by Ray Connolly
Very gradually Arrowsmith’s shyness began to dissolve and, given new confidence by Jane’s evident pleasure, he began to take control of the situation. Grasping Jane firmly by the shoulders he turned her over, in the same action drawing himself up to a kneeling position. Her body was slightly plumper than Ruth’s, almost babyish in texture, and there were none of the hardened muscles which daily exercising had developed in his wife. For some reason Piebald Jane reminded him of some delicious form of confectionary, a peppermint candy bar, perhaps, and he set to work with his tongue, savouring the sweet tastes of her skin, wandering across the plains of her body, exploring skillfully its crevices.
As his tongue drew tactile patterns around her nipples, Jane tried to guide him into her, but he wanted her to wait, and, moving back down her body, he buried his mouth and tongue inside her, his arms spread-eagling her across the bed. Then slowly he twisted and pulled her over on top of him, so that he might hide beneath her, breathing in the sweet scent of her sex. At last Jane pulled away from his arms, and moving down the bed, she very delicately impaled herself upon him.
Now that he could see her face he noticed that her eyes were no longer open, and her expression had taken on that cherubic smile he had first noticed at the airport. He had been afraid that the excitement of the encounter, and the newness of the partner, would trigger him into making a fool of himself, but, as though sensing this and being determined to keep control of the situation, Jane seemed to be subconsciously pacing his levels of excitement. She was very quiet, almost as though she were asleep and seemed to be making love to him by touch alone. And when at last she decided to release him from the game which she had devised, her expression hardly altered as the spasm stretched within him and then abruptly released itself.
For a long time afterward he lay silently, half asleep. His body was glistening with sweat, but hers appeared as soft and dry as when they had begun. He knew he ought to be feeling guilt, but he did not. In fact, it was all something of a sublime relief. Perhaps this is how the reluctant virgin felt upon being deflowered, he thought—merely grateful that it is all over. He felt comfortable and sleepy. He dozed for a while, but he knew he dared not sleep.
“Are you sleeping?” he turned on to his side toward Jane. Her piebald hair was cascading across the pillow. For the first time he noticed the lace hem of Ruth’s nightdress poking out from under the pillow. He wished now he had had the nerve to insist they make love in the other bed. It seemed so deceitful. He would swap the sheets before Ruth got back, he promised himself.
“Are you asleep?” he asked again.
Piebald Jane didn’t answer.
He smiled to himself. Lying there, asleep, she looked very young and he was again flattered that she had chosen him.
He shook her gently. “Come on. You can’t sleep here.”
Still there was no response. Arrowsmith began to feel a chill of alarm.
“Come on now, Jane, wake up. It’s getting late.” He shook her again, more violently this time. But she still did not respond.
He rested on one arm and deliberately forced himself to think rationally. Another shake, then a yet more violent one. “For God’s sake … wake up … come on …” he began slapping her cheek. Then suddenly he stopped. What if she were ill and they found her face covered with bruises? It would look like assault.
He searched across her body for her heartbeat. Now all the delights of her baby flesh had disappeared.
“Come on … wake up … Jane.” He was virtually shouting now.
Suddenly he remembered her drugstore. Scrambling out of bed, he pulled open the beach bag. “Oh, God,” he moaned. It was stuffed with all kinds of pills and vials, half of the bottles unmarked. God knew what she’d dosed herself on. Suppose she’d overdosed? In his wife’s bed. Suppose she were dying. He pulled open her eyes with probing, racing fingers, although he had no idea what he was looking for. All the time he kept shaking her and begging, pleading with her to wake up. He thought of the death of Jimi Hendrix, who had gone into a deep sleep and suffocated on his own vomit. He thought of the steak and strawberries they had had at lunch, and imagined her dying trying to breathe through regurgitated strawberries.
He had to get help. Now he regretted the puppy-dog comeliness he had admired. She was a heavy girl. Standing over her, he heaved and pulled, one arm under her armpits, the other arm under her thighs.
At that moment the door opened. “Jesus Christ!” said Ruth.
Time freezes in these situations. To an outsider, the sight of a naked man desperately trying to turn the leaden, sleeping body of a naked woman onto her stomach only to be interrupted by his wife is the stuff of farce. But to John Arrowsmith it was the culmination of all his dreads. It was a judgment of God. All the guilt of fifteen years’ frustrated fidelity burst out of him in an eruption of invective directed unfairly at his wife. All this was her fault, he told himself irrationally.
“Don’t just stand there, for Christ’s sake. She’s dying,” he screamed at Ruth, who was slowly entering the room, her face pale.
“John!” Ruth finally exclaimed. “What … what the hell are you doing?”
“What?” Arrowsmith was beginning to feel violently ill, and was wondering whether he was going to vomit from panic. A nightmare had come alive and wrecked his life. Every day of the past fifteen years had seen another rung on the ladder toward just this disaster. He needed Ruth now more than ever before. “Please, Ruth, help me. I think she’s dying. She’s overdosed or something. Please help me.”
