Separate Beds

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “I didn't have her here, not the way you put it. I said she followed me in. She said she had to talk to me. We didn't do anything.”

  But Catherine was done arguing. “If you're leaving, leave. If not, I'm going to start my own packing. Which will it be?”

  In the moments during which she stood confronting Clay, waiting for him to make the move, some bereft voice seemed to be calling from within her, beating on the inside of her stomach with tiny fists, “Why are you doing this? Why are you treating him this way when you love him? Why can't you be forgiving? Why can't you reach out and beg him to start over with you? Is that pain in his face? If you don't risk finding out, he'll be gone, and you'll be left to wonder. But then it will be too late.” She stood before him, aching for him to love her, knowing she was making herself unlovable again because she loved him so much that the idea of having him—truly having him—as a husband, then losing him, would annihilate her in the end.

  “I'll need to know where you'll be so my lawyer can serve the divorce papers” was all he said. Then he went to the closet to get his luggage.

  Catherine hid in the kitchen while Clay packed, listening to him making trips out to the car. Her stomach felt queasy. It lifted nauseatingly until she pressed it firmly against the edge of the kitchen counter. She sensed when Clay went in to look at Melissa for the last time. In the silence she pictured him, his blond head bent over the crib, gazing down at the baby's head—blond, too—and she felt heartless and sick with herself. She swallowed back tears, pressing against the counter until her hipbones hurt. The awful need to cry made her throat ache unbearably. It felt like she'd swallowed a tennis ball.

  He came quietly to the kitchen doorway, found her standing in the lightless room.

  “All of my things wouldn't fit in the car. I'll have to come back for them.”

  She nodded her head at the wall.

  “Good-bye, Catherine,” he said softly.

  She raised a hand, hoping that from behind, he couldn't tell what a struggle she was having to keep from crying.

  A moment later she heard the door shut.

  It took him two days to clear out all his belongings for good. It took another two days before a deputy sheriff appeared at her door and served her with divorce papers. It took another week before Angela called, her voice very shaken, obviously grieved by the news. It took a week and a half before Catherine worked up the courage to visit Ada and tell her.

  But it took less than an hour for Catherine to begin to miss him.

  The days that followed were the most hollow of Catherine's life. She found herself staring listlessly at Clay's favorite things in the house; there were so many earth-tone items he loved so much. The place was more his than hers. She remembered how awed she'd been by its luxury the first day he'd brought her here. Guilt was her constant companion. She ate with it, slept with it, paced the rooms with it, knowing full well that it was she who should have gone, he who should have stayed. And though she had once feared leaving, she now feared staying, for the house seemed to echo Clay's voice, reflect his tastes, and always, always, remind her of his absence. She remembered how much fun it had been to fill the cabinets with wedding gifts, to go grocery shopping together, to work in the bright, well-equipped kitchen. She hated it now. Cooking for one was decidedly the most desolate chore in the world. Even making coffee in the mornings became a miserable task, for it reminded her sharply of all the mornings Clay had sat at the counter with a cup and the early paper, often attempting to tease her out of her morning grouchiness. She admitted now how hard she'd been to get along with, and marveled at how amiable Clay had always remained, no matter how bearish her morning temper. She had the bathroom all to herself whenever she wanted it, but found she missed the occasional trace of whiskers she used to find in the sink, his toothbrush lying wet beside hers, the smell of his after-shave that lingered in the room after he was gone. One day she made popcorn, but after it was buttered, she burst into tears and threw it all down the garbage disposal.

  Telling Ada proved to be a terrible ordeal. Ada, whose life was being painfully rebuilt, a day at a time, looked much like she used to when Herb raised his fist at her. She seemed to cower, her shoulders curling, shriveling before Catherine's eyes.

  “Mom, please don't act that way. It's not the end of the world.”

  “But, Cathy, why would you want to go and do a thing like that, divorce a man like Clay? Why he's—he's . . .” But for lack of a better word, Ada finished lamely, “perfect.”

