The Last Chance

by Rona Jaffe

  He was sane enough to know that witnesses were too close. He held himself in tight control, drinking a little to calm himself but not too much, thankful that all the people at this party were so busy trying to put forth a good impression that they had not the slightest interest in watching anyone else. After a while he felt free enough to wander about, speaking to a few people, moving on before he got trapped in a boring conversation, watching Rachel all the time. He was getting a pounding headache. She took little sips from her glass of wine, leaving the mark of her mouth on the plastic. Even a cheap bit of synthetic from the five-and-ten felt the intimate touch of her lips, but not he. She put her glass down on a table and held her hands out to two friends. He was behind her in a flash and took the glass, turning away quickly. Casually, as if he were just carrying two drinks to friends, he took Rachel’s glass and his own to the end of the terrace. He left his on a table among the party debris. He held her glass to his lips, his mouth on the place her mouth had touched, tasting her lipstick, imagining he tasted the inside of her lips.

  He had to step off the terrace then, into the safe darkness of the bushes. No one could see him. Perhaps the landscape architect had arranged these bushes so lovers could hide in their shadow and kiss. He kissed Rachel’s lips on her plastic glass and opened his fly.

  He came with such force that he shuddered. The sea breeze felt cold on his neck. He fantasized that from the place on her lawn where he had spilled his seed a phantasmagoric Rachel grew like a flower bush. He was a part of her life now, whether she knew it or not. He tossed away the glass. He had used it, so it was defiled. He zipped up his pants, wiped the perspiration off his face with his handkerchief, and went back to the party.

  He didn’t realize that his need to take these glasses she had kissed was so insatiable until he had taken another, and then a third. Three times in the bushes he shuddered with his lips on the echo of hers and his hand on his aching and hated cock. He felt completely drained. But oddly, he did not feel his usual guilt. It was as if at last the guilt had died. He felt instead the beginning of another emotion, one that he could not understand at all, because it was directed toward Rachel instead of toward himself.

  It was anger.

  On the beach, alone, Margot finished the jug of wine and lay numbly in the wash of the tide. The ocean had been rising. The water shot bubbling and stinging along her legs, above her waist into the wet sand, and then receded. Up and down, up and down, the tide was like ruffles all along the length of the beach in the moonlight. It took the empty jug and pulled it a little way toward the ocean, then gave up, playing with it, not strong enough yet to draw it away forever. She nudged the jug with her toe and it turned over. The water swirled around it, splashed over it, flashed along her body to her breasts, and went away again. The edges of her hair were all wet. She had to decide: get up and swim out to sea or give up the idea. If she just lay where she was, all she would get would be a nose full of sandy salt water.

  She flopped over onto her stomach, her crossed arms holding her face up from the sand. She felt so heavy—wet, sand-covered, and drunk, not quite sure why she had wanted to kill herself but not entirely sure either that she didn’t want to. It would be nice just to go to sleep for a long, long time, and wake up not remembering anything that had ever hurt. She opened her legs and let the surf pour up between them. It felt good, sensual. She would have loved to take off her underpants but she was too lazy.

  A man was walking along the beach. She watched him coming closer and saw that he was tallish, with a nice body, young, and carrying something in his hand. When he came nearer she saw that he was the bartender, and he was carrying a can of beer. He was barefoot. He had seen her and was coming to investigate.

  “Well, hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “What are you doing in the water?”

  “What are you doing away from the bar?”

  “It’s my break,” he said.

  “This is my break.”

  “Is it fun?” he asked. He was completely cool, noncommittal. Not making fun of her, not boyishly curious, nothing.

  “The sea is my lover,” Margot said. “But he runs out on me.” She laughed.

  He took off his clothes. He was wearing a tiny bikini thing underneath. It wasn’t fair. He folded his pants and shirt neatly and laid them on top of a sand dune away from the water. He crumpled the empty beer can in his hand, the way he’d probably seen done on television, and tossed it away. Then he stood over her and looked her over curiously, as if she were something the ocean had tossed up. Which would he find her, mermaid or walrus?

