Sea Lovers

by Valerie Martin

  Examining this memory as she stood on the porch in the warm night air, Lily paused and shook her head affectionately at the thought of her mother’s passionate gardening. The fruit of that passion stood before her: tomatoes and eggplants heavy on their vines; lettuce like great balls of pearl, luminous in the darkness; the airy greens of the carrots, rustling continuously with the movement of the air; the black tangle of the green peas, climbing skyward on their tall tubes of screen. The scent of the mint and parsley bed rose to Lily, and the sweetness of the air drew her out toward the steps. She looked down at the drawers of the old dresser, which lay scattered on the porch. Her mother had washed them furiously, as if to wash away the evidence of a desecration.

  Then Lily thought of the rat, and she looked toward the garbage can with a sensation of dismay. It would be, she thought, foolish and unnecessary trouble to pull out his corpse now. She could consult her memory for a fresh, distinct, and detailed picture of his death; she could see, in her mind’s eye, the blood darkening around his mouth, the dullness of his dead eyeballs. She wasn’t certain that he wouldn’t seek her out again, but she thought he would never again seek her in that particular form. His menace had quite gone out of that form; she had seen it with her own eyes. Her father had discarded the pieces of the rat’s body without anger; he had even commented on the creature’s remarkable size, taking, Lily had observed, some comfort in having defeated so formidable an enemy. Now that he was a danger to no one, the rat possessed the power to be marvelous.

  Lily turned away, pushing her hair back from her face. She had told her mother she wanted her hair cut off and, to her surprise, had received no objection. But now this seemed an unnecessary precaution. She returned to her bed, possessed of a strange fearlessness; it was as insistent as her own heartbeat, and as she drifted off to sleep it swelled and billowed within her and she understood, for the first time, that she was safe.

  THE FREEZE

  That night, as Anne was dressing in the bathroom, she took a long dreamy look at herself in the mirror. She had finished her makeup. This was the look she always gave herself, critical yet sympathetic; it was intended as a look at the makeup. She was forty years old, twice divorced, a woman who, half a century ago, would have been a statistical failure. But she didn’t feel, really, as if she had failed at anything. She looked as good as she ever had. She was strong and healthy and she supported herself and her daughter all alone. She liked being alone, for the most part; she especially liked waking up alone, and she had no intention of changing this, yet she was so pleased by her own reflection in the mirror, it was as if she thought someone else saw her, as if someone were in love with her. And yes, she told herself, pulling the blue silk dress carefully over her head, perhaps someone was in love with her and perhaps she would find out about it tonight.

  These were not the vague fancies of middle age. She had a lover in mind, and there was a good chance that he would be at this party. But it was absurd, she told herself, joking with herself, because it would have been absurd to anyone else. He was nearly twenty years younger than she. Aaron, she thought, invoking his presence with his name. A rich, charming college student who could certainly find better things to do with his time than make love to a woman twice his age.

  She had seen him five times. First at a friend’s; the same friend who was giving this party. He had come in with Jack, the son of the house, a bright, ugly boy who reminded Anne of her high school students. They passed through the kitchen; they were going to play tennis, but Jack paused long enough to introduce his new friend, Aaron Fischer. Anne’s first impression of him was indifferent. He was clearly Jewish, his curly hair was blond, his complexion was clear and a little flushed. He looked intelligent. Anne was accustomed to searching for signs of intelligence in the young; it was her profession. He met her eyes as he shook her hand, a firm, self-assured handshake, with a look to match it. She didn’t think he really saw her. Jack exchanged a few words with his mother and they went out, but as he turned away from her, Aaron nodded curtly and said, “Peace.” They were gone.

  “He’s an interesting boy,” her friend observed.

  “I haven’t heard anyone say ‘Peace’ since 1962,” Anne replied.

  “I hear he has principles too.” The two women raised their eyebrows at each other.

  “He must be some kind of throwback,” Anne concluded.

  A week later, as she was coming out of the university library, she saw him again. To her surprise he recognized her. “Anne,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  She stammered. She had learned that Yukio Mishima had written a play about the wife of the Marquis de Sade, and not finding it at the local bookstore, she had come to the library on purpose to read it. It had proved amusing and entirely unshocking, but the title alone was not something she thought this young man would appreciate. “I was just doing a little research,” she said. “I’m a teacher, you know.”

  “You teach here?” He looked surprised, impressed.

  “No. I teach at the arts high school.”

  “Oh,” he said, “I’ve heard of that.” Now, she thought, they would part. But he was interested and appeared to have nothing more important to do than stand on the library stairs chatting with a stranger. After a few more exchanges he suggested coffee, which, he said, was what he was out for, and she agreed.

  They went to the bright, noisy university cafeteria, had three cups of coffee each, then proceeded to the dark cavernous university tavern, where they shared a pitcher of beer. Aaron talked with such ease and his range of interests was so wide that Anne, who had expected nervous chatter about his classes, found herself completely charmed. He was idealistic, almost militant in his adherence to a code, though precisely what code Anne couldn’t make out. He was a chemistry major, this was his last year, and then he was applying to medical school. By the time they parted, when Anne explained that she must pick up her daughter, who was visiting a friend, Aaron had her phone number scribbled in his small leather notebook. He promised to call. The med school applications were voluminous; he had not, in his expensive education, been taught to use a typewriter, and Anne had offered, had insisted on helping him.

