Girl in the Moonlight

by Charles Dubow

  Courage is essential to action, but so also is conviction. If we don’t know what we want, then we hesitate. Do I go left or right? In or out? It can be impossible to know until we have no other alternative. It is at these crucial junctures in our lives that everything comes down to a single split-second decision, when uncertainty is obviated and wisdom is supplanted by instinct. A Rubicon crossed, destinies altered. In the time it takes to draw a breath, for a heart to cease beating, for a leaf to flutter to the ground, everything can change. The only thing we know with certainty is that nothing will ever be the same again.

  None of this flashed through my mind as I reentered the living room to rejoin Cesca. I pushed open the door, and she looked up from the table, expectant, smiling, happy to see me. There had been a time when that would have been all.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked me as I slipped in next to her at the table, her hand enfolding mine.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You’re staying?”

  “Can we talk in the other room?” I whispered in her ear.

  Her head drew back slightly, suddenly suspicious, uncertain of my intentions, but she said nothing. Instead, she shrugged, got to her feet, and walked ahead of me to the library.

  “What is it?” she asked, her face stone.

  “Look,” I said. The words came out of my mouth, surprising even me. I had made my decision. It was almost as though someone else was speaking. “I’m sorry. But I really do need to drive back to the city tonight.”

  She pursed her lips and turned away from me. “That’s too bad.”

  “I’ve got to be at work in the morning . . .” Even then I was being a coward for not saying that Kate was my reason. As though I was hedging, knowing that mentioning Kate’s name would be unforgivable.

  She cut me off, knowing I was not being entirely truthful and hating me for it. “I don’t need your excuses, Wylie. If you want to go, go.”

  “I hope you aren’t upset.”

  “Really?” she said angrily. “Is that what you hope? Well, let me tell you something: If a woman asks a man to spend the night, a woman, don’t forget, who has just lost her beloved brother and is in need of comfort, and the man says no, what do you think the woman’s response should be? And this from a man who has always told the woman that he loves her and now, when she really needs him, when he has the chance to prove himself to her once and for all, he refuses. Do you think she will be happy? That she will say, ‘Oh yes, hombre, go. Your job designing ugly buildings for large multinational corporations is so important, I understand.’ That she will look at him the same way ever again? Tell me, Wylie. What do you think? I’d be fascinated to know.”

  I had seen many sides of Cesca. I had seen her happy, sad, excited, bored. I had seen her asleep and in the throes of passion. But I had never seen her angry. There was a glint of fire in her eye. A fire that could consume all the oxygen in the room in seconds, race up the walls and devastate everything in its path.

  “I’m sorry. I . . .” What was I going to say? Was I going to change my mind? Even now I can’t be sure. But there was no going back. Only the weak change their minds. A door had been closed. Nothing I said could matter now.

  “Fuck you, Wylie. Get out.”

  Her disdain was withering. But I understood it. What else should I have expected?

  I looked at her. We were beyond words. “Please give my best to your mother and Uncle Roger,” I said feebly as I headed for the door.

  “Get out,” she repeated.

  I walked through the front hall, skirting the living room, hearing the voices, the tinkling of Cosmo’s piano, and let myself out. In an instant I had gone from being welcome in the bosom of this family to a pariah. I looked back to see if Cesca was watching, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  The air outside was cool, the night clear. Overhead there were thousands of stars, but I ignored them, their beauty wasted on me. I was in shock. My brain still trying to comprehend what had just happened. For a while I just sat there in the front seat of Kate’s Bug, staring dumbly through the windshield. Had I really just done what I had done? I felt sick to my stomach. The thought that I might never see Cesca again, hear her laughter, be swept up in her headlong rush through life, was impossible to imagine. Worse, I knew I had let her down. I had been tested and failed.

  Eventually I started the car and backed it out, careful not to hit any of the other cars. A great tiredness came over me, and I remembered that I had actually had quite a lot to drink. I looked at my watch. It was only ten-thirty. I had called Kate just after ten. In the space of a half hour, less, my entire life had changed. I knew I should have been happy; after all, I had virtuously chosen Kate. But I wasn’t. Not yet. Like a traitor, I still loved my betrayal. It would take time.

  The car stood idling at the head of the driveway. I looked over at the Playhouse. There were no lights on. It was becoming increasingly apparent that there was no way I would be able to drive back to the city tonight. I had thought I could but now I realized it was impossible. I was too distracted, not sober enough. There was only one thing to do. I drove to my father’s house.

  It was too late to call. I knew my father and Patty were there but didn’t want to disturb them. In the darkness I walked to the pool house and tried the door handle, but it was locked. The pool house, which had originally been a barn, had been recently converted by Patty. She had removed the old, heavy sliding door and replaced it with French doors. The kerosene stove that had provided heat had been ripped out. Changing rooms had been built. New furniture covered in expensive fabrics. My old bedroom in the former hayloft had also been upgraded. But now I couldn’t get in. Even if I could, I knew my father had installed burglar alarms and hadn’t shared the code with me. Retrieving an old blanket Kate kept in her car, I opted instead to sleep out on one of the chaises that lined the pool.

