He hadn’t seen her this silly since Mardi Gras, before the children were born. She scattered handfuls of chips on the bed like petals and dove after them, bouncing a few over the edge, then lay still like a murder victim, arms outflung, her hair in her eyes. She hummed, content to lie there, then rolled off, crawled on her hands and knees to the door, climbed the frame and swung into the bathroom. A minute later he heard the jacuzzi bubbling. Already she was shucking her clothes, teasing him with a glimpse of her nakedness.
“Bring my glass,” she ordered. “And turn off the light.”
He whipped his shirt over his head, the buttons scraping his face. His pants shackled his ankles. He toppled backwards onto the bed, kicking them free. When he stood up, he discovered a hundred-dollar chip stuck to his butt and brushed it off. On his way past the dresser he snatched her rose, saw the vase going over but couldn’t stop. He listened but didn’t hear it break behind him.
In the corner of the tub, a single candle flickered. For safety it was fake, battery-powered, casting a pale glow like moonlight over her shoulders. Behind her, the window was steamed, the Falls a red blur.
“My rose.” She stretched toward him to take it, and then her glass, her breasts wallowing, nosing the surface before she sat back. “I love my rose.”
He was cold, and there was no graceful way to get in. He sat backwards on the lip to swing his legs over, but misjudged and slipped, bumping his hip on the edge of the seat.
“Watch out now,” she said. “You okay?”
“I’m great.”
He sank up to his neck, the heat enveloping him, entering his skin. The feeling of near-weightlessness was strange but pleasant, his penis bobbing free. He slid in beside her, thigh‑to‑thigh, his forehead already sweating.
“It’s hot.”
“It feels good.” She turned to look out the window, rubbed a circle in the fog. “I think it’s snowing.”
He twisted to see, his knee pressing against hers, his free hand finding her side, fitting the curve of her ribs. It was coming down gently, scattered flakes drifting through the light cast by the windows above, then continuing invisible in the blackness.
“Don’t tickle.”
“I’m not.” He slid his hand up, cupping the knob of her shoulder.
“This is nice,” she said sleepily.
“Mmh.”
He resisted the urge to touch her breast, afraid of ruining the mood. Normally he had to negotiate his approach, reading her every gesture as preemptive, a hedge against rejection, but as she turned from the window, in a move that seemed premeditated, she set her glass and her rose on the ledge, reached both arms over his shoulders and kissed him, her mouth warm and winey. They necked in the heat, blindly, lushly, clutching each other. She tugged at him under the water. He hooked his fingers between her legs, kneading her open, a different slipperiness. She climbed astride him, rocking, giving him one breast and then the other, driving down on him, arching and tipping her head back.
Though he rose to it, her desire surprised him, reminding him of Wendy and their frantic couplings, a slide show he immediately closed. Maybe this was Marion’s way of reclaiming him, or maybe she was just drunk, her inhibitions overcome by appetite. He didn’t care what the reason was. Like the strength of her ardor, or her surprising beauty in the wan light, it was finally beside the point. What mattered was that he loved her and she wanted him.
From behind him came a muffled thud. Another, and quickly another.
Above him, she stopped, distracted by something outside the window. “Cool.”
“What?”
“Fireworks. Hang on.” Before he could protest, she popped off of him. She knelt on the seat facing the window and bent over, presenting her curved, pillowy ass, reached back between her legs and guided him in. “Now you can see.”
“Yes I can.”
“You’re rude,” she said, amused.
“No, you are.”
Below, distorted by the humidity, a red spider bloomed above the gorge, its legs spreading from the center, then fading to embers.
“It must be midnight,” he said. “You know what that means.”
“What?”
He reached over her back and dangled her rose in front of her. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
“I didn’t get you anything.”
“I’ve got everything I need right here.”
“So do I,” she said. “Actually, I could use a little more champagne.”
“Take mine.”