  “No, Mother, he's not perfect and neither am I.”

  “But that wedding they give you, and the way Clay give you that beautiful place and everything you wanted—”

  “Mother, please understand. It was a mistake for us to get married in the first place.”

  “But if Melissa is his—” But Ada placed trembling fingertips over her thin lips and whispered, “Oh, she is, isn't she?”

  “Yes, Mother, she's his.”

  “Why, of course, she is,” Ada reasoned. “She's got his nose and chin. But if Melissa is his, then why did he leave?”

  “We tried it for Melissa's sake, but it just didn't work. You, above all people, should understand that I didn't want to stay with him when he didn't love me.”

  “No—no, I guess you wouldn't want to do that. But, honey, it breaks my heart to see you give up that good life you had. I was so happy to see you settled that way. Why, you had everything that I never had. Everything I always hoped my little girl would get. And I figured I'd buy myself a little used car soon and come—come over.” Then, without changing the hopeless expression on her face, Ada began to cry. She did it silently, sitting in her beaten-up living room chair that she had recently covered with a new slipcover. The tears rolled down her sad cheeks, and she acted too empty and weary to lift a hand and swipe at them.

  “Mom, you can still get a little car, and you can still come to see Melissa. And I'm not coming out of this a total loser. I've got Melissa, haven't I? And Clay is going to pay for me to go back to school in the fall.”

  “And you'd rather have that than be married to him?” Ada asked sadly.

  “Mother, that's not the point. The point is, Clay and I are getting divorced, and we have to accept that. If you're honest with yourself, you'll admit that I never really fit into his class of people anyway.”

  “Why, I thought you did. The way Angela seemed to love you and—”

  “Mother, please.” Catherine put a hand to her forehead and turned away. The thought of Angela hurt almost as much as the thought of her son.

  “Why, okay, honey, I'm sorry. Only it's so sudden and it takes some getting used to when I've been feeling so good about you being fixed for life.”

  From then on, whenever Catherine visited her mother, Ada rambled on about all that Catherine would give up in divorcing Clay. It didn't matter how many times Catherine pointed out the ways in which she'd benefited, Ada refused to see it that way.

  In late July there came an unannounced visit from Clay's father. Opening the door and finding Claiborne there, Catherine immediately felt her throat swell. He was so strikingly handsome; she knew that Clay would look much like him some day. Missing Clay as she did, there was a swift surge of bittersweet joy at seeing his father at the door.

  “Hello, Catherine, may I come in?”

  “H-hello. Well, certainly.”

  There was a moment of hesitation during which each assessed the other. And each saw pain. Then Claiborne moved to pull Catherine briefly into his arms and kiss the crest of her cheek. She closed her eyes, fighting the overwhelming sense of déjá vu, fending off the love she felt for this man because he was Clay's father, Melissa's grandfather. She felt suddenly secure and protected in his hold.

  When they were seated in the living room, Claiborne stated simply, “Angela and I were decimated by the news.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  It was easier for Catherine if she didn't look at her father-in-law, but she couldn't keep h
er eyes from his, they were so like Clay's.

  “I waited, thinking Clay would come to his senses and come back here, but when we realized he wasn't going to, Angela and I had to know how you are.”

  “I'm fine, just fine. As you can see, I have everything I need. Clay . . . and you . . . have seen to that.”

  He leaned forward on the edge of his chair, cupped his palms and seemed to study them.

  “Catherine, I'm afraid I must ask your forgiveness. I made such a mistake.”

  “Please, Mr. Forrester, if you're going to tell me about the ultimatum you issued to Clay, I know all about it. Believe me, we're no less guilty than you. We should have known better than to think marriage would automatically solve our problems. And we weren't truthful with you either.”

  “He told us about the agreement you two made.”

  “Oh.” Catherine's eyebrows shot up.

  “Don't look so guilty about it. None of us is too lily-white, are we?”

  “I wanted to tell you long ago, but I just couldn't.”

  “Angela and I guessed that everything wasn't as calm as it appeared on the surface.” He stood up and walked to the sliding door, gazing out much as Clay had often done. “You know, I've only seen this place once since you and Clay moved.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “That was one of the things that made Angela and I wonder. It hurt, the fact that you never invited us here, but I guess we had it coming.”

  “No . . . oh, no.” Catherine followed him to the window, reaching out to touch his elbow. “Oh, God, what good are recriminations? I thought it would be best not to—not to grow to love you, too, under the circumstances, I mean, knowing that Clay and I would be separating soon.”

  “Too?” he repeated hopefully. She should have remembered, he was a lawyer; he picked up on slips like that.

  “You know what I mean. You and Angela were so good to us, you didn't deserve to be hurt.”

  He sighed, turned his eyes to the summer lawn where sprinklers threw cascades of droplets out across the greens between buildings. It was a warm, lazy afternoon.

  “I'm a rich man,” he ruminated. “I own all this. But there's very little pleasure in the thought right now.”

  “Please,” she pleaded, “don't blame yourself.”

  “I thought I could buy Clay and you and my grandchild, but I was wrong.”

  “I'm not going to deny you the right to see Melissa. I couldn't do that.”

  “How is she?” The first trace of joy crossed his face at the thought of Melissa.

  “She's getting a double chin, but she's healthy and very happy. I never thought a baby could be so good. She's napping now, but due to wake up soon. I could wake her if you like.”

  Claiborne's smile was answer enough, and she went to get Melissa up, then brought her out to see her grandpa. From his pocket he produced a small teething toy, and his smile was far wider than Melissa's when he gave it to her.

  “Listen, Catherine, if there's anything she needs, or anything you need—ever—you must promise to let us know. Is that understood?”

  “You've done more for me than you should already. Besides, Clay sends us money regularly.” Then she studied Melissa's head, reached to lightly ruffle the feather-fine curls there as she asked, “How is he?”

  Claiborne watched Catherine's hand on Melissa's fair head.

  “I don't know. We don't see much of him these days.” Their eyes met above the baby. There was deep pain in Claiborne's.

  “You don't?”

  “No. He went to work in the legal department of General Mills as soon as he passed his bar exam.”

  “But isn't he living with you?”

  Claiborne became occupied with the toy, trying to get the baby to hold it in her pudgy hand.

  “No, he's not. He's—”

  “No need to feel uncomfortable. I think I know where he's living. With Jill, right? But that's really where he belonged all along.”

  “I thought you knew, Catherine. I didn't mean to spring it on you.”

  She laughed lightly, got up and spoke over her shoulder while she moved to the kitchen. “Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be silly. He can do whatever he pleases now.”

  But when Claiborne was gone, it was Catherine who stood staring out the window across the lawns, hollow-eyed, seeing Clay and Jill in the prismatic colors that jetted from the sprayers outside. Without thinking, she clutched Melissa a little too tightly, then kissed her a little too forcefully, and the baby started to cry.

  Chapter 28

  During that summer Melissa was Catherine's greatest joy. The love Catherine found so difficult to display toward others she could lavish readily upon her child. Simply touching Melissa seemed to heal Catherine's wounded spirit and bring it back to life. Sometimes she'd flop on her side on the bed, taking Melissa with her, and with five tiny toes against her lips, would tell the child all the hidden feelings she had. In a voice as soft as cotton candy she poured out her feelings.

  “Do you know how much I loved your daddy? I loved him so much that I didn't think I'd survive when he left. But there you were and I loved you, too, and you helped me through. It wasn't as bad after a while. Your daddy is handsome, know that? You have his nostrils and pretty hair like his. I'm glad you didn't get my straight hair. It's hard to tell about your mouth yet, whose it is. Why, Melissa, did you smile at me? When did you learn how to do that? Do it again, come on. That's the way. When you smile you look like your Grandma Angela. She's a wonderful lady, and your Grandpa Claiborne is wonderful too. You're a very lucky girl, you know, to come from people like them. They all love you, Grandma Ada too. But I'm the lucky one. I got you, and I love you best. Always remember that, and remember, too, how much I wanted you.”

  Her soliloquies to Melissa were punctuated by kisses and touches while the baby lay unblinking, her eyes, of yet-undefined color, wide and trusting.

  There came a day when Melissa learned to reach. When she first reached for Catherine's face the mother knew a joy of love such as she'd never experienced before. It was pure, unconfounded by conflicts such as other loves she'd experienced. The tremendous outpouring of emotion left Catherine's eyes awash and her heart full. As the baby grew and responded to Catherine's love, there grew within Catherine the realization that she possessed qualities she hadn't known she possessed: patience, kindness, gentleness, an ease of laughter, a modicum of mother-sense and the innate knowledge of how to make a baby feel secure.

  They did everything together. Sunbathed on the deck, swam in the pool, took showers—it was during a shower that Melissa first laughed aloud, ate bottled baby food—one spoon for Melissa, one spoon for Mommy—visited Ada, went grocery shopping, and registered Catherine for the next quarter. But Catherine had enough sense not to fall into the habit of taking Melissa to bed with her at night, no matter how comforting it would have been to have the baby there for company. At bedtime, she resolutely tucked Melissa into the crib in her own room, facing the king-size bed alone. She never lay down on it without thinking of Clay and the few nights they'd shared it. She couldn't help wondering if he'd still be here, had she invited him into it from the beginning. Catherine now found recriminations helpful, for she was learning much from them about herself and her shortcomings. And through Melissa she was learning it was far more satisfying to be a warm, loving person than a cold, remote one.

  She learned what an abundant harvest love can reap, that the old saying is true: the more love you give away, the more you have.

  In late August Steve came home. He was so dismayed to find Catherine and Clay separated that he blew up at his sister, blaming her for not trying harder to hold a man who'd done his damnedest to do right by her.

  “I know you, Cathy. I know how godawful stubborn you can be, and how once your mind is made up it sets harder than a plaster cast. You don't have to tell me you didn't love him because I know different. What I want to know is why the hell you wouldn't swallow a little of your pride and fight for him!”

&nbs
p; He was the only one who understood all the forces behind Catherine's belligerence and stubbornness, those old millstones which had ultimately alienated Clay. Steve was the first one to come right out and blame her, and Catherine surprised him by admitting he was right. By the time Steve left he realized Catherine had done a vast amount of growing up since her wedding.

  In September she went back to school, leaving Melissa with a babysitter. Catherine had to contact Clay to let him know there would be another bill for him to pay. He asked if he could drop by and bring her a check and see Melissa at the same time.

  From the moment the door opened, he could tell that Catherine was different. There was an openness about her, starting with the smile on her face. His attention was torn between it and the wide gaze of curiosity upon the face of his daughter.

  “Hi, Clay, come on in.”

  He couldn't control the size of his smile. “Holy cow! Has she grown!”

  Catherine laughed, plopped a loud kiss on the baby's neck and turned to lead the way inside. “She's got lots of chins to nuzzle, haven'tcha, Lissy?” And Catherine did so. “She's kind of getting to that shy stage, so it might take a while for her to warm up to you. But don't feel bad, she's that way with everybody lately.”

  Following Catherine upstairs, Clay glanced quickly up and down her jean-clad figure. Her old shape was back, and when she turned to face him again he noticed how tan she was. Her hair seemed lighter, bleached into streaks like honey and peanut-butter.

  “Sit down, you two, and say hello while I bring us a glass of Cola or something.”

  She put Melissa into the crank-up swing that occupied the center of the living room, then ducked into the kitchen. Melissa immediately realized she'd been left alone with a stranger and stuck out her lip.

  “Didn't you warn her I was coming and tell her to put on her best manners?” Clay called.

  “I did. I told her you were the fella paying the bills, so she'd better watch her p's and q's.”