Separate Beds

by LaVyrle Spencer

  They were standing in the aisle arguing about nightstands and lamps when their salesman returned to them.

  “But why do we need more lamps? There are ceiling fixtures; that's good enough.”

  “Because I like to read in bed!” Clay exclaimed.

  The salesman began to clear his throat, thought better of it, and withdrew discreetly to let them argue it out. But Catherine knew he'd overheard Clay's last comment and was left beetfaced, feeling like a complete fool, standing there in the aisle of a furniture store arguing with a fiancé who exclaimed he liked to read in bed!

  Things started happening so fast.

  Steve called to say he'd be arriving on Thursday, the thirteenth.

  Ada called to say she'd finished making her dress.

  The store called to make arrangement for delivery of the furniture.

  Bobbi called to say the Magnussons would definitely be at the wedding.

  The doctor's office called to say Catherine's blood count was low.

  Angela called and apologetically explained that Claiborne had pressed charges against Herb Anderson and successfully managed to have him convicted to ninety days in the workhouse for assault and battery.

  And then one evening Catherine walked into Horizons to find a surprise bridal shower awaiting her, and not only were all the girls there, but seated side by side on the sofa were her mother and Angela. And Catherine, giving in to what is each bride's right, covered her face with both hands and burst into tears for the first time since this whole charade began.

  Chapter 15

  When Clay came to pick up Catherine and take her to meet Steve's plane, she was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted her. She stopped stupidly, dead in her tracks!

  Clay was dressed in faded denims and a faded blue flannel shirt beneath a disreputable-looking old letter jacket that would have been shaped like Clay even had his body not been inside it. It was the kind of possession taken for granted. The jacket hung open haphazardly, limp from age, its pocket edges worn bare, its zipper long since grown useless. The rough clothes gave Clay a rugged look, flattering in its unexpectedness, disarming because it brought back memories of the first time Catherine had ever seen him. Oh, he was neater that night, but he'd been dressed in faded Levi's jeans and a tennis shirt.

  Catherine stood transfixed while Clay, oblivious to her reaction, only greeted her with, “Hi, I brought the Bronco. I thought we'd be more comfortable in it.” He'd already turned toward the door before realizing she wasn't following, so turned back to her. “What's the matter? Oh, should I have dressed up more? I was waxing the Corvette in the garage and forgot about the time . . . sorry.”

  “No—no, it's okay . . . You look . . .” But she didn't finish, just gaped at him.

  “What?”

  “I don't know—different.”

  “You've seen me in jeans before.”

  Yes, she certainly had, but she didn't think he remembered.

  She moved, at last, out the door with him.

  At the curb was the vehicle she remembered from last July, some kind of man's toy with high bench seats and plenty of windows all around, and room for hunting equipment in the rear. She stopped walking as if she'd run up against a barbed wire fence.

  “I thought we'd be a little crowded in the Corvette with your brother's gear and the three of us.” Clay caught her elbow, propelling her forward. She began shivering; it was bitter for November—easy to blame her shakes on the weather. Clay moved ahead to open the door of the Bronco, but looked back again impatiently to find her eyeing him in a curious manner.

  Catherine stood there, swallowing, fighting the overwhelming surge of familiarity—those jeans, and the old jacket, his hair that—for once—wasn't quite tidy. His collar was turned up, and as he stood waiting, his breath formed a white cloud. His nose was a little bit red, and he shivered, then hunched his shoulders.

  “Hurry up,” he said with a small smile. “Get in or you'll be scolding me for being late.”

  “Is this your father's?”

  “Yeah.”

  He took his hand off the icy handle and buried it in his other pocket. Without thinking, she dropped her eyes to the zipper of his jeans, staring at the way the old, faded spots undulated between patches of deeper blue. Her eyes darted to his face, discovering that he'd been watching her. And suddenly the color of his cheeks matched his nose.

  Appalled at herself, she climbed hurriedly into the seat and let him slam the door shut.

  Neither of them said a word all the way out to the Air Force Reserve Base in Bloomington. Catherine stared out the side window, damning herself for letting memory play upon her this way. Clay drove, seeing over and over again the way her eyes had dropped to his zipper, recalling now the reason why. Women, he realized, placed greater importance on memories than men do. Until that happened back there he hadn't given a thought to the Bronco or his blue jeans, or the fact that he'd used them both last Fourth of July.

  Clay did not touch her as they walked to the correct building. The stab of self-consciousness was again too concentrated.

  A tall, strapping blond man, dressed in civvies, turned from his conversation with a uniformed desk clerk at the sound of their approach. He glanced up and hesitated. Then his mouth fell open, he smiled, and he started running toward the tall blond girl who, also, had broken into a run. They met like thwarted lovers and it came as something of a surprise to Clay, seeing for the first time a genuine display of affection from Catherine. There was a near greediness in the way her fingers dug into the back of her brother's jacket, a hungry desperation as their eyes closed while they clasped each other tightly and swallowed tears. Clay stood back uneasily, not wanting to watch them, unable not to. Steve swung Catherine off her feet, whirled her around, repeating an endearment which struck Clay as ill-suited, yet touched him all the same.

