by Warren Adler
“You’re not alone in that regard.”
Again she let him kiss her, responding. Was it wrong? Suddenly, she stiffened and turned away. She had felt the tangible presence of her in-laws, Molly and Charlie, cursing her descent into infidelity. Leave me alone, she cried within herself.
“What is it?” Peter asked.
“Nothing.”
“You won’t tell me?”
“Not now.”
He kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose, her cheeks. He found her lips, and she felt his hands caressing her everywhere.
“Stay the night,” he whispered.
Her mind whirled with objections. She had promised her in-laws that she would come over early enough the next morning so that they could all go to the Boat Show in Annapolis, and they were sure to call her apartment at an ungodly hour to remind her.
“I’m totally unprepared for this,” she said hesitantly.
“I want to love you. That’s all.”
She felt surrounded by him. Not that she offered any calculated resistance. It had been so long since she had been in a man’s arms—Chuck’s arms. And there had been no feeling in that, no sense of protection. No pleasure at all.
She was surprised to feel Peter’s hard, corded muscles. His hands were gentle and knowing. She felt alive, wanted. Someone was loving her, someone was caring, someone was pleasing her. Her alone.
When she awoke, she did not feel as if she was a stranger. There were no where-am-I’s or lapses of memory, nor did she feel that what she had done, what she was doing, required a rebuke, from herself, from anybody. She lay in his arms, and it was, she felt, her natural place. In their haste they had not drawn the blinds, and the sun streamed into the room, a perfect lighting counterpoint to her feelings.
For the first time in years, burdens had been lifted. In her mind, she felt a calm serenity. Her body felt light, replaced, as if she had been transformed. A miracle had occurred, she decided.
She felt him stir. His voice surprised her.
“Up?”
She nodded, nuzzling his chest.
“I know what it means now,” he said.
“What what means?”
“To find that lost piece of yourself. The missing link. I found it.” He kissed her earlobe. “You.”
She put a finger on his lips, stopping his words. What she feared most was that it would go away—the way it had with Chuck. Comparisons had intruded all night, and she had fought them away like someone chasing bats in an attic. Finally, she had won. In the light of morning the fear had less power, but it was no less annoying. After last night, Chuck would always seem nothing more than a boy, a beautiful boy. His body had been tight and wonderful, without blemish, wrapped in a down of golden hair, a statue, equally as cold to the touch.
But Peter was fire. Behind the scholarly facade, the nervous beginning, were feeling and a mind that gave depth to his passion. Peter had made her rise from the dead.
Then she remembered, noting from the face of the digital clock on the dresser that it was nearly ten. She reached for the phone beside the bed and dialed her in-laws’ number. Molly answered.
“We were worried,” she said. “No one answered at your place.”
“I slept out.” Brave words, Frances thought. Had she found her courage?
The hesitation was palpable.
“At your girlfriend’s?”
She looked toward Peter and caressed his face. No more, she thought. It’s my life. But she did not answer the question.
“You take Tray to the boat show. I’ll pick him up later. Is that okay?”
“Of course, dear.” There was another long hesitation, an awkward moment. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She felt Peter’s breath on her hair. “Wonderful, in fact.”
“You sound strange.”
“Strange or different?” she said playfully.
Actually, she wanted Molly to know and was bursting to tell her. Molly surely would understand. Not Charlie. Suddenly, a dark cloud seemed to roll over her thoughts. She felt a tug of guilt.
“Here’s Tray, dear,” Molly said. She heard fumbling with the phone, then Tray’s high-pitched voice.
“Grampa painted the wagon. Daddy’s wagon.”
She felt the gloom deepen.
“It’s really pretty. All red and shiny. And guess what we named it?”
“I give up.”
“Three Charlies. Me, Daddy, and Grampa. That’s us. Three Charlies.”
“That’s terrific,” she said without conviction.
“And next year, Grampa promised we’re going to get a boat, a sailboat, like he got for Daddy. And you know what we’re going to name it?” He didn’t wait for her answer this time. “Three Charlies.”
