by Noah Bly
“You gave me quite a scare yesterday,” I mumble.
He sinks deeper in his pillows. “I scared myself, too.” He catches my thumb, playfully. “So tell me. What was this epiphany of yours?”
I so much want to say the right things to him, now. I want to find the words that will set us both free, and end our mutual bloodletting. But there’s been so much anger between us, I don’t have a clue how to proceed.
With the truth, I suppose.
I disengage myself from him, gently, and place his hand back on his stomach. “As epiphanies go, it wasn’t much, really. It just … well, it simply occurred to me, all at once, that I’ve truly, absolutely lost you. And I’m more or less fine with that.” I reach up and put my fingers on his lips before he can answer. “Which doesn’t mean I won’t miss you terribly. And that I won’t hate Martha for the rest of my life, just for the fun of it. But when I thought you might die last night, things somehow changed.”
There are, surprisingly, fresh tears in his old gray eyes. He removes my hand from his mouth and holds it against his shoulder. “What things?” he whispers.
I study his thick beard, and his small, elfin ears, and his large Adam’s apple. I notice the way the late afternoon sun from the window brings out a random orange thread in the collar of his gown, and how a wrinkle in the middle of his forehead is deeper on the right side than on the left. I smell his familiar, pleasant body odor, which underlies the scent of flowers in the room, and the pungent medicinal stink, which must be the dressing on his wound, and I listen to him breathe, shallow and slow.
And I can feel his much-abused heart beating through our linked hands.
I clear my throat. “Everything, my love. Everything. The whole world changed.” I turn my head to look out the window. “I saw just how awful I’ve been since Jeremy died. I saw how much the two of us have hated ourselves for his death, and how we let that ruin us. I saw how I’ve clung to you like a parasite ever since you wanted to leave me, and I saw how the only hope for either of us to find any happiness from here on in is to just let go of everything, completely.”
My voice is even, and almost cheerful, but my face is wet. One tear after another falls from my chin to my lap. I turn back to him, resolved to finish what I came here to say.
“Arthur.” I wipe my nose with my free hand. “I have loved you so much. Do you know that?”
He tightens his grip on me and tries to answer, but he can’t. He pulls me closer to him, intending to put his arms around me, but the tubes are in the way, and he’s still in too much discomfort from the surgery to attempt such things, so I forestall him and lean in for a kiss, instead. His lips are soft and a little chapped, and our breath mingles, warm and moist. We only hold the kiss for a moment, and then I pull away and sit up again, before I get lost and can’t find my way back home.
He swallows several times and finally manages to answer me.
“I had a similar experience myself when I woke this morning,” he begins, with considerable difficulty. “I was foggy and still feeling the effects of the anesthetic, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Martha. And before she spoke, I found myself wondering why she was here, and not you.” He runs his fingers along my forearm and cradles my injured wrist in the palm of his hand. “And then I remembered everything, and it nearly killed me, all over again.”
He pauses. “I know you’re right. I know we can’t go back to what we were, and that we can’t be together anymore.” He locks eyes with me. “But I wanted you to know that when I woke up today, I was still looking for you. Even after everything that’s happened, you were the first one I wanted to see.”
He chokes out the next words. “I will always look for you, Hester. I have loved you my whole life, and I will always love you.” He fights for control, and I can hardly see him for my tears.
I don’t remember anything ever hurting this much in my life. Not the death of my parents, not Paul’s descent into madness, not even Jeremy’s suicide. Not anything. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t.
He does his best to get us both past this moment. He gives my arm a gentle shake, and when he can talk again, his mouth twitches and he sighs. “But that being said, please be aware that when I get out of here, it’s likely I’ll still want to strangle you, or run over you with a car.”
It’s a sorry sort of life line, but it’s enough. I take hold of it, and let him pull me to safety.
I force my lips to form syllables. “Of course you will, darling. I’d expect nothing less.”
And somehow we smile at each other. I don’t know how we manage to do that, but we do.
There’s a long, aching silence as both of us wrestle with our emotions. He lets go of my wrist, and we sit together, listening to voices in the hall outside the closed door, and the sound of somebody’s television in the next room, behind the wall. In that stillness I can feel us withdrawing from each other, bit by bit; without a word spoken, we both understand it’s time to end this. In another minute or two, I will walk out the door, and Martha will walk back in.
And that will be that.
He breaks the silence at last. “So, I’ve been thinking about something.” His voice is more removed now—still cordial, but no longer the voice of my husband.
I respond in the same manner, knowing it’s the kindest thing I can do for him at this point. “Yes? I’m all ears.”
He winces at the subtle change in my tone, but then he nods, as if to himself, and continues. “I’ll be needing time to recover from this surgery, and I probably won’t be in any shape to deal with all the stairs in our house. Martha’s home is more suited to the condition I’m going to be in, so we might as well drop this lawsuit thing for the time being, until I get my strength back.”
I straighten in surprise, and nearly begin to cry again.
It’s a generous thing he’s doing, and unprecedented. There are layers on layers of grief here, for both of us, and he’s doing what he can to lessen some of it. And I’m grateful, and moved, by the gesture, especially because I know what the house means to him.
