Liberating Paris

by Linda Bloodworth Thomason

  CHAPTER 22

  Duff was lying on her back with her buttocks raised off the carpet, counting. When she got to twenty, she collapsed. Then, she stood up, removed an exercise tape from her VCR and lit a Marlboro. She hated working out. She always had. That’s why she was so often listed as “observing” in PE, which was a euphemism for menstruating. Unlike Milan, who clumsily ran around panting after every ball, always talking up something called “team spirit,” Duff had natural grace and agility. And nothing to prove to a bunch of jocky girls who insisted on calling each other by their last names. Unlike Milan, who openly sought the approval and camaraderie of other females, Duff was a man’s woman, which is why she had, at this late date, decided to start exercising. Now that Wood was back in her life, she realized that she could no longer take for granted the considerable physical blessings of her youth. Her butt was getting back into shape. It had always been one of her best features. But she hoped to lift it just a little, now that there was someone worth lifting it for. And also, now that she had seen his wife naked. Thank God Duff’s breasts now looked even better than they had in high school. And most important, Wood seemed happy with them, though, as a doctor, he was opposed to implants, period.

  She was reading again, too. Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut, Saul Bellow, and some of the other authors whom she remembered Wood liked. She looked at the phone now and wished he would call, but at the same time felt embarrassed by this longing, which, for her, seemed singularly uncool. She wasn’t happy with her behavior or his at Jeter’s funeral. She was now painfully aware that she had overplayed her hand, which was completely alien to her natural, easygoing temperament. It wasn’t like her to go anywhere and make a spectacle of herself. She was the girl who always picked out the most intriguing person in the room and then holed up quietly in a corner with him, laughing over some charming and mutually appreciated observation. And now she was not only embarrassed by her own behavior, but also by the knowledge that Mavis had probably been right to call her on it. She couldn’t help but blame Wood a little. After all, she understood his grief better than anyone. They were soul mates. But he had scarcely spoken to her. Of course, when she thought about it, she really didn’t see him speaking to anyone. But then again, there was also the idea that when a man has spilled himself inside of you, he needs to come up with a little something on public occasions, too. She picked up the phone now and dialed. She knew it was brazen, but if Milan answered, she would ask some little something about the wedding. And if it was Wood, well then, she had something to say. He answered on the second ring. She said, sounding a little breathy, “God, it was hard to be near you today and not touch.”

  He was obviously startled. He hesitated, then, “This is probably not a good time.”

  “Is she in the room?”

  He sounded uncomfortable. “No.”

  Now she made her little speech. “I got pulled over by a state trooper on the way home.”

  “I told you not to drive fast.”

  “He offered to tear up the ticket if I would have dinner with him. You know, he was one of those big ol’ country boys who’s always got a hard-on.”

  “I don’t like this story.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going. But I should, because you were so mean.”

  He hadn’t meant that he was jealous, although maybe he was a little. But mostly he was surprised by the immaturity of her wanting to tell this story to him. Especially on the day of his best friend’s funeral. He said, “I’m sorry. I’m feeling pretty low right now.”

  “I know. I loved him, too.”

  Wood heard someone pick up on the line. Duff sighed. “I wish I could take you in my mouth and make all your pain go away.”

  Wood cleared his throat. “Okay. So, I guess I should go—”

  Someone hung up. He said, “Listen, I care for you. A lot. But this is not good.”

  “Would you rather not see me anymore?” Nice recovery. Now she was showing him some backbone.

  “Don’t be crazy. We’ll talk.”

  “Okay, but my phone may get turned off. If that happens, I’ll get a phone card at the 7-Eleven and call you.”

  They hung up. Wood felt sick. It was either Milan or Charlie who had picked up. And right now he couldn’t decide which would be worse.