  “Do you want to go swimming?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You ought to get that sand off your dress. Why don’t you take your clothes off and we’ll wash them?”

  That seemed sensible. “Unzip me,” Margot said.

  He helped her take off her long dress, which was heavy with sea water and sand, and then he dove neatly into a wave, carrying the fabric in his hand like a taper so she could still find him in the dark. His body was all tanned and disappeared in the deep water, but she could see his head bobbing as he swam back to her. He stood on the shore wringing out her dress, and then he shook it. It flapped with a snapping sound in the breeze. Then he laid her dress neatly on the stiff grass on top of the dune where he had put his clothes. Margot wondered why he was being so nice to her. She stood up and walked into the water. It was very cold. She waited until the sequence of big waves had paused and then ran out to shoulder high water and paddled around until her skin felt smooth again. She lay back and let the water fan out her sandy hair, cleansing it. Later it would be gummy and salty, but there was no later. A wave crashed down on her, knocking her under, spewing sea water into her mouth, and she threw up. Then she started to cry. She cried and cried at the same time she was trying to struggle back to shore in the knee-high surf, until she felt his arm around her, and then he picked her up and carried her back to the dune.

  He had hidden a towel there. They lay on it and he showed her his supplies: two more cans of beer with pop tops, a package of breath mints, a half-empty pack of menthol cigarettes, a butane lighter, and a metal comb. He was just like a little kid running away from home for an hour with his treasures. Margot stopped sniffling and smiled at him. He smiled back, and then he offered her a cigarette, which she refused, and a can of beer, which she accepted. She decided he was adorable. When he kissed her she took off her bra and pants and tossed them away and then they made love.

  Nikki was absolutely delighted with this party, with the whole weekend. When she saw Margot come straggling in, looking as if she’d gone swimming in her clothes, and like the cat that had swallowed the canary, she was very pleased. She looked around for an equally wet and scruffy man, but whoever he was obviously had entered the house more subtly. Maybe somebody’s husband, Nikki thought. I hope not mine. She giggled at the thought of Robert cheating with anyone, especially her good friend, because it was so totally ludicrous. She was lucky he’d never cheated. He’d even sat next to her at dinner, which was thoughtful. She found him easily in the thinning crowd and put her head on his shoulder.

  “Wanna get laid?” she said.

  “Always,” he said.

  “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll leave early tomorrow and you drive me to New York. We’ll go to my apartment and christen the bed.”

  He drew away from her. “I despise women who use sex to bargain,” he said angrily.

  “I’m not!”

  “You are. You’re just like the rest of them.”

  “Damn you, Robert!” Nikki felt tears in her eyes. “You always spoil everything.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “You do.”

  “I was having nice thoughts about you,” she said. “Nice thoughts. Then you had to go and be horrible again.”

  “Don’t do your little cry-baby trick. You go all little-girl when you want something. I’m t
ired of it.”

  “Good night, Robert,” Nikki said, and went into the house, into their room, and shut the door. It was one o’clock in the morning and that was her bedtime. He didn’t come looking for her, and she knew that he wouldn’t. When finally he got into the king-sized bed that Rachel had considerately put in the best guest room, Nikki was nearly asleep from counting the sounds of departing cars instead of sheep. She looked at the clock on the night table on her side of the bed and saw that it was half past three.

  “Where were you, washing the dishes?” she said.

  “Good night,” Robert said, and turned his back to her. He fell right asleep, and she didn’t know if she was glad or sorry. She didn’t know how she felt about him any more. But even though she was very angry at him, she was surprised at how easily she drifted into sleep just because he was in the bed with her. Habit was a curious thing.

