Looking Back

by Belva Plain

  He did not reply directly, but said instead, “I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at myself.”

  “For not having thought of giving Larry a raise?”

  “That—and other things.” He moved away, allowing her to pass. “You haven’t seen everything,” he said abruptly. “There’s a big back porch with a nice view over some gardens. They’ve been neglected, but can easily be restored.”

  On the porch roof the rain no longer drizzled, but drummed, and the east was visibly darkening as clouds raced overhead.

  “Looks like a storm, Amanda. Good thing I came along, or you’d still be jogging through it two miles from home. Come, I’ll show you the library. It’s got shelves from floor to ceiling. You’ll need to stock up on books if you buy this place.”

  She was not feeling right. These odd, occasional spurts of laughter, along with that remark a few minutes ago, I was angry at myself, were baffling. They were not what they pretended to be.

  “As far as I’m concerned, this is the best room in the house. I wouldn’t mind having one like it. Have you ever seen windows like these?”

  No, she had not. At right angles, touching each other, a pair of windows filled a corner, bringing indoors the western sky, still lurid in the face of the dark advancing storm. The sky, the tossed trees, and the gloomy house all heightened her mood; this was a fearsome setting out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.

  “I wish the storm would come and get itself over with,” she said.

  “It doesn’t look that way.”

  Just as he spoke, there came a crash of thunder; it was as if a hundred brutal, giant fists had clobbered the roof. Lightning tore across the sky as if it were aiming toward these very windows.

  “Away from the windows, Amanda! You know better than that, country girl. Come over here.”

  She had not noticed that he was sitting on the sofa, nor even observed that there was a sofa against the opposite wall.

  “Only piece of furniture in the place. It must have been built in the house. The way the doors and corners are placed, they couldn’t possibly have gotten it into the room or out of it, either. It’s fifteen feet long if it’s an inch. A crazy thing.”

  “Yes, crazy.”

  “But comfortable, and still clean. The people moved out only last week.”

  Obviously, when there was a place to sit, it made no sense to stand at the window watching the storm. And still she hesitated.

  He spoke again. “You’ve changed your hairdo.”

  “I’ve let it grow. It’s not as curly now.”

  “Either way, it becomes you.”

  “Thank you,” she said formally.

  “So straight hair is ‘in’ again? Am I right?”

  He was twinkling, teasing, and in a nice way, making fun of what he would probably call “feminine foibles.” Understanding that, she replied in kind.

  “Of course. Height of fashion. That’s me. The best part of my life is spent in a fashion shop.”

  “The best part? Really?”

  “Yes. Yes, really.”

  “I find that sad, Amanda,” he said, seriously this time.

  “Why so?”

  “Because it means you aren’t happy with the rest of your life.”

  What could she tell him? That her life at home was dull and drab? That there was so little purpose or meaning in it? Yes, Larry was a good man, the kindest and best, but his touch, which had never lured her, was now a nuisance; no, it was more than that, because she dreaded it and did everything to avoid it. And Larry was too obtuse to realize what was going on. And he was too decent for her to tell him the truth, letting come what may. So here she stood confronted with a question that could not be answered, a situation which, out of pride or compassion or a combination of them, could not be discussed with anyone, least of all with this man.

  But it was her own fault, having let slip that careless remark about “the best part of her life.” Some silly slip of the tongue about fashion had led into this. “What is it, Amanda? What’s your trouble?” Tears rush uncontrollably into eyes, and her eyes were suddenly filled with them.

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s nothing.” “It has to be something. Why won’t you tell me?” “Why should I tell you anything after the way you acted toward me?”

  “I’m not treating you badly now, am I?” “What difference does that make? You were mean, you were nasty to me, and for no reason.”

  “I know I was, and I apologize, Amanda. But I should tell you why I was really angry at myself, and so … Why are you staring at me?”

  “Well, you’re the only person in the room,” she said. “And if there were others, you mean, you wouldn’t be looking at me.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she retorted.

