The Last Time They Met

by Anita Shreve

  Linda closed her eyes. It could be just a moment’s inattention. Backing out of the driveway and not noticing your child had moved behind the car. Having a fight with your husband and not seeing that the baby had climbed onto the window ledge. One second. That’s all it took.

  —Adaline fell overboard. I went in after her. Rich was trying to keep the boat upright. Jean was frantic. And then . . . And then, it was Rich, I think, who noticed first. Thomas looked at the ceiling. Oh, God, this is our punishment, isn’t it? These memories. It was an ice pick in the chest. The body knows already, even if the mind won’t accept it yet. “Where’s Billie?” Rich said.

  Thomas stopped. He looked at Linda. And that was it, he said. That was the end of my life as I’d known it.

  —Thomas.

  No other words, they who mined and invented words.

  —I was crazed for months. Insane. I’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Rich would run into the room — he was staying with me all the time then — and have to pin me to the bed.

  —Thomas.

  He leaned against the doorjamb, his hands in his pockets, his shirttails mysteriously come untucked. It seemed important that I tell you this story.

  She met his eyes, and neither spoke. The earth might have made a revolution for all the time they were silent.

  —I won’t make love to you while you’re waiting for word of your son, Thomas said finally. Though I want to.

  Linda drew her knees up and bent her head to them, so that Thomas couldn’t see her face. He didn’t move to touch her, as he had said he wouldn’t.

  The details make it unbearable, she thought.

  She pressed her forehead hard against her legs. She knew that any movement in any direction would say everything there was to say. If she rose and walked to the window, each would know that no history could be resurrected, no future be salvaged. And then Thomas would collect his tie and jacket and might ask her when her plane was leaving and might even kiss her on the cheek, though the gesture would be meaningless, without import, without even the wonder of what might have been. For the standing up and walking to the window would obliterate all wonderment, then and forever.

  —I shouldn’t have said that, he said.

  —You can say anything you want.

  —It’s sex and grief, he explained. There’s some connection I’ve never understood.

  A need to stay alive, she thought, but didn’t offer.

  —I’ll go now, he said from the doorway.

  She held her breath. She wouldn’t stop him. But she didn’t want to watch him leave either.

  She heard him cross the floor. She froze, thinking he would touch her. But then she heard the sluicing of his arms into the silky lining of his jacket. She waited until she heard the soft click of the outer door.

  She looked up, scarcely believing that he had really gone. She waited, thinking that any minute he’d walk back in, tell her he’d changed his mind or he had more to tell her. But he didn’t come back, and the emptiness of the room presented itself to her: an emptiness that might go on forever. A fleeting sense of relief — relief that they had not touched, had not had to decide how to be with each other — gave way to a quiet and dispiriting rage. The rage, perhaps, of being left, vestigial; the rage, certainly, of words left unsaid. For a minute, she teetered between that rising anger and a feeling of bottomless sympathy.

  A heavy rain had started outside. More than a heavy rain — sheets of water whipped against her windows. She felt as unstable as the weather. She willed herself to stay on the bed, willed herself to let Thomas walk away. But some great impulse — ruinous and engaging — propelled her to the door.

  She found him standing at the elevator. He still held his tie in his hand. He looked drained, slightly dazed, like a man who had just had sex and was returning to his room.

  —Why did you walk away from me that morning in Africa? she asked.

  He was startled by the question, she could see that. In the silence, she heard, through the window at the end of the hallway, car horns and a police siren, the siren with a different tone, more European than American. A room service waiter rolled a noisy cart along the hall and pushed the elevator button, which Linda noticed only now had not been lit. Thomas hadn’t summoned the elevator.

  —I had to, he said finally.

  She inhaled a needed breath. Why? Why did you have to? Her voice was rising, inappropriate in this hallway. The waiter studied his cart.

  —Regina, Thomas said distractedly, as if not understanding why the obvious answer wasn’t the correct one. Regina was . . .

  —Was what?

  —Linda . . .

  —Was what? Her voice too loud now, inappropriate anywhere.

  —Regina was distraught. She was saying she would kill herself. She kept saying I’d be killing two people then. I knew I couldn’t leave her alone in Africa.

  —You left me alone in Africa.

  —That was your choice.

  —My choice? A voice inside her head said, Be careful. That was years ago. But she wasn’t certain she could stop the words. Some wounds did not heal, she realized with a small surprise.

  —I had assumed that eventually we’d find a way to be together, she said. The elevator came, but Thomas did not get on. The waiter gratefully escaped them.

  —Well, you took care of that, didn’t you? Thomas said, unable to suppress a note of sarcasm.

  —You wouldn’t have done it yourself? she asked sharply. Eventually?

  —Yes, of course, I would have. I’ve loved you all my life. I’ve told you that. But in the event, in the reality of that night, it was unthinkable that I should leave Regina alone. You know that as well as I do.

  And, yes, she did know that. The truth would always be exhilarating, she thought.

  —And it was ruined then, he added. We’d ruined it. We’d neglected to imagine the chaos.

  —I’d rack my suffering up against Regina’s anytime, she said.