Ruth stared at him for just one moment, seeing her husband in a new way.
“Get dressed,” she snapped sharply. Then, going over to the unconscious girl, she searched for her pulse and stared sternly at the second hand on her watch.
Arrowsmith pulled on his jeans and shirt hastily, obediently.
“Now go to the infirmary. Get the doctor. She’s there now with the chief of the village. I just saw them as I came by.”
Like a child on an errand, Arrowsmith hared out of the door, along the balcony, and down the steps to the infirmary. He had seen the doctor only once before. Sarojine was a plain Indian girl with a large nose. Technically speaking, she was a scuba doctor and authorized only to give medicals to people wishing to go deep-sea diving. But in emergencies, laws just had to be bent.
He found her drinking tea with Hardin. Virtually hysterical, he blurted out what had happened.
“Show us,” said Hardin, pushing him ahead of them.
“She’s in there, throwing up,” said Ruth as Arrowsmith led the doctor and Hardin into his room. The bed was empty, and from the sound of the bathroom came a horrible retching sound. The doctor and Hardin moved quickly past Ruth and entered the tiny bathroom. Hardin threw a towel around the girl. The doctor bent over her.
Arrowsmith looked toward Ruth. “What happened?”
“She woke up,” she said simply.
“She was in a coma?”
Ruth shook her head. “She was in a deep drug-induced sleep. But she wasn’t unconscious. You panicked too soon.”
From the bathroom came the sound of more retching. Hardin came into the bedroom and, picking up Piebald Jane’s beach bag emptied the contents onto the bed. An assortment of pills scattered over the sheet.
“She’s going to be all right?” asked Arrowsmith, unable to believe the sudden turn of events.
Hardin nodded, tight-lipped. “The doctor thinks so. If you don’t mind, we’d like to keep her in here for a while. Perhaps you could go and have a talk among yourselves …” His voice trailed away. He had no idea what state their marriage was in. “I’d like to talk to you again later,” he said then, directly to Arrowsmith.
Arrowsmith nodded and looked toward Ruth. Silently she turned and walked out of the room. He followed.
Thirty-Seven
Ruth Arrowsmith’s reasons for wishing to enjoy a vacation separately from her husband had had nothing to do with him, but everything to do with the way in whi
ch she saw herself. For nearly fifteen years she had acted the role of the archetypal invisible wife, the woman at her husband’s side, the person whose individuality had been completely submerged beneath his career ambitions. Now at the age of thirty-six she was beginning to rebel.
The reappearance of Joanna into her life had caused an affirmation of what she already knew about herself. Joanna had lived the heady life, had had what sounded like exciting and glamorous jobs, had traveled, and had had numerous affairs. But all that led to was a rich little realtor in New Rochelle. When Ruth had asked, as tactfully as possible, what Joanna was doing with someone like Roeg, Joanna had given her a look of contempt and said, “Listen, at the age of thirty-six with the divorce and property laws as they are, grade-one husbands-to-be are very few. Michael is rich, generous, and good at it. So if you’re thinking of a change, forget it. The one you’ve got is as good as you’ll ever get.”
Bearing this advice in mind, Ruth had gone about changing her status as the invisible wife. She had decided that if she was invisible, it was because she had never allowed her own personality to develop further than through the lives of John and the children. In the future she would make a supreme effort to regain some of the individuality she had once believed she possessed. The vacation at Club Village had been one of the steps along the way.
The Tuesday boat excursion had been planned to last until four-thirty. But fate had decreed otherwise, in the shape of a squid which became entangled in two of the propellers of the three-engined boat in which she and Joanna were traveling, forcing them to limp home on the one good engine. As a day out it had been disappointing and, as she had walked up from the marina to the village, she had determined to go in search of her husband and have a nice cool drink. It had been with these simple and homely thoughts in mind that she had opened the door to her cabin.
After Hardin shooed them both from their room, the Arrowsmiths stood for some moments on the balcony, uncertain of what to do. Which attitudes should they take toward each other? Arrowsmith was sweating with fear and relief. His mouth was dry, but he did not want to drink. He tried to turn to face his wife, but it was impossible. He dared not look into her eyes. Slowly, still without looking at each other, they made their way along the balcony and down the steps toward the beach.
Blankly, Ruth walked out to the edge of the water and waded into the ripples of waves. Arrowsmith watched her. He could see that there would be no tears. Her face was dry, her expression perplexed. He fought for words but found none.
At last Ruth wandered out of the sea and began to meander along the beach. Arrowsmith dragged himself after her, a pace or two to one side, two or three yards behind.
“John …”
Arrowsmith swallowed. His eyeballs burned from wanting to cry. He just wanted to be forgiven, but nothing was ever that easy.
Ruth began again. “Was it nice, John?”
This was the one question for which he was not prepared.
“I mean, was it worth it? Did you enjoy it?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said.
“You’re sorry?” Arrowsmith was having difficulty following.
