EYES CLOSED, Rose faced the black window, shredding a tissue. She was not crying. She was not going to cry. Owen sat on the sofa, one leg hoisted over the other, his left hand stroking his own hair gently as a lover's, while the right, buried in his pocket, clasped and unclasped a set of keys. He talked into the pillow, as if to no one, but he knew she was listening.
"It was only a matter of time," he said. "I knew we'd have to talk about it, only I wasn't sure you wanted to. I thought maybe you wanted to just let things be, let sleeping dogs lie."
Ever the perfectionist, Rose said, "Nothing's sleeping here."
"Not anymore," Owen said.
It was astonishing, Rose thought, how quickly the tide of warmth, of love that had ridden her into this confrontation, had passed. She treaded cold water now; indeed, as soon as Owen spoke those first acknowledging words, she felt herself tighten and shrink, the way the skin of the thumb shrinks in the bathtub. Probably somewhere inside she had still secretly wished she might be imagining things, still hoped he'd say, "What are you talking about, Rose?" But of course he had not. He remained motionless on the sofa, his face as resigned and toughened against crying as that of a child brought before the principal for reprimand.
"I suppose you should know that Philip told me," she said, "about your reason for inviting Winston tonight. He wanted to know if I was in on the plan with you."
"I didn't give him any reason to think that," Owen said. Rose laughed. He looked up at her, confused. "What's so funny?"
"I was just thinking about how many times I didn't notice things," she said. "How many times I averted my eyes, how many times I drew ridiculous conclusions just so I wouldn't have to face the truth. Now, suddenly, all these things are making sense to me. All the gaps are filling in. It makes me laugh."
From where he sat, Owen lifted his head—rather, Rose thought, like a cartoon rabbit taking a peek at the world outside his hole. For a moment he rested his gaze on her face, then returned it to the darkness of his armpit. "Yes," he said, "I guessed it would be like that for you. It was for me, the first time I—" He paused. "Anyway, the reason I invited Winston was that I wanted to do something nice for Philip, to help him. It would be good for him to find someone, I think, don't you?"
Rose was grimly silent. She seemed to be concentrating intently on something out the window, although there was little to be seen—a woman across the street washing dishes; traffic; sky.
"Do you want me to talk about it?"
She shrugged.
"I guess that means yes. All right. I suppose I should begin by explaining about the Sunday when we ran into each other. By telling you where I was going that Sunday, and every other Sunday. I was—"
"I wish you wouldn't," Rose said. "I really don't think there's any point in your sharing the gory details with me, Owen, I really don't see how that's going to do either of us any good."
"I'm sorry. I just thought I should make things clear for once. We're talking about twenty-seven years of secrets, Rose. Things I've kept bottled up my whole life."
"Just because you want to say them doesn't mean I want to hear them." Her voice was thin and quiet. He looked up and saw her before the window, not facing him, the tissue reduced to a heap of blue in her hand.
Owen swallowed. "Okay," he said. "I can accept that. But then what should we talk about? Should we talk about the apartment? Should we buy?"
"Why do you act like it depends on me?”
"Because it does."
Grimly she bit a piece of cuticle off of her thumb.
"You can leave me, Rose, if that's what you want," Owen said. "Or I'll leave. If that's what you want, I'll do it."
"And what if it's not what I want?"
"Of course then I'll stay."
"What does that mean?"
"It means what it means," Owen said. "I want to stay, God knows, Rose. I'm not going through some mid-life crisis; I don't want freedom. Everything I know, everything I feel safe with in the world is here, with you. But I feel like I have to be honest. No matter how hard I try to convince myself I can just cut it off, no matter how hard I try not to think about men—" He shook his head. "It's no good. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't stop now. I'm too far gone. It's become too big a thing, bigger than I can control. Even if we weren't having this talk, I'd still feel it, I'd still be lured into things I wanted—and didn't want at the same time. It's so hard to explain." He closed his eyes. "The other night," he said, "I met someone."
