Good Karma

by Christina Kelly

  A framed photo of Fred and his wife perched on a side table. Judging from their collared shirts and the green expanse behind them, she figured the photograph had been taken in the middle of a golf game. They stood on a small bridge that looked no bigger than a canoe, a fairy-tale bridge that a tiny troll might live under.

  Fred returned carrying a bottle of white wine, two long-stemmed glasses, and a corkscrew. He placed the glasses on the side table and sat down next to her.

  “That looks like fun,” Catherine said, motioning to the photograph.

  He looked up at the frame as if he were surprised to see it there. “Oh, I thought you meant the wine.”

  “Well, I suppose wine is fun too.”

  Fred removed the bottle’s metallic collar. “Yes. That was Swilcan Bridge on the Old Course.”

  “The Old Course?”

  “Saint Andrews,” he explained gently. “In Scotland.” It wasn’t the pejorative tone that Ralph used when he mentioned golf courses he thought everyone should know. Pine Valley, Cypress Point, Shinnecock. “Do you play golf?”

  “No,” she said, “but I’d like to try.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes, I think I would.”

  Fred set the screw into the cork. It took several tries before the spiral worm caught and he could twist it. “God, I haven’t done this in a while. I think the same guy who invented the wine bottle invented childproof medicine containers. Why can’t there just be a little Velcro for an old fart like me?”

  Catherine found her hand on his forearm. “Could it be they just don’t trust old farts like you?”

  “Well, they should. Everyone should. My intentions are pure.” He pulled out the cork with a flourish. After pouring the wine into the glasses he passed one to her and held up his own. “To a new friend,” he said. “To getting to know each other.”

  “And to Sequoia coming home.” Immediately, Catherine regretted mentioning the Great Dane. Fred looked confused, as if he’d forgotten why they’d spent the day together in the first place. “But I’m not worried,” she added quickly. “Because you told me not to be. Because you said everything will be okay. Because I trust you.”

  “Certainly,” he said. “Trust is important.”

  Catherine needed to change the subject. She didn’t want him distracted by his missing Great Dane. She didn’t want him to suggest they race back out to the nature trail. She took a long drink from her glass and was surprised to find the wine so cold. “Delicious. What kind is it?”

  “Sauvignon blanc from the Loire Valley. It was a toss-up between this and a Californian Chardonnay. I thought this suited you. It’s a little more adventuresome.”

  Adventuresome? She’d never been called that before, but she liked the idea of it. “And you’ve chilled it and everything.”

  “I had high hopes you’d stop by after a morning of looking.”

  “May I?” she asked and tilted her head sideways.

  “Please.”

  They kicked off their shoes and moved further onto the bedspread, taking turns holding each other’s glass while they got comfortable against the many oversize pillows. “What’s that?” She pointed to a cloudy sticker that hung precariously from the ceiling.

  “Hard to say since it’s daytime, but it looks like Saturn.”

  Now Catherine saw the half-circle shape with a slightly darker ring in the middle. “Why, yes it does. But here’s a better question: Why is Saturn slipping from your ceiling?”

  “Tommy. And I suppose Danielle had some say in it. A few years ago—he was probably five or six—they visited and he refused to sleep upstairs. He wanted to sleep here between us.” Fred motioned to the middle of the bed and Catherine momentarily imagined Tommy could be her grandson too. “Just like grandpa, he’s not much of a sleeper. So I had this great idea to put up a few glow-in-the-dark stars, you know, just to have something to talk about late at night. But Danielle said if you are going to do that, you might as well teach him something, which is how we ended up with the entire solar system on our ceiling.” He turned to her, perhaps to gauge if she were following him, perhaps to see if he were boring her with details. “I think there are few things in life as wonderful as the stars.”

  With that, Catherine looked more carefully and saw other pale stickers above them—red-tinged Mars and blue-flecked Neptune. “But what’s that?” She pointed to a yellowish square sticker in the corner.

  “That, my dear, is SpongeBob.”