“Well, you have a good time today. Mommy will pick you up tonight.”
“Wanna speak to Gramma?”
“That’s all right. I’ll see you tonight.” She hung up. Her stomach felt knotted, and she closed her eyes as if in pain.
“What is it?” Peter asked.
“Nothing. Just kid stuff.”
“More than that,” he said.
“I suppose you can’t blame him,” she sighed.
“Blame who?”
“Charlie. My father-in-law. Chuck was a junior. And he insisted on naming our son Charles, the third. That’s why we call him Tray.”
“Tray?”
“Uno, dos, tres. Spanish. It was Charlie’s idea. He had a Hispanic marine buddy who was also a third. He was killed.”
“Certainly less confusing than three generations with the same name.”
“I wasn’t too happy with the idea. But then I had no real choice.”
“You were the child’s mother.”
“But this was a son, you see. Charlie’s grandson. If it had been a daughter, that would have been another story.”
The memory of her acquiescence confounded her. She had wanted to name the child Sam, after her own father. “Let’s do it for Dad,” Chuck insisted. “He’s big on continuity.” She had never been able to fathom the relationship between men, especially between fathers and sons. In particular between Charlie and Chuck. She felt compelled to explain, to bring it up to date.
“Charlie’s love for Chuck was, well—fierce. I always felt inadequate to it. It was as if Chuck was always living under this weight of his father’s love. Now it seems to be happening again—Tray.” She shook her head.
“It must be tough on a father to lose a son.”
“And on a son to lose a father,” she said, surprised at the sudden belligerence of her tone. “It’s all very mysterious.”
“What is?” He kissed the back of her neck and stroked her hair.
“The male animal,” she said.
“Not at all,” he said. “We’re rather obvious.”
When she turned round and saw him, she caught his meaning. Of course, she thought. But there was a lot more to it than just that.
It was dark when she pulled up to her in-laws’ house in Dundalk. They were in the den watching television. Tray was sitting on Charlie’s lap.
“It’s kind of late,” Charlie said, looking at his watch. “We were really worried, weren’t we, Tray?”
“It does her good to get out, Charlie.” Molly said, peering over her half-glasses. “She’s over twenty-one.” She was sitting at the table, the inevitable pile of her students’ papers in front of her, pencil poised over some fifth-grade composition.
“Doesn’t mean you stop worrying,” Charlie said. He winked at Frances. “And this little guy is bushed.”
“I am not, Grampa,” Tray said, frowning. His forehead wrinkled over heavy eyelids.
“Want toothpicks to keep them up?” Charlie laughed. He smiled at Frances. “We had one heck of a wonderful day. Saw the most fantastic boats.”
“Grampa is going to get me my own sailboat someday. Like he did for Daddy.”
“He’ll have to earn it, though,” Charlie said.
Tray’s eyes closed, and he laid his head on his grandfather’s shoulder. “We did have a great day,” Charlie whispered. He looked at the boy, as if to be sure he was dozing, then raised his eyes to Frances. She felt she was being inspected.
“How’s Sally?” Charlie asked. She caught a tiny note of suspicion.
“Sally?” It had been a reflexive blunder, and before she could recover, Charlie reacted.
“You were out with Sally?”
“Yes, we had a wonderful time.” It was too late, of course. The lie, she was certain, was loose in the room. Molly took off her glasses and looked at her curiously. Frances focused on the piece of crepe that Charlie wore pinned to his shirt. It only added to her sudden gloom.
“Where were you, Frances?” Charlie asked. She felt a sudden rush of guilt feelings.
“Now, Charlie, that is none of your business,” Molly chided gently.
“I’d like to meet this Sally,” Charlie said, watching Frances with hurt eyes. He had the haggard look of the inconsolable. His usually neat pepper-gray hair, once so well groomed, was shaggy and his long face seemed longer, the lines that framed his mouth deeper, the circles under his eyes darker.