But even so, I can’t help goading him, just a little bit.
It’s what I do.
I sniff. “That’s very kind, dear. But are you sure? Martha could definitely use a few trips up and down the stairs every day, even if it’s not the best thing for you.”
His eyes narrow and his lips tighten for an instant. But then he searches my face, and something he sees there causes him to laugh, against his will. It’s an irritated, rueful chuckle, but at least it’s real.
“Good God, woman, you are such a bitch.” He yawns, and drops his head on the pillows. “And Martha is really not fat, you know.”
I nod. “I know. But it’s quite entertaining to watch you change colors, like a chameleon.”
Whatever energy he had is spent. I rise to my feet to go.
I stop by the door and turn to face him. We gaze at each other one last time, and half a century of memories pass between us. Love and loss, our children, music, hopes and dreams, death and despair, sleep, food and wine, arguments, and sex, and more sex, and winter mornings and autumn afternoons, and days on end, together.
Our life, such as it was.
Going, going, gone.
I tilt my head at him. “Goodbye, Arthur,” I say.
“Goodbye, Hester,” he murmurs, closing his eyes.
CHAPTER 24
“Alex?” I stand on the third floor landing and call up the stairs. “You have a telephone call.”
“Okay!” he hollers back. “I’ll be right there!”
He sounds excited. He probably thinks Eric is on the line.
This is Eric’s third day in the hospital, in traction. Alex has visited him every day, several times a day, but he’s had to share him with a lovely, doe-eyed girl named Sofia that Eric appears to be courting. I know her presence makes Alex jealous, but he won’t admit that. He’s attempting to pretend his feelings for the other boy are now only “platonic.”
He sails down the stairs and gives me a guilty look when he sees I’m a bit winded from the climb up here to get him. I’ve told him he needs to contact the phone company and have service installed in his apartment, but he hasn’t done it yet.
“Sorry, Hester!” He’s trying to head off a lecture before I can get my air back. “I’ll get a phone line connected next week, I promise.” He passes me at a trot, on his way to the ground floor. I’ve asked him not to use my bedroom phone (I have to maintain some boundaries), so he has to go all the way to the kitchen. He calls back up the staircase as he reaches the second floor landing. “Is it Eric?”
“No, it’s not.” I lean my head over the banister above him as he grinds to a halt in surprise. “And don’t run on the stairs. You’ll break every bone in your body.” I pause. “Alex. It’s your mother.”
His face falls. “You’re shitting me.”
“I’m afraid not. She sounds terribly sad.”
He stares up at me for a while. “What the hell does she want?” There’s more anxiety than anger in his voice.
“I don’t know. But you’d better find out.” I rest my hands on the railing. “And don’t be rude to her, dear. I know things are strained between you right now, but she’s still your mother.”
He makes a face at me, and a few seconds later the corners of his mouth curl up in a familiar way. “Can’t I just beat her brains out with an old phone instead?”
I shake a finger at him and growl. “That is not in the least bit amusing, young man. Now go talk to your mother.”
I left the receiver in the kitchen resting on the kitchen table, but Alex waits until I return to the ground floor before picking it up. He’s been standing down here for some time; it takes me quite a while to negotiate the stairs.
“Hello?” Alex mutters into the phone. His bare toes are clinched into miniature fists on the floor.
I raise my eyebrows at him and begin to leave the room to give him some privacy, but he waves me in before returning his attention to the call. “Yeah, I know who it is. Hi, Mom.”
When I spoke with his mother, she was almost pathetic in her need to speak with her son. She made a half-hearted stab at small talk, but it was all she could do to restrain herself from begging me to run and fetch him.
But I doubt she would have had the courage to call if she’d known how cold his voice was going to be at this moment.
His posture is rigid. “I’m fine. I’m doing fine.” He pauses. “Why are you calling?”
I sit at the table across from him. “Be nice,” I whisper.
He covers the mouthpiece on the receiver. “Why?” he grunts. “She’s only calling to piss me off.”
I frown. “Just give her a chance.”
His mother says something else, and he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I feel pretty damn bad about it, too, Mom. But now that you’ve called, everything’s all better now. Thanks.”
There’s a bowl of green grapes on the table, and I snatch one up and fling it at him. “Quit it,” I hiss. “Give the poor woman some credit for trying.”
The grape bounces off his cheek and he glares at me. He covers the receiver again. “Are you nuts? Whose side are you on?”
I seize another grape and threaten him with it. “Just talk to her, Alex.”
His mother speaks again, at length, and Alex’s face darkens bit by bit until he finally snaps, cutting her off. “Why in God’s name would I want to come see you guys? Has Dad changed his mind about me? I notice he’s not on the other line. I bet he’s out building an electric fence around the house to keep me out in case I should be dumb enough to show up.”
Another grape bonks into his forehead, but he ignores me.
He listens to her again, looking more miserable by the second. “Oh, I see.” He closes his eyes and breathes. “He’s busy.” He sounds inexpressibly melancholy. “Well, I’ve gotta go,” he says. “I’m busy, too.”
She raises her voice in desperation. I can’t make out many words, but I do hear “please come home,” and “family.”
