by Janet Walker
Chapter Fifty-Two
DEPRAVITY
Grace stepped from the cold wet shower stall, her flesh frigid and drawn and dripping with cold water, in stark contrast with the air in the bathroom, which was still warm and steamy from the whirlpool bath she’d finished earlier. Now, refreshed and alert, she dried off with a towel and slipped into her silk robe. She stroked on deodorant, picked up a bottle of body cream from the sink’s counter, and walked back into the bedroom, where Darrel lay on the bed, feet crossed and hands clasped behind his head, watching an action movie on the room’s large-screen TV. He wore pajama pants and socks and was shirtless, which exposed the smooth hairless skin of his broad chest. His presence annoyed Grace. For nearly a month now, ever since she had refused to accompany him to Alabama for Thanksgiving, he had begun sleeping in the basement whenever he was in town. Grace had not minded and had said nothing to him about it; she was too absorbed with the team to play mother to his sulking child. But now, here he was, head supported by pillows, reclining on his side of the bed as if she wanted him there.
She walked over to her chest of drawers and slid open a drawer to search for something to wear to bed. The TV’s volume decreased until it became faint background noise. She braced herself. The lowered volume meant Darrel wanted to talk.
“Hey,” he greeted.
She stifled a sigh, looked at him, stretched her lips into a brief mirthless smile, and then resumed her search for sleepwear.
Darrel sighed loudly and the TV’s volume rose back to a level slightly higher than before. Grace exhaled with relief and fingered the stack of neatly folded silk pajamas in the drawer before choosing a lime set. She walked over to the bed with it, where she removed her robe and stood, naked, next to the mattress. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darrel watching her; his stare pressed against the side of her face and felt like an intrusion. But she did not move away; this was, after all, her bedroom, and she was not going to let him run her out of it or alter her nightly routine. Besides, she took malicious pleasure in knowing that even as they operated in silent resentment, he would become distracted by her nudity—a condition the pleasure of which she determined to keep from him.
She sat on her side of the bed with her back to him, opened the bottle of body cream and poured it into her palm. She rubbed the scented moisturizer into the skin of her limbs and glanced at Darrel. He intently kept his eyes fixed on the screen. She glanced at the TV, whose volume seemed to blare in the space of their silence. Sylvester Stallone’s bloody and sweaty face filled the screen, while behind him something exploded and burned.
“Can you turn that down, please?” It was not a question but an order. She poured more of the moisturizer into her hand. Rubbing her palms together to distribute the cream, she noticed Darrel’s immobility and feared he would not obey, thus forcing them into an argument. But momentarily he picked up the remote and pressed the button that lowered the volume—slightly.
She stood, sighed with annoyance, and began rubbing the moisturizer on her belly, sliding her hands up to her breasts. She was facing the bed now and could see herself in the wall of mirrors on the other side of the room, along with Darrel’s profile—his head and reclining torso and long legs. She also saw it when his eyes fell on her. She continued to massage her breasts and then looked at him. He drew his eyes away from her chest and looked at her face. In his eyes was the meek expression of one in need. Grace glanced at the lap of his pajama pants, where a tent had formed, and felt a flash of triumph. She picked up her pajama pants.
The TV volume decreased again.
“Grace?”
She did not look at him but slid the pants onto her body.
“Grace—”
“I’m tired,” she interrupted, speaking softly.
“I didn’t even ask you anything,” he protested.
“I know what you’re going to ask.”
He scoffed and fell silent. She slipped the silk shirt on and buttoned it. He watched as she folded back the comforter and top sheet and slipped into bed. From the nightstand drawer, Grace retrieved her sleep mask and placed it around her head. She lay down on her back and pulled the burgundy silk patches down over her eyes. “Good night,” she said but Darrel was silent. And then:
“Grace?”
She lay with her hands folded neatly on her breast, the way she always slept, and did not move. He reached over and touched her on the arm, and she flinched.
“Grace—”
“I said I’m tired.” She turned away from him. Behind her, his voice prodded like a broken mattress spring.
“It’s been two fucking months, Grace.”
She said nothing.
“What’s the problem?” he asked tartly. “You need me to be somebody else? Is that it?”
