The Pillow Friend

by Lisa Tuttle

  On New Year's Eve she couldn't stand it any longer. They had plans to go out in the evening, but it was still afternoon, and he'd been in his room for the past couple of hours, “tidying away a few things before the year ends,” and she'd been seated at her own desk in the bedroom as if with the same intention, yet in fact unable to do anything but brood about the state of their marriage. “Gray, we have to talk.”

  He scarcely looked up from his notebook. “What about?”

  “Us.”

  “What do you mean?” He closed his notebook and put it away in the top drawer, not looking at her.

  “You know what I mean. We can't go on like this. We have to do something, or—do you know, we haven't been married long enough to get a divorce?”

  “What are you talking about? We're not getting a divorce. If you try to leave me, I'll lock you up.” He rose from his chair and put his arms around her. “Dear heart, what's wrong?”

  His sympathy brought tears to her eyes. “I don't know. Things aren't working between us.”

  “Aren't they? In what way?”

  “Oh, Gray, you know perfectly well. The things you said—”

  He let go of her and stepped back. “That's not fair. We agreed to forgive and forget. If you're going to keep throwing things I said in the heat of the moment back at me—you said some pretty harsh things, too.”

  “Things haven't been right since.”

  “Because you haven't let them be. Because you're still brooding about it—you, not me. And it was you who started it in the first place. If you think there's a problem—”

  “We never make love.”

  “Oh, and that's my fault? That's totally up to me?”

  “I want to. You don't.” She forced herself to go on, determined to have it all out. “You're not really that attracted to me, are you?”

  “Not when you're like this, no. Not when you're picking fights and blaming me for your own bad moods. If you want me to feel sexy, you have to give me some encouragement. I didn't get any the last time I tried. You may recall.”

  “That was a mistake. I'm sorry.”

  “All right, all right. You've said so. Let's forget it. Come on, let's go downstairs, have some coffee.” He sighed. “Then we can talk, since you're so determined we should.”

  They spent hours talking that afternoon and evening, managing to get past the danger of a row and the idea of assigning blame or accepting guilt, to talk about shared goals, fears and desires; the future of their marriage.

  They went out to dinner, with champagne to celebrate a new beginning, and afterward carried on drinking brandies in the restaurant, and then more in the local pub. Making their way home they paused often on the short journey to kiss.

  Agnes glowed with hope. Graham was teasing and amorous as they went to bed, and she touched his erect penis, happy that he desired her.

  But he stopped her hand. “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?” She giggled. “Your lips say no, no, but your cock says yes yes!”

  “I'm drunk.”

  “Me too. I'm drunk and horny, and so are you.”

  “That's right. No, don't, Nancy, I'm serious. It's no good.” He caught her wrists and held tightly. “I want a fuck, that's all. And that's no good. It's not fair to you. We're going to have a new beginning as we promised each other. The real you, the real me. The way I feel now, I could fuck anyone, you could be anyone.”

  “I don't mind. I know who I am.” His explanation baffled more than irritated her. A stiff cock, she'd heard it said, had no morals. His, however, seemed to have more moral arguments for restraint than a Jesuit.

  “Well, I mind. And you should. I'm sorry, I shouldn't say that when I've just agreed not to write your rules for you. But if you knew how I actually felt, you wouldn't want me fucking you. It would be degrading. You deserve better. You deserve to be made love to properly, and I'm too drunk for that.”

  He kissed her, then said, “Good night,” very firmly, and turned his back to her.

  She was astonished and angry but also quite drunk. She fell asleep quickly, but not for long. She woke suddenly, uncomfortably dry-mouthed, sensing another presence in the room.

  The yellow haze of the streetlights came in through gaps in the curtains, providing enough illumination to show there was no one else in the room. She rolled over on her side to face Graham and he was facing her, watching her through narrowly opened eyes.

  She touched his face. She lightly kissed his lips. He did not move at all, but he said her name. Not Nancy, not Agnes, her true name.

  A shiver passed through her, for Graham certainly didn't know that name.

  “Myles?”

  “You called me back.”

  “Are you going to stay this time?”

  A sigh ghosted through Graham's lips. “I'm here whenever you want me.”

  There were too many things to say, too many questions to ask him, to settle on just one. But she also realized it didn't matter what she asked. All she wanted was connection. What she had wanted most when she was seven she wanted still, nearly twenty-three years later.

  “Tell me a story.”

  In the morning she knew it had been a dream, but also that it was more. It was an opening into another world, and she understood that if she wished she could go through and continue the relationship with Myles.

  She chose not to.

  Despite the many subtle disappointments of her marriage, this was her real life, one that many people would envy, and she would make the best of it.

  It was easier to keep to her decision when she was happy, when she'd had a good day at work, and she and Graham were in harmony. When she wasn't happy, when some petty disagreement or misunderstanding put them at odds with each other, she sometimes lay awake and watched her husband sleeping, and had to grit her teeth against the desire to make him speak to her, to make him, temporarily, someone else.

