The Last Chance

by Rona Jaffe

  Rachel hadn’t been on the subway for almost fifteen years. She was astonished at the change. The outsides of the silver cars were covered with brightly colored graffiti done in acrylic paints: names, numbers, and even the most beautiful and innovative drawings she had ever seen outside an art gallery. She had read in the newspapers about kids doing that, and how angry the authorities were, but she thought it was marvelous. It was pop. The world was pop. Who could believe some of the things that went on? Was it worse for kids to write their names on the outside of a subway car? They even wrote inside the cars. She hadn’t read about that in the papers. Maybe it was new. She longed to write her own name, but all she had with her was the felt-tipped pen she used to take notes in class, and that wouldn’t even be noticeable. Besides, there were other adults in the cars, and they probably wouldn’t approve at all.

  The train racketed and shrieked through the tunnel, rocking, on its way to Coney Island. She and Andy had to shout to each other in order to be heard.

  “It’s not so bad, is it?” he yelled.

  “One thing you have to say for it,” Rachel yelled back, “it’s fast.”

  “It’s the silver bullet. Biggest bargain in town, except for the Aquarium.”

  Bitch! He had followed her when she cut her classes with that repulsive little Andy, and when they got on the train he got on the car behind them, standing near the glass so he could watch them. She didn’t belong on the subway and she didn’t belong with a hippie kid either. He saw their mouths moving but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. What was he telling her that made her laugh so? Her face lit up when she was with the kid and she looked like a teen-ager herself. He wanted to grab them both and smash their heads together.

  He still loved her, but his love had turned to pain and an incredible rage since she had become friendly with the boy. If someone so unlikely as that Andy could have her, why couldn’t he? She knew him, she could have picked him if she wanted him. Women did that all the time. They were aggressive. They saw a man they wanted and chose him as if they were simply buying a new dress, took him away with them, used him, and gave him away or forgot him when they were bored. Rachel was saving the seat for Andy now in class; nothing escaped his watchful eye. Twice he had sneaked into the lecture hall, and he had seen her put her books on the chair next to hers until Andy came. He bet she didn’t tell her husband that.

  That flower she was wearing—who had given it to her? Her husband or the kid? She’d worn it to class, so it must have been from Lawrence. What kind of gesture was that toward a princess on her birthday? He would have given her masses of flowers, smothered her in them, overwhelmed her with the generosity of his love. Yes, he knew everything about her, even that it was her birthday.

  He never ceased to be amazed at the facility with which he slipped from one life into another: his life at home and then this. He even fooled himself. When he was away from her he was always drawn to her, even though he now felt this almost constant anger that made him ill.

  The train stopped at Coney Island and the two of them got off. He got off too. For a moment he had the wild idea that he could push the boy off the platform onto the tracks of an oncoming train, but he realized she would see who had done it. He would have to push her off too, and that was not the plan he had for her. His plan, which was carefully forming in his mind, was not to destroy her but to have her. He would punish her, and she would be sorry, and he would own her. It was a plan with many risks. He could not go too far, only far enough. But he had to be sure nobody knew who had done it, in case of an accident. He could never be absolutely sure he could control the violence within him. That sort of thing was so hard to gauge. He had to protect himself. It reassured him to know now that he wasn’t crazy. A madman wouldn’t make such careful plans, he would just go ahead and do it.

  He followed them at a distance until they went into the Aquarium. After a decent interval he went across the street, paid his entrance fee, and entered the darkness. He could hear them before he saw them. In a while his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he could see them too. There were plenty of columns to hide behind. The floors and walls were covered with black carpet. Set into the walls were large illuminated fish tanks, almost like stage sets, containing all sorts of sea life. Everything else was black, to further enhance the dramatic effect of these living tableaux. There were sharks, piranhas, barracudas—the carnivores of the sea. He felt very much akin to them as he slipped silently from column to column, his footsteps so quiet on the black carpet that he might be swimming, his eyes seeking her out in the dark. His tongue tasted her blood, and he sighed, very softly, no more than a breath, the sound mingling with the artificial air in this windowless and timeless place.

  Rachel didn’t like it here. She didn’t want to hurt Andy’s feelings by making him leave, but this dark, sinister place made her feel creepy, and she longed to hurry out. Besides, she’d never even liked fish. She’d never had a fish tank at home, she didn’t think they were very pretty, and a lot of the fish in those huge tanks set into the walls were killers. She wondered if the glass ever broke.

  “Isn’t this great?” Andy said.

  “It scares me a little,” she said.

  “It is kind of scary, but it’s so dramatic. That’s what I like about it.”

  “To scare me?”

  “No, Rachel! I mean it’s what the ocean is really like. It’s pitch dark way down. It’s like this. You and I would never see any of these things.”

  “I think I’d rather see them on a plate,” Rachel said.

  He grinned at her. “You really are a city girl.”

  “I have the feeling I’m being watched.”

  “So do they.”

  “I hate their eyes. I feel as if I’m being watched from all over. I have just decided I’m never going to be a scuba diver.”