  Fred wondered how he could have missed the Old Course photograph during his cleanup. Like a real estate agent who removes personal objects so potential buyers can picture themselves in a house, he had placed Lissa’s things in a plastic container and moved it to the attic. He’d cleared the novels from her dresser, her shoes from underneath the mattress, and the second toothbrush in the bathroom. He’d hoped to transform his bedroom into a neutral landscape where Catherine might feel comfortable enough to relax. To stay. To nap.

  To nap? You’re killing me. Are you kindergartners? Lissa said.

  Do you think you’re helping?

  I’m encouraging you.

  What? To get on with it?

  You don’t have all the time in the world, sweet cheeks.

  Fred appreciated Lissa’s support, if that’s what it was, but he needed to focus on Catherine.

  He was glad she liked the wine. He imagined being with her on a passenger train in Europe, offering her a drink from whatever region they were passing through—ouzo or prosecco or Chianti—with complementary cheese. On a picnic, he could feed her grapes pulled directly from an arbor. He wanted to take care of her; maybe he could give her what Ralph didn’t or couldn’t. Maybe he could find a way. After a moment of comfortable silence he said, “I don’t know if I’ve told you, but you are absolutely beautiful.” He had told her, of course. As they sat in his car the night before, as they walked toward the playground swings earlier that day. A smile spread across her face. Like sunrise on an ocean, he thought.

  “I am?”

  “Your eyes. Your kindness.” Then he added, “And I’m not telling you that just to seduce you.” Though once he said it he knew he was lying, not about her being kind but about the endgame. Of course he’d like to sleep with her. Lissa was right—Lissa was always right. Their make out sessions had awakened a dormant desire, a door that had been sealed shut but was slowly swinging open.

  Without planning his next step he took her glass. He’d thought about refilling it but found that he placed it next to his own on the bedside table. He turned back to her and propped himself up on his right elbow, his head resting on his palm. He reached with his left hand to tuck another piece of hair behind her ear. Then he moved his fingers slowly to her cheek, her chin, her neck, her collarbone.

  He could hear her breathe faster, and she closed her eyes.

  “May I?” he asked.

  Her voice answered yes before she’d even considered the question. She could feel him undoing the first button on her shirt. Then the second. She felt a tingling to her nipples and a wetness between her legs though he barely touched her. With her eyes closed, she imagined the scene from above. The two of them splayed comfortably across his bedspread, pillows jumbled beneath them, acting like two hormonal teenagers. But teenagers wouldn’t proceed this slowly, wouldn’t understand the excruciatingly divine interval between moments.

  His fingers approached the third button on her shirt. “Yes?”

  She nodded.

  When he undid the final button, her blouse opened. She was glad she’d worn a lace bra. Glad she’d taken extra time to dress and wash her hair and shave her legs. Glad she’d moisturized and exfoliated. Lying on her back, she saw that her stomach looked almost flat, but she wanted to show him the fullness of her breasts and so leaned over onto her side to face him.

  He didn’t rip open her shirt as she’d seen in movies, only slipped his hand beneath the cotton. She felt his warm fingers on her waist. “Are you okay?” he asked.


  She’d never met anyone so concerned, so hyperaware of her feelings. “I am more than okay.”

  He brought his hand to the top edge of the lacy cup, where he hooked his index finger. While he pulled down the bra her nipples ached for him. Finally, after what seemed like hours, her right breast fell free. He did the same to her left and she arched unexpectedly, moving her naked breasts into his hand, feeling as if she could have done a backbend had she been asked.

  He brought his mouth to her collarbone, kissed the flesh above her heart, then moved downward and sucked at her dark areola, taking each hard nipple into his mouth. He spent long minutes kissing both breasts, as if he couldn’t decide between them. “Catherine, Catherine, Catherine,” she heard him whisper.

  She grabbed his head in her hands and held it tightly while he explored her torso with his mouth. Then he started to move lower, from her ribs to her stomach and belly button, slowly making his way to the top of her skirt. She clutched his head to her body. Then she reached down and grabbed for his belt and before she knew it, his pants were off, his erection pushing up through his cotton boxers.