  The long Fourth of July weekend was over on Sunday. Ellen, Hank, and Margot left for New York just before noon, check-out time at their motel. Nobody spoke much in the car. Margot had a hangover, Hank didn’t like to talk when he was driving, and Ellen got tired of chattering away to herself.

  Nikki and Robert had a late brunch on the terrace with Rachel and Lawrence. The help had cleaned everything so well you wouldn’t know there had been a party the night before. Robert was going to drive Nikki to Sayville and put her on the train to New York, the way they had planned. He would then go on to Wilton.

  “But that’s inhumane!” Rachel said. “And besides, it’s the long way. You could drive her right into New York and then go up the East River Drive.”

  “I have a map—” Robert said.

  “I’ll make you a map with the shortcuts,” Rachel said.

  Nikki was pleased that Rachel, who was never assertive with men, was taking her side against Robert. He was so stubborn and childish. Now not only was her apartment off limits, but he had apparently decided New York was off limits too. This town ain’t big enough for both of us, varmint. She stifled a giggle behind her cup of coffee.

  Kerry was staying on in the house for a few days, alone except for the help. Haviland had insisted on going into New York with some people who had a car, to keep her date. He had told her to pack and be out of his apartment by the time he got back. He was gambling that she would still be there when he returned. After all, he was security against her other boyfriend, just as her boyfriend was security against him. He woke up early, had a swim, and now was lying on the beach with the book review section of the Times.

  The houseman put the Gellhorns’ bags into their car. Nikki put her arms around Rachel and kissed her. “Thank you a million times. I’ll call you tomorrow in the city.” She was going to just shake hands with Lawrence, because he rather awed her, but he kissed her goodbye, which was a surprise. Robert did not kiss Rachel. Nikki thought he was probably annoyed that she had won what he considered a power play. Rachel and Lawrence were going to drive back after dinner to avoid the traffic. Nikki would really have liked to stay until they left, but she had to leave with her husband, it was only protocol. She realized that if she had liked Robert more today she would have felt free to tell him she would drive home with the Fowlers, but whenever she disliked him she was especially proper and nice.

  Robert played the radio all the way into New York, and neither of them talked. What I really want to do when I get home, Nikki thought, is wash my hair and get into bed and watch television. I’ve been with so many people this weekend it’ll be a relief to be alone. She supposed Robert would be secretly glad to get rid of her too.

  He pulled up in front of her building, but left the motor running. “Got everything?”

  “Don’t you have to come up and pee or anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thanks for the ride, then. I’ll call you tomorrow, or you call me.”

  “You know I will.”

  “Bye.” She took her suitcase and let herself into the building with her key. She took her mail from her mailbox in the tiny vestibule, and when she looked back through the iron-filigreed glass door Robert was gone. Bastard, she thought.

  Nikki opened the door to her apartment, surprised she’d forgotten to double-lock it, and dropped the mail in horror. It slid across the bare floor. The place had been ransacked, torn apart, systematically robbed. She felt as if she were choking. She ran around looking at the carnage: her fur rug was gone, her color television, her cassette player, her clock radio, her blender, her toaster, her bedspread, goddamn them, her jewelry of course, and almost all her clothes. They had left the air conditioner because it was too heavy. That meant it was probably not a them but a he. Her burglar had come back.

  Oh, how she would like to get her hands around his throat! She would kick him in the balls, she would kill him! She felt personally molested, this was her burglar, he had defiled her private life. It took her a few minutes for the realization to sink in that it was he who could have killed her.

  How had he gotten in anyway? The lock on the front door was intact. The balcony, of course. The window was still open. He had come in the window, which she never locked—not that a window lock would have stopped him—and undisturbed during the long weekend exodus from this fancy neighborhood, had taken all her pawnable things out the front door. That was why it wasn’t double-locked; she knew she’d double-locked it when she left.