She was so casual, the trappings of the situation so close to porn that he wasn’t sure if they were making love or fucking. He wasn’t used to her talking, or drinking, and the angle was awkward, the bottom of the tub slippery. He had to squat, a position that hurt his hip, and the air was cold, the sloshing and slapping distracting, besides the iffy hygiene of the thing, the water a broth of secretions. In the window he could see the dark ghost of himself laboring, and from reflex pictured Wendy, the table in the hotel that was almost but not quite the right height, and the mirror that let them watch each other, the red garter belt she wore for him with the little silver clips, the cheap yellow roses from Kroger’s on the nightstand. His mind was slow from the long night of partying, but he was alert enough to grit his teeth and resist the intrusion, fending off the familiar creep of regret and self-hatred. After twenty years, he had practice at it. He concentrated on Marion’s skin, his hands at her waist, gratefully accepting what he knew he didn’t deserve.
Odds of being served breakfast in bed on
Valentine’s Day:
1 in 4
She woke up naked and dry-mouthed, wondering what had happened to her nightgown. Raising her head was painful so she lay still. A bath towel was tangled in the covers. Beside her, Art was rolling out of bed, making the mattress dip. The room was dark, the curtains leaking daylight. Far away, someone was knocking. Had they forgotten to put the stupid sign on the door?
“Tell them to go away,” she said, one arm shielding her face.
“I got it.” He groped in the closet for a bathrobe, rattling the hangers, then on the way out banged into something solid. “Mother.”
She groaned in protest before asking if he was okay—too late, he was gone.
She heard him talking to someone, the door closing, the bolt clacking home.
She expected he’d come right back, except he was taking forever. She closed her eyes and let go and was drifting off again, reentering her dream of their backyard with the weirdly spherical lemon trees and the blue jay with Karen’s voice that had something to tell her, when the clangor of dropped silverware rang like an alarm.
“Jesus.” Just the effort to speak hurt her head.
A minute later, Art appeared in the doorway bearing a tray with a rose in a vase, bringing with him the nauseating smell of sausage and coffee. “Did someone order breakfast?”
“No.”
“Apparently someone did last night, because we’ve got a lot of it.”
She didn’t remember, and didn’t care. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty.”
He lurked like a butler, attending her. His eagerness reminded her of the children on Mother’s Day, so pleased with their own offerings.
“Really?” she asked, but understood there was no point. “I guess I’ll sleep when we get home.”
He took this as an invitation, smiling and coming around to her side.
She wasn’t going to have him watch her eat half-naked. “Have you seen my nightgown anywhere?”
He set the tray on the dresser and opened the curtains to the view, making her shade her eyes. It was bleak out but the reflection off the snow was blinding. Her nightgown was hanging on the door right where she’d left it yesterday.
Sitting up made her dizzy, the gyroscope in her head spinning. Scattered across the floor with her clothes from last night were dozens of chips. On the nightstand stood an empty champagne glass, foam dried to the sides. She remembered doing
tequila shots in the bar, licking salt and biting into limes, then getting on the elevator. After that, everything was a guess. The towel meant they’d probably been in the hot tub, and done what drunk couples did. She wasn’t surprised or ashamed, just tired. One more mistake she’d have to undo.
“Please stop staring.” Tenting the top sheet like a poncho, she yanked on her nightgown. She was sure she looked awful, her hair flattened, last night’s mascara a raccoon mask.
“You look beautiful to me.”
“Yeah, no. Just let me complain, okay?”
The tray he set across her legs held a silver dish cover the size of a hubcap, a hole in the center exuding a buttery warmth. Ranked about it were the rose in its vase, a small coffeepot, a coffee cup on a saucer crowded with fake creamers, an oblong ramekin stuffed with sugar packets, a Bloody Mary in a water goblet, water in a water goblet, and a tin gravy boat of maple syrup covered in plastic wrap. He leaned in to give her a kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Thank you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He stayed by her side, expectant, as if there were more. All she was thinking of was the coffee, something to jump-start her.