  They both stopped for a moment and caught their breath as if breaking through the surface after a deep-sea dive.

  As he moved back up toward her he felt fully alive. He couldn’t believe that she wanted or needed him. It’s just too perfect, he thought.

  And then it was.

  “You know I’m married,” she whispered.

  He knew it had to come. It had been right there in Fred’s subconscious all along, but he’d been afraid to access it lest he wake from a dream. “Yes, Cath-er-ine.” He pronounced each syllable of her name, its sound echoing the staccato triplets of his heart.

  “It’s complicated, you know?”

  He wasn’t sure if she was looking for support or advice or sympathy. Did she want to be convinced that this—whatever this was, whatever the consequences were—was worth it? He didn’t want to rush her, but felt an urgent need. To push her into the mattress and make love to her. He was drawn back to her perfect, full breasts, and so instead of speaking he kissed the tips of them.

  She continued, “I mean, because my husband and I are so different.”

  He could feel her pulling away from him, as obvious as if she were pulling out of a parking place.

  “We didn’t always use to be. When we first started dating, a hundred years ago, we were happy. But retirement changes things, doesn’t it? People become irrelevant.”

  He tried to will her to come back, to stop wherever she was going, to do a U-turn. But she was gone, barreling down the highway. And so he sat up and handed her the glass. “Look,” he said, “we don’t have to do anything more. I’m willing to wait until you get your feelings sorted out.”

  As soon as Catherine said she needed to use the bathroom, Fred scrambled to her side of the bed to assist her. She held on to his arm and stood, felt light-headed again, and wondered if it was just the wine. Rather shyly, she lifted her bra cups to cover her breasts and closed the front of her shirt in mock embarrassment. Then she smoothed her skirt. Although she wasn’t prudish about her body, the phrase cue the body double drifted through her head, and she imagined calling in a gate pass for Michelle Pfeiffer or Jane Fonda.

  Once in the bathroom, she closed the door and stood before the mirror. Even her flushed face with starbursts of pink brightening her cheeks couldn’t hide her crow’s-feet and the parentheses around her mouth. She was sorry that she didn’t have the toned thighs and tight buttocks Fred might be hoping for or used to. Sorry she’d stopped playing tennis when she’d moved to Seven Oaks and hadn’t spent afternoons at the gym with Amity. She remembered when she was thirty, then thirty-five, then forty. But suddenly she was sixty-five. How had this happened?

  She was surprised to see that much of her hair had fallen out of her ponytail, as if she were in the middle of a tight three-set match, so she reached into the top drawer of the bathroom vanity between the two sinks. Fred’s razor and shaving cream and toothpaste sat next to one sink, while the other was empty except for a ceramic tumbler. It was impossible not to think of Fred’s wife and to imagine the woman she was. Catherine found a brush and saw grayish-red hair in its bristles and wondered how her life might have been different if she’d been with a man like Fred. If Fred and she had met and married forty years ago, maybe she would have had photos of a daughter and grandson on her piano instead of Ralph holding a putter. Instead of a man who smiled only when asked.

  She took the elastic out of her ponytail and pulled the brush through her hair, letting the white strands fall onto her shoulders. Then she splashed water on her face and dried her hands and face with a towel. She leaned close to the mirror and pinched both cheeks, suggesting a dab of rouge. She pursed her lips tightly together, over and over, until they reddened. She looked at herself, at her red face and excitable eyes.

  After stepping out of her skirt and removing her bra and panties, she spied Fred’s bathrobe on the door hook. It was green flannel, the color of a starting flag in a car race. It’s a sign, she thought. It’s time. She put it on, tied it loosely in front, then moved back into the bedroom.

  Fred had fluffed some pillows and placed others on the floor. He’d also refilled her wineglass.

  “Very nice,” he said, eyes wide. “It looks much better on you.”