  “Babe . . . oh, God, babe, is it really you?”

  Her lips quivered and she clung. She could say little more than his name, backing away, spanning his tan cheeks with her palms, looking into his changed face, then at the breadth of his shoulders, then lunging into his arms again, burying herself, unable to restrain her tears now that she'd seen his.

  To Clay it was a revelation. He watched Catherine's face, recalling this same expression on it that night after the long-distance call.

  Finally Steve pulled back and said, “If that's Clay over there, I think we're making him uncomfortable.” He tucked Catherine securely beneath his armpit, and she circled his torso with both arms while the two men shook hands.

  Catherine's smile was unreserved. Her hold upon Steve was possessive. For Clay, it created an odd momentary twinge of jealousy, soon lost in the inanities of introductions, the first assessment of man to man.

  “So you're the one she told me about.” Steve's grip was solid, winning.

  “So you're the one she told me about.”

  Clay reached for the duffel bag, and the three walked down the corridor and across the parking lot, Catherine and Steve catching up with bits of news about each other and the family. He squeezed her extra hard once and laughed. “Will you look at my baby sister. What happened to your cowlicks and pimples?” There followed another impulsive hug, then they clambered into the Bronco.

  “Where to?”

  “I made reservations downtown.”

  “But, Steve, we won't even get a chance to talk!” wailed Catherine.

  “Listen, you two, why don't I drive out past the house and you can drop me off and Steve can take the Bronco?”

  “Oh, Clay, really?” Catherine's blue eyes radiated appreciation.

  “We've got more cars at home than we need.”

  Steve leaned around Catherine. “That's damn nice of you, man.”

  “Think nothing of it. I can't leave my future brother-in-law stranded in a downtown hotel, can I?”

  Steve smiled.

  “Then it's settled.”

  Catherine and Steve talked all the way out to
the Forrester's. When they arrived, Steve took in the sprawling house, cobbled drive, extensive lawns, and said, “Well, well.”

  Catherine couldn't help the tiny thrill of pride, realizing how the house must appear to Steve for the first time. “This is where the wedding's going to be.”

  “Babe, I'm happy for you.”

  Clay pulled up, shifted into neutral, but he'd only dropped one leg out when Catherine laid a hand on his arm.

  “Clay?”

  He looked back over his shoulder at the touch on his sleeve.

  “I don't know what to say.”

  Neither did he just then. He only looked at her, at the pleasant, warm expression she had willingly displayed toward him. She was so different today; he'd never seen her like this before. This, he thought, is how I've always wondered if she could be.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

  “It's okay. Like I said, we've got more cars around here than we know what to do with.”

  “Just the same—thanks.” She moved impulsively toward him and brushed her cheek briefly against his, not quite kissing it, not quite missing, while he hung half in the seat, half out.

  “You two have a good talk. But make sure you get some sleep, huh?”

  “Promise.”

  “I'll see you tomorrow night then.”

  She nodded.

  He lowered his voice and pleased her immeasurably by saying, “I think I like him.”

  Her only answer was the same genuine smile that he was already enjoying. Then Clay swung out, found Steve standing there waiting, and said, “Time enough for you to meet my folks tomorrow. I know you and Catherine are anxious to be alone.”

  “Listen, man . . .” Steve extended a hand. There followed a prolonged grip, then, “Thanks a lot.” Steve then glanced up at the house and back once again at Clay. His tone changed, then he added quietly, “. . . for both of us.”

  There was an instantaneous sense of rapport between Clay and Steve, the inexplicable thing that happens only rarely when strangers meet. It had nothing to do with Catherine or her relationship to either of them. Neither had it anything to do with gratitude. It was simply there: some compelling invitation coursing between the clasped hands. “Here,” it seemed to say, “is a man I feel good with.”

  Odd, thought Clay, but of all Catherine's family, this is the first person I've felt drawn to, and that includes Catherine herself.

  He'd been expecting someone like Catherine's father, some harsh, forbidding younger version of Herb Anderson. Instead, he found a genuine smile, intelligent eyes, and a face much like Catherine's, only warmer. He thought perhaps the years away from home had given Steve Anderson the ability to smile at life again, which Catherine could not yet readily do. In her brother's face, Clay found the possibility of what Catherine could be, should she ever stop carrying that chip on her shoulder and that shield of armor over her emotions. Perhaps, after all, Clay liked Steve because he alone seemed able to move Catherine, to make her feel, and make it show.

  When the noon break came and Ada Anderson left her machine, there was a sparkle of life in her eyes that had been missing for years. The skin about them was as corrugated as ever, but the eyes themselves were alive with expectancy. Her usual lifeless shuffle was replaced by a brisk step. Ada had even put a touch of lipstick on.

  “Ada?”

  She turned at the sound of her supervisor's voice, impatient to be out the door.

  “I'm kind of in a hurry, Gladys. My boy is home, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. I checked on your output and the week's been good. The whole line had a good week, as a matter of fact. Why don't you just take the rest of the afternoon off, Ada?”

  Ada stopped fussing with her coat collar. “Why, Gladys, do you mean it?”

  “Of course I do. It's not every day a boy comes home from the Air Force.”