  Duff went into the bedroom and put on her nightgown. She was getting a disturbing vibe that Wood was becoming less sure of his feelings for her. She stared at her breasts through the thin fabric. Suddenly, she felt stupid for having paid over four thousand dollars for something so artificial that, in her youth, she would have ridiculed. How had she let things get this far? It had cost her an old car, a ton of tip money, and her entire income tax refund. She had always been the girl in the catbird seat. The girl who things came to. Not the girl who chased things. Now here she was calling him at home, acting desperate. After years of choosing wrong men, had she become completely blinded by what appeared to be a second chance at happiness? She was spending her life savings, losing her dignity, risking her son. It was insane. And strangely, it was also why she now had to prevail.

  At Fast Deer Farm, Milan was in the shower trying to wash off the phone conversation between her husband and his lover. But she was feeling extremely calm. And strong. The first twenty years of her life had been filled with nothing but drama and she was thinking how much better she had liked the last twenty. How in spite of Wood’s indifference, there wasn’t a single day that came to mind that she would take back, except of course for Dr. Mac and Jeter dying.

  When she had arrived home from scattering Jeter’s ashes, she had gotten out the poems and stories he had written about her and read them all for the first time. And she had been stunned, not only by the meticulous portraits of her own psyche (as though he had seen inside of her) but also the obvious love that had gone into creating them. She had already memorized her favorite line: “For whatever was heroic in human beings lay not in the smart observer, but rather in the one who feels deeply and then endures. And that person was, and always would be, the rose maker.” There it was. She was an endurer, which was its own kind of heroism. A most powerful idea from someone who thought she was worth all his beautiful words that now coursed through her veins like a much needed transfusion. There was Main Street coming through for her again. How she loved the son of the man with candy. It was almost as electrifying as when Hank Jeter had said the queen would be lucky to know her.

  Wood came into the bathroom. She saw a hazy version of him through the steamed glass. She was thinking it was fitting that his image was murky because she wasn’t sure who he was anymore. He might as well have panty hose on his head and have come in here to rape or rob her. He seemed to be looking for something. He was all hunched over, slamming drawers. Suddenly, she felt sorry for him and knew with certainty now that she no longer wanted to participate in all of this. She wanted it to be over. Then, for the second time in her life, she did something completely impulsive, something she had neither imagined nor planned. Without even turning the water off, she opened the door and stepped out. She reached for her thick white terrycloth robe and wrapped it around her. She was dripping wet and her hair was plastered to her face. Wood was startled, but no longer wondered who had picked up the phone. Then she stepped in front of him and said matter-of-factly, “All my life, I trusted you. Until now, you never lied to me. You never let me down…So I think, I finally see how important this must be to you. And that there’s really no reason for me to get up early anymore and put on makeup or read all those books that you suggest I read…because I get it now…I get that all the vacations I can plan and having our friends over and fixing up this house and raising our children is not going to be enough for you.” Here, she struggled to keep her voice steady. “But I want you to know, Wood, that it’s been more than enough for me. And I have only you to thank. For Elizabeth and Charlie. And a real home…and love…and, and Christmas. I could never repay you. So, if this is what you want, then go on and do it. Because I
owe you that…and also because I do so love you.” Wood stared at her, disbelieving.

  “But right now, I just need for you to leave.”

  He marveled at how different she looked without all her products. He used to stand at her vanity and peruse them all and say facetiously, “My God, nobody’s that ugly.” And now she was standing here, barefaced, exposed, telling him he could go and she had never been more gracious or looked more lovely, with drops of water caught in her lashes as she tried not to cry.