  Then followed two long evenings in her living room. The applications were more tedious and time-consuming than she had imagined. Aaron exclaimed over the stupidity of the personal questions. Anne moaned every time she saw the printed grid that meant she had to retype his entire undergraduate transcript. The first night they finished off a bottle of red wine and, when they were done, sat talking comfortably for another hour before Aaron noted the time and hurried off, apologizing for having stayed so late and for having drunk all her wine.

  The next night he arrived with a bottle of champagne. They shared it sparingly as they worked over his applications, and at the end of a few pleasant hours half of them were ready to be mailed. Aaron was thorough; he was applying to thirty schools.

  She was charmed by him, by his youth, by his confidences, by his manner, which was so preternaturally social that she couldn’t be sure how much of the pleasure he appeared to take in her company was simply the pleasure he took in any company. He lounged on her couch and looked about her apartment with an appreciative eye, and when he observed that it was time to go (he had a chemistry test at eight in the morning and he hadn’t opened a book yet), he added that he did not want to go.

  Was he asking to stay?

  Anne was cautious. She discussed the matter with her friend, who assured her that it did sound as if the boy was more than superficially interested. And he was a delightful boy; in only a few years he would be, they agreed, a remarkable man. He might be shy; he might fear, as she did, that the attraction he felt for her was something he should not explore. He might think she thought of him as a child and be uncertain or unable to make the first move. Anne might have to make this move, whatever it was, herself. She should be careful. The timing in such matters was extremely delicate; on this the two women were in complete agreement
. Anne would see him one more time, to finish the applications, but she might have to wait longer.

  Their last meeting was a short one. He had everything completed; it was a matter of a few minutes’ typing. He was in a hurry and he complained bitterly of the cause for it. “I have a date,” he said. “This ugly girl called me and now I have to go to this stupid party. Why can’t I say no? Why didn’t I say no?”

  “Perhaps she’ll be intelligent,” Anne suggested.

  “No, she won’t. She isn’t. She’s in my bio class and she’s failing.”

  “Do girls call you a lot?” she inquired, pulling the last page out of the typewriter to indicate that the question didn’t really interest her.

  “Only ugly girls.” He gave her a perplexed frown, designed to make her smile.

  In a few minutes he was gone.

  For two weeks Anne agitated herself with various fantasies. She lay in her bed at night, clutching her pillow, telling herself how it would be, how it would surely be. Their lovemaking would be dizzying; in fact, the first time would be such a relief for them both that they would collapse into each other’s arms with the breathless passion of some long-frustrated, star-crossed Victorians. Then afterward she would laugh and tell him how hard it had been, because of their age difference and because they were so many worlds apart, to admit to herself that she was in love with him. For she was in love, she thought with a growing sense of wonder. Was it possible? She was in love as she had not been since she was a girl, only this was harder to bear and more intense, because she knew exactly what it was she wanted. And it wasn’t a home, a family, his money, a ride in his Porsche. She would be content if they never left her apartment and she knew none of his friends. She only wanted him to make love to her; that was all.

  And now she stood, dressed, perfumed, her eyelids darkened, her lips glistening, before her bathroom mirror, and she assured herself that it would be tonight. He would be there as he had promised her friend, and he would be there just for her. She would look different, so elegant that he would be taken by surprise. The dress was perfect; her dark hair, swept back and up in a fashion he had not seen, gleamed with health and life. He would see at a glance that she was perfect for him.

  She stepped into her shoes, threw her reflection a last affectionate look, turned out the overhead light, and went into the hall. Hannah stood in the doorway of her daughter’s room. “Anne,” she said, “you look so nice. What a beautiful dress.”

  Anne blushed at the admiration she saw in the girl’s eyes. “Do you like it?” she said, turning before her.

  “It’s lovely,” the girl said.

  Anne’s heart swelled with pleasure. As they walked together to the living room, it struck her that she was extraordinarily lucky. She wrote her friend’s number on the phone pad and promised Hannah that she would call if she went anywhere else.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Hannah replied. “Nell’s already asleep.”

  As she walked to the car, Anne looked back and saw Hannah standing on the porch. She was waving with one hand as she pulled the screen in tightly with the other. “Goodnight,” Anne called out impetuously, but the girl didn’t hear her. She got into her car, fishing in her purse for the keys.

  The party was halfway across town. Anne concentrated on driving and on sitting a little stiffly so that she wouldn’t wrinkle her dress. When she arrived her friend greeted her at the door. “He’s here,” she said. “You look terrific.”

  “Is he alone?” Anne asked.

  “Yes. He’s in the back, by the bar. I’ll take you there.”

  “That’s a good sign, don’t you think?” Anne asked. They passed through the bright rooms filled with glittering crystal, hothouse flowers, silver trays of food, and chatting groups of people. “Your house looks great,” she added.

