by Mary Campisi
He took a step toward the bed. She lay on her side with her back facing him, two pillows wedged between her legs to elevate the cast on her right ankle. He struggled for air; the goddamn stripes were closing in on him. He took another step, tried to suck in a clean breath, and inhaled the heavy scent of her perfume.
The years rolled away and she was on the bed, straddling him, head thrown back, long blonde hair brushing his thighs. She was moaning over and over and over, and he was pumping into her, harder and harder and harder...
Jesus Christ, he was going to puke. Harry breathed in through his mouth, once, twice, three times.
“Christine?” Gloria’s voice sounded groggy with sleep, or Vicodin, or booze, probably all three. “Is that you, Christine?”
Harry took one more open-mouthed breath. “No. It’s not Christine.”
She swung around, winced from the sudden movement. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t get up for me. I’ll just come around to the other side of the bed so you don’t hurt your, ah,” he paused, “injury.” Okay, okay, I can do this.
“I want you to leave.” She rolled onto her back, eased into a half-sitting position.
“In a minute.”
“What do you want?”
She was still beautiful, her skin smooth, unwrinkled, no lines around her neck or eyes. Her features were small and delicate, the nose, chin, cheeks, lips, all flawless, the blonde hair fluffed and shiny. She wore a peach lounging outfit made of silk or perhaps it was satin? She could pass for a full ten years younger than fifty-four, but then why shouldn’t she when she spent her existence perfecting herself, escaping the reality of life, denying the inevitability of death?
In some ways, he and Gloria were very much alike.
The thought sickened him. He would do this for Chrissie and now for himself, to prove that he and Gloria weren’t the same.
“I said, what do you want?”
Harry sank into a blue-striped chair by the bed, kicked his feet out in front of him. “Do you get Botox injections?”
She stared at him.
“I mean, really, do you? You’re a beautiful woman, I’ll give you that, but you’re fifty-four, Gloria, you realize that, don’t you, and not a line, no wrinkles, nothing? How can that be?” He crossed his arms over his chest, watched her tiny nostrils flair, her jaw clench. “You do, don’t you?”
“What do you want?”
She wasn’t taking the bait. Why the hell was he doing this anyway; what did he care if she injected her whole goddamn body with Botox? He’d grabbed the first thought that crossed his mind, anything to blot out the memories of her young body working him, slick, hot. She’d had a birthmark on the inside of her thigh, strawberry, shaped like a heart...Jesus Christ!
“I know your game, Gloria”—he forced himself to meet her gaze—“I’ve always known your game.”
“I had an accident, for God’s sake. I broke my ankle.” She pointed to her right leg. “Even you, limited intelligence that you possess, can see that.”
“I know you broke your ankle. I saw you break it, I and fifty or so other people saw you break it. Witnesses, right? That’s what we were.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Witnesses to the accident,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “It was a brilliant idea, and for just a second you almost had me. But then I thought why would Gloria request, or rather demand, as I recall, that we dine at The Presidio the night before Chrissie plans to leave? And why in God’s name would she make a point to invite me when we both know we hate each other’s guts? The answer came to me as I watched you lying on the floor, and all the people around you, the witnesses, and Chrissie, right by your side. Then I knew; you’d staged the whole fall to keep her from leaving.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “You threw yourself down those stairs so your daughter would cancel her trip.”
“The Crown Royal’s pickling your brain, Harry.”
“And you knew she’d cancel it because that’s the kind of person she is.”
“You’re crazy. You need professional help.”
“You think so? Maybe we should check into rehab together. I’ll go for the booze, you go for the pills.”
“I broke my ankle.”
“I know. You also did something else. It’s called manipulation.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Leave Chrissie alone. No more of this guilt trip stay-with-mama shit. If she wants to go away, to the cabin or goddamn Alaska, you let her go. If you think about pulling this shit again, you better throw yourself in front of a semi because when I’m through, you’ll wish you had.”
“Is that meant to instill fear?”
“Goddamn right it is. You try this again; I’m telling her. You got it?”
“Even you’re not that big a fool.”
“I mean it, Gloria. I’ll spill it all, how you and I used to screw right here in this room while Charlie was in London earning a goddamn living to keep you decked out in diamonds and a Mercedes.”
She pulled her lips together tightly, keeping whatever words she meant to say inside.
If he thought he could get away with it, he’d reach over and squeeze that goddamn unlined neck she was so proud of until he’d choked the last pulse out of her. He clenched his fists and fixed his gaze on her neck. He could do it—he could kill her right now for her part in all this. But what about Chrissie? It would kill her, too. Harry unclenched his fists, forced his gaze from the smooth, unlined silkiness of her neck. She was talking again; was that nervousness or fear in her voice?
“We both live in our private hells, Harry, God made certain of that. I haven’t looked at you once in the past twenty-eight years without remembering how we betrayed Charles. And yet I had to welcome you into our home, invite you to our table, engage in conversation with you, and pretend nothing had happened.”