  Robert should have been here, the bastard. Then she thought about it and realized that Robert would have been so self-righteous, so smug, so hateful, insinuating that she had gotten what she deserved for leaving the nice safe country and him, that it would have been intolerable. She would never tell Robert. She wouldn’t even collect the insurance—because if she did, the rates would go up, and he would find out about the robbery. She would just have to save and scrounge until she had replaced everything. Maybe she should call the cops. They might never find her things, but at least she could try. She felt so lost; there were a million things to do and she didn’t want to do any of them, she just wanted to get into bed, pull the covers over her head, and cry. Why did he have to spoil her perfect apartment? She never let anyone in here unless it was a special friend. Who was this stranger who thought he owned her, who could just break in and help himself to anything he wanted? Now she would have to get an iron gate, bars, to put over her window, and then the burglars would be locked out, but she would also be locked in. She might as well be in jail. Trapped. A baby in a playpen.

  She called the police, and then she called the locksmith. She wasn’t afraid the burglar would come back tonight. He knew she was home, that everyone who had gone away for the weekend was home or on the way. Besides, there wasn’t anything else for him to take except her air conditioner and the furniture, and he would have to wait for another long weekend for those. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight, and not next weekend. She had rights too in this world. Nikki sat in her desecrated apartment and waited for the men in the uniforms and the man with the prison bars. She wanted a drink, but when she looked in the cabinet she saw with absolutely no surprise that the burglar had taken all her liquor too.

  Jill Rennie had never quite gotten over her surprise that there were no bars on the windows at the mental hospital in the country and no locks on the bedroom doors. She had expected lunatics and attendants, straitjackets, all the stuff she’d seen in horror movies. But it was really a pleasant place. The kids were weird, but so were some of the “normal” kids at school. The patients here were separated according to age, sex, and degree of violence. Since she was neither violent nor suicidal she was allowed to spend her days as she pleased, provided she attended her daily session with the shrink, and let them feed her. She got regular meals, in small portions, and also a sort of milkshake they concocted with special things in it to build her up. One of the patients told her that the milkshake alone contained a thousand calories, and if you didn’t drink it you went back on I.V. There had been another anorexic girl here last spring, and that’s what had happened to her.
The patient who told her this was a fourteen-year-old former junkie, and Jill didn’t know whether to believe her or not about the calories. She damn well believed her about the I.V.

  There were arts and crafts, painting, other hobbies, and sports. Jill had expected basket weaving, but there was none of that. She kept a notebook about the other patients because she thought it might make a good book some day. Most of them were upper middle class or rich. You had to be, at these prices. There were also a lot of legends, which she wrote down, about former patients. There was the girl who had swallowed ten pieces of silverware from the dining room in order to kill herself, then eaten a washcloth, and finally, when she had been very good and was declared cured, had gone to greet her happy parents in the hall, walked right past them, and jumped out the window. That window now had chicken wire in the glass.

  The day after Jill arrived, an aide named Dorothy Gellhorn came to see her. Dorothy had looked her up because Jill’s mother and Dorothy’s mother—Nikki Gellhorn, an editor at a publishing company—were friends. Dorothy was nineteen and wanted to be a psychologist. Jill knew whenever Dorothy was trying to work on her, but she didn’t mind because Dorothy was such an amateur. They became rather friendly. Dorothy always had interesting stories. Jill’s favorite was the mystery murderer. The mystery murderer was a boy—or had been once—and he had killed both his parents. Since they were vastly rich and he was an only child, he had inherited their fortune, and instead of going to the state hospital for the criminally insane he was here, kept in seclusion, supported by his murdered parents’ estate. He was in his forties now, supposedly. Dorothy had never seen him. No one was allowed to see him but his keeper. Jill thought he might as well be dead. But maybe he thought he was better off than when he had been living with his parents. Who was she to put down someone else’s logic? She wondered if he’d planned it or if it had been done on the spur of the moment. Apparently he’d been fifteen at the time. The place where they kept him was way down at the other end of the campus, as Jill thought of it.