“Look,” he said, after a moment. “Maybe I’ve been too impetuous. You’re probably busy and I’m being a nuisance.”
Nick looked at him thoughtfully. “No, I’m not doing anything that a little music wouldn’t improve.” She pushed the door open and stood aside. “Please.”
Charlie stepped in and put the records on the table.
“Stay here and make yourself at home. I’m going to put on something a little more practical. One has to be serious about music, after all,” she said, finally throwing him a smile.
In the bedroom, Nick put on her green striped sundress and some red lipstick. She went back to the kitchen and began fixing a fresh pot of coffee. She stood with her back to the counter, watching Charlie thumb through his records at the breakfast table. Some of the cardboard packaging was worn, disintegrating at the corners. Hughes would never let anything he cared about be so ill-used, she thought. All his tools were kept clean and carefully returned to their cases when he was done with them. He even kept his toothbrush in a special case in the bathroom cabinet. And yet, it moved her, all that care and intensity for a screwdriver or a toothbrush.
“I think we’ll start your education with this one,” Charlie said.
Sitting in one of the chintz chairs, Nick gripped her coffee as Charlie put the needle to the vinyl. The music was rougher than the blues she was used to, but it had a certain back-porch quality. It was like a piece of driftwood, all worn down and muddy-colored. But with the sun shining on the green lawn and the palm trees bowing and straightening in the breeze, it couldn’t make Nick sad. In fact, it made her feel light-headed, like she might blow away with it.
The damp coming off the grass beckoned to her and the porch seemed to float up and away from the house, moving over the canal. The skirt of her dress ballooned and Nick laid her head against the back of the chair. The lonely appeal of a mourning dove sounded somewhere through the haze.
Nick didn’t know how long she had been drifting like that, but when the music stopped, she forced herself to open her eyes. Charlie Wells was sitting in his chair, sizing her up, trying to catalogue her.
“Did you like it?”
“Yes, it has a sort of tonic effect, doesn’t it?” It was all she could find to say, without saying what was really in her heart. Something about fleeing, something about this horrible cottage, about a broken radio and Hughes’s hand on the small of her back.
Charlie didn’t answer, inspecting his fingernails. After a moment he looked up, as if whatever it was he had been thinking had passed. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Because I’m starving.”
“I suppose I could make up some sandwiches. Our cupboard’s rather shameful at the moment. I’m a bit of a sporadic shopper,” Nick said.
“Never mind the sandwiches. I’ll take you to lunch in town.”
“What an awfully grand offer,” Nick said. “A little too grand, really.”
“That’s all right. I know a Spanish place in the old town, tapas. Not so expensive. Have you ever eaten tapas?”
“I don’t even know what that is,” Nick said, laughing.
“It’s good. You get to taste all sorts of different small dishes,” he said. “I ate octopus once in Spain, before the war. I had never even seen a real octopus, but there I was, eating it. Sometimes a thing like that, a thing you’ve never even imagined in your head, can go down surprisingly easy.”
* * *
The rusting Clipper, which Charlie said he had borrowed from “one of the boys,” rolled toward town along the flat road. Next to them, the canal opened up into a large waterway, dotted with fishing boats and clapboard shacks.
The car felt close, almost intimate. Nick found herself pressing her ankles together, knees touching, like her mother had taught her to do when sitting with a boy. She willed herself not to look at him. But as she listened to the whir of the tires moving over the road, her mind returned to the dinner table.
It hadn’t been a noisy, clumsy, mean advance, like the man on the Havana Special. It had been silent, the hand sliding under the hem of her skirt, pushing her knees apart slightly. His thumb brushing the interior of her thigh, making little concentric circles on her flesh.
She knew if she closed her eyes, she could imagine that it was Hughes’s hand, quiet but insistent, the way she remembered it.
She had poured more wine, rising in her seat a little to reach the others’ glasses. Some of it spilled on her grandmother’s white linen tablecloth. All the while, Charlie had kept his eyes on Hughes, continuing their conversation about the lousy food at the canteen, chuckling at Hughes’s jokes. It had made her feel sad, to see Hughes nodding his head, his blue eyes crinkled at the edges in a smile. But it also took her breath away, made her feel drunker, powerful.
Nick had been unable to resist a glance at Elise, who had kept her own eyes on Charlie. She wondered if Elise suspected, if maybe she was used to it, the way they said you got used to the air-raid sirens. You wait, knowing it’s coming, then try to keep your ears covered until it’s finished, when you can curse it in safety.
In the car, Nick pressed her knees tighter together. She should have stayed home. She should be lying on her dock, listening to Count Basie, thinking about getting ready for the officers’ picnic that night.
But then she remembered the radio, wrapped carefully in tissue, and the heavy cookbook full of ingredients she hadn’t bought, and she leaned her head against the window frame and closed her eyes.
