by Joan Wolf
“Was it in?” he asked.
“What I could see of it was.”
“Good.” He grinned. “My problem is that all too often it isn’t.”
It was an extremely strenuous set. Kit made up in power what he lacked in accuracy and Mary’s wrist was aching from returning his shots. It took them an hour to reach 6-6.
“Shall we play a tie breaker?” he asked as he came to the net to hand her the balls.
“Why don’t we quit now?” she replied. “That way we both win.”
“We neither of us win, you mean,” he contradicted.
She made an exasperated face. “You’re so bloody competitive. All right, we’ll play a tie breaker.”
“No.” Unexpectedly he put the balls in his pocket. “No, you’re right. We’ll quit while we’re both ahead.”
“I’m dying of thirst,” she confessed as they walked off the court together. They had been playing in the full sun and her face and hair were damp with sweat. She looked at Kit and saw that his shirt was soaked. “I brought a jug of water with me,” she said, gesturing to the Thermos tucked under the bench. “I’ll share it with you.”
They sat down together on the bench in the shade and Mary poured the water. She had only one cup so she drank first, refilled it, and passed it to him. “You always think of everything,” he said as he accepted the cup.
“Well, I’ve been playing tennis for a lot longer than you. If you ever get more consistency on that first serve, though, you’ll make mincemeat of me. It’s vicious.”
“Yeah. When it goes in.”
“You’re not missing by much. You just need more practice. You could use a little more work on your backhand too.”
“Mmm.”
She hooked several wet tendrils of hair behind her ears and smiled ruefully. “My wrist hurts. It was like returning cannonballs.”
He didn’t answer for a minute and she poured herself some more water. She could feel his eyes on her. “What we need is a swim,” he said at last. “What do you say?”
She thought of the cool clear lake. “I say that sounds good.”
“Great.” He stood up and picked up both their racquets and the water jug. “Let’s go change into bathing suits.”
“Okay.” She fell into step beside him, her own long lithe stride almost the equal of his. A little voice inside her said she oughtn’t to be spending time with him like this, that it was dangerous. Nonsense, said Mary silently to that uncomfortable little voice. There will be a million people around the lakefront. How can it possibly be dangerous?
They didn’t go to the school lakefront. When she came out of her cottage dressed in a suit and terry-cloth cover-up, she found Kit sitting on her front steps. He wore bathing trunks and an ancient gray college sweat shirt that she recognized. “Good God,” she said before she thought. “Do you still have that thing? I should have thought you’d have some designer sportswear by now.”
“There’s nothing wrong with this sweat shirt.” he returned amiably. “There aren’t any holes in it, are there?”
“No.” She smiled at him, unaware of the affectionate amusement in her eyes. “In some ways you haven’t changed at all. You never did give a damn about clothes.”
“I like them clean and comfortable. As long as they meet those two requirements, I’m satisfied.” They had begun walking down through the woods and at this point he veered off into the pines. “I’ve found a nice spot on the lake—a little cove. It’s on college property so we won’t be trespassing. Come on.”
“But Kit,” she protested as he plunged off through the trees. “I don’t want to ...”
He stopped and turned. “For God’s sake, stop acting like a nun about to be raped. Come on!”
“Don’t be crude,” she snapped in return, but she followed him off the path and down through the woods. After about five minutes they came out of the trees and there they were on the shore of the lake. “Oh Kit,” she breathed. “It’s lovely.”
“Great for fishing,” he said with satisfaction. “I was out here at five this morning and it was beautiful.”
“Did you catch anything?”
“You’ll be eating it for dinner,” he replied with a grin.
He dropped his towel and stripped his sweat shirt off. She began to do the same. “Daddy certainly made a convert out of you,” she said, her voice muffled by her cover-up as she pulled it over her head. “Nothing, but nothing, would get me out of bed at five in the morning.”
“Does your father still have the boat?”
“Yes.” She looked away from him to the sparkling lake water. Kit had loved to go out with her father on those early-morning fishing expeditions. She had thought sometimes that he enjoyed her father so much because he had never really known his own.
“Race you in,” he said.
“Okay.” They both headed for the lake at a run and their diving bodies went into the water at almost the same instant. The two sleek black heads emerged close together and they yelped simultaneously, “It’s freezing!” The lake here dropped off steeply after the first few feet, and though they were not far from shore, Mary found she was over her head. She treaded water and looked around.
They were in a small cove, protected from the college waterfront by a promontory of pine trees. Mary could hear some of the students shouting and laughing as they played volleyball, but they were hidden from her view, as she was hidden from theirs.
They swam for perhaps ten minutes and then, by unspoken mutual consent, headed back to the shore. Mary picked up her towel and silently watched Kit as he dried himself vigorously. He was not watching her, he was looking off down the lake, and so she let her eyes linger on the smooth brown expanse of muscled shoulders and back, the strong brown column of his neck. He finished drying himself and spread out the towel on the patch of grass that grew beyond the trees. He lay down, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes against the sun. “Tell me about Hamlet,” he said.
She spread her own towel next to his, sat down and rummaged in her canvas bag for a comb. “What do you want to know?”
