Good Intentions

by Joy Fielding

  She peered out her front window, trying to make out what was causing the delay, but a large yellow van with bright flowers painted across its back window blocked her view. In the car to her right, a man and a woman were fighting. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but she could tell by the way their narrow faces were distorted that they were blaming one another for the futility of their current situation. “I told you not to come this way,” she understood the man was saying, “but no, you knew better.”

  Lynn looked across the highway divider, caught the sardonic smile of a young man in a sports car as he continued unimpeded in the opposite direction. He reminded her of Marc Cameron, she realized, wondering for a minute if it had, in fact, been him. But no, Marc Cameron had a beard, she remembered. The man in the sports car had been clean-shaven. And he was at least ten years younger than the man who had visited her home earlier in the week. He didn’t look anything like Marc Cameron at all. What was the matter with her? What was she thinking about?

  She heard the car behind her honk, and noticed that the van ahead of her had inched forward almost imperceptibly. Grateful for the diversion, she traveled the requisite several inches, then stopped, putting the car into neutral. She couldn’t afford to waste valuable time thinking about men like Marc Cameron. So what if she found him appealing? So what if he was the first man since Gary had walked out—the first man since Gary, period—who had stirred these kinds of feelings inside her? She hadn’t had sex in over six months. She needed these kinds of feelings like a hole in the head. Who needed feelings like these, feelings that made you squirm and fidget and lose sleep? Especially when she wasn’t prepared to act on them. Was she prepared to act on them? She had his phone number. All she had to do when she got back to the office was pick up the phone and dial. “Hello, Marc Cameron? This is Lynn Schuster. I know this great motel for dinner.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said out loud. You’re already having dinner. With your father and his charming wife, Barbara, the one he married three years ago, the one who’s given him back his youth, that new lease on life and all those other glorious clichés she never gets tired of trotting out. Life is what you make it; when God hands you a lemon, make lemonade; it’s always darkest before the dawn. The woman was a walking encyclopedia of superficial words to the wise. Lynn had never understood how her father, an intelligent, well-read man, had allowed himself to get involved with such a woman. Not that there was anything wrong with her. Barbara was attractive and well-mannered, but her reading consisted solely of self-help tomes and diet books, and her conversation began with quotes from Leo Buscaglia and ended with the words of Rollo May. In between was advice from everyone from Richard Simmons to Dr. Ruth. Lynn doubted that the woman had ever had an original thought in her life. And yet her father seemed to hang on every silly syllable. Even after three years, he continued to smile benignly at his wife’s pronouncements, adding a few well-chosen observations of his own, commenting lovingly on Barbara’s latest accomplishments. It was always “Barbara this” and “Barbara that” and “Did you see Barbara’s name in the paper the other day? She’s running that new charity drive.” “Charity begins at home,” Barbara would say. Home is where the heart is. Anywhere I hang my hat is home. Home, home on the range.

  Her mother would have choked at the very idea of such a woman. Not that she would have objected to her husband marrying again—not that Lynn objected to her father marrying again—but surely he could have found someone more suitable, if not to his taste, well, then, to hers.

  Was that what bothered her so much about the woman? That her father, who had relied on her so heavily in the year immediately following his wife’s death, hadn’t consulted her at all when he found a new wife? That he had presented her proudly to his only child as a fait accompli? And the woman, short, dark, and nothing at all like her mother, had pressed her hand warmly and said how delighted she was to be part of the family. You’re not losing a father, you’re gaining a friend. Anytime you need me, I’ll be there. Love is where you find it. All you need is love. She loves you, yea, yea, yea.

  The list was endless. Her mother would have gagged.

  Lynn arched her back and pushed her hair away from her face, feeling guilty for the meanness of her thoughts. That was one thing you could say about Barbara: the woman didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She had loved them all away with her collection of uplifting aphorisms. Mean bones didn’t stand a chance in such a relentlessly perky environment. They begged for mercy and cracked under the pressure of all that good cheer. And her father lapped it up. He hadn’t looked better in years. Probably due to the new low-fat, no-salt, no-sugar diet Barbara had him on. No fat, no salt, no sugar, no negative vibrations. It didn’t make for a very interesting dinner party. And she had passed up an evening of potentially sordid sex for dinner with Miss Congeniality?

  It wouldn’t be the first time she had chosen safety and security over high risk, despite the potential of a greater return on one’s investment. The fact was that she wasn’t a gambler. She stayed where she knew she belonged. She didn’t take unnecessary chances. It was probably just as well she had decided not to accept the job she had been offered with the Palm Beach County Board of Education. Even though it was definitely a step up, even though she would have been virtually running the Social Services Department of the Board of Education for the entire county, it also meant a retreat from the front-line work she knew so well and an increase in responsibility she wasn’t sure she was capable of assuming at this time in her life. She’d had enough upheavals in the last six months. She didn’t need a new job. She didn’t need a new man. She certainly didn’t need Marc Cameron. Or sex. Or even thoughts of sex. What she needed was to get out of this traffic and back to her office. What she needed was a cup of coffee. What she needed was an idea for what to serve for dinner.

