I’m dissolving against him, sediment falling through still water. Tears stream out of my eyes, and when he feels them on his face, he looks up at me. “Do you hurt?”
“Not physically. It’s just been kind of a shitty day.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“No.”
His thumbs gently push the tears off my face. “What can I do?”
I lean over to kiss his mouth. “This will be just fine.” I stand up and pull the sweatshirt over my head. The rest of the clothes are laid aside and we settle in carefully. I wonder if this chair has a history. Crazy, but it beats thinking about CM. Or Mac. Or the shadow I was trying to name. It was nearly in my grasp when CM showed up. I push it all away. The only thing I need to be grasping right now is directly under me, seeking an entrance. I’m surprised to discover that I’m as ready as he is. His hands cradle my hips and I lower myself, letting him fill me.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
I smile. “Better than that.”
He begins to move inside me and I fall thankfully into darkness.
Sunday night. My attempts to function on impulse, without a lot of review or analysis, have always met with limited success. Gary is snoring—but softly and considerately—sleeping the sleep of the righteous, while I lie on my back, eyes glued open, brain turning over like an old car suffering from post-ignition run-on.
The whole week has been about him taking care of me, pleasing me, helping me, making me feel good—whether I wanted to or not. It reminds me of being in a mink-padded cell. And just when I get annoyed, just when I feel like I have to get away, at the very instant I think I’ll explode if he doesn’t go get a hotel room, his breath on the back of my neck turns my knees to water and we end up sprawled on the futon.
He always says my name when he comes. It’s comforting to know that the person with whom you are having sex is focused on you alone. I myself have visions of calling out the wrong name, not the sort of thing that’s easily explained. If words have the power to wound, the wrong name uttered at the wrong time could be lethal.
When I open my eyes Monday morning, he’s lying there propped up on one elbow, smiling at me. Awareness of his imminent departure produces a twinge of something almost like regret. It wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was nice. He pulls me closer and I snuggle up against his warm, clean T-shirt smell.
The kids only called three times and Erica not at all. He gave me back rubs and foot massages and touched me in all the best places, fixed dinner and did the dishes. He even tried to brush my hair one night, although it turned into a contest of wills ending in a draw. When you get old, half blind, mostly deaf, and you can no longer tell which stuff in your fridge is edible and which is riddled with botulism, then you want someone like Gary around. He may not be in any better shape than you are, but he’ll damn sure be trying to take care of you.
“Wyn.”
“Hmm?” I rub my cheek drowsily against his chest.
“I want you to come down to San Francisco for a weekend.”
I raise myself too quickly, grimacing at the pain. I sit cross-legged, holding my head between my hands, combing the hair back with my fingers, waiting for the brain to clear. “Why?” I finally manage.
He smiles, unperturbed. “I want you to meet Andrew and Katie.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that long enough for you to come to your senses.”
“I think it’s time for the three people I care most about to meet each other.” He clasps his hands behind his head.
“I cannot possibly be one of those people. You don’t even know me.”
“I know what I need to, Wyn. And I know myself. I want you in my life.”
“Gary, for Chrissake, it’s just sex.”
“That’s not what it is to me.” The way he says it, slow and steady and very sincere, makes me ashamed of myself “I don’t think that’s all it means to you either, but you’re scared. I can understand that. You think if you can diminish it by calling it ‘just sex,’ you can avoid getting hurt again.”
There’s just enough truth in what he says to make me hesitate. “My divorce isn’t even final. It’s probably not going to be for a long time. I can’t think about … stuff like this.”
He sits up, too, facing me. “I’m not asking you to think about anything. I’m asking you to come to my house, meet my kids, have a fun weekend. If we lived in the same town, it probably would have already happened.”
“But we don’t live in the same town.” How do I say I’m glad we don’t? That I don’t feel up to making this decision right now?
He looks at me with those sleepy eyes while he traces the outer curve of my ear with one finger. Even that’s enough to race my motor, and he knows it.