“So you’ve got a conscience after all.”
“I hate you, Harry Blacksworth.” She reached for the cigarette case on her nightstand, flipped it open. “We were only together six times; many of the women I know have been far more indiscreet.”
“And were they screwing their husband’s brother?”
Her head jerked up. “You were no innocent, Harry. You were dying to take something that belonged to your brother.”
“And I’ve never stopped paying for it.”
She blew out a long thin line of smoke and studied her cigarette. “Neither have I.”
The striped walls began closing in on him, red seeping through palest blue, pulling him back, threatening to soak him in deceit. He shot out of his chair. “I just hope to God Charlie never knew.”
“Of course, he never knew. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because if I thought he knew, I’d blow my brains out.”
“He didn’t know.”
The red was gone; the stripes were crisp and cold. “Leave Chrissie alone, lay off the guilt trips, and I’ll keep quiet. Start coming up with ailments or other reasons to keep her by your side, and I’ll tell her about us.”
Gloria puffed on her cigarette, muttered, “Bastard.”
“And then I’ll tell her the rest.”
“You wouldn’t do that to her.”
“If it were the only way I could save her from you, I would. I’d tell her the whole damn truth, every last detail.” He snatched the cigarette from her fingers, snubbed it out in the blue ashtray next to a small mountain of butts. “Charlie hated it when you smoked.”
“Charles is dead.”
He grabbed the pack of Salem Lights from the nightstand and threw it across the room. “Then dammit, show his memory a little respect.”
“Go to hell!”
Good. Harry turned and headed for the door, sucking in sips of air. Feel it, Gloria, feel the rage and let it strangle you. He closed the door behind him and drew in a clean breath of air, one free of perfume and memories.
***
It w
as an accident.
Gloria eased herself onto her side, moaned as the pillow slipped from between her knees, jarring her right ankle.
It had been two hours since Harry bombarded her bedroom, stealing first her slumber and then her peace of mind.
She let out a second moan that had nothing to do with her ankle. Why would he accuse her of manipulating her own accident?
People lost their footing every day, slipped, tripped, stumbled. That’s why these mishaps were called accidents, why engineers were continually designing new products such as nonskid surfaces and shoes with improved traction.
Did Christine believe she’d orchestrated the fall, too? Is that why she’d been so erratic lately? Surely, she must know her own mother would never do such a thing.
True, she hadn’t wanted her daughter to return to the cabin, had all but begged her not to go. But to fake her own accident to keep her here?
She never should’ve taken the Valium that day. It was one thing to self-medicate in familiar surroundings, but to pop Vicodin and Valium, and then negotiate thirteen steps at The Presidio, down, not up, unassisted; well, that had proved disastrous.
If she could have avoided the steps, none of this would have happened. She knew how to balance her pills, move through her days in a shimmer of fuzziness that no one detected. And when sleep eluded her, an occasional Ambien got her through the night and much of the next morning.
It was talk of another trip that pushed her to the Valium. Christine had no business going back there.
It was an accident. Christine knew that, didn’t she? Damn Harry Blacksworth and his worthless existence. And he’d thought she had no remorse…Charles had been standing by their bed the day she realized he really had loved her, despite the missed anniversary, the remoteness, the constant travel. But by then, it was too late.
How could you, Gloria? She could still picture him in their bedroom, so handsome, so wounded, the small, foil packet in his outstretched hand. How could you?
She’d tried hard to be valiant, make him believe. What is it? And then leaning closer, gasping, Where did that come from? Someone’s been in our bed! Oh my God, Charles!
And he, all the while watching her, the silver packet screaming infidelity in his outstretched palm…My cuff link fell under the bed…I bent to pick it up…
I’ll speak to Anna. I hired her nephew and his girlfriend two weeks ago to clean the windows and chandeliers. They must’ve snuck in here…oh, my God, how disgusting.
I already spoke with Anna. It wasn’t her nephew—
It had to have been him and his—
Anna told me she followed them from room to room to supervise their work. They never came near this bedroom, Gloria.
She’s lying to keep her job.
Stop it. He’d thrown the packet on the bed and said, It was you.
She’d crumpled at his feet. I’m sorry…I’m sorry…
I want a divorce.
No! She’d clutched his pant leg. No, please!
I’ll move out. You can stay in the house until we sell it.
No. No, Charles. You can’t leave me. And then, because she was desperate and because it was true, I’m pregnant.
He’d stayed in the guest room until after the baby was born, vowing that if the child didn’t look like a Blacksworth, he would divorce her.
Gloria reached for the bottle of Vicodin, popped off the cap. But he hadn’t divorced her; Christine had been born with a full head of midnight hair and the bluest eyes any doctor had ever seen; Blacksworth eyes. And Charles died never knowing the Blacksworth blood running through Christine’s veins might not be his.