  “That he’s by the bar?” her friend inquired.

  “No, that he’s alone,” Anne replied.

  “Of course it’s a good sign.” They had come to the last room, and as Anne stepped inside she saw Aaron leaning against the far wall. He was talking to an elderly man and he didn’t see her. “It’s a very good sign,” her friend agreed. “Get yourself a drink.”

  Yes, Anne thought. A drink would help. Her knees were decidedly weak. She felt like some wolf waiting for a choice lamb to separate from the fold, and the idea of herself as hungry, as looking hungry to others in the room, struck her with enough force to make her lower her eyes. She told the bartender what she wanted in a voice she scarcely recognized, it was so oily, so sly, the voice of the inveterate predator. When she took the drink, he caught her eye and smiled. “This is a party,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  “It’s a party,” he repeated. “You’re supposed to be having a good time.”

  Then she understood him and was annoyed by him. “I just got here,” she said, turning away. “Give me a minute.”

  Aaron was looking at her, had been looking at her, she understood, for some moments, and now he detached himself from the elderly man and made his way toward her. She thought he would say something about her appearance, in which she still had some confidence, and she drew herself up a little to receive a compliment, but when he was near enough to speak, he said, “Christ, that’s my chemistry teacher. I didn’t expect to find him here.”

  “Did you think he spent his evenings over a hot test tube?” she asked lightly.

  He smiled, and his smile was so ingenuous, so charming, that she moved closer to him as if to move into the warm influence of that smile. “I did,” he said. “And he might as well, for all he’s got to say.”

  So their conversation began and continued for some time. Anne introduced him to some of the people she knew, and several times he went to the bar to refresh their drinks. He seemed content to be near her, to be with her, in fact, and she felt all her nervousness and foreboding melt away. The rooms filled with more and more people, until one had fairly to raise one’s voice to be heard. A few couples drifted out onto the patio; it was unseasonably warm and the night air was inviting. Anne and Aaron stood in the doorway, looking out for a few minutes. “Let’s go out,” Aaron said. “The smoke in here is getting to me.”

  Anne followed him down the steps of the house and out into the darkness. As she did, she watched him and endured such a seizure of desire that her vision clouded. She was not, she realized, drunk; though she could scarcely see, her head was clear. She passed one hand before her eyes and gripped the stair rail tightly with the other, not to steady herself but to hold down a surge of ardor. I feel like dynamite, she thought; that was her secret thought behind her hand, and then she looked out. What a sweet thing it was to be alive at that moment, with all the eager force of life throbbing through her, the sensation of being stunning with the force of it so that if anyone looked at her they must stop and admire her beauty, which was only the fleeting influx of pure energy that sometimes comes to us, without any effort of our own.

  But no one saw her and the moment passed. The patio was deep; one side was a high vine-covered wall, along which ran a ledge. People sat in little groups along the ledge and on the scattered iron chairs, and they stood about in groups among the plantains and the palmetto palms, talking, Anne discovered as she passed among them, about the weather. The weatherman had predicted a cold front, a drop in temperature of 30 degrees, with rain and wind by midnight. And here it was, eleven-thirty and 65 degrees. The sky was clear, black, and fathomless overhead.

  She followed Aaron, who didn’t look back until he had reached the far end of the patio. When he turned she came up to him slowly. “Is this far enough, do you think?” she asked, teasing.

  “No,” he said. “But there’s a wall here.”

  She stood near him and they looked back at the house. It was so brightly lit that it seemed to be ablaze, and the noise of voices and music poured out the windows and doors like a liquid. Anne detected a melody she knew. “Oh, I like that record,” she said.

&
nbsp; “Who is that?” Aaron listened, then smiled. “Oh, that’s Gato Barbieri. Do you like him?”

  “I like that record,” she said dreamily, for the music, even at this distance, was languorous and exotic. “It’s pretty romantic though.”

  She met his eyes but he looked away. He had his hand on a branch of a crape myrtle tree, and his arm was so raised that Anne stood in the shadow of it. “I’m going to have to leave soon,” he said, shaking the ice in his glass. “As soon as I finish this drink.”

  “I’m a little tired too,” Anne lied.

  Then he didn’t move, nor did he speak. She stood looking down into her drink. She could feel his eyes on her hair and on her shoulders and she thought that he would touch her, but he didn’t. She looked back toward the house, taking in the whole patio of people, none of whom, she saw, was looking in their direction. Say something, she told herself, but she couldn’t think of anything. Aaron lifted his drink and sipped it; she heard the clinking sound of the ice, but she didn’t look at him. The music was growing more emotional; it exacerbated her desire. She put her drink down at her feet and turned so that she faced the young man, so that she was very close to him, but she didn’t meet his eyes because, she thought later, she didn’t think it was necessary. Instead she placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and raised up on her toes, for he was several inches taller than she. She had barely touched his lips with her own when he pulled away. “No,” he said. “No, thank you.”

  She dropped back on her heels.

  “I’m really flattered,” he said. “I really am.”