  Again the car behind her sounded his horn. This time it wasn’t one honk, but several, like hiccups or a persistent cough. Lynn quickly focused on the line of traffic in front of her and realized it was moving. She threw her car into gear, glancing into her rearview mirror in time to see the man in the car behind her lift the middle finger of his right hand angrily in her direction. Just what I needed, she thought. The image of her father’s wife, Barbara, immediately appeared before her eyes. Have a nice day, it said.

  SIX

  In Renee’s dream, she was sitting at her kitchen table, wearing the luxurious new white Pratesi bathrobe Philip bought her at Christmas, working on the New York Times crossword puzzle and drinking her eighth cup of morning coffee. She knew it was her eighth cup because she had arranged the other cups in a large circle on the table so as to resemble the face of a clock. The phone was ringing, as it had been ringing all morning. Renee looked lazily in its direction, trying to decide whether or not to answer it.

  Ultimately, its persistent ring persuaded her. Renee reached over, not moving from her seat at the kitchen table, and lifted the white phone to her ear. Even before she could say hello, a voice was speaking. “This is Marsha, from the Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die Dating Service,” the woman said, in harsh New York tones.

  “We’re calling to tell you about our fabulous celebration.”

  A face suddenly appeared to go with the voice. Marsha, of the Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die Dating Service, appeared, raven-haired and grossly overweight, the Cheshire cat behind the frightening smile.

  “As you know, the Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die Dating Service has been bringing people together, people like you and your husband, for the last ten years.”

  “No,” Renee started to tell her, reality intruding into her dream, trying to make its presence felt. She and Philip had been introduced to each other in a restaurant by a mutual acquaintance, who was surprised, even startled, by their marriage a scant five months later. No dating service had been required. “You must have the wrong number.”

  “So the party we’re having,” the woman continued, oblivious to the interruption,
“is half our celebration and half yours. We’re bringing all our happy couples together for a great big anniversary bash, and since you and your husband are one of our major success stories, we’re sure that you’d like to attend the festivities. Have you got a pencil to write down all the information?”

  The woman metamorphosed from fat and dark-haired to blonde and petite. Her wrists were heavily bandaged.

  The pencils sat in a glass jam jar on the other side of the phone, and in order to retrieve one, Renee had to step over the body of her husband, which was lying on the white tile floor in front of her, a wooden-stemmed butcher knife plunged rather neatly through his heart. Of course, technically speaking, Renee was aware she shouldn’t be able to see the knife from this angle, but she saw it nonetheless.

  Philip was lying on his stomach, and except for a rather large pool of blood, he looked remarkably undisturbed, as if he merely decided to have a quick nap on the kitchen floor. He had done crazier things, Renee thought, stepping over him and grabbing a pencil from the glass jar. She informed the woman that she was ready, and listened as the woman dictated the time and place of the upcoming festivities, dutifully writing it all down, interrupting only long enough to ask the proper spelling of the designated street.

  The police suddenly appeared, and waited patiently for her to take down all this useless information. She told them that she was a good girl, that she’d always been a good girl. They slapped handcuffs on her wrists and a gag into her mouth. Despite the gag, Renee informed them that she knew her rights and demanded to see her lawyer. They reminded her she was a lawyer. The corpse on the floor turned over and smiled. Its hand reached out and grabbed her ankle. “Got you,” he said.

  Renee bolted upright in bed, her breath coming in short, angry bursts.

  “What’s the matter?” Philip asked, sitting up beside her, obviously disoriented. “What happened?”

  Renee brought her legs up to her chest, hugging her shins, resting her forehead against her knees. “I had a terrible dream.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Philip said, and lay back down, collapsing against the pillow as if he had been pushed. “You scared me half to death.”

  “Sorry.” She tried ridding her mind of the image of Philip lying dead on the kitchen floor. “It was a horrible dream.”

  Philip said nothing.

  “Do you want to hear about it?”

  “No.”

  Renee felt a short stab of resentment in approximately the same spot she had pictured the knife through Philip’s chest. You listened to Debbie’s dream without complaint, she wanted to say, but didn’t because she knew how childish it would sound, how childish it was. “I dreamt you were dead,” she told him anyway.

  Philip turned on his side away from her. “That’s only natural under the circumstances.”

  “It is? What circumstances?”

  “Your sister’s husband died three months ago. Your sister is staying with us. You feel empathy for your sister. Simple transference.”

  “I dreamt I killed you. I dreamt I stuck a knife through your heart.”

  “Nice person.”

  “It was awful. I feel terrible.”

  “So you should. Come on, Renee. We can get another ten minutes sleep here.”

  Renee looked through the darkness at the luminous face of the clock, recalling the final seconds of her dream, and seeing Philip’s ghoulish smile reflected on the clock’s surface. “What time is it?” she asked, her voice rising in alarm. “Does that say ten minutes to seven?”

  “She reads too,” Philip said, covering his head with his pillow.