“One day you will, I’m sure,” Frances murmured, the effort to sustain the lie, she knew, a hollow sham. She detested herself for trying to perpetuate it.
“Of course we will,” Molly said, with little conviction.
“Where does she live?” Charlie asked. Yet his probe seemed halfhearted, as if he hated the idea of knowing more.
“Oh, not far.” Her pores had opened and perspiration began to slide down her back. She moved toward Tray and tapped his head. “Come on, little man, it’s time to go.” Tray opened his eyes briefly and closed them again.
Charlie embraced the boy and seemed to tighten his grip.
“Really, Charlie,” Molly interjected.
“I was just curious.” He seemed embarrassed by his own interrogation.
“I really should take Tray home,” Frances said.
“It’s not that I’m prying.”
“But you are,” Molly said.
“A recently widowed woman stays out the whole night—”
“Charlie, please,” Molly snapped. “We have no right to question her. She slept at Sally’s. Didn’t you, Frances?”
Frances offered a nod, knowing it was meaningless. She was simply not made for lies.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Frances said. She had difficulty getting the words out.
Charlie turned toward Molly.
“You said I was thinking the worst. Chuck’s not even cold, Molly.” Frances heard the whine of pain.
“She has every right—” Molly began.
“A little respect. That’s all one could ask. A little respect.”
“I know how you feel,” Frances said.
“Bet there isn’t even a Sally.” His dark eyes had moistened.
“I made that up,” Frances said bravely. “I’m sorry. Believe me, I understand.”
“I just felt”—he paused to gather control, still clutching Tray—“that you owed my son his honor. At least his honor. Instead of shacking up—”
“Charlie!” Molly snapped. Tray opened his eyes listlessly.
“I don’t feel too good about this, is all.” With some effort, he put Tray off his lap. Still sleeping, he leaned against his mother. Charlie stood up.
“You just couldn’t wait,” he said, choking on a sob.
“There’s nothing to wait for, Charlie,” Molly said. “Chuck’s gone. She has her life.”
“I hadn’t intended to hurt you. Either of you. It just—well—came about,” Frances said. She wanted to convey the beauty and wonder of it, but they could never understand.
“It’s a lousy thing to do,” Charlie said.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” she whispered as he left the room. She took Tray’s hand. Molly followed her out to her car.
“He doesn’t understand, Frances,” Molly said.
She was beginning to resent her defensiveness, her guilt feelings, her dishonesty.
“I don’t know what he means. I did not dishonor Chuck. Chuck is dead.”
“It’s just his own idea of right and wrong. Just bear with it, Frances. Please.”
“But he made me feel so dirty.”
“He’s just hurt. He can’t focus on anything but Chuck.” She patted Tray’s head.
She got into the car and strapped Tray in beside her. Nodding good-bye to Molly, she drove away. Tears of rage and anger gave the streetlights halos. “Itis my life,” she cried. Tray stirred, and she patted him back to sleep.
After she put Tray to bed, she sat in the tiny living room of her shabby one-bedroom apartment. She had tried to keep it neat and cheerful, but the curtains had faded, and Tray’s boyish roughhousing had partially torn the curtain rods from the walls. The material on the couch and chairs was frayed, the rugs were stained. Paint was peeling off the ceiling. A picture of a sunset that Chuck had bought on their packaged honeymoon trip to the Poconos was awry. A fouled nest, she thought, grown cold and dreary with neglect. She felt helpless and inert in this environment.
Molly and Charlie had wanted her to come and live with them after Chuck had died. How could they know that the offer had become the most potent element of her anxiety? Once more, she would have to surrender her life. And Tray’s. But her refusal had been tentative, given in the guise of a postponement. “We’ll see,” she had told them, deflecting their gentle arguments and the temptations of security, especially for Tray. She would not tell them that she had impossible dreams of making it on her own, of being, at long last, responsible for herself and her child.