  They were sparring and fencing. They were standing on the edge of someplace—where? They were playing some game—what?

  “You have your nerve,” he said with the familiar twist of amusement on his lips. “But I like it. Even when you came that morning, I liked your nerve.”

  Another savage crash of thunder shook the house. Lightning flared at the windows and he cried out, “Never stand near a window when there is lightning! I told you!”

  “I know. I know. I grew up in the country, remember?”

  Wind and rain rattled the glass. You could imagine that a storm like this one was directed at yourself, that its lashing wind was intended to whip you and its lightning to burn and blind you. Subdued by the storm, side by side they sat, not speaking.

  Then suddenly, regardless of his warning to Amanda, L.B. got up and stood at the window. For a long time, he stayed with his hands in his pockets. From where she sat on the sofa, she had an angled view of his face. It is a face on an ancient coin, she thought as she had thought so often in the past. It is proud, and changeable, and passionate, too. Never before had she allowed herself to use the word passionate in connection with L.B. Was it the storm here in this queer, vacant house that was bringing to light, and to her bewilderment, these wild, prohibited thoughts?

  She did not want such random flashes like those she had from time to time experienced when in the presence of Peter Mack, or even with the neighbor out mowing his lawn in back of the brick bungalow next door! She wanted to wipe such things away, wipe them out, for they were useless; no good would come from any of them, and certainly not when these thoughts were about L.B. or his thick black hair, his tall narrow back, or his touch.

  And yet right this minute she was wondering what it would be like to have his arms around her, and wondering with whom he lay down, for surely he must…

  “The worst of it is over,” he said suddenly. “It’s only rain now, heavy rain.”

  “Can we start back?” she asked.

  “It’s still coming down too fast for the windshield wipers. Wait a little.” He sat again. “Maybe I should explain what I meant by being angry at myself that day. Do you want to know why I was?”

  His face, although the ridiculous sofa was long enough to seat eight or nine people, was only a foot or two distant from hers. Now looking into his steady gaze, she knew the answer. When she did not give it, he gave it.

  “I was angry at myself because of my thoughts about you.”

  They stared at each other. His eyes, fixed upon hers, were dark and vivid. Wanting to look away, she was held fast.

  “I didn’t want to see you. I’ve been fighting this for a year at least. After that Christmas—you were so beautiful—I knew I mustn’t see you. And it was the same for you, Amanda. Don’t deny it, because I know better.”

  Her heart was quivering so that she was sure its beat must be visible through her thin shirt. And those reluctant tears that had been lying between her eyelids now flooded and rolled down her cheeks.

  “Ah, don’t,” he whispered, pulling her to himself. “Lovely, so lovely, Amanda.”

  Easily, willingly, she moved within his arms. Enclosed in warmth, his mouth pressed upon hers. Vaguely she was aware
of his fingers opening the buttons and fastenings on her clothes; she heard his murmuring voice. Vaguely she was aware of her own deep sigh, of her own surging heartbeat and the rush of her blood.

  When she opened her eyes, she found him looking at her from a height. He was fully dressed, and she was covered with his raincoat.

  In a panic she cried out, “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Maybe ten minutes. I don’t know. Oh, Amanda, what can I say? It happened—”

  In a wave of terror, she was drowning. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  L.B. collapsed with his head in his hands. Then he clapped a hand to his forehead, and his body rocked.

  “My fault. All my fault,” he repeated.

  In spite of the terror, she was able to refute him. “No, it was mine, too. I wanted—” She stopped.

  Yes, she had wanted, and now she knew. This was what she had imagined, had gone without, and if it were up to Larry, would never have known.

  And yet she was drowning, struggling under the waves, and filled with terror. And she sat there, staring at L.B.

  After a while he roused and spoke. “This was crazy. We must think of it this way: It was simply something that happened. Things happen. And then,” he said steadily, “they don’t happen again.”