  Ada smiled, slid the handle of her vinyl purse onto her arm, casting one eye at the door, then back at Gladys Merkins.

  “That's awful nice of you, and if you ever get in a bind when the girls get behind on their quotas, I'll put in extra.”

  “Get going, Ada. The quotas we'll worry about some other time.”

  “Thanks a lot, Gladys.”

  Gladys Merkins watched Ada hurry out the door, wondering how a person becomes so downtrodden, so stolid and unassuming that she doesn't even ask for a day off when she hasn't seen her son for six years. If word hadn't been passed around the shop, Gladys herself wouldn't have known. It did her heart good to see the pitiful woman with a smile on her face for once.

  Outside, Ada scanned the street, clutching her coat at her throat where her heart beat in wild expectancy. The wind caught at the hem of the garment, lifting it, tugging at Ada's gray-streaked hair. She scanned the ugly street uncertainly. It sported only cold brick structures of commerce, and noisy truck traffic that never seemed to cease. Chain link fences were decorated with weathered paper scraps. There was the ever-present smell of exhaust fumes. Huddled against the wind, Ada looked like a deserted scrap of refuse herself.

  But then a vehicle careened past and swerved to an abrupt halt beside the curb. A young man burst from it, forgetting to shut the door, waving, smiling, running, calling, “Mom! . . . Mom!” And the little scrap of refuse was transformed into vibrant life. Ada ran, her arms outstretched, her face tear-streaked. As her arms clung at last to her son's neck she wondered how it could possibly be him, so big, so broad, so real at last.

  “Oh, Mom . . . Jesus . . . Mom.”

  “Steve, Steve, let me go so I can look at you.”

  He did, but then he saw her better too.

  She appeared infinitely older, sadder. He could only hug her again, guilty because he knew some of that age, some of that sadness had been caused by his leaving. She was crying, but he saw past the tears to a much more profound sorrow, hopeful that somehow he could help erase it before he had to leave her once more.

  “Come on, Mom, Cathy's in the car and we're all going out for lunch.”

  Chapter 16

  It was Catherine's wedding day, the last day she would share with the girls at Horizons. So she allowed their suffocating attentions, feeling at times like she was smothering in their overcaring midst. The expressions on their faces—those doe-eyed looks—were etched on her conscience; she thought they would be her penance forever, long after she gave up her place as Mrs. Clay Forrester. The saga she had brought to Horizons would remain legend within its walls, rivaling any Hans Christian Andersen tale. But its ending, which none of them yet knew, would be her own private hair shirt.

  She swallowed the knowledge of it while the girls played “wedding day” with her, dressing her up as they had their dolls as children, humming Lohengrin as they had for their dolls, pretending that the doll was themselves.

  For Catherine it was an ordeal. Keeping the smile on her lips, the lilt in her voice, the eagerness in her pose became a task of sheer love. She realized it as the last hour neared—that she loved, genuinely loved, so many of these girls.

  She sat before a mirror, her face flushed, and framed by an appealing aureole of soft blond curls, slung high and held by a winter gardenia set in baby's breath, trailing a thin white ribbon down the back. They had bought her a garter and were putting it on her calf, laughing, making silly jokes. Catherine was dressed in the sexiest undergarments she'd ever owned. Her mother had bought them from the employees' store at Munsingwear, surprising everyone at the shower. The bra was an incidental thing, plunging low in front, molding Catherine's lower breasts in lotus-shaped satin fingers that curved up to the crests of her nipples, barely covering them. Exquisite satin briefs, trimmed in peekaboo lace, left a strip of skin nearly exposed up each hip. The slip was beautiful enough to be an evening gown. It followed closely the low décolletage of the bra, flowing and clinging to her thighs and the perceptible bulge of her tummy. She placed her hands on it now, looking at the garter, at all the faces around her. Her eyes filled. She took a deep breath, f
luttered a fingertip beneath her lashes, knowing the girls' eyes followed the twinkle of the diamond.

  “Come on, you guys, don't!” she said, laughing shakily, quite close to breaking down completely. “Don't look so happy for me. It should be every single one of you, not me!” She widened her eyes to make room for the tears.

  “Don't you dare cry, Catherine Anderson!” Marie scolded. “Not after all the work that's gone into that makeup. If you get one single tear on it, we're all going to disown you.”

  Another fragile, borderline laugh, and Catherine sputtered, “Oh, no, you won't. You can't disown me any more than I can disown you. Not anymore. We're all in this together.”

  But Catherine compressed her lips. A tear had its own way, hovered, then splashed over the edge of her lashes, and she laughed shakily, flapped her hands and demanded a tissue.

  Somebody quipped, “Hey, Anderson, dry up, or else!”

  It relieved the tension. The makeup passed inspection, and somebody brought the plain dress Catherine would wear in the car, her gown, carefully sheathed in plastic, her purse and the small bag she'd packed.

  “Have you got your perfume in there?”

  “Yes, thank you for reminding me, Francie.”

  “How about your Dramamine pills?”

  “Dramamine pills?”

  “You'll need them for flying high.”

  “Clay's the one that'll need them when he gets a load of that underwear!”