Behind her mask, Grace sighed. She didn’t know what Darrel meant, exactly, but she also was not in the mood to argue. “What are you talking about?” she asked wearily.
“You know what I’m talking about,” he insisted vehemently. “You seeing somebody else? When I’m on the road?”
Grace pushed off her sleep mask, turned her head on the pillow, and looked at him in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she advised.
“I’m not being ridiculous!” he answered. “Look at the situation, Grace. I’m gone most of the time. You’re here by yourself. You’re a good-looking woman. And even though you never talk about it, I know men hit on you. And we both know how you act when I come home—like you’re already satisfied and so what the hell do you need me for. You don’t even act like you’re happy I’m home. More like you tolerate me. Like you can’t wait for me to leave! And then I think about you and that damn condo—how you skip off there and don’t want me there. I don’t think I’m being ridiculous at all, Grace.”
She raised her body onto her elbow and for a moment studied him in disbelief. He was serious! She shook her head in amusement because if either of them had reason to worry about the other’s faithfulness, it was her. On top of that, he knew her well enough to know that her life was guided by codes—the code of sportsmanship, the code of academic integrity, the code of honest, hard work—from which she rarely deviated, so he should know better than to suspect her of cheating! Still, in that moment she recognized the sincerity in his eyes, the fear, and felt sympathy for him.
“Darrel,” she said, impaling him with a penetrating stare, “I am not sleeping with anybody else. Okay?”
He hesitated. Knew her well enough to know she was being truthful. “Then what the hell is your problem, Grace?” he asked sincerely.
She sighed and lay down again, turning her back to him. “I don’t have a problem,” she said softly, readjusting the sleep mask so that it again covered her eyes. She felt a twinge of guilt as she lay on the mattress, for she knew she was the problem.
“Yeah. You do, Grace.” Darrel’s voice behind her was soft and defeated, a quality she had never heard in it before. “You do. And I’m tired of dealing with it.”
She lay in blindness behind the mask and felt a spasm of stress in her belly, her body’s response to apprehension. He was tired. Of them. Of her. Finally. And so did that mean he was leaving? While she did enjoy solitude—he was right about that—for some reason now, as she imagined Darrel gone permanently, his closet empty and the basement changed into unused space, the idea of singleness sent a shaft of fear through the center of her emotions. She was becoming happier in other areas of life—at school, with the Girls, especially with dear Tracy. Well, okay, in the other area of her life, because there was really only one. But hadn’t she invited the Girls to her home for dinner day-after-tomorrow? Something she never would have done before! Not even for the reason she had done it this time, which was to control any damage their morale might have suffered from her friendship with Tracy. But still, she had done it, had decided to open up her home to them, so she was becoming more open, as Dr. Curtis had suggested she do. And hadn’t she actually enjoyed the visit with Tracy’s aunt? Like
a normal woman? Yes! So she was becoming better, and she had promised herself that she would extend this new openness to Darrel. But. The moment he came home—well, no, the moment he asked for sex, there she was again, the old Grace. The one who shut down angrily and became impenetrable in every way.
Still—and she sighed as she lay on her side, face hidden behind the mask—she didn’t want Darrel to leave. Not officially and permanently. Because how could she afford the mansion without him? She would have to move, and she didn’t want that because she loved her home. And whatever monies he supplied in alimony or a settlement would likely not cover the expenses involved in maintaining a property like Gracewood. And there was no guarantee she would even get the house—that he would even allow it or that a judge would grant it to her. And if somehow she did end up the possessor of it, what would be the point of living alone in so big a place? The size of the house, the acreage, would magnify and mock her singleness. So, no, she did not want him to leave.
“What do you want me to do about it, Darrel?”
“I honestly don’t think there’s anything you can do at this point, Grace.”
“Then,” she asked, “why are we having this conversation?”
“Good point,” he said, and the volume of the TV flew into loudness. Stallone’s resonant voice and slurred speech. Things blowing up. Gunfire.
Behind her mask, Grace closed her eyes, sighed heavily, and hoped that Darrel’s pouting would not last all night so that she could get some sleep.