  And, although she had not consciously thought about it for some time, she had not forgotten that Caroline's baby—if it still existed—was due near the end of March. So it was that one rainy evening in March, when her job had less than six weeks to run, as she and Graham sat down at the kitchen table to the meal he had just cooked of pork chops, fried potatoes and cabbage, she spoke the forbidden name out loud, asking, “Do you ever hear from Caroline?”

  For a moment he looked as if he didn't know who she meant. Then: “God, no. What do you—that was over ages ago. Why should I? What made you think of her?”

  “I just wondered if she'd phoned you.”

  “I would have told you if she had.” He looked down at his plate and began to eat.

  “I just thought—well, I can't help wondering—I mean, if you never heard from her again—”

  “Of course I didn't. What is this—jealousy? Of her? After all this time?” He cocked his head, a wondering expression on his face. He made it sound, she thought, as if they had been together for many years.

  “After all this time she might have had a baby.”

  “Oh—that. I shouldn't think so.”

  “Did you pay for her abortion?”

  Wide eyes, partly opened mouth, a face of wounded innocence. “Hey, what is this? What have I done? I would have told you if I heard from her again.”

  “Then—”

  “I don't suppose she was ever really pregnant.”

  “What?”

  He ate something. “She was lying. I should have realized at the time, but she could be very convincing. Well, it's her job. She's an actress. And, of course, I had reason to feel guilty.”

  “But . . . why would she lie about a thing like that?”

  “You don't play poker, do you.”

  “You know I don't.”

  “It was a last, desperate bid to get me back. As long as I was single she could fool herself into believing she had a chance, but once I got married the stakes were so much higher. What could beat a wife? Possibly, just possibly, a baby. It was the only possible claim she
had on me. If she'd talked me into meeting her, she'd have tried her best to seduce me. She always thought that because I fancied her I must love her, or that she could make me love her, through sex. But there's more to love than that.” He put down his knife and fork and reached across the table for her hand. “You're the one I love; you're the one I married. You're my wife. You must see you've nothing to fear from anyone else. The other women are all in the past. You're all I want.”

  “Yes . . . I know . . .” She felt trapped by his hand on hers; almost claustrophobic, as if the kitchen had suddenly become too small. “I'm not jealous, Gray. I'm trying to be . . . practical. Because if there is a baby, your baby—”

  “There isn't.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He sighed. “I can't believe you're so upset. Have you been worrying about it all this time in silence? Look, I knew Caroline; I knew her for a liar. She was always telling me lies, things to make herself seem more important—it was pathetic, really, and I didn't think it mattered, because she never mattered that much to me; it was just the way she operated. They were only little lies, before, but the principle was the same. Anyway, if she ever was pregnant, by me or anyone else, she's certainly not pregnant now, because she's still working. Or she was a few weeks ago. I saw her play reviewed in Time Out.”

  “What play?”

  “God, I don't remember the title. It sounded dreadful.”

  “Why didn't you tell me?”

  He took his hand away from hers, made a face and spoke in a funny voice, “Oh, look, darling, one of my ex-girlfriends has just been called ‘competent' by a reviewer in Time Out.”

  “You might have said something. It was an awful experience—did you think I'd just forget it?”

  “You never said anything.”

  “You asked me not to talk about it; you didn't want to hear her name again!”

  He looked baffled. “Well, no, of course I didn't want to keep talking about something that was upsetting you so. I was trying to make life easier for you, for us, just then, not laying down the law forever and ever, amen. How can I know what you're worrying about if you don't tell me? I can't answer questions you don't ask.”

  She wanted to press him for more details about the play, when it had been reviewed, Caroline's last name—but she knew it wouldn't get her anywhere she wanted to go. “I'm sorry.”

  “Poor darling. If I'd known you were worried, of course I would have said something. I thought you'd put it out of your mind. When I didn't hear from her again, after I'd twigged she'd made the whole thing up, I forgot it.”

  She thought he was going to take her hand again, but he picked up his knife and fork. “Eat your dinner, darling. Don't let it go cold.”

  The horse's head had been severed and nailed above an archway.

  The blood dripped down, splashing the white paving stones. Obviously, freshly slaughtered; obviously dead, yet as she stared at it, full of grief and rage that her faithful friend had been killed, the eyes opened and looked down at her and she heard a voice say a single word.

  As she woke she tried, desperately, to hang on to the dream, to understand it. But she was awake, and even the sound of the voice had vanished, leaving behind only one word, bereft of meaning. Falada. She knew it meant something, but although it seemed vitally important, she could not remember what.

  The dream stayed with her throughout her day at work, hovering behind everything she looked at, but it was not until very late in the evening that she finally remembered the fairy tale from which the image, and the name Falada, had come, and understood what it meant.

  That night, her sister called long distance with the news. Their mother was dead.

  THE PILLOW FRIEND

  . . . in all childhoods and in all the lives that follow them, the mother represents madness. Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.

  —Marguerite Duras

  After the funeral close friends and family went back to the Shawcross home in River Oaks. Agnes had never seen the large house filled to capacity before, and she was surprised at all the people she didn't know. Among this crowd of strangers she was baffled by an absence: where was Marjorie?