"I don't want to hear it," Rose almost shouted, shut her eyes, then got control of herself again. "I told you before," she said. "I don't want to hear about any of the details, so if you're going to insist on sharing them, we might as well stop right here. It's too much for me." She turned around again and looked intently into the mirror of the television screen, her arms wrapped tight around her waist. Owen groaned, lifted his head. "Rose, you're going to have to face them sooner or later," he said wearily. "For Christ's sake, please, don't shut me up anymore; it'll just be bad for both of us if we go on pretending."
"How you can say that to me," Rose said calmly, almost in a whisper. "How you can say that to me—I just don't understand." Her back, the only part of her he could see, was subtly shaking, her arms clenched even more tightly around the pale flowers on her blouse. "Rose—"
"Because it isn't pretending for me. I am your wife. I have made my life with you."
"I know you have. And it's been a fine life. And it will continue to be a fine life for us. But we have to face the facts—"
"Don't you see how it kills me, how it absolutely destroys me to hear you say that? Pretending? All our marriage, everything with me? Just pretending? Don't you see? Even if it's true, what it means for me—"
"But it wasn't all like that. Rose, you know I love you more dearly than anything on earth; I always have and I always will. Still. There are facts to be faced here, for me as well as you. Sexually—I am more attracted to men. It's something I've been hiding, suppressing for years, only letting out—"
"Not that part," she said. "Not that part."
He sighed in frustration. "All right. Not that part." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I want to stay with you, stay married to you. I feel like that's the bottom line."
"And will you continue—these exploits?"
He was silent for a moment. "I don't know."
"And how do you think I'll feel?" she said, turning to face him. "Think about me for once. A marriage which is a sham, a pretense. My husband and my son, both, both—for God's sake, my life is like the punch line to a stupid joke."
Inadvertently, she started to laugh, and Owen laughed, too. Then they stopped suddenly. Once again Owen looked grimly at his lap. "Rose," he said, "forgive me for pointing this out, but you haven't exactly been faithful to me."
She raised her head.
"I'm sorry to bring it up. I never wanted to. I know you thought I didn't know. But I did. Not that I minded. The truth is, it made me feel a little better, a little less like I'd wrecked your Me. Because I thought you deserved that—real love, from a man who really felt what men should feel for women. I sat back and didn't say a word; I never made any ultimatums even when I felt jealous. I figured I was getting what I deserved—as punishment."
She was silent. "Is that all?" she said.
"Yes."
Then, very quietly: "I don't think my having relationships with other men is in any way comparable, in any way like—"
"My having relationships with other men?"
"Don't interrupt me. No. And not for the stupid reason you think I'm thinking. Because I was very careful, Owen. I made sure I never disrupted our lives together. It was a separate thing, something I needed—for reasons which are now clear and obvious. But with you—what you're saying is that the whole premise of our marriage has been a lie, a sham. And that's bigger than cheating on someone. Because it means for you that our marriage was the cheat, your—other life, that was the real thing." Her voice grew suddenly
softer. "With me," Rose said, "you were always the real thing."
"I don't know what you want from me," Owen said quietly. "An apology? Okay. I'm sorry I married you. I'm sorry I ruined your life."
She laughed, turned to face him. "You're determined to turn your guilt around on me, aren't you?" she said. "You're determined to make me the guilty party. Well, okay. You want pity? I'll give you pity. It broke my heart, you looked like such an idiot tonight, salivating over that boy you'd brought home for your son to—to—"
"Rose, that's going too far—"
"—slobbering over him like that. I felt such pity for you. Jesus Christ, I thought, does he have no dignity at all?"
"It wasn't like that," Owen said. "It was nothing like that."
"Do you know what it felt like for me to just sit there and watch you with him? Embarrassed by you? Knowing you didn't even know what an ass you were making of yourself?"
"Rose," he shouted, "enough!" and she was quiet. "I told you," he said. "Enough,"
"Good," she said. "Enough. So go call up Philip. I'm sure the two of you will have tons to talk about." And she turned away again, her throat dry, astonished at the electricity, the venom running through her.
