Before, During, After

by Richard Bausch

  The world was changing terribly.

  Suddenly Natasha was at the door in her white nightgown. “It’s late,” she murmured. “I thought I heard you come in at least three times.”

  “The old man wanted to talk.”

  She crossed to the sink and poured herself a glass of water.

  “I have a headache,” he said. “Do you know where she keeps the aspirin?”

  She opened a cabinet above the stove, took a bottle of Aleve out, and held it toward him. “There’s prescription strength in here, too, for her knee, if you want it.”

  “This’ll do. Can I have some of that water?”

  She refilled the glass and gave it to him. “What did he want to talk about?”

  “Cheating on my mother.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Yeah.” He took three of the pills, swallowed them with the water, and then handed her the glass. “I think I’m a little drunk. Good thing I didn’t get pulled over.”

  She put the glass and the bottle of Aleve back.

  “I think I’m a lot drunk, now. After this vermouth.”

  “Constance called and left a message. She’s staying at the Holiday Inn on Central. Clara and Jack are going to stay there, too, but I guess you know that. My friend Marsha Trunan hasn’t called. She could already be here, staying with her parents.”

  “I haven’t heard from a soul. My old warden of the vestry—that’s it.”

  “Did you call anyone else?”

  “Couple old college pals who were living together in Nashville. Must’ve moved. Nobody else. I’ve left that life.”

  “Well. Neither of us wanted much to-do.”

  “I guess.” He looked at her and had the unexpected notion that she was about to tell him what had taken place all those miles away. This was the moment when she would confess. His own hysterical musing sickened him. He poured more of the vermouth.

  Seeing this, she walked over and kissed him on the side of the head and then started out of the room. He muttered something behind her, and she turned, and saw him lift the glass of vermouth to his lips.

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “Wondered if you wanted to have a drink with me.”

  “I’m beat. I’m going back to bed.”

  “I should go to bed, too. But I seem unable to let go of the day.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it was all that special for you.”

  “No.” He raised the glass. “Very. Very special. I learned about cheating on someone you supposedly love.”

  She studied his face as he drank. He was watching her, staring. “Honey, come to bed,” she urged.

  “I wonder why he wanted me to know about it now.”

  “No offense,” Natasha said. “But he strikes me as strange.”

  “He is that,” Faulk said. “But then, so am I.” He gave her a peculiarly conspiratorial look, almost a leer, out of that sidelong smile she had always liked; now it unnerved her and seemed to be eliciting something from her.

  He saw the small step back she took, putting one hand on the frame of the doorway, and he wanted to say more, draw her out concerning unfaithfulness. He thought he saw the guilty pall of it in her face. The color had left her cheeks, he was certain of it; she was hiding something. “Talk to me,” he said.

  “I’m so tired, Michael. It’s late. He’s your father. He’ll go back to Little Rock, and you won’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

  “Just wondered what you thought about it.” He poured still more of the vermouth.

  “Honey, please come to bed.”

  “I’ll be there in minutes. So fast you’ll be astonished.”

  She went and sat down across from him. “Do you want to talk? It must’ve upset you so much. I should be here for you.”

  “It didn’t upset me.”

  “But you’re—you had—you said you had drinks with him and—”

  “Whiskey. We drank it slow.”

  “It’s no good to sit here getting drunk. We’re getting married day after tomorrow.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  She patted his wrist and then tried to take the glass. He held it tight.

  “This one more.”

  “Okay. And you’ll come right to bed?”

  “Promise.”

  He muttered something else as she stood. “What?” she said.

  “I was thinking—your present state of mind.”

  She waited.

  “You—you’re—how you are now. It’s just the way you were when we met. You were grieving the lost—the end of the—whatever it was …”

  “No, honey. Please.”

  “I was just wondering what happened in Jamaica to change everything between us.”

  She said, “Oh, baby. Nothing’s changed between us, has it?”

  He swallowed the dregs of the vermouth.

  “I’ve just been so nervous about getting everything done,” she told him. “It’s a—it’s a big step for a girl.” She felt the falsity of her own voice and sought to cover it by moving to his side and bending down to kiss him. She meant it as a passionate kiss, but he kept his mouth shut tight. He did not close his eyes but looked at her with that bleary-eyed expression of someone with too much to drink.

  “My God,” he said, meaning it. “You are so beautiful.”

  “I’m a mess.” She moved to the door and turned and made herself smile into his disturbing, suspicious, glittering gaze. “I love you.”

  He held up the empty glass. “Here’s to love.”

  5

  Early in the morning, her grandmother came to the doorway of the room to say that Constance was on the phone and wanted to talk to her. The night had been long, full of dreams that woke her, and near fallings-off that shook her into fearful listening to the house, Faulk sleeping heavily at her side. The sound of Iris in the hall outside the door startled her, and as she left the bed, carefully, her heart was pounding, knocking against her breastbone. She dressed hurriedly in jeans and a sweatshirt and went downstairs to the phone in the hall.