“As Mick Jagger said, ‘Time is on my side.’ “ He leans over to kiss my neck, right at the jawline.
“Irma Tho—mas said it first,” I say weakly.
“God, I love that little catch in your voice.” He leaves a trail of feathery kisses on his way down my neck.
“Gary, I’m not comfortable with—this.”
“Why not?” Around the front, to my collarbone. “You know how I feel. I know how you feel. Everything’s”—he touches my throat with just the tip of his tongue and my body responds without consulting my brain—”up front and out in the open.” When his thumbs graze my nipples through my T-shirt, they stand up and salute.
He knows he’s won this skirmish.
It seems like a good time to divest myself of some of the accoutrements of my former life. Like my clothes. It’s only partly a symbolic gesture. The truth is, I need some money to pay my last bill from Elizabeth. Apparently, stalling is pretty expensive.
Mac comes by Saturday afternoon, loads the two boxes into the back of the truck, and drives me down to Rags to Riches. When I climb out and reach for one of the boxes, he slaps my hand away.
“You’re not supposed to be lifting anything yet. Go open the door.”
The bell over the entrance jingles when we walk in, and the petite blonde behind the counter smiles at us.
“Hi. I’m Wyn Morrison. I called about the clothes.”
“Great, just put them over here and let’s have a look.” Mac goes out and returns with the other box. He sets it down and leans over the counter, watching us. She’s pulling things out, exclaiming over them, dividing them into piles. Donna Karan, Ellen Tracy, Diane Freis, Anne Klein, Ralph Lauren, Giorgio Armani. Sand-washed silk, linen, rayon, chenille.
She says, “These are gorgeous. Are you sure you want to get rid of them all?”
“Positive.”
“Well, our split is sixty-forty and … oh my God, a Judith Leiber bag? We shouldn’t have any problem selling them for you. They’re like new.” She and I inventory the tights, skirts, slacks, tops, dresses, lingerie, shoes, purses. “These dresses are exquisite. I have one or two people in mind to call about them.”
Mac’s uncharacteristically quiet on the way home. He’s been sort of preoccupied lately, and I tend to blame his close encounter with Laura at the party on Capitol Hill. Or else he’s suffering from writer’s block, which, like most writers, he takes out on everyone around him.
When he pulls up in front of the Victorian, I ask him if he wants to come in.
“I’ve got some things to do before work,” he says.
I look over. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’ve just been kind of tired lately.”
“How’s the book going?”
“Fine.” But he’s looking out the window.
“Mac, is it Laura?”
“What?” He tries laughing, but he sounds pissed off that I mentioned it.
“Maybe it’s none of my business. I just thought you seemed a little depressed ever since you ran into her at—”
He looks at me sharply. “Do me a favor. Don’t try to analyze me with your California pop psychology.”
“I was only trying to help—”
“We
ll, don’t, okay?”
“Fine. I won’t.” I open the door and get out, but before I make it to the curb, he calls after me.
“Wyn, wait a second.” I stare into the truck. “I’m sorry. I’m just in a shitty mood. I’m going home and get some sleep. I’ll see you tonight?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
My shoes roll as I start up the drive; I realize there’s easily two inches of new pea gravel on top of the old.
Sunday night is clear. Clear like I’ve never seen in L.A. The debris of the day must be halfway to Japan, and the stars look like this jacket my mother used to have, rhinestones set in black velvet. There is no moon. Mac wants to be on the water tonight.
Dark silhouettes of gulls float against the jeweled towers of the city, and metal clanks against metal on the car deck below us. In the lee of the passenger decks, the fierce wind drops to a ripple.
We hang over the rail, side by side. I’m aware of him so acutely that my fingers ache. The smell of pine bark that clings to his jacket, smoke from the fireplace at Bailey’s. Something grassy, maybe shampoo.
He’s staring up into the black dome of night sky.
“What is it?” he says.