  He seemed taken aback by the contest. She knew that later she would mind this the most: that she’d become common in her anger. That in an instant, she’d reinvented herself as a shrew.

  —Wasn’t it worth anything? she asked. Wasn’t it worth the pain to be together? Tell me you didn’t believe we should be together.

  Her questions astounded her as much as she saw they surprised him. And why was she asking them? Did she really regret any choice that had led to her children? Any turn of fate that had produced Maria and Marcus? Would she have wished Vincent unmet, unmarried? Of course not.

  —Apart from Billie, I’ve hardly thought of anything else for thirty-four years, Thomas said quietly.

  She looked at the patterned carpet. She prayed that Thomas would not cross the hallway and hold her. Reduce them to that. She thought of saying it aloud, forbidding him.

  She was sure he would leave her now, leave her to erase the memory of the last several minutes. Of the weekend altogether, if it came to that. Thomas unmet, unseen, after all these years.

  She hadn’t the stamina for this anymore.

  From somewhere down the hallway, she could hear a telephone ringing. It rang twice, then three times, before she registered what it was. Then, with a mother’s instinct, never dormant, she walked quickly along the hallway, listening, until she had come to her room. It was her phone. Shit, she thought. It would be Marcus. She tried the doorknob.

  Of course. She had locked herself out.

  —I’ll go down and get a key, Thomas said quickly when he had reached her side.

  —They won’t give you one. And, anyway, it will be too late. The phone continued to ring. It must be important, she thought. She was certain now that it was Marcus. How could I have been so stupid? She rattled the doorknob once again.

  Thomas stood immobile beside her. The phone was still ringing. She wished it would stop. The argument between them seemed irrelevant now.

  —Actually, Thomas said. This is kind of funny.

  Sh
e looked up at him. He rubbed a cheekbone in an effort to suppress a smile. He was right, she thought. It was kind of funny. All the sturm und drang, and then the slapstick of a locked door.

  —A farce, after all, she said.

  Behind them, she heard movement. Excuse me, you need key? On the maid’s trolley were breakfast menus and small Godiva chocolates. Turn-down service. Linda would never turn them away again.

  Once inside the door, Linda ran to the phone, praying the ringing would not stop just before she got there. She listened to the voice at the other end. Her free hand spiraled into the air and fluttered awkwardly. Thomas, beside her, held her errant hand.

  —I’m just so relieved to hear your voice, she said into the phone, half laughing, half crying. She sat heavily on the bed. Thomas sat with her, releasing her hand.

  Linda turned and mouthed, It’s OK. It’s Marcus.

  —I’m sorry about David, Marcus, who sounded remarkably clear-headed, said. I know he can be an asshole sometimes. I was too groggy to protest. I wanted to talk to you, but he was . . .

  —Protective.

  —Yeah.

  —Where are you?

  —I’m here. In Brattleboro. There was a pause. Mom, are you OK?

  —I ran to get the phone. I was locked out. It’s a long story. I’m glad you let the phone ring so long.

  —They only let us have one phone call. Like jail. I wasn’t sure they’d let me try again.

  —How are you?

  —I suppose I should be scared shitless, but, truthfully, all I feel is relief.

  —Oh, Marcus.

  She put her hand over the mouthpiece. Marcus is at Brattleboro, she said to Thomas.

  —Mom? Who are you talking to?

  —A man, Marcus. A man I used to know. Before your father.

  —Really? That sounds intriguing.

  She was silent.

  —They only let you talk for five minutes, Marcus said. That’s what they said. And I can only make two calls a week.

  —Is David there with you?

  —No, they made him leave. Almost immediately. I think the theory is that people from home put you in jeopardy. They want them out as soon as possible.

  She, of course, was a person from home.

  —But they do allow visits. They invite you to come. In fact, I think they’ll insist that you come. They have all-day seminars so that you can learn how to handle me when I get out.

  She smiled. Marcus’s irony might get him through this. Or was the irony part of the problem?

  —You’ll have to come with David, Marcus added tentatively.

  —I like David, Linda said.

  —No you don’t. Sometimes I’m not even sure if I like him. You know how you can love someone but sometimes wonder why you’re with him?

  —Yes. Yes, I do.

  —I’m going to have to go. There’s a man standing next to me, telling me to hang up. I can’t call Maria. I’ve used my one phone call . . .

  —I’ll call her, Linda said, relieved to have been given a task. — Don’t worry about that.

  —I love you, Mom.

  The ease with which he said it.

  —You’re doing the right thing, Marcus. You’re doing a wonderful thing.

  —Mom, just one question. Did you know? Did you know I was a . . . an alcoholic?

  Not telling the truth now would be disastrous. Yes, she said.

  —Oh. I just wondered.

  This was not the time to discuss why she had refused to allow herself to think the word, to say the word aloud. I love you, too, Marcus, she offered instead.

  She held the telephone in her hand for a long minute after he had broken the connection. She tried to picture Marcus at Brattleboro, but all she could see was a prison with a guard standing next to her son. This would be so much harder than either he or she knew.

  —There must be some relief in knowing that he’s safe, Thomas said.