  Wood’s life had been a smooth, straight ride for so long. It seemed like all the things one never sees coming had been saved up for the moment he arrived on the threshold of middle age. He had gotten off his horse to look around and everywhere he turned, there was a sucker punch waiting. He had done what his father had taught him never to do, put his oar in the water in the middle of a good, long glide. And now, in spite of everything, here was his own wife giving him her blessing to leave, telling him she loved him, thanking him. This was even more unexpected than finding out that his best friend had been in love with her. And it wasn’t some woman’s magazine ploy either. He could see that. Could see her pain and the genuineness of what she was saying. If Milan was conniving something, you could tell it a mile away. And she would never know that you knew either, which made it all kind of endearing. She could be so childlike—laughably transparent in her plans to get her own way, excited about her birthday weeks in advance, incapable of hiding how much she wanted to please you—and yet, so utterly adult in her responsibilities to her children and family and friends. It was confusing, the contradictions. Maybe Jeter had been right to be fascinated by the terrain of her. Maybe she was worthy of poetry, even though she didn’t like it much herself.

  But could any wife sincerely thank her philandering husband and then give him her blessing to leave? Could such a thing be true? What was she? Some kind of Neiman-Marcus-shopping, Mercedes-Benz-driving saint? Had he really so misunderstood her all these years? He honestly wasn’t sure anymore. He just knew that she was hurting and he had never felt sorrier about anything in his life. He wanted to pick her up and hold her and dry her hair and tell her that this had all been a terrible mistake. But he knew that would be too easy a solution for his crime. And he also knew that he had someone else’s feelings to consider, now. And that wherever he turned would be a betrayal in some fashion. Wood kept his hand on top of her head for a moment. Finally, he said, “If you need me, I’ll be sleeping at the office.”

  Then he left, realizing for the first time that the woman who lay crumpled on the bathroom floor was stronger than he was.

  None of the people in the painting that Wood was standing in front of looked happy. It was not an important, artistic observation. It was just something he noticed and it depressed him—these strange humans with their sour, jumbled faces. He wasn’t in the mood. And he didn’t give a damn what was Cubed. He had already mastered rejecting the play of light on form in Miss Phipps’s first-grade class.

  Duff had gotten tickets for the Picasso exhibit months ago. Wood hadn’t felt like picking her up and then driving all the way to Fort Belvedere, but they hadn’t seen each other since Jeter’s funeral and he could sense that this was important to her. Then, Milan had asked him to come by and help pick out wedding music. But rather than admit that he had plans, he said he had to tend to Trudy Davis, who was dying of bone cancer, when only the dying and the cancer part were true.

  On the way home, Wood and Duff were discussing Picasso’s notorious misogyny and Duff had told Wood how the artist got all his women to cut his toenails for him. And Wood had said the guy needed his ass kicked. And Duff laughed, telling Wood that he was the only man in the world whose toenails she would cut. And he had said he wouldn’t want her to do that, or that he wouldn’t like it, or something. Whatever it was, it hurt her feelings.

  Then, just as they got to the outskirts of Excelsior Springs, Duff announced that she wanted to go see the springs themselves. She could tell he hadn’t really enjoyed the day and now she was determined to make up for that. And not wanting to hurt her feelings again, he made the turn. They found a secluded spot and, in spite of the fact that they had on their good clothes, Duff immediately got out of the car and jumped in the water, not caring that it was the end of summer and that these springs were always cold. She was standing in the middle of them now with her hands on her hips. Her clothes were wet, her blouse was transparent, her skirt was hiked up around her thighs. And what he was thinking was how lovely and natural his wife had looked when she dove from a rock in the moonlight and when she stepped out of the shower that night. The night she had asked him to leave. And that this seemed staged and forced and even exhibitionistic and he wished he was somewhere else.

  Duff was calling him a slacker now and daring him to come on in. He couldn’t leave her out there alone, if for no other reason than it would be rude. So he took off his belt and shoes and socks and waded in, shocked by the coldness and impressed with her ability to withstand it. She splashed him until he was as wet as she was. And then she unzipped his pants and tried to make love, which surprised him because the water was around fifty-five degrees. And he had to explain to her that it was physiologically impossible to have an erection under these conditions. And then he was annoyed, remembering that she had made A’s in science but still didn’t seem to believe him. After a while, it became apparent that they were just two people standing around in cold water, so they went back to the car.