  “Hello,” Constance said. There was an evenness, almost a guardedness, in the voice.

  “I’ll come get you,” Natasha said. “I’ll take you out for brunch.”

  “I just want something light.”

  “I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

  Iris was sitting in the kitchen with her coffee. “I had a long night,” she said, as Natasha entered the room. “Not much sleep.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s just nerves, honey.”

  “What’re you nervous about?” Natasha asked her.

  “I’m an old woman. And my knee hurts.”

  Natasha kissed her forehead.

  “I’ve got to take it easier on it,” Iris said.

  Natasha poured herself a little of the coffee and stood there sipping it while the other watched her. She put the cup down in the sink with a small clatter.

  “I’ll shut up,” Iris said.

  “I have to go. I won’t be long.”

  “Take my car,” she said with the air of someone deciding to let something pass.

  “Okay.”

  At the Holiday Inn, Constance was sitting under the canopy in front. She wore a light scarf and white slacks with a blue puffy-sleeved blouse, and she looked rested. The sight of her brought everything back in another bad interior rush, and the effort of the past days to find a way beyond things, the little victories of will, all seemed to collapse again as her friend got into the car and leaned over to hug her. The awkwardness of it made Constance frown. “You look frazzled,” she said, with her customary bluntness. “Do you wish I hadn’t come?”

  “Stop it,” Natasha said, and flashed a brittle smile.

  “I almost didn’t. Now I don’t know what to say.”

  “Did you go to California?”

  “Briefly. I came from there.”

  “And?”

  Constance sighed. “It’s a nice little s
hop. I still want her to use her degree.”

  “Does she seem happy?”

  “We’re fine. I’m wondering what you’ve got planned.”

  “A small wedding. So we can start our lives.” Natasha drove down Central to Cooper Street, and over to Otherlands Coffee Bar café. They went in and ordered, and stood waiting, and Constance wanted to know about the café and about some of the other places in Memphis that she remembered with fondness. When they had their food, they went out on the open patio and took a table overlooking the cars in the lot with the sun on them. Constance remarked about the leaves not having begun to take on color yet. “In Maine, some of the trees were already bare when I left for California.”

  Natasha had ordered granola with orange juice, and she was surprised at her own appetite for it. Constance sat there tearing up a bran muffin and washing bites of it down with sips of black coffee. “So—how are you—”

  “Fine.”

  “You’ve let go of being mad at me.”

  Natasha stared at her.

  “Okay. Okay.”

  They ate quietly for another few moments.

  “You know I thought I saw him at the airport yesterday.”

  Natasha paused only slightly, concentrating on her food. The blood was hurtling through the veins of her neck.

  “Unpleasant, to say the least. Reminded me of my stupidity.”

  “Are you going back to Maine or to California when you leave here?” she asked, hearing the tremor in her own voice and feeling the coldness rising at her abdomen. She had put her spoon down and sipped her water.

  “Maine. Until the end of the month, anyway. I’m gonna sell that house.”

  Others came up onto the patio and entered the café. They were talking animatedly, interrupting one another and laughing, and they seemed perfectly happy and at peace with things as they were.

  “Well,” Constance said. “It was a strange moment, anyway.”

  “But it—you know it—but it wasn’t him.”

  She shrugged. “Not much chance of him being here unless you invited him to the wedding. No. Not him. He looked right at me because I guess I was staring, and I have to say it looked enough like him for me to stare. He must’ve thought I was somebody crazy, eyeing him like that. And I’m sure I looked as stupid as I felt.”

  “But it wasn’t him?”

  “No. I said. It wasn’t.”

  A moment later, Constance went on: “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It reminded me how stupid I was in Jamaica, that’s all. And even if it had been him it would just be one of those weird coincidences you see in novels. Because I know nothing happened between you except a harmless kiss under the moon on a beach, being a little drunk. I know all that and I was so stupid to assume anything.”

  “But it wasn’t him,” Natasha said. She thought of him saying he had been to Memphis.

  “Hey. Honey. Calm down. You’re white as the salt in that shaker.”

  She stood and looked around her and then moved to the stairs and held on to the wooden railing. The ground before her, the gravel with the front of a car in it and the grass growing through the stones and the little fragment of a candy wrapper, all seemed to tumble away from her. She put one hand to her eyes, thumb and forefinger clamping the bridge of her nose. Constance breathed at her side. “Hey, I said it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. God, I’m so stupid.”

  Natasha turned and saw her and then for an instant couldn’t quite remember what she was doing there or where they both were. When she looked out over the tops of the cars, she saw the beach, and blinked, and then saw the street, the sun on it through the leafy trees.

  “Honey, what is this?” Constance said.

  “Nothing. Forget it. I don’t want to think about Jamaica. Can we please, please, please not talk or think about Jamaica.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted to get past my stupidity about it all.”

  “I have to go,” Natasha said.