  Before thinking of repercussions and why she was there and what she was doing she went directly over and stood before him. He looked up at her and took hold of the belt. Though the previous half hour had been dangerously slow, now he pulled it urgently.

  Without a word they fell together onto the bed, arms and legs and bodies pushing against each other. The movement was so natural they might have done this a hundred times before. Every step perfectly choreographed. If she’d ever fantasized about this sort of thing—a sexual encounter with a virtual stranger—she might have imagined wriggling limbs, bungling embraces, awkward silences. But their movements were as smooth as a river flowing over timeworn rocks. She fell forward and onto him, straddling his body.

  He entered her almost immediately. She gasped at her completeness. There was no searching for Viagra or grappling with personal lubricant or waiting for an erection. Just a brightness of energy and motion while he said her name again and again. Catherine. Catherine. Catherine. As if every dark corner of her world had been illuminated.

  chapter 32

  The next morning Catherine stood at the stove absentmindedly flipping pancakes. All she could think of was Fred and their afternoon together. How the two of them had found each other and had fallen, hand in hand it seemed, down a rabbit hole of desire. Would you like a blanket? Can I get you anything? She’d been touched by his attention after their lovemaking and had fallen into a profound sleep. When she woke, she heard Karma snoring sweetly on the bed between them, and felt positively euphoric it hadn’t been just a dream.

  With spatula in hand, Catherine hoped Ralph would get up so they could talk, confident the buttery smells would lift him out of bed and into the kitchen. But it was after nine o’clock and he was still asleep. They’d missed each other the day before: Ralph returning from golf, then at a doctor’s appointment; she home after her interlude with Fred, then off alone at dusk on the nature trail, looking for Sequoia, thinking things through; Ralph out to dinner with his poker group; she fast asleep when he got home, happily exhausted from her escape.

  So as she waited, the pancakes bubbled and browned. To pass the time she put away dishes from the dishwasher, wiped the counters, refilled the hand soap dispenser. As she considered nonstick pans and all the crazy inventions in the world—robotic vacuums and ten-speed juicers—she wished someone would create an iPhone app that would assist in making personal decisions. As if it were as easy as plugging in her dentist’s address and having Siri tell her which way to go: “Take DeRenne Avenue and head west. In a half mile turn on Paulsen.” And then when she was where she was supposed to be: “You have arrived at your de
stination.”

  But that was the problem. She didn’t know what the destination was or even what direction she should be heading in. She knew her marriage was falling apart. I’m supposed to feel guilty, she thought, but I don’t. Really, she and Ralph were just cordial roommates, intimately familiar with each other’s bathroom and sleeping habits. Even a marathon has a finish line. After twenty-six miles, a thin yellow tape signifies the end, while exhausted participants collapse to the pavement and mutter, “Thank god that’s over.” But where was the yellow tape in a decades-long marriage?

  As nine thirty approached, she prepared more batter and cooked more pancakes. She set the table with maple syrup for her and peanut butter for Ralph, and placed the Savannah Morning News by his place mat. Then she defrosted and cooked a package of sweet sausage. Then one of bacon. Even Karma rose from his doggie bed to come in and stare at her, his beady eyes asking, Are you okay?

  Finally Catherine heard Ralph’s slippers shuffling along the living room floor. He entered the kitchen, head bent low and clearing his throat, then brushed past her toward the coffee.

  And good morning to you too, she thought.

  He poured coffee into the mug she’d left out. He didn’t like to speak before his caffeine fix. In fact, when they first got married she’d given him a mud-colored T-shirt with jagged lettering: NO COFFEE, NO TALKIE. Before taking a sip, he brought it up to his nose. “Hazelnut? Really? Are you trying to poison me?” He was probably kidding, but the words stuck: Poison him. I can poison him. She took a moment to let the scene play out. An EMT standing over his body. A solemn memorial. Then an endless string of afternoons in Fred’s bedroom.

  “Just a little to give it some zip.” She usually made the coffee with hazelnut or mocha or gingerbread flavoring, but he never seemed to notice. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.