The Widow's Season

by Laura Brodie

  But when Nate asked to come to her, she did not resist. He visited twice in January, first at midmonth, when he called from his office on a Friday, offering to bring a take-out Indian dinner. Sarah could never refuse a man bearing food, and for the first time that year she wore earrings and a necklace.

  Nate wooed her with pakoras, garlic naan, and vindaloo. The spices made them sweat, and after dinner they showered together, washing each other’s body until they felt mutually spotless. For a moment she forgot about Jenny and David and all of the shadows that lingered between them. So long as she and Nate remained within a private universe, she thought she might enjoy his company for a little while longer.

  But on his second visit the outside world intruded. They had agreed to see a movie, something mindless yet sufficient to get Sarah out of the house. Unfortunately she hadn’t considered how many acquaintances she would meet in a town the size of Jackson, and outside the ticket booth two of her former students eyed Nate and giggled.

  “Let’s sit in back,” Sarah said when they entered the theater.

  “But the seats are much better up here.” Nate kept on walking.

  Midway down the aisle she spotted a trio of teachers from the elementary school. Margaret was at the far end, and she acknowledged Sarah with a slight nod. Sarah tried to be casual, waving back as she and Nate sat down four rows ahead. But halfway through the movie, when he put his arm around her shoulder, she could feel the women’s eyes following his fingers, and each stroke through her hair was another public lashing. She remained immovable until the end of the credits, when a teenage boy approached with a mop and a trash bag.

  Her visits to the cabin weren’t much better. The absence of color in the landscape seemed to drain David’s spirit. He painted little, and instead spent hours chopping wood with a fanatical concentration, arms swinging up and down, implacable as an oil drill. It looked as if he were trying to kill something, battling against winter, or perhaps clearing a path to see his way ahead. When he rested in front of the television, the ax leaned against its bounty—a three-foot high-water mark, ominously rising. The center cannot hold, Sarah thought as she watched him from across the room. Things fall apart.

  Outside, her walks grew longer and more solitary. She saw the pine trees crusted with snow, the junipers shagged with ice, and heard a misery in the sound of the wind. One must have a mind of winter, she recited to the air, and when she returned to the cabin she saw, for the first time, Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

  • 31 •

  At home, on her kitchen calendar, Sarah colored February 14 with a red question mark. All month she dreaded the date, debating the proper etiquette for a woman with two lovers, and when the afternoon finally arrived, she bought a bottle of Royal Copenhagen and took it to her kitchen table, where she tied a red bow around the silver box, then sat and stared at it. She and David had always spent Valentine’s Day together; no patients or students were allowed to interrupt their annual dinner, and she supposed that nothing, not even death, should break that tradition. If she left for the cabin by five-thirty, she could stop on the way for pizza and drugstore chocolates.

  The doorbell rang just as she was searching for her car keys, but when she opened the front door, she found no one outside. The porch, the steps, the walkway—all were empty. She crossed to the porch railing and peered down into the magnolia’s shade, where David had been waiting on Halloween night; no one was there. Shrugging, she stepped back, turned around, and gasped.

  “Surprise.” Nate was standing in her hallway in his business suit, brandishing two lobsters like a pair of pistols.

  “Work was slow today, so I thought I’d leave early and make dinner for us. I parked down the street so you wouldn’t hear me coming, and I let myself in through the back.” He smiled at her stare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I was just going out.”

  “Where?”

  “To get some pizza.”

  “This will be much better than pizza, don’t you think?”

  He walked into the kitchen and settled the lobsters in the twin basins of her sink. Then he reached into a brown bag on the counter and pulled out a bundle of fresh asparagus and a bottle of Chardonnay.

  “You have rice, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Sarah followed him in. “But I really don’t think—”

  “Oh, how sweet.” He lifted the bottle of cologne from the kitchen table.

  While Nate untied the bow, Sarah imagined David alone with his near-empty cupboards. She had never seen a calendar at the cabin, and she hoped that he wasn’t keeping track of dates. Tomorrow she would make it all up to him.