Chapter 16
She was standing in front of Nate Desantro’s home. Yes, she was four days late, but she’d come. That should count for something. She’d planned on waiting a month and going on the next scheduled date, but her mother had insisted she make the trip this month.
She’d scheduled the next available flight and now here she was. Christine pressed the doorbell, waited. Bocelli’s Canto Della Terra swirled around her, climbing, clinging. Maybe Nate couldn’t hear her. She pressed the doorbell a second time.
He was the only person who could make this visit work; that’s why she’d come here first. If he would just try to understand why she’d not been here four days ago, then maybe they could form a truce of sorts. After all, there was Lily to think about. She rang the bell one last time and slowly turned the knob.
He was in the kitchen, his back to her, stirring something at the stove. Tomatoes and garlic? Sautéed onions? Whatever it was, it certainly beat the hamburger and chips she’d eaten on the plane.
She’d almost reached the kitchen when he turned around. “Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry. I rang the doorbell—” She gestured toward the stereo. “But I guess you couldn’t hear it.”
He turned back to the stove, flipped off the burner, and set the pan aside. His hair was damp, slicked back, probably from a recent shower and he’d trimmed his beard and mustache, which made him look half-civilized.
“What are you doing here?”
“I had to see Lily. I promised her.”
“You’re four days late.”
“I know. My mother broke her ankle and she had to have surgery. I couldn’t come until she was settled.”
He turned back to the stove. “You didn’t need to come.”
She moved beside him so she could see his face. “Yes, I did. I promised Lily.”
“Have you seen her yet?”
“No. I wanted to come here first, make sure you weren’t going to give me a hard time when I visit her.”
“Depends on what the arrangement is; is this a one-time stop or are you planning to mark her on your calendar every month like your old man did?”
“I... I hadn’t thought much past this visit.”
“Well, you’d better before you see Lily.” He stirred the sauce, a tomato and zucchini mixture. “She’ll expect you to come every month, just like your old man did. So, if that’s not part of your plan, then end it now. Don’t give her hope where there isn’t any.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
He stared at her. “People do it all the time, Christine. You know that.”
“Well, not intentionally.”
“Sure they do. Haven’t you ever gotten a phone call, maybe from a friend who wanted you to do something, and you knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell you were going to do it, but you didn’t have the guts to just say no?”
“I guess—”
“You know you have. It’s human nature, the best and the worst of it. We’re trying to save another person’s feelings, dangling a shred of hope in front of him a little longer, because we don’t want to make him feel bad, or worse, make ourselves look bad.”
“Are you saying you’ve never done that?”
He shrugged.
“I won’t do that to Lily. I give you my word.”
He didn’t respond to that. “Are you hungry?”
And with that, the subject of Lily and man’s adept ability to deceive others to preserve his own image was closed, shifting instead to topics of food and wine—safe topics. She actually enjoyed his dry sense of humor as he relayed tips on different ways to cook pasta, most of them learned through first-hand experience, ranging from a campfire setting with a ten-pound iron skillet to a motorboat and a two-burner hot plate.
“I can’t believe you could think of food in the middle of a storm.” She laughed. “Just the thought of putting anything in my stomach with the boat tossing and turning would send me to the railing.”
“I said we cooked it.” A smile slid across his mouth. “I didn’t say we ate it.”
“Ah, the truth emerges.”
He sipped his wine. “It usually does, in one form or another.”
She set down her fork. “Nate?” When he met her gaze, she said, “Just give me a chance with Lily, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”
“You ask a lot.”
“I won’t let her down.”
“I’ll think about it.” He twirled a forkful of linguine. “So, Christine Elizabeth Blacksworth, do you have any cooking stories?”
“No, sad to say, I’m a mess in the kitchen. How did you know my middle name?”
“Are you kidding? With Lily in the house, I know more about you than I knew about my ex-wife.”
“Ex-wife?”
“Yeah, I had one of those. You?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged, fixed her gaze on a piece of zucchini. “I just never...took the big step.”
“It can be a step or a dive, depending on the person and the situation.”
“I take it yours was more than a step?”
“It was a damn parachute jump without the parachute.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’s remarried to some bank executive who keeps her happy with houses and cars. Log cabins and pickups weren’t her style. She’s much happier now.”
“Good.”
“What was the name of that guy you were seeing? Lily used to draw hearts with your initials inside. Colin? Curt?”
“Connor.”
“That’s it, Connor. What happened to him?”
“He’s still around.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“I’m not, we’re just friends.”
“Does he know?”
“He should.”
“Trying to dump him, huh?”
“No.” She looked away. “It’s not that. Connor’s a nice guy; everybody likes him.”
“Except you.”
“I like him.”
“Like doesn’t make for a marriage.”
“Connor Pendleton’s a great guy.”
“Okay, Connor Pendleton’s a great guy. You don’t have to convince me. I’m not the one marrying him.”
“Neither am I.”