“I was just—Is that the Big Dipper?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the only constellation I know.”
“If you know that one, you actually know two. The Dipper’s the tail of Ursa Major, the big bear.” I try to follow his finger, tracing the outline of a long-tailed bear.
“So where’s the Little Dipper?”
He looks behind us. “You can’t see it from here because of the boat, but if you followed a straight line from those two stars on the cup of the dipper, you’d see Polaris, the North Star, which is the end of the Little Dipper’s handle.”
“What’s the really bright star, just down that line from the Big Dipper?”
“That’s Arcturus. It’s sort of at the knee of Boötes, the herdsman. And then if you keep looking down that same curve of stars, you can see part of Virgo.”
I look past him. “Who knew that the psycho-killer handyman would know so much about stars.”
“You can’t see that many here,” he says. “Too much light. This would be a great night to be up in the San Juans.”
Something about the way he says it. I feel hot and cold at the same time, and I know it’s too early for menopause.
“I’m probably going up there.”
“Probably?” My voice is faint.
He studies something down on the car deck. “No. Not probably. I’m going. Next week.” Fortunately, he keeps talking, because I know I can’t make any sounds. “That’s why I’ve been sort of distracted lately. I’ve been in Seattle longer than I’ve been anywhere else since I left New York. It was a hard decision. Sorry if I’ve been moody or—”
“What will you do there?” That voice isn’t mine. It belongs to one hell of a ventriloquist.
“Write.” He turns his face toward me, but it’s shadowed. “I got a letter from this agent named Alan Lear. In L.A. I sent him the first three chapters and he wants to see the rest.” He laughs. “I didn’t want to tell him there is no rest, so I told him I was revising and I’d have it in his hands by September.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m not breaking out the champagne yet. He just wants to see it. There’s no promises.”
“There never are.”
He exhales noisily. “Anyway, Rick—the guy from Norwegian Woods—his family has a cottage up on Orcas and he said I could use it for the summer if I’d do some maintenance on the place. Patch the roof, clear some land, paint. Stuff like that. And the rest of the time I can write.”
“Sounds like an offer you can’t refuse.”
He gives me a little nudge with his elbow. “I’ll probably be back in the fall.”
“Probably?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
The morning air is so thick with spring that it’s hard to believe there was a foot of snow on the ground six weeks ago. The Red Riding Hood tulips that Diane planted in the barrel outside the bakery door have opened in a blaze of scarlet. Everyone on Queen Anne is nuts for window boxes, and by now they’re spilling over with cascading blue lobelia, red and purple salvia, white dwarf snapdragons, yellow mimulus. Plain green hedges that I’ve walked past every day have become drifts of white, soft pink, deep-purple rhododendron.
I can practically hear Julie Andrews singing “The Lusty Month of May.”
When I get home from work, Mac’s leaning against the Elky’s passenger door drinking coffee out of a big white cup.
“You shouldn’t drink anything acidic out of a Styrofoam cup,” I tell him. “The acid dissolves that stuff right into your drink.”
“So that means if I drink it slow enough, I don’t have to worry about recycling the cup.”
“I’m sorry I missed your going-away party. I promised CM months ago I’d go to this dance thing. She had the tickets …”
Has my skill as a liar improved dramatically, or maybe he simply doesn’t notice? The truth is, I sat alone through some French film at the University of Washington, letting the images flicker on my eyes, the syncopated rhythm of the dialogue dance past me without registering. It seemed preferable to standing around Bailey’s listening to everyone wish him good luck.
I wonder if Laura was there, but I can’t ask.
“That’s okay. It was fairly sedate, as parties go. I was just on my way out of town. Thought I’d stop by.”
“So … good luck with the book.”
“Thanks. I hope your … situation turns out okay.”
I smile fixedly. “Jean-Marc used to say the bread might not always turn out the way you want it, but it always turns out.”