Owen got up from the sofa. She could tell he was behind her from his breathing against her neck. He touched her, and her shoulders flinched. She wanted, suddenly, to throw him out, to tell him to leave and never come back. But the anger in her was burning off as quickly as alcohol. Soon it would all be gone.
Owen was silent behind her. Then he walked to the closet, pulled on his coat. "I'll go for tonight," he said. "We both need some time. But I'll call tomorrow. Okay?"
She said nothing.
"Okay, Rose?"
"Just leave me alone," she said.
"Christ, Rose."
Then the door opened and closed again.
For a few moments she stood there, hugging herself, listening to the newfound silence. Then she turned. His imprint sagged the sofa. The radiator buzzed comfortably; traffic went by. It was 11:24.
She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a large glass of milk from a carton with the picture of a missing child on its cover, and sat down at the little table. The cold white liquid went down her throat in a series of chill gulps, making her gag, causing, like ice cream eaten too fast, an intense, sudden ache at the back of her neck. She felt as if she had just vomited; her throat and stomach were raw with the aftertaste of upheaval. It was Sunday night. It felt to her, suddenly, as if there would be no Monday, no breakfast, no return to work, as if the rest of her life would be an eternal, sleepless night spent waiting impatiently for dawn, knowing the rest of the world was enviably sleeping.
The milk was gone. She looked at the glass, coated still with white droplets, and almost couldn't bear its emptiness. Terrified, she opened the dishwasher, shoved the glass into its blue interior. She craved beginnings. There was "The Honeymooners" at eleven-thirty. Things would be starting up all night, but they would also be ending.
In the living room she turned the television on low; its hum soothed her. She opened the acrostic book; read, "Find fault with"; thought, Criticize? Disapprove? Upbraid?
A RIOT OF TELEPHONE RINGINGdrammed through the night, tore the thin membrane of Philip's sleep. He was dragged awake, his eyes opening to a darkness in sharp contrast with his bright dream. Confused, he lifted himself onto his elbows, trying to figure out what could be making this strange, shrill cry. All he could see in the dark were the glowing blue diodes of Brad's alarm clock. It was 1:17 A.M. The phone screamed, blared, wept. Beneath him he thought he felt the full weight of one of his own limbs, the circulation cut off, until he realized that what he was feeling was Brad's arm lodged under him. "Brad," he said. "Brad."
"What?" Brad shouted, bounding, leaping out of sleep like a gymnast.
"The phone."
"The phone?The phone?" Brad said, his voice edged with panic. "But it's the middle of the night. Jesus, who could be calling?" He reached back, snapped on a light, grabbed for the phone. "Hello?" he said. A few beats of silence passed. He looked at Philip. "Yes, he's here," he said. "Hold on."
He handed Philip the phone. "For me?" Philip said. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
He put the phone to his ear.
"Philip, it's your father," said a voice made ghostly, distant, by static and traffic noise.
"Dad! What is it? What's wrong?"
"No one's hurt," Owen said. "Everyone's fine." Something roared in the background. "You're probably wondering how I got this number, aren't you?" he said. "But it wasn't hard. When I couldn't reach you at home, I just called your friend Sally—her number was in your room—and she told me to call here. I hope I'm not waking you, or—disturbing anything."
"No, nothing, Dad," Philip said. "Look, what's going on? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Owen said, then started to cry.
Philip knelt in the bed. Brad put an arm on his shoulder.
"Dad, where are you?"
He could not answer.
"Just calm down, now, Dad, and tell me where you are."
"I'm at a pay phone outside the Burger King on Cathedral Parkway," Owen said finally. "It just closed. I was sitting there until it closed. I came up here, to your apartment, but you weren't home. I'm sorry. I don't have anywhere else to go."
"Did you and Mom have a fight? Is that what happened?"
Owen blew his nose. "I suppose," he said, "that what has happened is your mother and I have temporarily separated."
"Dad—I don't understand—what do you mean, separated?"