  On the other side of the room Eddie Shawcross was going over the details of his wife's death again for Agnes' sister and brother-in-law. He felt guilty because he'd argued with her about her leaving. If they hadn't argued she would have left earlier and never met the drunk driver who had ended her life in a smash-up on Highway 59.

  She had heard it all last night when she arrived, but she edged closer to hear it again.

  “Where was she going?” asked Ros. “Why didn't you want her to go?”

  “She said she just wanted some time to herself, time to think. She wouldn't say where she was going. It's not that I would have tried to forbid her going somewhere, but I didn't think she knew where she was going. I didn't like the sound of it. If she wanted a short vacation from me, fine, but she didn't even have a destination in mind, it was obvious.”

  “Of course she did,” Agnes interrupted. “She was going to Marjorie's. Why else would she take 59?”

  Ros nodded. “You were right to try to stop her.”

  “Who's Marjorie?”

  “Her sister,” said Agnes.

  He frowned. “A sister? Mary didn't have a sister.”

  “Her twin sister.” She looked at Ros for confirmation, but Ros was looking elsewhere, summoning the support of her own twin. It was a familiar look, and she found herself remembering the time the twins decided she was old enough to know the truth about Santa Claus. “I don't know why she's not here. Did anyone tell her about the funeral? If you didn't know her, then of course—Ros? Has anyone been in touch with Marjorie?”

  “Agnes—really.” The big-sisterly tone stirred up a desperate, childish rage. Tears pricked her eyes, the first since she'd left England.

  “What's that supposed to mean? I'm asking a simple question. Was Marjorie invited to the funeral.”

  “I don't think she knows,” said Clarissa.

  “Well where is she? Can't anyone find her?”

  “Marjorie doesn't exist,” said Ros. “She was one of Mother's fantasies, like her acting career.”

  “We thought you knew.”

  “But—no. She couldn't be! I stayed with her one summer. For weeks!”

  “That's why we thought you knew.”

  She was hot with shame. They must think she was an idiot, and they were right. How could anyone not know her own mother? Then she felt furious at her mother, for tricking her. Then she remembered her mother was dead, which meant Marjorie was, too.

  She looked around and saw that everyone was paired—even the widower was being comforted by his grown daughter, the child of his first marriage. She was the only person in the room who was alone. She hated herself for crying, because she knew it was only self-pity, but even so she couldn't stop.

  The next day she rented a car and drove out of Houston on Highway 59, drove without stopping all the way back to Marjorie's house.

  As soon as she entered the kitchen through the unlocked back door she was aware of the difference. Although it was still uninhabited, it was obvious someone had been here since her last visit, probably within the past month. The floor and other surfaces had been recently washed; the litter of dead insects and the other dirt she remembered had been cleaned away. She opened a cupboard and found a couple of cans and an unopened box of Ritz crackers still far from its sell-by date. She closed the cupboard and went through to the living room.

  She smelled fresh paint. The wall behind the big desk was cream-colored and entirely blank, showing no evidence of any of the portraits which had once been taped there.

  Despite Eddie's ignorance, his wife must have come here at least once in the months before her death, and probably more often. It wouldn't have been difficult to pretend she was going shopping, drive out here first thing in the morning, do some cleaning or painting, and get home
in time to cook dinner—but why do it? Why keep it a secret? Had Marjorie been planning her return?

  She still couldn't entirely accept that Marjorie was not real. She had known her. And her memories of Marjorie were of an individual quite distinct from Mary Grey. She began to go through the desk, looking for evidence.

  In the bottom right-hand drawer she found a pink folder with “Poems” written across the front, another labeled “Notes,” and an old blue paper box which contained a book-length manuscript titled “The Heart's Journey.” Flipping through it she encountered pornographic descriptions on every other page. She set it aside, embarrassed and edgy.

  Other drawers held a jumble of things, mostly paper: newspaper clippings, pages from magazines, handwritten sheets ripped from spiral-bound notebooks, envelopes, writing paper, postcards, half-used notebooks, paper clips, ancient rubber bands, pencils, long-expired coupons, corroded batteries, and then, at the very bottom, something which had been hers: the small red leather-bound book titled Agnes Grey.

  It was so obvious, as soon as she picked it up, that it was homemade that she could not understand how she had been fooled. Even as a child she must have recognized that it was not typeset but merely typed, on ordinary typing paper cut down to size and bound together. It wasn't a real book.

  Sitting on the rough, bare wooden floor beside the desk she opened the little book and began to read. Reading it was like falling back into the past, into one of her childhood fantasies. Only now she noticed, with her critical adult eye, that the writing was florid and graceless, a crazy quilt of clichés lifted from the most easy and undemanding of generic romantic novels. Yet the story still seemed to her wonderful, even though she recognized sources for some of the scenes—this from Rebecca, that from Jane Eyre, something else from Frankenstein, bits and pieces from all her favorites, which had also been her mother's favorites: E. Nesbit, Mrs. Molesworth, Louisa May Alcott, Robert Louis Stevenson, Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm.