lifted her head and met Stephan’s eyes. He nodded at her with a self-satisfied expression.

  She’d been well and truly snookered. Vinnie would claim it was all the Father’s doing.

  Rob called Clare and invited her to come for dinner at the apartment, saying they needed to discuss the divorce. When Clare arrived, he seated her on the sofa in the blue living room, opened wine, and poured each of them a glass. Then he took a seat in the easy chair facing her.

  “I thought I saw you on campus the other day.”

  “It’s possible. I’m working a temporary job with Professor Molina.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “I’m filling in for an assistant on maternity leave.”

  Clare trapped behind a desk. Working at a computer, answering phones. It made him sad. But Clare didn’t seem sad. “You work late. I saw you the other day. After six thirty.”

  “Oh. I must have been coming from Hope House.”

  “Hope House?”

  “It’s a place where people put their lives back together. I volunteer there.”

  “Is it on campus?”

  “Back behind.”

  Did she mean Roxbury? “Is it safe?”

  “Oh, Beck makes sure I have an escort.”

  “Beck?”

  “The man who runs Hope House. Well, actually, Vinnie runs it, but it was Beck’s idea.”

  While what Clare was saying made little sense, at least they were talking.

  “What do you do there?”

  “I teach people to read and write. If you like, I can give you a tour sometime.”

  “Sure. Okay.” He’d like to see the place—and meet the people—who’d helped Clare lose her defeated look.

  “Lovely.” Clare smiled at him, in a free and open way she hadn’t smiled since her injury.

  As they moved to sit at the table, which he’d decorated with candles and flowers, he was reminded of the early days of their marriage—a bittersweet memory. He wondered if Clare was also remembering. Her pensive expression indicated she might be.

  She took a small bite of the coq au vin he’d picked up at Cassat’s, tipped her head, and examined him. “You got your hair cut.”

  The first thing the day after his return. “The hippie look never did suit me.” The memory of the ponytailed man he’d seen escorting Clare popped into his mind. Not Clare’s type, he would have said, but obviously someone she knew well. Beck, perhaps?

  “The absentminded professor look suits you.”

  “Ouch.”

  She smiled at that, then began to tell him more about Hope House. He listened intently, sipping wine and eating slowly, as she talked about Beck and Vinnie, Anthony, Tyrese, and John Apple. Feeling, truth be told, a little jealous they’d found a way to pull her out of her depression when he couldn’t.

  “I’m doing all the talking,” Clare said.

  “You seem happy.”

  Clare looked surprised. “I guess I am. Or at least I’m content. How about you, Rob? What was the last six months like for you?”

  “They were...” Life altering was the truest description, but he wasn’t yet ready to share all that implied. “Interesting.” He looked away, thinking about what to add. “We stayed in a Machiguengan village. They live simply, doing what they want when they feel like doing it. Own practically nothing. Certainly none of the things we think are essential.”

  Clare cocked her head. “You envy them.”

  “In some ways, I guess I do.” Odd to admit it. An unexpected gift Clare had picked up on it.

  “What was a typical day like?”

  “Hot. Humid. Buggy. The payé, medicine man that is, led the expeditions. He’d point out a plant and explain how he used it. Then we’d collect samples and I’d test them.”

  “Did it work?” Her voice was soft.

  “They were only crude qualitative tests. All we could tell was if any potentially active compounds were present.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You went to get away from me.”

  For a moment their eyes met.

  “Yes.” His gaze skittered from blue walls to darkening sky. “And no. It didn’t work.”

  When he looked back at her, she was staring at her plate. “Did it work for you?” he asked.

  “There’s no simple answer.”

  “Give me the complex one.”

  She blinked, apparently surprised, then spoke thoughtfully. “It’s rather a long story.”

  “We’ve got all night, and there’s more wine.”

  She took another sip of wine, put her glass down, and began talking, telling him the rest of the story—about the mugging and Tyrese and the deal she’d subsequently struck with the boy.

  Anger built. How could Beck and the other people Clare mentioned have allowed her to step so blithely into danger? She could have been raped or killed. A dull pain in his jaw made him realize he was clenching it. Clare continued the story, telling him about the gang harassing Tyrese, who was now going to be charged with murder as soon as he recovered enough to leave the hospital.