“I find him hard to figure out. He vacillates so— one moment he’s full of energy, vowing to avenge his father’s murder, and the next he’s in a blue funk, unable to do anything at all.”
Slowly she combed the tangles out of her wet hair. “That’s the Hamlet problem in a nutshell. It’s not the typical Elizabethan revenge tragedy at all. The conflict in Hamlet is within the hero, not outside him.”
“As I understand it,” Kit said, “according to the code of the revenge tragedy, Hamlet is supposed to murder his uncle because he’s discovered that his uncle murdered his father. An eye for an eye and all that. And he doesn’t seem to question the morality of the code. He seems to think he ought to murder his uncle. God knows, he has reason enough to hate him. Aside from killing Hamlet’s father, he’s stolen the throne from Hamlet and married his adored mother. Hamlet keeps saying he hates Claudius, that he wants to kill him, but every time he has a chance, he flubs it.”
Mary finished with her hair and returned the comb to her bag. “Haven’t you talked about this with George?”
“Yes. He’s inclined toward the Olivier interpretation, that Hamlet’s feelings for his mother are what get in the way. But I think there’s something more.”
Mary wrapped her arms around her knees. “He’s a terribly complicated character,” she said slowly. “He doesn’t know himself why he is incapable of acting. I think it stems from his state of mind, myself.”
“The first soliloquy, you mean.
Oh God! God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of the world!
Kit’s beautiful voice lingered on the words, drawing out all the vowel sounds in a way that sent a sudden shiver down her spine.
“Precisely,” she said after a minute’s silence. “What is the point of acting in such a world? It won’t bring his father back, it won’t make
his mother chaste, it won’t restore the innocence of his love for Ophelia. Yet consciously he feels he must act. The contradiction puts a terrible strain on his mind.”
“He can be a nasty bastard.”
“Yes. He’s dangerously close to the edge at times. And yet, there is a basic beauty and goodness about him that shines through all the torment.”
“Hmm. I can see why he’s considered such a challenge.”
“The ultimate challenge for an actor, it’s said.” She turned a little to look at him. “Are you afraid. Kit?”
His eyes remained closed. “Yes,” he said. “To do it well I’m going to have to reveal myself as I’ve never done before. Yes, you could say I’m afraid.”
She didn’t say anything but kept looking at his quiet relaxed face. She had told him he hadn’t changed, but that wasn’t true. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes and a look about his mouth that hadn’t been there before. He looked older. He looked as if he had suffered. She was conscious of deep surprise as she thought this and his eyes opened and looked into hers. “Lie down here with me,” he said softly, and her heart began to hammer in her breast.
Chapter Nine
“No,” she said. She dragged her eyes away from his and turned so her back was to him. “If you start that, I’ll leave.”
“Will you?” He reached up and caught her arm, levering her back with the strength of his wrist until she was lying beside him on the spread towels. In a minute he had rolled over and pinned her down, his mouth coming down on hers in a hard, hungry kiss whose intensity pressed her head back against the striped towel and into the ground. At the touch of his mouth all her defenses melted. She was hardly aware of when the tenseness left her body and her mouth answered to the demand of his.
“Mary.” His voice was a husky murmur in her ear. “I love you. Don’t you know that?”
“Do you, Kit?” She looked up into his face so close above her own. “I don’t know what I know anymore,” she said and lightly ran her finger over his cheekbone.
He bent his head and kissed her throat. “Come back to California with me.”
She closed her eyes. The urge to give in to him was tremendous. “I can’t,” she whispered. “It isn’t my kind of world, it never could be.”
“You can bring your own world with you,” he said and sat up.
At his withdrawal she felt alone and bereft. After a minute she opened her eyes to gaze up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there are universities in California—damn good ones too. Why couldn’t you teach at one of them?”
“Teach?” she said weakly.
“Yes. Or write. Isn’t that what you like to do best? Your book was excellent—as I’m sure you know.”
Her eyes widened. “You read my book?”
His eyes were smiling at her. “You saw my movies.”
“Yes.” How could such dark eyes look so softly tender? She sat up and leaned her forehead on her knees. “You’d want me to go on teaching?”
“Of course I want you to go on teaching!” He sounded almost violent. “I’ve always wanted you to fulfill your potential. I would never stop you from doing that. That’s why I was so upset when—when you said you would give up your fellowship.”
He had shied away from mentioning the baby and she too avoided touching that particular pain. “I don’t know. Kit. It’s too hard to combine careers. I’ve seen it happen over and over again. Someone’s always got to give.”
Her hair had begun to dry in the sun and a strand of it swung forward over her cheek. He reached out and gently pushed it back off her face. “If you like,” he said, “I’ll move east.”
Her eyes were great blue pools in her clear, fine-boned face. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes. I don’t think I could manage Massachusetts. I’d have to be closer to New York. Maybe Connecticut again if you want to stay in New England.”
“I don’t know,” she said again and heard the uncertainty in her own voice.
“Will you think about it?”
“I—yes.”