  “Just sit down.” Nate poured her a glass of wine, and she took a small sip.

  “Put on some music,” Nate said. “And try to relax.”

  When dinner was ready he set the dining-room table with candles and her new embroidered tablecloth. He tied a plastic bib from the seafood store around Sarah’s neck, brought her one plate with a still-steaming lobster, and another with asparagus, rice pilaf, and bread. When her nutcracker punctured the lobster’s claw, Sarah cringed at the pale, stringy liquid that ran across her plate. But Nate flinched at nothing. He tore the tail off Sarah’s lobster, sliced it open with a serrated knife, and presented her with the unscathed meat. After dinner he poured Kahlúa into small cups of coffee, and they sat on the living-room couch, warm and full.

  “I have a gift for you.” Nate returned to the kitchen one last time, and came back with a small red box topped with a silver bow.

  More jewelry, thought Sarah. More diamonds. But when she unwrapped the box she lifted a glass jar with a gold label. “Chocolate body paint,” she read. “This is a gift for you.”

  “For both of us. Wait for me in the bedroom. I’ll go and heat it up.”

  She remained on the couch for a long time, tracing the flowers in the upholstery with the tip of her finger. This should have been David’s night; she should have been insistent. Should have, should have. She sighed and rose to her feet. Tomorrow she would try to slow this train down, but for now it was Valentine’s Day, and Nate made a lovely Eros. She pulled her sweater over her head as she walked down the hall.

  When Nate came into the bedroom, stirring the chocolate with a long red paintbrush, she lifted the covers up to her chin. He placed the jar on the dresser, took off his shoes and socks, then unbuttoned his shirt and laid it on Sarah’s vanity. She admired the muscles in his back, so many beautiful lines all moving in unison. He left his pants on as he climbed across the bedspread, straddling her hips, and with the jar in his left hand, he reached forward with his right and pulled the covers down to her breasts, smoothing them in a ridge just above her nipples.

  “Lift your chin,” he said, and she obeyed.

  When the chocolate touched her skin it was hot, almost burning. She could smell the sugar as the thin edge of the brush ran down her neck and into the hollow of her throat, where Nate drew a perfect circle. Dipping the brush back into the jar, he started at the right edge of the circle and traced her collarbone west, ending at her right shoulder. He painted a small star, then followed the same pattern east, a stripe along her collarbone and a star at her shoulder. From the lower half of the circle he painted radiant sunbeams down her breasts, connecting the end points with one long arc so that the lines became the rectangular segments of an Egyptian necklace.

  He dipped the brush back into the paint, and used his free hand to pull the covers down to her waist. With a thick-coated brush, he transformed her breasts into swirls of chocolate, sculpting the curling tips with a flick of his wrist. They looked like Dairy Queen dipped cones, and Sarah laughed at the idea, her stomach convulsing as Nate decorated it with hearts and flowers. He rolled off her waist, slid the sheet down to her knees, and lying beside her, he painted wavy arrows from the tops of her kneecaps to the insides of her thighs, coating her inside and out.

  When she was thoroughly warm and stic
ky, he lowered the brush into the jar and surveyed her painted body. “My masterpiece.” Placing the jar on her vanity, he finished undressing at the foot of the bed and lay down beside her.

  Nate ran his finger across her right kneecap and tasted the chocolate, then lowered his mouth to her left thigh and began following the arrows. She closed her eyes as his lips moved higher, and when his tongue dipped between her legs she pressed her head back deep into her pillow. Nate climbed above her, his mouth moving up her belly and breasts, sucking on flowers and circles and stars. He was kissing her neck as he slid his arms beneath her knees, and pulled her to him. When their bodies came together, she turned her head to the side, opened her eyes wide, and gasped.

  David was at the window, pale and staring. His eyes had the impact of a blade, and she was gasping, gasping with horror and pleasure. She lifted her hand to push Nate away and block out the vision of David’s eyes, but her fingers sank into Nate’s chest as he pushed forward. Two universes were colliding, matter and antimatter, and she leaned back, closed her eyes, and let David watch.