  To distract himself, he asked her the one question she hadn’t addressed. “Do you know if he did it?”

  “He says he didn’t.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  She gave him a sharp glance. “Because of how we met, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once he stopped being scared and angry, it turned out he’s smart and funny and sweet and...I’m very fond of him. I want to help him.”

  Sometimes you couldn’t help. Rob’s throat tightened, remembering Tatito. “So how did you get started? Going to Hope House.” Clearly, they’d both taken journeys these past six months, and it appeared hers, although extending only a few blocks from this apartment, had been every bit as difficult and complex as his.

  “Last spring. After that day at the Cape.” She looked down, hesitating. “I saw an article in the paper about Beck. I offered to help.” Her gaze was unfocused as if she were watching a drama unfold. She shook herself and her eyes refocused. “They ended up helping me more than I helped them.”

  “And this?” He gestured at the blue walls and blinds. “When did you start working on it?”

  “Last fall. I-I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It’s nice. I like it.” It would have thrilled him if she’d done it a year ago. Now it mattered little, with her no longer sharing it. “Did y
ou notice, Clare. We’ve been more open and honest with each other than we’ve been in years?”

  “In vino veritas?”

  “Indeed.”

  “So what really happened out there?” she said.

  He took a sip of wine. In vino veritas, indeed. Hell, why not. There wasn’t anyone else he’d be able to share this with.

  He spoke slowly, sorting out what he wanted to say. “I hated it at first. The discomfort. The heat, the bugs. Never feeling clean, nothing familiar to eat. I was sorry I hadn’t had the guts to get a divorce in the normal, civilized way. It was never quiet, you know. Even in the darkest part of the night, maybe especially at night.” He put down the knife he’d been fiddling with.

  “Gradually, though, I began to take more of an interest in the Machiguenga, how they lived, what they thought about life, until somewhere along the way, I stopped counting down the days and began instead to anticipate what I’d learn, see, do the next day.” He wondered if he was boring Clare, but she didn’t appear to be bored.

  “When I asked one of the men how they navigated in the jungle, he showed me a partially snapped branch about three feet off the ground marking the trail we were on. They called them quebradas.” He paused, remembering that day and how he’d wished for something as simple to show him his way.

  “And I spent part of my time with the healer. He believed illness in the body arises from disorders in the spirit. Even accidents happen because the spirit is distracted, in pain.”

  Because she was listening intently, he told her something he hadn’t expected to tell anyone. “After my operation, Soraida took the sacred drug, the vine of the spirit, a hallucinogen, and chanted over me. He told me that during his trance, he saw the image of a woman with white hair emerge from my chest and stand on the tips of her toes with her arms raised to the sun.”

  Clare cupped her chin in her hands, watching him with an absorbed look. “Someone told him.”

  “No. I asked.”

  “So are you saying he had an authentic vision?”

  “I’m a scientist. It’s difficult to accept what can’t be measured or verified, but I don’t see how he could have known otherwise.”

  “Maybe his vision was correct.” She picked up her wine glass and rolled it between her hands. “I hurt you. Not on purpose, but I was unkind.” She continued rolling the glass while he waited.

  She glanced at him, with a half smile. “A year ago you would have disagreed with that statement. So, do you think he was right? I made you sick?”

  “No, of course not.”

  She spoke softly, watching him. “Could we have hurt each other more if we’d planned it?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “We started out as friends. Can we still be after we end—”

  “Are we at the end, Clare?” His chest was so tight he found it difficult to breathe.

  Her eyes came up to meet his. “If not an end, then what?”

  He was suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know. I do know running away wasn’t the answer.”

  “Maybe it was. I needed time alone to...figure things out.”

  “Did you? Figure them out?”

  “I know what I did was wrong. Marrying you because I was too frightened to face things on my own.”

  “Was that the only reason, Clare?”

  “You’re asking if I ever loved you. Of course I did. Just not enough, maybe. Everything was too mixed up. I was too mixed up.”

  “Are you sure about a divorce?”