He smiled at her. “Good girl.” He rose to his feet and held a hand out to her. “Time for lunch,” he said lightly, and she put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. “Your nose if red,” he said as he picked up the towels.
“Rats. My sunscreen is in my bag. I forgot to put it on.” She peered at her shoulders. “I’m really not the California type. Kit.”
“I’ll build you a screened-in porch,” he said. “Come on.”
“All right,” she answered irritably, annoyed by his haste. “What’s the big rush? Are you that hungry?”
“Yes, I am.” He looked at her, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. “But not for food. If we stay here any longer, you’ll find out what I am hungry for.”
“I’m coming,” she said quickly and picked up her bag,
He raised an eyebrow but said only, “Follow me, Stanley,” as he walked into the pines.
Her nose was red and so were her shoulders. She decided to make herself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and spend the afternoon on her porch reading the papers. It was difficult, however, to concentrate on the problems of the Middle East and Latin America. The problems of Mary O’Connor Douglas seemed so much more urgent.
She had told him she would consider going back to him. She couldn’t believe she had said that, but she had. She had meant it too. She must be insane.
Of course he hadn’t meant what he said about coming east. She knew Kit too well. His career came first with him; he had only said that to get under her guard. And he had got under her guard—damn him.
Part of her longed for him, longed for him and ached with missing him. And part of her feared him, feared what would happen if he turned away from her again as he had once before. She didn’t know if she could dare to risk it again.
At about four o’clock George appeared at her door and she invited him in for a drink. He left at five and she went in to change for dinner. There had been no sign of Kit all afternoon and she found herself looking forward to seeing him at dinner.
He wasn’t there. Nor was Margot Chandler.
“Where are Chris and Margot?” Carolyn Nash asked George, and Mary could have kissed her for her bluntness.
“Chris went over to the Stafford Inn this afternoon to work with her,” George replied calmly. “I expect they’re having dinner there.”
“Just who is the director around here, George?” Alfred Block asked insultingly. “Ever since the Queen Bee arrived it seems as if Chris is taking over. He tells her what to do, how to stand, how to speak.”
“That’s true,” put in Eric Lindquist. He gave George a sunshiny smile. “I haven’t liked to say anything, but...”
“You creeps!” said Carolyn indignantly. “It isn’t Chris’s fault if she hangs on him like a parasite. He’s only thinking of the good of the production.”
Mary was startled and a little alarmed. She had no idea there was such discord in the ranks. She looked at George, who did not seem the least perturbed by what was being said. He looked so high-strung and nervous, she thought, that his calm was a perpetual surprise to her. He said now, pleasantly but firmly, “I am the director of this play, no one else. And I have a leading lady to deal with who is extremely nervous about her first stage role. She will do very well if only we can instill some confidence in her. Chris is the person who has had the most success doing that, and I am grateful to him for his effort. But when it comes down to what happens on that stage, I am in charge. And I would suggest that none of you forget it.” He went back to eating his dinner.
Mary looked at him in admiration. He glanced her way, caught her look, and winked. She smiled a little in return and pushed some food around on her plate. She wasn’t hungry. The idea of Kit and Margot together quite took her appetite away.
They played cards after dinner. If nothing else, Mary thought, this summer will have improved my bridge game. By ten o’clock she had a head
ache, however, and excused herself to go to bed. Melvin Shaw, who hated to see the best player after himself disappear, protested. But she rose, said firmly, “Good night, Melvin,” and prepared to leave.
“Shall I see you to your cottage?” George asked.
“No. I really am tired and headachy,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“It’s probably the coming storm that’s put you out of sorts,” said Nancy Sealy. “It’s amazing how the weather affects one.”
“Is there a storm coming?” asked Mary sharply.
“There’s supposed to be,” the girl replied. “I heard it on the radio before I came down to dinner.”
“Oh,” said Mary faintly. “I see. Well, good night everyone.”
The night was cool as she stepped out into the darkness, and there was the feel of a storm. Mary hurried up the path, anxious to reach the shelter of her cottage. Kit’s windows were dark and his car was gone.
Once she was inside she undressed quickly and got into bed. She felt strung-up and tense. There was going to be a thunderstorm. She knew it, could feel it, and hated it.
When she was fourteen years old, Mary and a friend had been walking home from the tennis courts when a sudden thunderstorm had come up. They were taking a shortcut across a field and the lightning had been terrifying, shooting in jagged bolts from the sky. Mary had been frightened, but she remembered what her father had once said about getting caught on a golf course in a thunderstorm. “We should lie down flat!” she shouted to her girl friend.
“Yuck. The ground is soaked,” her friend had replied. “I’m going to run for it.”
The sky had lighted up. “Not me,” said Mary, who had great faith in her father’s wisdom. She had dropped to the ground as the other girl began to run across the field. A bolt of lightning had been attracted by the upright, running figure. The girl had been killed instantly, and ever since then Mary had been petrified by thunderstorms.
It didn’t actually begin until about midnight. There was distant rumbling for about half an hour and then it started to rain. A bolt of lightning lit up the night outside Mary’s window and a few seconds later came a sharp crack of thunder.