“Take care of yourself.” His mouth brushes my cheek awkwardly. I follow him around to the driver’s side. He climbs in the Elky, and the door rattles as he slams it. He rolls the window down as if he just thought of something else.
“Here. I made this for you.” He hands me a cassette.
I turn it over. “What is it?”
“All the songs and artists are on the card.”
My stomach is making little warning noises. “Mac, thanks. For everything. You’ve been a great friend.”
He turns the key. Of course it doesn’t start. We both laugh and then he looks at me. He’s wearing a green T-shirt that says “Eat Water: Raft the Colorado.” I wonder if he ever did that. Anyway, it looks good on him. Makes his eyes as deep green as river water.
He tries the ignition again and this time it catches. I wave and start walking back to the house. Quickly, so I don’t have to see him drive away.
I don’t exactly decide to call CM; it’s habit. One of Mac’s engrams. The machine picks up on the first ring. She’s either out of town or screening her calls.
“This is the right number, but you called at the wrong time. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
“CM?” Could I sound any more pitiful? “CM? Please pick up if you’re there.” I take a breath. “It’s me. Your old ex-best friend. I miss you so much. I’m sorry for what happened. All the stupid stuff I said. I’m glad you’re happy. Honestly. Please call me. I need to talk to you. Please don’t—”
The machine clicks off. The empty air reminds me of that sound you hear when you put a seashell up to your ear.
Eighteen
It’s pouring Thursday afternoon when I wake up. Probably a good day to delve into my time-capsule box that I brought home from the wedding. Getting rid of nonessentials always makes me feel good, sort of clean and strong. Still, I sit at the table after I’ve eaten my cheese omelet, stirring cream around and around in my coffee till it’s too cold to drink and wondering if it’s raining in the San Juans.
Mac said one time that they actually got less rain than Seattle because they were in the rain shadow of the Olympics. He explained what that means, but I can’t remember now. Sometimes I think I’m always paying attent
ion, but not to the right things. There was something with Mac—some tension, a dark shape in my peripheral vision. How else do I explain it? The vague restlessness when I wake up in the afternoons. The nagging sense of missed opportunities.
Okay, maybe I was distracted, but it wasn’t just that. I mean, he’s a bartender, for God’s sake. A college dropout with a low threshold of boredom. I hardly know anything personal about him, except that he likes music and rock climbing. Then there’s Laura, the phantom ex-girlfriend hovering in the wings. Another doomed relationship, I don’t need. I’m already involved with Gary. And I’m not even divorced yet. It’s all happened too fast. What was it John Lennon said? Something about life being what happens to you while you’re busy trying to make plans.
I get up and pour the coffee down the drain, leave my dishes soaking in soapy water. I make space on the floor for myself and a giant plastic trash bag. I slit the tape on the box and dump the contents on the floor.
Engagement calendars. I open one, flip a few pages. Most of the names and places scribbled in the squares don’t sound even vaguely familiar. I check the first pages to be sure they’re mine and not CM’s before tossing them all in the bag.
I save my high school graduation tassel, throw out all the cards. I pitch my acceptance letter from UCLA, my class schedules and my grade reports. I save my high school and college diplomas in their folders with the graduation announcements. I throw out all the pamphlets CM and I worked on for the National Organization for Women, and a button that says “Uppity Woman.” On second thought, I retrieve the button. A rolled up T-shirt unfurls like a banner, making me laugh. CM gave it to me when my steady boyfriend dumped me just before the senior prom. It says “A Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle.”
There are photographs. Halloween party at Zelma Wallis’s house. CM and I are standouts. Not just because we’re taller than everyone else by three inches, but because our costumes are so weird. All the other girls have gone the glamour route—a queen, a movie star, a ballerina, Amelia Earhart. There’s even a Statue of Liberty. CM and I are dressed as Amazons (our interpretation) in frizzy black wigs and fake leopard skin “Alley-Oop” outfits her mother made for us. The nickname “the Amazons” would stick with us for the rest of our school days.
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