  She went out to the car and got in, and Constance followed, muttering to herself all the way, and then apologizing. “I’m so sorry I mentioned it. Honey, I’ve messed up again, haven’t I.”

  Natasha was crying, and only dimly aware of the fact. She put the car in gear and backed out into the street and pulled up to Cooper. There was a lot of traffic. Constance stared at her. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I was just making conversation. I wanted to reassure myself we were past it and could even talk about how stupid I was, and maybe even joke about it.”

  “I have to go home,” Natasha said.

  “Honey. You are home.”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “I’m so sorry. Can you please forgive me? I’m sure it wasn’t him.”

  She shook her head and drove. And her friend sat there looking at the side of her face, and then out at the road, and then at the side of her face.

  “Honey, it wasn’t him. I told you I only thought I saw him. I really am sorry I mentioned him. You’re not still thinking about him.”

  “Oh, God. Please.”

  At the Holiday Inn, she pulled under the canopy and waited for Constance to get out. “I’ll see you later today?” Constance said in a weak little voice, looking as if she might cry.

  “Yes.”

  “People make mistakes, honey. I wanted to think we could talk about it.”

  Natasha said nothing.

  The other got out of the car and looked in at the window. “I don’t know what this is for you, and I was only trying to say how stupid I was and I really—whatever pain I’ve caused, I am so, so sorry.”

  Natasha may have nodded.

  Constance went on quickly, as if wanting to get it said before Natasha could interrupt or protest, “And I don’t think you should go through with this wedding in the shape you’re in.”

  “Stop it.”

  The other went on, hurrying, “If you’re in love with someone else you can’t—”

  Natasha pressed on the gas, pulling away so fast that the tires squealed.

  6

  She drove to Iris’s, parked the car, and went into the house, through the living room to the kitchen. Leander and Trixie were there. She said good morning to them, and to Iris, who was making bacon and eggs, standing in her leg brace at the stove. The whole house smelled of bacon and coffee. The light coming in the windows was blinding and showed every blemish on the old man’s face. He looked grotesque.

  Iris said, “Marsha Trunan called. She’s in town. She’ll be here for the party this evening.”

  “Did she want me to call her?”

  “You okay? You look pale.”

  “She’s nervous about tomorrow,” said Leander, raising his cup.

  “Want some coffee?” Iris asked her.

  “I’m going upstairs and take a shower.”

  “Tell your husband he shouldn’t sleep so late,” Leander said.

  His wife playfully slapped the back of his hand. “You just woke up yourself.”

  “I’ll convey the message,” Natasha said. Her stomach hurt. Climbing the stairs, she thought of Nicholas Duego coming to Memphis and remembered writing the address of this house in the sand and then wiping it away. But Constance had said it was a mistake; she’d mistaken someone for him. It was a mistake. It might even have been some kind of ploy on the older woman’s part in order to gauge Natasha’s reaction to it. That would be like her. Yet the possibility had entered Natasha’s mind. She felt it like a weight on her chest.

  She found Faulk sitting in the sunlight at the bedroom window. He had on a pair of brown slacks and a white T-shirt. He rose as she entered and put one hand to his eyes, as if to rub sleep out of them. “It’s bright out there.”

  “You were looking right into it,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “Your father said to tell you you’re a lazy bum for sleeping late.”

  “That’s me.” He moved to kiss her good morning, looking into her eyes and seeking to find the something he believed now was sim
ply not there anymore. Her smile was strange. It was always strange now. There was something willed about it.

  “I think he’s trying to be funny.”

  “Yeah, well. His kind of being funny can drive you nuts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That man in Florida—Stevens—the one with inhalation anthrax. He died today. It’s the first case in twenty-five years.”

  She said, “Hold me? Please?”

  They stood in the light from the window for what seemed a long time. He removed himself finally and, taking her hand, started to lead her downstairs.

  “I’m gonna take a shower,” she told him.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s all so awful.” She held her hands clasped at her middle.

  He thought she looked years older. Something petty in him wanted to feed her anxiety. “Anthrax. My God. Eerie. Twenty-five years—and now …” He reached to touch her hip, sorry for the little cruel impulse, and aghast at the level of his own discontent.

  “How’s your headache?” she asked.

  He looked down. “It’s better.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

  “Nothing to be sorry about. You were talking to your father.”

  “Well, that—but I meant—” He stopped, realizing that there were no words to express it short of standing there and accusing her. “Nothing. I had too much. And I shouldn’t have.”

  “But you meant what?” She studied his face.

  It was calm, the expression flat. “I don’t know. I’m hungover. I’m like you, honey. I want us again. Like the other night. I want all this to be just a bad memory.”

  “It’s our wedding,” she said, fighting tears.

  “I’d just like to get on with things.” His tone was nearly that of a little boy, distressed and wanting a thing fixed that could not be fixed. He turned and went on down, head slightly bowed. She wanted to call him back, take him into the bedroom, and close the door and tell him what had happened to her.