  When Nate lay quiet, Sarah rose and walked into the bathroom.

  “Where are you going?” he mumbled from the pillows.

  “To take a shower.”

  Nate rolled over, turning his back.

  The chocolate ran down her skin like blood as Sarah sat on the floor of the shower, holding her face in her hands. The brown streaks reminded her of her second miscarriage, and she instinctively lowered her palms and cradled her stomach. She should have said good-bye to Nate weeks ago, should have had the self-discipline to walk away. Then she could have avoided this undignified mess, the glare of her self-righteous husband, the peeping son of a bitch.

  Once all the chocolate had swirled down the drain, she dried herself and returned to her room. With Nate still sleeping, she closed the door, walked into the kitchen, and began her slow descent into the basement. At first the room seemed empty; the only light was a dim lamp and her eyes took several seconds to adjust. But after a while she saw David’s image forming in the corner, his back toward her. When he turned around his face was twisted, as if he had suffered a stroke. He took a few steps forward, his right hand groping blindly, then he stopped and lowered his arm.

  “God damn you.” His voice was an icy whisper. “God damn you both.”

  She was prepared to feel guilty, to offer apologies, but his anger triggered a backlash. From the pit of her stomach six months of bile came spilling out.

  “Damn yourself,” she hissed. “What the hell did you expect? That I would sit here alone for months and wait for you to figure out what to do with your life? You’re the one who left me, remember? You’re the one who’s been hiding out in the woods. Don’t you dare curse me, you selfish bastard.”

  He staggered as if slapped. “I thought we would have dinner. I brought groceries in my knapsack. But I saw Nate walking up the street, going around back. I watched him cook for you, and serve you, and paint you.” He broke off. When he lifted his head again his voice was quiet. “I never said you couldn’t have your own life. But Jesus, Sarah, it’s Nate. You’re fucking my brother.”

  And then the shame kicked in, weighing down her shoulders. “You abandoned him, too.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “Oh, right! So now I’m supposed to feel sorry for Nate? He looks to me like he’s really suffering!” David slammed around the room, kicking at the furniture. “Do you think that he loves you? Or that he even gives a damn? You know he’s doing it just to get at me.”

  “Everything is not about you. You are a dead man.”

  “I’m more alive now than I was for the past two years.”

  “Alive in your own mind, but dead to the world.”

  He stopped pacing and stared into her eyes. “And am I dead to you, Sarah?”

  She slumped on the couch and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what you are.”

  David walked to the door, opening it wide so that the icy air came rushing in.

  “Maybe you should figure it out.” He disappeared up the stairs, leaving the door ajar while Sarah leaned forward and pressed her head to her knees, letting the cold spread deep into her body.

  • 32 •

  Later that night Sarah returned to her bed, but not to Nate’s arms. She lay at the edge of the mattress, five inches between her thighs and his fingers. For half an hour she watched the window, imagining David outside, her monstrous creation haunting the winter woods. Her mind was full of Mary Shelley, and that seemed fitting—another widow of a drowned man, whose imagination was haunted with images of dead things brought to life.

  All night dreams came in fits and starts, until, in the first blue glow of sunrise, Nate began to stir. Sarah pretended to be asleep as he stumbled around the bed, picking up clothes and carrying them into the bathroom. The shower ran for ten minutes, and when he came back and leaned over her pillow, smelling of soap and cologne and toothpaste, she wanted to pull him down to her, to breathe him into her body. But she lay absolutely quiet until he kissed her forehead and was gone.

  For the next few days she ate little and slept less. Her mind was torn between shame and anger—anger at David’s arrogance, at Nate’s loveless temptations, and above all, anger at her own guilt. Her need for self-control had always been paired with a penchant for self-blame. Somehow, the problems in her life were always her fault. She should have been able to manage things better.