  The ocean wasn’t lit up like those fish tanks, Rachel thought. In the real ocean it was dark, and strange shapes brushed by you, soundlessly, and they could sink their teeth into you if they wanted to. She shuddered. It wasn’t the fish that frightened her, with their lethal teeth, it was this place itself. The fish were sealed into their watertight compartments. But this black and silent place seemed sealed off too, so far away from the real world that it might even be underground. She kept having the feeling that there was someone or some thing in these halls themselves, not inside the tanks, but here with her and Andy, something dangerous. It almost seemed to breathe. A few times she looked back, glanced around, but there was no one there but the two of them. She wasn’t a superstitious person, but she was conscious of an evil force and she didn’t know what it was.

  Andy took her hand. “You look so pale,” he said sympathetically. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not pale, it’s the light.”

  “I wanted you to have a good time on your birthday,” he said. “We should have gone to the Planetarium, I guess.”

  “No, this is interesting. But can we go now?”

  “Okay. But the best thing is—”

  “Now!” She surprised herself with the sharpness of her tone. She was frightened. “Let’s run, I’ll race you,” she said, to make a joke of it, and turned in the direction of the exit. She should have known not to make a race of it, for of course Andy was far ahead of her in a minute. She heard her breath rasping as she ran, and then she knew it wasn’t her own breath—there was someone else behind her. Her heart pounded with panic, and her legs ached as she fled, too breathless to call.

  She burst out into the sunlight. The reassuring world was still there, so ordinary, so wonderful. She looked back, and there was no one there.

  They returned to the city on the subway, and Andy insisted on riding with her all the way to the stop near her apartment building, even though he lived in the Village. She kept assuring him that she could get off with him and then take a cab, as she always did from school.

  “I don’t want you to be alone on your birthday,” he sa
id. “I can at least deliver you to Lawrence.”

  He really was sweet. She knew there were a lot of things he liked that she couldn’t enjoy any more, but she could always enjoy his enthusiasm. She hoped he wouldn’t outgrow it or have it eroded away in this harsh city.

  When she got to her apartment Lawrence still wasn’t home, so she had a steaming hot bubble bath, listening to records and drinking a glass of wine. She usually didn’t drink in the tub, but she had been through a lot this afternoon and she felt she deserved it.

  When she was dressed and made up, Lawrence came home. He took a shower, shaved, and dressed, and then they had some champagne in the living room. “Come in the den,” he said, “and I’ll give you your presents.”

  There was a great pile of boxes on the floor in the den, reaching almost up to Rachel’s head. Each was carefully wrapped. On the very top was a tiny box.

  “Which first?” she asked.

  “The little one.”

  It was a pair of small diamond earrings, rather old-fashioned-looking, edged in gold. “I love them!” she cried.

  “Now the big ones,” he said, pointing at the boxes.

  She rushed to him and gave him a hug and a kiss. “Thank you for my earrings.” She put them right on.

  They weren’t boxes at all, they were books. It was an entire encyclopedia, the biggest set she had ever seen. Lawrence had had each volume wrapped separately. She wondered where she could ever keep them, until she noticed that he had emptied out the whole bottom shelf of one of the bookcases that lined the wall.

  “Oh, they’re wonderful!” she said, delighted.

  “I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all of you,” he said.

  The two of them put the books into the shelf in alphabetical order, had another glass of champagne, and left the masses of torn gift paper and ribbons for the maid to take away. Lawrence had his chauffeured limousine downstairs and they went to the restaurant.

  Rachel loved Lutèce. The lovely town house, the fireplace in the dining room, the fresh flowers on the tables, the big crystal wineglasses, and most of all the food. She always ate whatever she wanted to on her birthday, even though she starved herself for a week afterward to do penance. She and Lawrence had a long, leisurely dinner, comfortable in each other’s company and in their love. She was glad she had insisted they invite no one else. She hadn’t seen Lawrence so relaxed in a long time. Between courses he held her hand under the table.

  After the enormous dinner they had coffee and brandy, and then they went home in the limousine, which had waited for them.

  “This was the most perfect evening,” Rachel said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Their apartment looked like a funeral home, filled with white roses. White roses in vases all over the living room, in the den, even in their bedroom. There must have been ten dozen of them, over a hundred roses. Rachel sneezed. She looked at Lawrence, about to tell him he was crazy to have done it, when she realized he was as surprised as she was.

  “Who sent those roses?” he said.

  “I don’t know, where’s the card?” She was rushing around looking for a card, but there was none. “Minnie!”

  The maid came in. “Yes, Mrs. Fowler?”

  “Where’s the card that came with these?”

  “There wasn’t any card.”

  “Well, who sent them?”

  “A delivery boy brought them just after you and Mr. Fowler left. I put them in water.”

  “Where are the boxes?”

  “In the trash. You want me to get them?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Rachel said. “There’ll be the florist’s name on the boxes at least,” she told Lawrence. “Maybe the card is somewhere too.”

  “I looked for a card,” Minnie said. “I thought if someone spent that much money there’d be a card.”