  “I thought it was what you wanted.”

  “Is there someone else, Clare?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then, if you’re doing it because you thought I wanted it...do you think we might wait awhile? Not rush it.”

  She cocked her head as if considering. When she finally nodded, he realized he was holding his breath.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Adagio

  A series of slow, graceful movements of simple or complex character, performed with fluidity and apparent ease

  Hope House was a shabby three-story brick building with a narrow strip of threadbare front yard. The overlay of poverty was as palpable as the smell of garbage. But no matter if he found it off-putting, this was the place that helped Clare bloom again.

  He followed her inside, to find it clean but with no decorator enhancements. She led the way to the second floor past a room where several men were using computers or typewriters and others were reading or writing. Next door, they encountered a man large enough to play center for the Patriots.

  “Beck, I’d like you to meet my husband, Rob.”

  Rob felt a brief spurt of pleasure at the words...”my husband.”

  Beck reached out a hand that engulfed Rob’s. “Good to meet you.” He appeared to be willing to be friendly but was clearly reserving judgment.

  “The saints be praised.”

  Rob turned to find a stocky black woman standing in the doorway, beaming at him. “Hello there, beautiful.” She stepped forward and took his hand between both of hers. “I’m Vinnie, and you must be Rob.” She was a shrub next to Beck’s oak. Oak, nothing. The man was a redwood. Old growth redwood. The thought amused Rob, and he smiled at Vinnie, who was examining him closely.

  She nodded, smiling back, her face transformed to beauty. “You’ll do,” she said.

  Rob felt absurdly pleased although he wasn’t entirely certain what she meant. He chatted with Vinnie and Beck for several minutes, responding to their questions about his sojourn in South America. Then Clare escorted him around the rest of the building, introducing him to everyone they encountered. He tried to ignore the discomfort the searching appraisals he received caused, and mostly he succeeded. Eye-opening, however, to see how these men, whose bad choices and difficulties had etched lines in their faces, reacted to Clare. He saw affection in their expressions and heard respect in their voices.

  “This is Kenny,” Clare said. “He made this.” She touched the small key she wore around her neck.

  Rob had noticed the key and wondered about it. Kenny was almost as big as Beck and he moved with a slight limp. A scar bisected one eyebrow and continued to the corner of his left eye. Rob shook Kenny’s hand, thinking that if he ran into him on a deserted street after dark, he’d be thoroughly intimidated.

  Kenny fixed Rob with a baleful look. “You needs to talk to Clare. Tell her to stay here with us. No need her going off some other place.”

  “I am hoping she’ll reconsider.” It wasn’t the way he planned on saying that to Clare.

  “You hear that, Clare? He telling you to stay here.” Kenny gave Clare a stern look.

  “I’ll definitely give it some thought.” Clare spoke lightly, then she touched Rob’s sleeve to direct him to follow her, as Kenny went off in the opposite direction.

  “Oh, John, there you are.”

  Approaching them was the man he’d seen walking with Clare. Rob clamped down on a spurt of irrational jealousy. Or perhaps not so irrational, given the man’s expression when he spotted Clare.

  “This is John Apple. John, my husband, Rob.”

  Apple had a firm handshake and piercing blue eyes he used to dissect Rob.

  He doesn’t like me.

  Apple turned to Clare, his fierce gaze softening.

  He’s in love with her. The realization hit Rob like a punch in the stomach.

  When Apple left, Rob spoke quickly. “I better be going. Thank you for sharing this.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “So am I.”

  He wondered what she would say if he were to ask about her relationship with Apple. Probably something like, Why are you asking? And maybe he’d say what was really eating at him. You no longer wear your wedding ring.

  He walked out of Hope House before he ruined the visit by saying something so stupid.

  “You still planning to divorce that nice man?” Vinnie asked Clare when she saw her later.

  “What makes you think he’s
nice?”

  “Clear as the nose on your face, beautiful.” Vinnie tapped Clare on the cheek. “That’s a good man. I seen enough bad ones to know. So how about it?”

  “Yes. I’m still planning on it.” She gave Vinnie a steady look, daring her. She should have known better.