“Aren’t you eating?” she asked.
“I will.”
Belatedly it came to her. He was waiting for her to lift the cover and reveal some thoughtful surprise—a gift, maybe: jewelry, or plane tickets. Whatever it was, they couldn’t afford it. Like the chips they played with last night, it wouldn’t be real, just a token, at bottom an apology for everything that had gone wrong. As he watched, she hooked a finger through the hole in the center and pulled the cover away.
The pancakes on the plate were heart-shaped, one overlapping the other, pierced by an arrowhead of sliced strawberries.
“Very nice,” she said.
“I thought you’d like that.”
“Are yours like this?”
“Actually we have four of them. I don’t know why.”
“I know why,” she said. “We were wasted.”
“Do you want bacon? We’ve got tons.”
“Actually I’m not hungry at all. I’m just going to have coffee for now.”
“Suit yourself. I’m starving.”
He went to fix his own tray, and she poured herself a steaming cup, leaving room for cream and sugar. In the kitchenette, he was whistling. She considered the possibility of self-sabotage, a twisted pathology. She didn’t want to give him false hope, just as she didn’t want to crush him. The problem, she thought, was that it took so little to encourage him. They’d have to talk when they got home. For now, she renewed her vow to be more careful, promising herself she’d be stronger tonight, and then, as she was battling the stubborn foil tab of the creamer, she noticed, snug against her wedding band, in matching white gold, a diamond ring she swore she’d never seen before.
Odds of a jazz band playing “My Funny Valentine”
on Valentine’s Day:
1 in 1
He didn’t feel so great either, his head hollowed out, his throat a flue. Rather than complain, he took the opposite tack, overcompensating, tapping his competitive energy to rise above the fatigue and keep moving. It was their last day, and he was counting on the Falls to distract them from what was waiting later—mere hours away now.
After the slow start, he was afraid they wouldn’t be able to fit everything in. At the same time he couldn’t push her, and came up with what he thought was a less ambitious schedule, trimming the more far-flung attractions like the Whirlpool. They could walk across the Rainbow Bridge to the observation tower on the American side, have lunch on Goat Island, then come back and do Clifton Hill, and still have time to treat her to an hour or two at the day spa, a carrot he thought she’d appreciate.
“Two hours isn’t enough to do anything. You need to be there all day. That’s why they call it a day spa.”
“I just thought you might like a manicure or something before dinner.”
“You probably need an appointment.”
“It said it was open to all hotel guests.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day. I guarantee it’s going to be packed.”
They could always call down and find out, he was about to say, but kept quiet, not wanting to prolong the exchange. Obviously he was wrong, being ignorant of these things. He replaced the vase on the dresser, grabbed his glass and the heavy green bottle off the nightstand. They were neatening up for housekeeping, doing away with all traces of their celebration. On her hands and knees, Marion searched under the bed for any fugitive chips, and he wished he knew what the problem was. Last night she’d seemed happy with him. Yes, they’d been wasted, she especially, but he was of the school that drink revealed one’s true feelings. When, in bed, he’d given her the ring, she said she’d never loved anyone but him and dissolved into tears, as if it were a new confession and not her usual grievance. Now he couldn’t do anything right.
“I think that’s all of them,” she said, evening up the stacks on the dresser.
“Did you count them?”
“I can.”
“Please.”
While he was rinsing the glasses in the sink, she called, “Seventy-one seventy.”
“You sure?”
“Count them yourself.”
“No, it’s just good to know what we’ve got to work with.”
“We’ve got seventy-one seventy more than we had yesterday.”
“Thank you.”
He opened the closet and knelt at the safe, adding her winnings to the packets of cash and other chips. Crammed into the small space it seemed a fortune, yet only reminded him of the magnitude of their debt. At the very least they needed to double their money and then hope the house sold.
“Can you put this in there for me?” she asked, holding out the velveteen box.
He looked to her for an explanation.