  Rachel went to the service entrance, where Minnie had neatly piled up the empty florist’s boxes. She didn’t know why the white roses made her feel so uncomfortable. They were vulgar, but they shouldn’t seem ominous. They were probably from some business person who wanted a favor from Lawrence and thought he’d make a good impression by overwhelming her. But Rachel couldn’t imagine anyone with such bad taste, unless it was some oil sheik, and even they had better taste if they did business with normal people like Lawrence. The roses were like an intrusion. The air of the entire apartment seemed heavy with their sweetness. She rummaged through all the boxes, but there was no card. She phoned the florist.

  “This is Mrs. Fowler. You sent me about ten dozen white roses, but there’s no card. Who sent them?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Fowler. My assistant took the order. I’ll ask him.” She waited. “He says the man didn’t write a card.”

  “Put your assistant on, please.”

  “Hello.” A younger voice, also a man.

  “Who bought all those white roses?” Rachel asked.

  “I don’t know. It was a man. He paid cash and he didn’t want to write a card.”

  “What did he look like?” Rachel demanded.

  “I don’t remember. Just a man. I don’t know—forties maybe. He had a hat on.”

  “Didn’t you ask him for his name?”

  “We don’t if they pay cash. But it was such a big order, well, I asked, and I gave him our card because I’d never seen him before.”

  “Would you look up his name, please?” She didn’t know why her voice was so sharp with nervousness. She felt as if someone had inflicted these roses on her, not given her a present.

  “Oh, I don’t have to look it up,” the young man said, “I remember it.”

  “What was it?”

  “Mr. Smith.”

  Lawrence insisted on throwing out the roses because they were making her unhappy. She kept pacing up and down the bedroom saying, “Oh, shit.” It was like some enormous practical joke that had backfired—but why? What was the point? Was she supposed to be pleased or upset? Who was “Mr. Smith”?

  “Well, whoever he is,” Lawrence said comfortingly, “when he comes to visit and there aren’t any roses, he’ll wonder why.”

  “But nobody’s coming to visit.”

  “Maybe it’s somebody we dropped from our list,” Lawrence said.

  “If I was thrilled, which I’m obviously not, what good was it going to do him if he was so sneaky about it?”

  “Maybe he’ll call.”

  “Things like that are so mean,” Rachel said.

  “Forget about it,” Lawrence said. “Come to bed. He’s just out a lot of money.”

  “Maybe it’s somebody I don’t even know,” Rachel said. “He might have seen my picture in ‘W’ after the party at East Hampton. He’s trying to buy his way into our affections, like Gatsby.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lawrence said. “Let’s go to sleep.”

  Rachel got into bed next to his comforting warmth. She felt as if somehow their evening had been ruined by an intruder, and she held on tightly to her husband, wishing that their lives were different, that they didn’t know all those people, that the two of them could just spend their lives alone, from time to time seeing only the few friends they really liked and trusted.

  In November John Griffin’s book was finished, and edited by Nikki. He wrote the way he had sex, tirelessly. She’d never had an author who worked so fast. As to being edited, although he was careful and thoughtful about every change she wanted to make, he was reasonable too, and he finally let her make most of them. She thought part of the reason he was so amenable was that he had a deadline: he had to go away on location to make another movie. His novel was planned for publication the following September. She could see his attention already wandering away from the small but important final changes she was making in his book to the script he had at home that he was reading, rereading, and becoming involved in.

  When his manuscript was all finished she took him to lunch to celebrate. He let her sign the check. He was leaving
for Yugoslavia the next morning.

  “You’re a lovely lady,” he said.

  “Thank you. You’re a lovely man.”

  “I wish I could do something for you.”

  “You have.”

  “I mean, I want to give you something.”

  “You’ve already given me a wonderful book.”

  He smiled, pleased. “But I mean I want to give you a present. Or do something for you.”

  “Authors don’t have to give editors presents,” she said, laughing. “Even rich authors.”

  “I don’t mean as an author to an editor,” he said. “I mean from me to you.”

  Nikki looked at him. His face was calm and she couldn’t read his eyes. What am I supposed to ask for, she thought, a piece of jewelry? A hundred dollars? A screen test? Does every woman he goes to bed with want something?

  “I don’t want anything,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Would you like to stop at my apartment before you go back to the office?” he asked.

  “All right,” she said, pretending to be as casual as he was pretending to be.

  At his apartment he made love to her for the last time. They both already knew that Robert had decided to come into the city for the evening. Knowing this was the last time with John for a long time, maybe forever, made her want to let herself go more than ever before, so naturally she couldn’t let go at all. She hated goodbyes. He was as enthusiastic as always, and she had to call her secretary to say she wouldn’t be in that afternoon.

  When she had to leave he didn’t seem to want to detain her. She saw the partly packed suitcases on the chairs, the already packed ones lined up, the script on his dresser. She was already out of his life, and he was entering the next adventure. Going down in the elevator she consoled herself with the knowledge that she was going to meet her husband for dinner, and so she was just as cold as John Griffin. Or was he cold? If you played a certain game you had to keep to the rules.

  Robert was trying hard to be charming. He told her at length about a new case he was working on, and Nikki found herself drifting away. John Griffin … if anyone ever knew! She missed him, and she felt sad.