  For a long time I sat there, playing back the last several hours in my head, worrying about whether I had just made the smartest decision or the worst mistake of my life. Eventually, under the stars, I fell asleep.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

  I opened my eyes. It was light. My father stood over me wearing a gray sweatshirt and holding a mug of coffee. He was always an early riser. Had his little rituals. Now that he was more or less retired, they gave structure to his life. Every morning he would get up, make himself coffee, and then with his Bernese mountain dog, Caesar, walk down the drive to retrieve the daily copies of The Wall Street Journal and New York Times that had only recently been delivered and lay there wrapped in blue plastic.

  Evidently he had spotted my car and then me. The newspapers had not yet been collected.

  I sat up and stretched. My neck was sore. The air was cool with the dampness of dawn. I figured it was around five-thirty. “Yesterday was Aurelio Bonet’s funeral,” I explained. “I wound up drinking more than I should have and decided to come here rather than drive back to the city. I didn’t want to wake you so I just slept here.”

  My father grunted and nodded his head. “That was probably wise. Go on in the house and wash up,” he said. “There’s coffee in the pot. I’ll be right back after I get the papers.” He whistled for the large dog, and it followed him.

  When he returned, I was in the kitchen, drinking the strong coffee he always made. He put the papers on the table. Then he scooped some dry dog food out for Caesar, who waited expectantly at his feet until the metal bowl was placed on the floor. Sitting down at the table, he opened the Times. He would have already scanned the front page of the Journal on the walk back up the drive. For a moment, we sat there in silence. “How’s Kitty doing?” he finally asked, reluctantly snapping the Times shut.

  “Not too well,” I replied.

  He nodded.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were going to be there,” I said. “I thought you might be.”

  “I didn’t really know the boy,” he said. “And I haven’t really been in touch with the family for a whi
le now.”

  “But you see Roger.”

  “From time to time. We’ve gone in different directions. That’s how it is.”

  I nodded. Then after a moment we both sipped our coffees. “I’ve made a decision about something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to ask Kate to marry me.”

  He sipped his coffee again. “Huh. You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Your call.”

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a grown man now. You can do what you like. It’s a big step. Try not to screw it up.”

  I looked at the clock above the stove. It was just six. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the advice—and the coffee. I should get going if I’m going to make it to work.”

  “Okay. Drive safe.”

  “Thanks. Give my best to Patty.”

  “Will do.”

  I stood up and walked my now empty coffee mug to the sink. “Good seeing you,” I said.

  “Think you’ll come out one weekend?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good luck with Kate. When are you going to ask her?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Have you told your mother yet?”

  “No. You’re the first. I only made up my mind last night.”

  We shook hands, and I walked out of the kitchen to the front hall, opening and closing the door behind me. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day. If I drove fast and got ahead of the traffic, I could make it to work by nine. I might even have time to get home and shower quickly.

  Once I was out on Route 27 heading west, the traffic moved briskly, and I passed the steady stream of pickups heading in the opposite direction to service the homes of the rich.

  I had also surprised myself by telling my father about my intentions. To think about something is one thing, to announce it, especially to one’s father, is another entirely. I had been thinking about Kate, my future with her, if there would be one, and if so what kind, for a while. But now it was obvious. There was no other course of action. I had been thinking about it last night while trying to get to sleep, alternately jumping from my shock at refusing Cesca to my conviction about Kate. I knew I would never conceive the same kind of passion for Kate that I felt for Cesca, and that was a good thing. After all, where had that passion gotten me? It had only produced brief moments of ecstasy followed by long periods of yearning and doubt. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that I had done the right thing. There could be no certainty with Cesca, no guarantee that in a week or maybe two she would not disappear on me again.

  That night I took Kate out to dinner at a little bistro near her apartment. I had made no plans. There would be no gypsy violinists summoned at a strategic moment. No skywriter to form a proposal in the air. I didn’t even have a ring. It was in many ways a perfectly ordinary evening. But I knew I had to do it. I told her about Lio’s memorial, about Esther, about sleeping on my father’s pool furniture. She laughed at that. After dinner we went back to her loft and made love. Later, when we were lying there together in the darkness, I asked her.

  “Do you want to get married?”

  “Are you proposing to me?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled and thought for a moment.

  “All right,” she said, rolling onto her front, so that her face was only inches from mine. “I’ll marry you.”

  It is a wonderful feeling being engaged, especially during the first few weeks, when you both enjoy a kind of celebrity. Everyone is happy for you. Those already married congratulate you, and those who have yet to take the plunge regard you with a mixture of perplexity and awe. You are toasted at every dinner party—and some of the parties are even thrown expressly for your benefit. The other women coo over the ring, and the men smile knowingly and make lame jokes.