  “I know.”

  Water was gushing and gurgling through the downspouts. In contrast to the sound, the stillness of the house was eerie. Through the long windows came the specific light of late afternoon, the lateness adding to Amanda’s sense of doom.

  “I have to go home,” she said. “I have to go right now.”

  When she stood to fasten her clothes, he tried to help her, but she moved away from him. And he, understanding at once, dropped his hands. When they walked to the car, she looked uneasily up and down the street. And he, understanding that, too, assured her that no one had any cause to be suspicious.

  “I am simply the owners’ agent, the sole person outside of themselves who has the key. So don’t be afraid, Amanda. Only you and I know what happened, and nobody else will ever know.”

  She was still shaking when they were in the car. My God! His father! Had it happened with anyone else, one would condemn it for being dishonest and unfaithful, but this—this! Oh, any other man, just not his father!

  They drove in silence, L.B.’s profile sternly fixed upon the road. Cars passed, an SUV filled with little boys, the mail truck, and a delivery wagon bearing in red letters the words “Queen’s Market.”

  People were out on the sidewalks now that the storm was over. Everything was normal. And everything outside had been normal, too, on the day they found Cecile inside, lying on the floor in a puddle of blood.

  “I’m going to drive you as far as your corner,” L.B. said, “and you will walk to your door. If anyone asks where you’ve been, since it’s rather late, say that you were jogging, say anything else you can think of, but tell the truth about my driving you home. I passed you on the street a few minutes ago and naturally offered you a lift.”

  Her heart began to go wild again. “What about the time in between? What was I doing during the storm?”

  “You were at the library. You took refuge there when the lightning came.” He looked at her. “Are you all right?” And when she nodded, “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I have to be,” she said, straightening her slumped shoulders.

  “That’s it. Remember what I said. Things happen. Life doesn’t always turn out the way you plan. Things happen. But you get back on track.”

  “Do I look all right? Can you tell that I’ve cried?”

  “No. Act as if you’re exhausted. You’ve had a long walk, caught in the storm—well, you know what to say.”

  When the car stopped, he laid his hand upon hers. “I think the world of you, Amanda, and I’m terribly sorry if I’ve harmed you and if I’ve given you something to worry about.” His voice, although it concealed a slight tremor, was still deep and strong. “All I can say is, don’t worry. Please don’t. Forget it. It didn’t happen. Can you do that? Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She got out of the car and watched until it had disappeared down the avenue. Then she rounded the corner, walked down her street, and had not taken more than a few steps before she met with another shock. The enormous old sycamore in front of her house had crashed diagonally across the lawn, with its top branches only a few inches from her dining room windows. A small gathering of people stood surveying the wreck.

  Then Larry, catching sight of her, called out and ran toward her. “Where in blazes have you been? Somebody phoned me at the office to tell me about the tree, but she wasn’t clear, and I didn’t know whether it had destroyed the house with you in it—” He gasped. “I just got here, half out of my mind, haven’t been inside yet, where’ve you been?” And he grabbed her, kissing both cheeks.

  “Jogging, until the storm struck. Then I took shelter in the library. Then walking home I met up with your father passing on Hampton Avenue. He gave me a lift the rest of the way.”

  “Ah, good. Thank goodness.”

  So the lie had been spoken, and been easily received. She said calmly, “My, what luck. Saved by inches. I’m going to miss the old sycamore. It was lovely.”

  The neighbors were marveling and clucking. “Tsk, tsk. Tore up your lawn pretty well, didn’t it?”

  “You’ll have to reseed, but it’ll come back in no time.”

  “Going to cost a few dollars to get that thing sawed up and carted away.”

  “Look how the lightning stripped the trunk, an even cut right down the middle. Anybody inside the house would have had the fright of his life. Good thing you weren’t home, Amanda.”

  No. How much better it would be if she had stayed home all day….

  “All’s well that ends well,” Larry said.