  Once they were under way again, with the heater turned up, Wood was thinking of a thick white terrycloth robe that matched Milan’s. Duff began to pout. It was in the way she sighed and held her cigarette and leaned against the window looking out. Finally, he pulled over and asked her what was wrong. She said she felt he didn’t want her anymore, that he had just come back after twenty years to get some old romantic notion off his mind. And he claimed that absolutely was not true, all the while wondering if it was. He couldn’t help noticing the two large, wet outlines of her dark nipples pressed against her blouse. He put his hands there and caressed the hardness of these recent purchases, trying to reassure her, kissing her lips. She removed her panties and he slid across the seat. But she said, “No, not here.”

  He was puzzled. She pointed to the highway. “There.”

  He knew exactly what she meant. When they were seventeen, they had put on the Beatles’ “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road” and done just that. In commemoration of the song, they had done this on the road from Paris to Hayti. It had been exhilarating. And they had gotten away with it, too. But for Wood, the idea had lost its freshness. And though they were still not back to the main highway, a car could certainly come along this road and he would scarcely have time to get his pants up. She was out of the vehicle now and on her way to the center line, determined to mine something memorable from this day—danger, forbidden sex, some kind of crazy intimacy? Wood felt that much of it had already been a disaster, plus his manhood had been impugned at the springs. Then again, he had to admit it wasn’t every day that your old girlfriend lies down in the middle of a road with her huge, custom-made-for-you tits pointing toward heaven and her legs apart, waiting.

  Wood got out of the car, feeling more duty bound than excited. A few minutes later, as Duff’s pleasurable cries took on their own rhythm, he found himself wondering what had happened to the boy who used to ring doorbells and confess that he was the one who had knocked a ball through the window. But he didn’t really need to ask that question. He knew where he was. He was in the middle of Arkansas County Road 121, humping a woman who was not his wife and using the last painful gasps of a dying cancer patient to cover it all up.

  It was Monday morning and the wedding of Elizabeth Marie McIlmore and Lukas Duffer Childs was scheduled to occur on Saturday at two o’clock. Workers had already begun to arrive at Fast Deer Farm and large metal stakes, intended to secure a four-thousand-square-foot tent, were being driven into the lawn. Dwight and Denny came every day, fussi
ng over the construction and floral embellishment of a giant trellis. Though they mostly bickered between themselves, they were unfailingly solicitous of Milan, the one person in Paris they worshipped. And they rode herd on all the other workers, too, even those not under their jurisdiction, saying things like, “We would never show that to Mrs. McIlmore. It simply won’t do.”

  For her part, Milan was glad not to have a moment of quiet. In order to give the caterers extra space, she had gotten up at 4 A.M. and moved hundreds of Wood’s grandmother’s old canning jars out of the garage. Because if she was awake and idle, she would start to feel a sort of paralyzing sadness that would make her not want to get up ever again. And so she never stopped moving. She was either doing something or she was asleep. No in between. No downtime to think. And she held on to all of her notebooks, going through seemingly hundreds of pages of lists, as though the coils that held these papers together were magical charms that somehow gave her strength.

  Mavis was in the McIlmore den, talking to a seafood supplier on her cell phone. Obviously, the person on the other end was not saying what Mavis wanted to hear, which caused her to pace and groan and increase her volume. Milan, who could hear her all the way in the kitchen, rolled her eyes and sighed. Even though she and Mavis spoke only sparingly and out of necessity now, there had never been any question as to who would cater the most important event ever to be held at Fast Deer Farm. Especially with Mavis being Elizabeth McIlmore’s godmother.

  Milan hurried to the oven and removed a tray of chocolate chip cookies. Because Elizabeth was getting all of the attention lately, Milan had made these for Charlie and his friends. Actually, she had sliced them from a refrigerated roll and then baked them, after eating a good part of the dough herself. She finished putting the cookies on a plate. Mavis, still on her cell phone, entered and turned up her nose at them. Milan picked up the plate and breezed by Mavis without acknowledging her.