  My mother, predictably, was thrilled. “Oh, darling, I’m so happy for you both,” she trilled over the phone when I called her with the news. She was living in Richmond now, remarried to her second husband, a lean, handsome widower named Bill, who had retired as an Air Force general. “He was the one I should have married in the first place, darling,” she had said. I had brought Kate down to meet her, and the two women had hit it off at once.

  Those months were happy ones. Kate and I grew closer. I gave up the lease on my apartment and moved in with her. Work was going well. I still had to travel often, but we knew that merely indicated that I was moving ahead in the firm. Occasionally, Kate would join me. There were trips to London, one to Tokyo, where she met some old friends of mine. Everywhere we went, people were charmed by her. I knew how lucky I was to be marrying such a beautiful, warmhearted girl.

  It was at a party in New York where I saw someone who looked familiar. We were in an apartment on Park Avenue with parquet floors and Chinese wallpaper. It was the birthday of a friend of Kate’s whose husband worked at a large investment bank. It took me a few moments to place the face. The red hair. The pale skin. I remembered a summer day years before. Mutual dislike. Caro.

  “I know that woman,” I whispered to Kate.

  By then Caro had caught my eye. Through the crowd, she came up to me. “Wylie, right?” she said. She was dressed in the theatrical way affected by many overweight women, the attempt to simultaneously deflect and conceal.

  “Right,” I replied, giving her a kiss on either cheek. “Gosh, Caro. Great to see you again.” I introduced her to Kate and told her we were engaged.

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I haven’t seen you in years,” she said. “Isn’t it awful about Cesca?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Then slyly, “I always thought you two were so chummy.”

  “I, um, we haven’t been in touch lately. What happened? Is she all right?”

  “Hardly. I mean, I think she’s all right now. But she tried to kill herself.”

  24

  CARO CLAIMED NOT TO KNOW ALL THE DETAILS. WHAT SHE did know was that Cesca appeared to be especially upset by her brother’s death. She drank more than ever. Where she had once been careless, she now became reckless, bordering on self-destructive. She ignored her family’s pleas to stop. Then one night a suicide attempt. Fortunately the police had been called in time. It might have been pills. Possibly a razor blade. Caro wasn’t sure. She had heard everything thirdhand. It had occurred several weeks before. Now Cesca was recuperating at a special hospital upstate. Caro didn’t know where.

  I had tried to conceal my shock from Kate, but she could tell I had been affected by Caro’s news. “What a sad story about your friend,” said Kate, as we were in a taxi heading home. “Are you all right? You’ve barely said a word since you heard about her.”

  “Sorry. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine.”

  And of course I wasn’t. I pretended that my reactions were simply the natural ones you experience when you hear something sad about a mutual friend. Pity. Concern for them and their families. To a certain extent, curiosity and, most important, relief that the outcome was not worse.

  But deep down I was also feeling guilt. I couldn’t help but think I might have contributed to Cesca’s behavior, and the idea pained me. That maybe if I had stayed that night, none of this would have happened. Part of me chided myself for being conceited enough to think that Cesca could be hurt enough by me to slip into a spiral of self-destruction. The other part assigned myself a lesser role: that I was merely a single straw out of the many straws that had broken her back. Regardless of the degree of my culpability, there was no denying that she had reached out to me, and I wasn’t there for her.

  Of course, I didn’t know all the facts. I didn’t know what other troubles might have been plaguing her. In hindsight it was possible to see that her wild behavior had always been erratic, manic, heedless, and a symptom of mental unrest. Yet it was these very qualiti
es that seemed most to define her. Her boldness, her passions, her self-sufficiency, her unwillingness to be tied down to any one man or thing. In what had been a life spent desperately pursuing pleasure and avoiding pain, it was obvious that at some point something inside her would break. It was an impossible way to live. Such expectations are unrealistic, and eventually they reveal themselves to be false. The truth can be shattering. It would have only been a matter of time. Even if I had chosen her over Kate, even if she had by some miracle stayed with me, like that of an object thrown into the air, her fall was inevitable.

  “Is there something you want to talk about?” asked Kate when we were getting ready for bed.

  I had still never told Kate, or anyone else for that matter, the truth about my relationship with Cesca. At first, I had refrained from doing so because I was unsure of my commitment to Kate and wanted to keep Cesca a secret, aware of the power she held over me and not yet ready to forsake it. Then, after our engagement, feeling secure in our bond, I didn’t feel the need to bring it up. It seemed extraneous, pointless, like paying in Confederate money. At times Cesca’s image would come into my head, particularly when I passed by a place I had been with her. But these images rarely lingered. Not for a moment did I regret the choice I had made.

  I sighed as I hung up my trousers. “I was disturbed by what that woman Caro told me about Cesca Bonet. How she had tried to kill herself.”

  “Yes, it’s awful. The poor thing.”

  “Her uncle is my godfather, Roger. Remember? You met him at Aurelio’s opening.”

  “Yes. He was charming. Very grabby.”

  I smiled. “That’s him. I’m going to give him a call and see if I can find out what happened. It’s just so hard to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Well, you met her just that one time, at Lio’s opening as well.”