He swallows hard and opens his eyes. I want to tell him to be kind, and to make peace, but I force myself to stay still this time.
He clears his throat. “I don’t think I can do that, Mom,” he murmurs. “Besides, I’ve already got a home, and a family. But really, thanks for calling. And tell Dad I appreciate all his support. He’s been swell.”
He spins on his heels and hangs up before she can answer him. When he turns around again, I’m waiting for him.
“Oh, child,” I sigh. “You’re not wrong, but you’re not right, either.”
Alex isn’t the only one to receive an unexpected call today.
I’m alone in the kitchen when the phone rings, and after a brief, awkward conversation, I hang up and wander into the living room, where Alex is sitting by the fire, reading. He should be in class this afternoon, but he’s milking his injuries for all they’re worth, refusing to return to Pritchard until his cuts and bruises are healed. He says he doesn’t want to “feel like a freak,” and he’s turned a deaf ear to at least three lengthy lectures I’ve given him regarding the wisdom of this course of action. I fear by the time he does return to the university he may be shown the door (by my daughter, most likely), but there’s little else I can do at this point to make him see sense.
He has no health insurance, of course, and no money to pay his emergency room bill, but when I offered to float him a loan, he turned me down flat, saying he’d find a job eventually, and get himself fixed up then. Stubborn child.
He looks up as I sit in the armchair across from him, and I glance at the cover of his book with approval. (It’s The Left Hand of Darkness, by Ursula LeGuin. Arthur and I both enjoy science fiction novels, and I recommended this one to Alex yesterday when he was hunting for a good book.)
“This is pretty dope,” he says, tapping the book jacket. “Weird, but good.”
I stare at the fire, too distracted to take him to task for his nonsensical slang. “I’m glad you like it.”
There’s a long pause, and the sound of a page turning as he continues reading. But after a while I can feel his eyes watching me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I stir in my chair. “That was Paul on the phone. He wants to see me in an hour.”
His thin, freckled face blanches. “He called from the jail?”
The sun is shining outside, streaming through the windows. I glance out at the driveway and blink at the bright reflection on the snow covering St. Booger’s Bible.
I shake my head. “No. He bailed himself out two days ago. He wants to meet me downtown at the diner.”
Paul told me his bail was almost thirty thousand dollars, but he was able to access the funds, and the police—at the request of Sam Hastings (the judge who set the bail, and an old family friend)—grudgingly released him. I’m not surprised Paul has that kind of money at his fingertips; he’s been drawing a decent salary for many years at Carson, and since he lives in that ghastly faculty bungalow (with a roommate, no less), and never travels or does anything expensive, I’m sure he’s managed to squirrel away a princely sum at the bank.
Alex slams his book shut. “Jesus Christ! I can’t believe they let the asshole out. What if he gets wasted and comes back here?”
I return my attention to the glowing coals in the fireplace. A log shifts on the grate and is engulfed by blue flames.
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. He sounded so …” I pause because my chin is trembling. “He sounded sane again. He said he was going to check himself into a detox center tonight, but he needs to see me first.”
Paul’s voice on the phone was sober and reticent. And disturbingly hollow. There was no life in it, no anger, no energy. He sounded like a robot, except for when he asked to meet me at the diner. When he said “please,” his voice broke a little. Which upset me far more than I thought it would.
Alex bites his lip. “I’m going with you. Just in ca
se he does something stupid.”
I shake my head once more. “No. You being there is a very bad idea. It’s not your fault, but there’s something about you that sets him off.”
He frowns. “I don’t think I’m the only one in this room you can say that about.” He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees to argue. “You really shouldn’t go alone, Hester. If you do, you’re nuts.”
He didn’t hear Paul on the phone. He didn’t hear my son’s voice break.
I pull myself together. “If it’s just me, he’ll be fine.” I give him a reassuring smile. “He won’t hurt me.”
Willie’s Diner in downtown Bolton is hardly the place I would have chosen for a private conversation. It’s a small, 1950s-style restaurant, with greasy, salty food, a miniature jukebox at every booth, and two ceiling fans that run all year long. The upholstery on the faux-leather booths and barstools is a black and white checkerboard pattern, and the counters and windows are lined with shiny chrome. It opens at five in the morning and closes at midnight, and it’s always busy, day or night.
And everyone who comes here knows Paul and me.
The quick, curious glances I get from the clientele as I enter the diner and walk over to join Paul at his booth are a sure sign that the goings-on at the Donovan househould this last week have been the subject of many a juicy conversation. Janet Green, the wizened waitress behind the counter, gives me a sympathetic smile and says hello as I pass by. I nod at her and come to a stop by Paul’s table. He’s sitting with his back to the door, so my sudden appearance startles him.
He looks horrible. His complexion is ashen and his big hands are trembling on the table, and his clothes are rumpled and food-stained. He has a full cup of coffee in front of him, and a plate with buttered toast on it, untouched.
“Hello, Hester.” He studies me for a minute and then gestures for me to sit. “Are you hungry?”
“Hello, Paul.” I slide into the booth, facing him. “No, thank you. I ate a late breakfast today.”