“It keeps falling off.”
“Sure,” he said, taking the box. “We’ll have to get it resized.”
“I think that’s it for in here,” she said, looking around the room. “Let me check Facebook real quick and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Take your time.” Yet, setting the box in the safe, he was certain he’d gotten the size right. In his desk at home, in the back of his day planner, he had a page dedicated to her various sizes for just such purchases. She hadn’t noticeably gained or lost weight, so he didn’t know why it wouldn’t fit. As far as he could recall, she hadn’t said anything last night when they were splashing around in the tub.
As always, she took longer online than she said, describing Emma and Mark’s big night out, then tapping away at a comment while he stood at the window, watching the gulls glide across the gray face of the cliffs opposite. It was windy, the column of mist decapitated, the flags on the plaza snapping.
“Might have to wear a hat,” he said.
“What?”
“It looks windy.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“I said we might have to wear our hats.”
“You’re ready to go,” she said absently, as if it were ever a question. Her shortness reminded him of Jeremy’s when he had to stop playing a video game to eat dinner, unwilling to give up the absorbing virtual world for the boring old real one. She clattered on for another minute, then, puffing up her cheeks and letting the air out, clapped her laptop shut. “Okay, here we go. Where are we going?”
“America.”
“Been there,” she said.
He counted leaving the room before noon a victory. The last thing he did was tuck the DO NOT DISTURB sign back inside.
They were hot in the hall, bundled up in their puffy jackets, and then, going down, the elevator stopped every other floor to let on couples dressed for a wedding. In the lobby, penned behind a fence of velvet ropes, a large party waited to one side of the chapel while another finished.
“I guess this is the day,” he said.
“I guess so.”
At the foot o
f the turnaround, a chauffeur in a cap and blazer smoked beside his idling limo. As they left the drive and turned down Murray Hill, the wind hit them, drawing tears from Art’s eyes. Across the gorge, the Falls poured on noisily. With no sun, there was no rainbow, yet despite the low sky, traffic along the parkway was heavy, the usual throng clogging the plaza, taking pictures at the rail. As blustery as it was, being outside was a nice reminder that there was a world beyond the casino, and beyond themselves. From a hidden chimney came the savory smell of wood smoke, somehow reassuring, and still, he couldn’t shake the fact that under her gloves she wasn’t wearing the ring. Whatever was going on, she’d taken it. She couldn’t ask him to take it back.
The walk was longer than it looked on the little pocket map. The whole way they could see the bridge in the distance, a tease. They passed beneath the Skylon Tower and beside a strand of park with a statue of Tesla posed atop half a turbine like a logroller, labored on past the Sheraton and the old casino, its barbered shrubs wrapped in burlap, and still they were no closer. She was dragging, and they stopped at a souvenir store for a bottle of water and to warm up, which only made going back out worse. He’d seen cabs, but they were nearly there. This far down, the crowd was thinner. It seemed they were the only people headed away from the Falls, as if they were going the wrong direction. A horse and buggy clopped past, the passengers swaddled in blankets.
“That’s what we should have done,” she said, sniffling behind her scarf.
“I bet the line’s worse today.”
“I’m going to have to pee soon. Just warning you.”
“They should have some at customs.”
“Shoulda woulda coulda.”
The exit from Canada was like the unmanned entrance of a subway, a few turnstiles guarded by a surveillance camera. Above, catty-corner, an industrial heater racketed. They enjoyed the oily warmth for a moment before pushing through the doors and back into the wind.
Surprisingly there was no fence to keep them from leaping off, just a chest-high iron railing, leaving them completely exposed. They were the only pedestrians, a fact she commented on as if it were a bad thing. The lanes beside them were stopped, a train of buses and RVs. The view up the gorge took in not just all three Falls but the whole bowl, giving them a better perspective of the cliffs and the old powerhouse tucked above the near shore, the crazy scale of the ice bridge, directly below.
Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) Page 10