  And she nodded with the truth of what he’d said, although she also knew that he might easily have added, with equal sympathy, None of us is safe.

  * * *

  For a time, they sat together on the bed, thinking about the phone call, not speaking. It was she, finally, who turned to him. She said his name. Not to keep the wonder alive, but for simple comfort, as two who are lost on a mountain will press their bodies together for warmth. She put a hand on his shirt, and he, his face lit with hope, answered with her name. Not Magdalene this time, but rather Linda, stripping away all artifice so that there was only clarity.

  And then, as might have been anticipated, as might have been known, the gesture that she’d made became a sexual one. Animallike, Thomas smelled her hair, and she, likewise, was jolted by the scent of his skin. So much to recognize, and yet everything was different. She could not feel his bones along his back as she had once been able to, and she held her breath as his hand traveled along her belly and touched her breast. For a moment, the gesture felt illicit, and she had to remind herself that nothing was illicit now. And that knowledge was so surprising, she almost said it aloud, as one will blurt out a sudden truth. She moved her face to the side as he kissed her neck and collarbone. How long would it have been since he had last made love to a woman? Years ago? Last week? She didn’t want to know.

  In silent agreement, they stood and removed their clothing, each avoiding examining the other while they did this, though together they turned the covers back as a married couple might. They slid against each other and along the silky sheets, and she thought of how, in the early years, they had not had a bed; and that later the beds, like their minutes together, had always been stolen, never their own. And that thought let in a flood of images that had been lost to her, small moments obliterated by all that had come after. She smelled a dank, salt-scented pier, her slip wet with sea water. She saw a bedroom in a foreign country, with its roof open to the sky. She saw a boy, standing shyly in a hallway with a box he had wrapped himself. She felt Thomas’s breath on her neck and a loosening in her bones. She saw glints upon the water as two teenagers sat on a hill overlooking the Atlantic, aching to possess the light as if it were water or food and could be stored for nourishment.

  Thomas was whispering in her ear. She reached up and touched his scar, ran her fingers along the length of it. She wondered what his images were, what he was seeing. Or was it simpler for a man? Would Thomas have a sense of mission, fueled by desire, touching her as he was with his exquisite sense of timing, his perfect pitch?

  —I’ve always loved you, he said.

  She put her fingers to his lips. She did not want words, she who normally craved them, crawled toward them if need be. But now, she thought, just now everything could be said with the body. There were details, small things such as the softness at his waist or the thinning of his hair, that she would not linger over. Denial was sometimes essential for sex or love. Thomas was trailing his lips along her ribs, and it was lovely, and she was glad that this had not been lost.

  * * *

  A voice in the corridor woke her, and she strained to see behind the shades. It was dark still, the middle of the night. She could feel Thomas’s breath on her shoulder. She thought immediately that their coming together had been archival and primitive. Indeed, in retrospect, it seemed preordained. And for the first time since Vincent died, Linda was relieved that she was alone in the world, that there had been nothing furtive or illicit about making love with Thomas.

  A foot had gone numb, and she tried to extricate it from the tangle of their legs and arms without waking Thomas; but he woke anyway and immediately pulled her closer as if she were about to leave him. Don’t go, he said.

  —I won’t, she said soothingly.

  —What time is it?

  —I don’t know.

  He kissed her. Are you . . . ? He paused, uncharacteristically lost for words.

  She smiled. Thomas needing to be reassured, like any man. I feel wonderful.

  And reassured, he stretched his body along her own.
There are more experiences in life than you’d think for which there are no words, he said.

  —I know.

  They lay face-to-face, their eyes open.

  —I won’t ask you what you were thinking about, she said.

  —You can ask me anything.

  —Well, I was thinking about the day we sat on a hill overlooking the water, she said.

  —That was the first time I ever saw you cry, he said.

  —It was?

  —You were crying from the beauty of it, like children do.

  She laughed. I can’t feel that anymore. So much of the immediacy of beauty is gone. Muffled.

  —Actually, I was thinking about that night on the pier when you jumped in the water in your slip.

  —My God, I didn’t even know you.

  —I loved it. He held her with one arm and pulled up the covers with the other. Listen, I want to sleep with you now. But you have to promise you won’t leave me while I’m sleeping.

  —I promise, she said. Though he and she both knew that promises could no longer, with any certainty, be made or honored.

  * * *

  The tables were awash with white linen, salmon chargers and heavy silver plate. In the background she could hear the muted hum of a vacuum. There were nearly thirty empty tables, yet still she waited to be seated while a waitress with a humpback consulted a plan. As Linda was led to a table, a man’s pager went off with a musical song.

  She liked the anonymity of breakfast, the license to watch others. Beside her an elderly woman and a middle-aged daughter were discussing another woman’s chemotherapy. Linda fingered the tablecloth and wondered if the linen was washed and starched every day.

  Thomas stood at the entrance to the dining room, freshly showered, in a white shirt and gray V-neck sweater. He hadn’t seen her yet, and for a moment, she was able to examine him. He seemed taller and trimmer than she’d remembered from the day before, but perhaps that was just his posture. He seemed less unkempt and more relaxed as well. Or happier. Yes, it might be happiness.