“I mean, that’s probably an impossible question to answer. But I really want to know. Is it so much nicer with her? I know you’ve done it before, but it was easier then because I didn’t find out …”
“Done what before?”
“You know, been with other women.”
“I haven’t.”
“John.” Ruth half-glanced over her shoulder, a sad glance of regret that he should still think it necessary to lie to her.
Arrowsmith shook his head. “I promise you, Ruth … today was the only time. The first ever …”
Ruth was puzzled, but she believed him. “Why?” she asked. “Why did it take you so long? Don’t tell me it was loyalty, either, John. And don’t talk about love, either.”
Arrowsmith thought hard. For years he had tried to congratulate himself on his fidelity, but now he saw the lie to that. He had been faithful because he had been too lazy, too settled in his ways to go looking. It wasn’t that the occasions had never arisen; it was more a matter of being too much involved with himself to give them opportunity.
“I guess I never got around to it,” he said miserably.
Ruth nodded. That was an answer she could understand. “So, was it nice?” she asked again, after a few seconds.
Numbly, he nodded, tears welling in his eyes.
“Don’t cry, John,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head. “Don’t be. It could easily have been me. I suppose we’re both in pretty much the same position. You feel that you’ve devoted your life to me and the kids and building up a home, and that somehow all the ideas you once had about doing something worthwhile have gotten lost along the way. If you’d been a single man you might have had a brilliant career and a great life as well, John. I know that. It could have been an exciting life, instead of pension plans and a place in suburbia.”
“No, that isn’t true. We both know that,” broke in Arrowsmith. “Maybe that’s what I’d like to be able to tell myself, to make an excuse for taking the easy way out, and going after promotions instead of the things I used to think were worth doing. But I’m just bullshitting myself. Being a family man made it easier for me to justify going the way I would have gone anyway. I used to talk about working in politics. Do you remember that? And all that stuff I said I wanted to do for the East Village … that was when I lived there. I never think about those things anymore. I used to try to tell myself that my career was for the good of all of us, but I was really lying to myself. I really wanted to make it in the firm. That was the real reason. I wanted all the things I’ve worked for. They became important. Now they don’t look very exciting, maybe, but on the way up I’ve been glad to take everything that’s been offered.”
“Do you love me, John?” Ruth asked suddenly. “Honestly, do you?”
Arrowsmith shook his head. “I don’t know, Ruth. I don’t know what the word means, not the way I used to know. I don’t love anybody else, and I never have. But I can’t honestly say I feel the way I did when we first began dating.”
Ruth didn’t answer for a while, but began drawing with her shoe in the sand, writing her name in big letters. Arrowsmith watched her. She looked younger than he had noticed in years, something like the girl he had married, but he felt more distant from her than he had ever had. For the first time he realized that he was seeing her as other men must see her. At last she turned back. “So, was it nice?” she said for the third time.
He nodded. “Yes, it was … wonderful,” he said.
She smiled. “I’m glad, John. You deserve some fun. Too bad about the way it turned out.”
Hardin would have liked to have begun his investigation of Piebald Jane right away, but Sarojine, the Indian doctor, advised against it.
“It is very difficult to investigate a nauseous person,” she said, in that peculiarly formal way which Indians inherited from the British Empire. “I think it would be most advisable for us to get her back to her own room for the rest of the day. I will stay with her there, and then perhaps this evening she will be able to give us an account of the events of the day.”
Hardin shrugged. “I’ll send up a couple of CVs to help you get her back to her own room, then,” he said. As he heard retching coming from the bathroom, he stepped out onto the balcony and headed back toward his office.
On the way past the boutique he almost bumped into Cassandra, who was deep in conversation with Homer Wolford about her possible participation in the week’s tennis tournament. She blushed slightly as he excused himself. He looked harassed and angry.
“Sorry,” he snapped as he almost stumbled over her long, outstretched legs, which were propping her body against the boutique window.
“My fault,” she said quickly, and stood upright.
“You room
with the girl with the strange hair, don’t you?” he asked.
Cassandra nodded. Hardin explained, ending with, “If it kills me I’m going to clean every last goddamn drug out of this village.”
Cassandra knitted her eyebrows and watched him lope away. He was being totally unrealistic. Wherever you got a large crowd of young people you were inevitably going to find all kinds of dope. She wondered what it was that made him so completely antidope.
“I never saw a man so obsessively hostile to dope,” said Homer Wolford. “He’s sure as hell pissing into the wind if he thinks he’s gonna be able to clean up this village completely. Every charter brings its quota of pillheads.”
Cassandra nodded and changed the subject. She didn’t want to think about Hardin and his crusade at that moment. “What were you saying about this tennis tournament anyway, Homer? I promise you I haven’t played seriously since I was at school.”
“That’s okay. I watched you yesterday. I would figure that you’re at least quarterfinal standard. Tell me you’ll put your name down for this Friday.”
“Well, if you insist.”
“I do insist. And so do all the tennis coaches. We discussed seeding the players last night, and they all gave you a pretty high rating.”