  Now the Weather Channel was predicting a heavy snow. By week’s end, the cabin would be inaccessible, and she would miss her chance to confront David. She wanted to curse and to comfort him, to accuse and to apologize. She wanted to count the hundreds of small ways that he had annoyed her in the course of their marriage. And so, on the fourth morning she dressed in her warmest clothes, walked out to her car, and began her slow procession into the mountains.

  The woods looked pale and barren as the road twisted through the foothills. No squirrels hesitated in her path, no birds swooped over her hood. To her right, the river’s deep pools lay drowsing beneath blankets of ice, and when she finally reached the cabin’s drive and turned off her engine, she heard only the vast miles of stillness. All living things had retreated in the face of the coming storm.

  The first flakes began to fall when she tried the door, and they settled on her wrist as she lifted the key from beneath its hiding place. Inside, the air was cold and stale. She turned up the thermostat and walked from room to room, switching on lights and opening doors. David’s paint supplies were neatly stacked, his bed made with unusual care. In the bathroom, she found one used razor and a half-empty bottle of aspirin. No shampoo, no shaving cream, no tweezers and Old Spice. She turned on the water, swallowed two aspirin, and stared into the mirror.

  David was gone; he had left without her. She was more alone now than when she had lost him in July. A dull misery began to permeate her joints, and she turned off the bathroom light and watched her face in the dark glass reemerge slowly as a featureless shadow. Inside the bedroom that David had left so tidy, Sarah removed her boots and coat and crawled under the covers, thinking, Now is the winter of our discontent.

  An hour later, thin white stripes had covered the tree limbs. She rose from bed, hoping that David might have returned, but a quick search of the cabin revealed that nothing had changed. Putting on her coat and boots, she stepped outside and found that the world had an eerie glow, all sights and sounds muted except for the hiss of snow falling through pine needles. She descended the stairs and entered the yard, surveying the woods for signs of David returning with his ax, but the forest was darker than she recalled, and the only footprints were her own, crushing the first inch of snow.

  Looking down at the river, she noticed something caught at the end of the dock. It appeared to be a gray tree trunk, swaying back and forth like Ahab’s arm. One branch, covered with flecks of green, protruded at a right angle from the main trunk, and she walked toward it, snowflakes melting on her cheeks.

&nb
sp; When she reached the dock, she paused at the creak of the old boards. Her height above the water blocked the object from view, except for the branch which she followed, counting the twigs that sprouted from its end. Three, four, five—she stopped, her breath catching in her chest. For it wasn’t a branch after all, it was an arm—David’s arm, with his hand spread wide. Blood roared in her ears, and she staggered forward a few more steps before dropping to her knees at the end of the dock.

  The corpse had the phosphorescent beauty of a moonstone, but it had suffered the violations of nature—a cheekbone jutted from its face, patches of the legs were eaten away. This was not a recent death, she realized as she gazed at the bloated skin. This was her husband’s seven-month corpse, returned from its odyssey on the river. All this time, he had been waiting in the water.

  The current cocked David’s head, as if he had a question, and she saw that his flannel shirt was caught on a nail in the dock. It occurred to her that he might want to be set free to continue his journey, but when she leaned over the edge, reaching for the nail, she saw that his eyes were open, staring at her with the same expression of rage and intensity she had seen at her window four nights ago. His mouth opened, spreading into a cavernous yawn, and she leaned closer to the water. The shock of ice pierced her skin as she tumbled into the river, face-to-face with David’s raging eyes, his cold fingers tangled in her hair and dragging her down as they sank together into the mud.

  Sarah jolted upright in bed, her shirt soaked with sweat. She had been woken by the sound of the back door opening, snowy boots kicking at the deck’s entry mat. David was back.

  She lay against her pillow and tried to breathe deeply as she listened to his feet approaching down the hall. He did not turn on the lights; his shadow wavered at the room’s threshold. Closing her eyes, she pretended to be asleep as he entered and shut the door behind him. For a long time he lingered at the foot of the bed, not moving or speaking; all she could perceive was the shudder of his body with each breath. At the edge of the bed he lifted a pillow from beside her hair, and when she opened her eyes she saw David poised as Othello, the pillow spread in both hands.