  “I have to get up. I’m going to be late.” Renee threw off the covers, about to jump out of bed when Philip’s hand stopped her.

  “What’s going on?” he asked patiently.

  “I have a partners’ meeting in one hour! I’ll never be ready in time. I don’t understand what happened. I set the alarm for six-thirty.”

  “I reset it for seven,” Philip said calmly.

  “What?”

  “I reset it for seven,” he repeated. “I thought it must be a mistake. Stop worrying—there’s no reason you can’t be ready in an hour.”

  “Philip, you know how long it takes me to get ready. I have to shower and do my hair and put on my makeup …”

  “And kiss your husband …”

  Renee leaned forward, intending to kiss Philip on the side of his mouth, surprised when he quickly turned his head so that she was kissing him directly on the lips, even more surprised when the kiss grew into a passionate embrace. She pulled gently, reluctantly, out of his arms. “Philip, I have to go.”

  “Can’t you spare a few minutes to tell your husband that you love him?”

  Renee smiled. “I love you.”

  “Can’t hear you.”

  “I love you,” Renee repeated a little louder, giggling, feeling like a schoolgirl.

  “Prove it.”

  “Philip, I can’t. I have to go.”

  “I love you,” he said, kissing her again, this time the kiss even more insistent.

  Renee felt his tongue in her mouth, felt his hands slide gracefully up her arms to her shoulders, his fingers lowering the straps of her nightgown. “This isn’t fair.”

  “What isn’t fair?”

  “I’m late,” she whispered, feeling the nightgown drop to her waist, his hands at her breasts, his mouth buried against the side of her neck.

  Renee pulled away, pulled up her nightgown, readjusting the straps. “I should have been up half an hour ago.”

  “So, you overslept.”

  “I didn’t oversleep. You reset the alarm clock. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “All right, so I made a mistake. But, frankly, you could use the extra sleep. You’ve been looking a little tired lately. You can’t tell me that your sister being here isn’t a strain. The extra sleep would do more for your appearance than a ton of makeup. Come on, Renee, you’ve still got lots of time to get ready. Indulge me. Make love to your husband.”

  Renee was about to object when his fingers on her lips stopped her.

  “We hardly have time to make love anymore. I remember when we first got married. You couldn’t wait for me to make love to you.”

  “I still feel that way.”

  “Do you?”

  Renee felt Philip’s hands return to her shoulders, his breath slide close against her face.

  “Tell me what you want, Renee,” he was saying. “I’m not going to do anything that you don’t really want me to. If this meeting is really so important to you, then I’ll understand.”

  “Nothing’s more important to me than you are.”

  “What do you want?” he asked again, his lips on the side of her neck. “Tell me what you want me to do. Do you want me to back off? Do you want me to leave you alone? Let you get ready?”

  “I want you to make love to me,” Renee heard herself say.

  “Do you?”

  Renee nodded, her breath coming faster.

  “Is this what you want?”

  Renee felt his fingers teasing the front of her nightgown.

  “Is it? Tell me.”

  “Yes.”

  “What else do you want?”

  “Philip …”

  “I won’t do anything that you don’t tell me to do.”

  “Please …”

  “Please what? This?” She felt his hands lifting the skirt of her nightgown, felt him push her back on the bed, lift the nightgown up to her waist. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “I can’t. I’m embarrassed.” She felt his hand between her legs.

  “Do you want me to touch you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then say it.”

  “I want you to touch me.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh God, please …”

  “Where do you want me to touch you? Here?”

  Renee groaned.

  “Do you want me to use my mouth?”

&n
bsp; “Philip …”

  “Say it.”

  “I want you to use your mouth.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he was saying.

  Renee closed her eyes, clutching at the pillow beside her head, feeling her husband’s tongue between her legs, hearing her own gasps through her open lips, feeling dangerously close to tears, frightened and not sure why.

  “What do you want me to do now?” he was asking hoarsely.

  “Whatever you want,” she said, not wishing to speak. “Do whatever you want.”

  “No, we’re going to do what you want. Do you want me inside you?”

  Renee tried to answer but no sound came.

  “Say it,” Philip said, from somewhere above her. “Tell me you want me inside you.”

  “Please … I want you inside me.”

  She felt his hands lifting her buttocks, felt him plunge inside her roughly, repeatedly. She opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her. He was smiling.

  When it was over, Philip sat up in bed and asked for some tissues. “Sorry I took so long,” he said with a nod toward the clock. “But it was your fault. You inspired me.”

  Renee patted her perspiration-soaked hair. “I should call the office. Tell them I won’t be able to make the meeting.”

  “Fuck ’em.” He smiled. “I guess we already did that.”

  “Philip,” Renee began slowly, not sure this was the right time to bring the subject up but unable to think of a better one. “Have you thought anymore about what we talked about a few weeks ago?”

  “What was that?”

  “About having a baby,” Renee said quietly, still feeling Philip inside her.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said gently, resting his hand on her shoulder before walking into the closet and reemerging with his robe across his shoulders, monitoring himself in the mirror across from their bed.