Flights of fancy, she thought, scraps of tissue in the wind. Was she merely an easy mark for flattery and attention? She rebuked herself for the question. Peter had been totally sincere, offering a generous heart, devotion, sincerity, and sexual compatibility, an irresistible combination. A blurred picture of Chuck’s corpse, his flesh still warm in his casket beneath the ground, animated by her betrayal, forcing his arms against the closed lid, made her leap out of her chair. With her heart pounding, she paced the room, peered out the windows, double-checked the lock, looked in on Tray sleeping on the cot next to her empty double bed.
Maybe Charlie was right and this punishment of fear was the reward of her whorish act? She shook her head, hoping the movement would chase the terrible thought from her mind. I must resist, she begged herself. Help me, Peter, she whispered, remembering her ecstatic response, the sheer surprise at her body’s awakening as he led her into what had been, until then, uncharted territory. Nature’s way of telling me that I am a woman, she assured herself, grateful for his attention, his enveloping warmth, his sweet tenderness and consideration. And Charlie had thrown mud in the face of her joy, glorifying Chuck, who had given her none.
She reached for the phone, looked at the dial, then realized that she did not have Peter’s home number. But as she looked it up in the directory she had second thoughts. If she called, he would see how terribly vulnerable she really was, would understand the full extent of her need. Men were mysteries, she told herself. But he said he was crazy about her, hadn’t he? Or was that only an empty phrase, part of the way men concocted seductions? Had she sent him the signal of willingness to surrender herself, to give herself away to the first comer?
And worst of all, would he lose interest in her by morning? She closed the telephone book and tossed it aside.
Miraculously, he didn’t lose interest. In fact, he was more pressing and attentive than was proper for appearances at work.
“I’ll never be the same again,” he said. He was forever finding ways to pass her desk and excuses to chat, and she felt his eyes following her everywhere. When she went to the ladies’ room, he was on her trail.
“Not in here,” she had laughed.
“I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”
“There’s only one door.”
“
Then I’ll wait.”
To her surprise, he did wait and accompanied her back to her desk.
“People will talk.”
“I hope so.”
At lunch, she was tempted to tell him about what Charlie had said, but she deliberately left it alone. No point in wallowing in that, she told herself, although the gloomy thoughts of last night had left their impression.
“Did you think of me?” he asked, holding her hand under the cafeteria table like a high school kid.
“Of course.” She returned his hand’s squeeze.
“Last weekend was the most important event of my life,” he said. “I tried to analyze it, but I gave up. Something to do with the attraction of molecules.”
“Don’t try.”
“You think you could pencil me in for next weekend?” he asked.
Charlie’s words rushed back at her. Damn him, she thought. And what about Tray?
“I’ll try.”
“Just that?”
“There’s Tray.” She felt the pull of motherly responsibility.
“Bring him, too.”
She looked at him, wondering if he was sincere.
“He’s five and very active.”
“He’s yours, isn’t he?”
“Of course.” She wondered if she sounded indignant. And Chuck’s, she wanted to say, but didn’t.
“Well, then,” he said, looking at her anxiously. “Bring him.”
“Maybe I can get my in-laws to take him?” No maybes about it, she thought. They would insist and there was sure to be more trouble with Charlie.
“Whatever is best for you, Frances.”
“It wouldn’t be like last weekend. A small boy wants attention.”
“Then we’ll give it to him.”
“Easier said than done.”
She watched his face go through patterns of confusion. He grew hesitant, his eyes searching hers.
“The question is, do you want to be with me this weekend?”
It was, she decided, very difficult to explain. And it hurt to see Tray as an obstacle.
“I’m a widow with a young child—” she began, knowing as she heard her words that it was the wrong way to explain it.
“I know that,” he said with sudden authority. The love-struck adolescent had popped back into his turtle shell. “I know he comes with the territory, Frances. I’m prepared for that. I don’t understand the problem. He’s yours. What’s yours is important to me. So we’ll give him our attention.” He hesitated and swallowed. “Like a family. I’m not stupid, Frances. If I don’t make it with him, I don’t make it with you.”