  She had been waiting for him to say it, in fact she would have taken a bet that he would say it. No matter how slight the misfortune, he always did.

  Supper was over, the evening news had come and gone; the usual suitable comment on the news had been spoken by Larry and heard by Amanda; both back and front doors had been locked and checked, so now nothing remained to end another day but bed.

  “How about a bowl of ice cream for a change before we go up?” he suggested.

  She wanted to tell him that he was getting too fat, but he resented being told it, and anyway, she was in no state of mind to argue. Besides, to be fair, he was really not getting all that fat; it was just that he had a pudgy build, heavy bones that made him look too broad. Suddenly she recalled that once she had thought, or talked herself into thinking, that this was “manly.” Oh, but how her taste had changed! And regarding him now, she felt sorry, sorry for him and—sorry about everything.

  “How about it, honey? Strawberry, chocolate, or what?”

  “You choose.”

  “Strawberry. I’ll get it.”

  “No, you sit there.” She gave him a benign smile. “You worked all day.”

  “Right! I did. And you had the whole day off. Enjoyed yourself, I hope?”

  Already past the kitchen door, she pretended she had not heard. The panic was coming back, and it was a terrible, terrible thing. What if she were, in some passing situation, to lose control? What if she were to get sick and become delirious, or else perhaps need an operation sometime. They said people talk under anesthesia. Or was that not true?

  “What’s wrong with the ice cream?” Larry asked.

  She had not been aware that the spoon was still lying untouched on her dish. “Wrong? No, nothing. I’m just not hungry. My stomach—I stopped at Stuffy’s for a hot dog. It must have upset me.”

  Larry frowned. “How often do I have to tell you to see a doctor and stop neglecting yourself? You have too many stomachaches and headaches for someone your age. You’re always telling me you need tea and aspirin or something before we go to bed. You’re sick too often. What’s wrong with you?”

  This t
ime he was really impatient. And seeing him so, she knew she must placate him.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing much,” she said cheerfully. “You do exaggerate so, Larry. But I’ll do something about it, only because I want you to be satisfied.”

  Thus mollified, he went to bed without making any demands on her, for which she was thankful. She could not have borne it tonight.

  My God! His father!

  If I could only tell somebody, she thought, lying awake. And she wondered whether L.B. was also lying awake in the same panic, with the same need to tell somebody. But most probably he was not. L.B. was strong.

  The room was white with moonlight; unkind to Larry, it exposed his thinning hair and his open mouth, from which there came a rhythmical, gentle snore.

  My God! His father!

  The face, the eyes, the mouth, the arms, the miracle! What had he meant by the words “get back on track”? To forget and not ever to have it again? Of course that is what he meant. What else could he have meant?

  Tomorrow Larry would remind her of their weekly phone call to her family. How was she to pull herself together and talk naturally about natural things, about Mom’s recent visit or her younger sister Doreen’s pregnancy?

  How was she, indeed, going to look her mother in the face again?

  The clock downstairs struck twelve distinct notes, and still Amanda lay awake. Yet she must finally have fallen asleep because, as she would later remember with horror, she opened her eyes to the sight of a terrifying, enormous, green-white moon poised on the windowsill. It blocked out the night; it had collided with the earth! It was about to absorb and destroy the planet!

  She screamed, and screamed again, awakening Larry, who shook her gently.

  “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Something must have frightened you today, most likely the fall of the sycamore. Close your eyes, and you’ll go back to sleep.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The bus jerked, stopped, crawled, and rumbled through the city for what seemed like many miles. It had indeed covered a long distance as it zigzagged from the suburbs’ edge through neighborhoods that Amanda, in spite of having lived near the city for going on four years, had never seen before. Most of these neighborhoods were dispiriting in their mustard-colored monotony; once off the main prosperous avenues, the streets were a repetition of shabby, cramped dwellings, little stores, garages and filling stations, restaurants, and dark brick schools.