"I'm sorry to be bothering you, but I was hoping I could stay at your apartment. I know I'm interrupting, I know it's late. I'll just go to a hotel."
"No, Dad, don't be ridiculous," Philip said. "I'll come up. Just wait for me outside the building. I'll get in a cab, I'll be there in twenty minutes, okay?"
"Philip, I don't want to drag you away from your friend, I don't want to do anything like that—"
"Dad, don't worry. Look, just meet me outside my building in twenty minutes."
Again he blew his nose. "All right," he said. Then, as an afterthought: "Thank you, son."
"Don't worry about it. I'll see you soon. Goodbye."
They hung up. "What happened?" Brad asked, putting his arms around Philip in the strange light.
"I have to go," Philip said. He pulled himself out of the bed, grabbed for his clothes.
"What's wrong?" Brad asked. "Where's your father?"
"He's at a Burger King. All he told me was that he and my mother have 'separated,' whatever the hell that means at one in the morning."
"Separated!"
"That's what I said."
"Jesus."
Philip pulled on his pants, reached for a shirt. "Look," Brad said, "I'll go with you."
"Brad, you don't have to do that."
"I don't care, I'll go with you."
"I think," Philip said as he put on his socks and shoes, "I think I should go there by myself."
Brad sat back on the bed, against the wall, and closed his eyes. From the top of the dresser Philip gathered his wallet, change, and keys and stuffed them in his pockets. "Do you need money for a cab?" Brad asked.
"No, I've got it."
Brad stood up, put on his bathrobe, and walked Philip to the door.
"Well," Philip said, "goodbye," and laughed, still not quite believing that ten minutes out of sleep he was leaving Brad and going uptown to save his father.
"Goodbye," Brad said. Spontaneously, without thought, they kissed for the first time, long and lovingly, then stood there in the doorway, embracing, their eyes shut tightly. "I don't want to leave," Philip said. "I feel safe here. I really want more than anything else to stay here with you, Brad."
"I'll be here," Brad said.
"Thanks," Philip said. "If I don't come back, it's only because I can't. Well, here I go, out into the wild blue yonder." He zipped his jacket, kissed B
rad again. Then he unlatched the door and slipped out through the crack of the opening. He moved quietly on the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone.
Outside the street was empty, dark save for the light of a single lamp.
In the cab, speeding uptown, Philip felt strangely giddy, almost drugged. He hugged himself for warmth and leaned back against the stained seat, forcing his eyes wide open to wake himself. He was remembering a night early in his childhood when he'd woken up sweaty and retching, and his parents had had to take him to the emergency room. A fresh snow had fallen, and sitting in the cab he recalled how strange he'd felt as he was carried from sleep out into the world, still in his pajamas, wrapped in blankets. Rose, wearing her nightgown under a coat, held him under the awning of their apartment building while Owen raced up and down the silent, bright midnight avenue, searching for a cab. Snow fell perpetually through that memory, even in the little examining room in the hospital where the doctor gave him a suppository; snow, and with it an unspeakable dread. He didn't believe the world would ever be the same again after that; and he assumed that every night of his life, snow would fall in huge drifts, and death would be close at hand. Tonight it came back—that fearful sense of unreality, as if he was a spectre in someone else's dream. His own capacity for feeling was so heightened that he felt like one of those children bruised into allergic shock by the mere touch of the natural universe. Everything frightened him. Turning to look out the window, he was confronted with the familiar West Side skyline—darker now, since almost every light was out. The city had always seemed huge to him from this vantage point, and it still seemed huge, but now it was not so much a place where anything might happen as a landscape he might get lost in, disappearing forever the way people seemed to be constantly disappearing in this city. Posters were put up, rewards offered; people posited theories, claimed to have seen their friends wandering, ghosts, on West Street. A divinity school student, a secretary, a Korean immigrant who spoke no English—all gone without a trace. He imagined himself among them now, his own face staring, like theirs, from the makeshift posters on cafe walls, in the subways.
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