She tried to remember the last time Hughes had taken her to lunch. Sometime before the war. Always the same thing about money, as if they really were poor. It wasn’t that she minded so much about the money, exactly, but she hated the way things always had to be discussed and weighed, and in the end he always decided anyway, leaving her with the impression that she might as well have been a wall. It was exhausting and it made her reckless. When she had wanted the yellow bathing suit, she had telegrammed her trustee and asked for the money in secret. Then she had lied to Hughes about how much it cost, ripping up the tag on her way home and scattering it on the roadside. All for a goddamn bathing suit. Somehow she loved that suit even more for it.
Still, money was money, and at least they had it. She thought of Helena and the recent telephone call. They had been writing to each other regularly over the past couple of months, an exchange of cheerful, if not mundane and—on Nick’s side at least—somewhat untruthful letters. But when Helena rang her last week, long-distance from Hollywood, Nick knew something was up. It seemed her cousin’s marriage had changed her already limited circumstances for the worse; Helena, or more precisely Avery Lewis, wanted to sell the little cottage on the Island for cash. The news confirmed Nick’s suspicion that the man was a charlatan and she told Helena as much, making her cousin cry down the scratchy telephone line. She told Nick that Avery wanted to invest in a film venture, some B-movie nonsense. Nick had reminded Helena that she wouldn’t even have the house if it weren’t for Nick’s father, hoping to shame her into dropping the idea. And Helena had relented, saying they would just have to find the money another way; of course Nick was right. Nick had been furious when she hung up and she told Hughes she thought they’d better get to Hollywood and see what was going on out there. Hughes had reminded her that cross-country tickets were costly and Nick had stayed in a black mood, refusing to do the shopping for days.
“Where are you?” Charlie Wells’s voice brought Nick back to the car, the warm air drifting through the open windows.
“Oh, just away somewhere,” Nick said. “I’m a bit tired from all the wine last night.”
“Let’s park, we can walk from here,” Charlie said, pulling up alongside the old Spanish fort that had once served as a lookout.
The restaurant was in one of the crumbling colonial buildings that lined the narrow cobbled streets of the old town of St. Augustine. It was dark inside, with a low ceiling, and Nick wondered how many other women Charlie had taken there.
“I’ll choose fo
r us, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Nick waved her hand. “Please. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” When the waiter brought the wine, she put her hand over her glass. “I don’t think I’ll have any.”
“You must,” Charlie said. “You can’t have tapas without wine.”
“Well, just a little, then,” she said, removing her hand.
The table was small, their knees were almost touching under it, but Charlie hadn’t made a move toward her, leaving Nick vaguely disquieted.
The little fish and meat dishes were at once salty and spicy, oily and sharp. Their chins were slick from the sauces and Nick was compelled to lick her fingers at one point.
“I feel so native,” she said cheerfully. He had been right about the wine and she tipped her glass toward him for more.
“You look a little native with that tan,” Charlie said, pouring.
“This is the first time I’ve been brown in the winter,” Nick said. “I’ve been working very hard at it.”
“Well, I’d say it’s been worth the effort. All the boys on the ship have quite a crush on you.”
“Do they? I’ve hardly seen them.”
“Once is enough,” Charlie said. “I’d been told, but I had to see it to believe it.”
Nick knew he was lying; she wasn’t the type that had seamen swooning, but she felt herself flush anyway.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Charlie said, grinning at her.
“I’m not embarrassed, I just don’t know …” Nick hesitated. “Well, I guess I am a little embarrassed.”
“Doesn’t your lucky bastard of a husband give you compliments?”
Nick didn’t say anything, just looked down at her dirty napkin.
“All right, all right. I’ll stop teasing you. Let’s order some coffee.”
The waiter brought thick coffee in small chipped cups and it tasted like nothing Nick had ever had at home.
“It’s Moroccan,” Charlie said. “They filter it twice, and they put cardamom in it, that’s what gives it that flavor.”
They sipped their coffee in silence, listening to the sound of dishes banging in the kitchen.
“I feel so tired,” Nick said, as she swirled the silt at the bottom of her cup. “Like I could sleep forever.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“I think I’d better. Otherwise, I might end up like Rip Van Winkle and sleep at this table for a hundred years.”
“I doubt they’d mind.” Charlie laughed.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst place. At least I’d have something nice to eat when I woke up.”
“I wanted to show you where the good shrimp boat comes in,” Charlie said. “But I guess we can wait on that.”
“First, I’d have to be able to get up early enough,” Nick said. “And, maybe one lesson is enough for today.”
* * *
Nick leaned her head out the car window, letting the wind take some of the heat from the wine out of her cheeks. If she’d been alone she would have gulped at the air, let its saltiness blow her whole insides clean, but she didn’t want to do that in front of Charlie.
She could feel his gaze slide over her from time to time and she knew he wanted to touch her.
The car turned into their driveway and Charlie switched off the ignition. The cooling engine dinged and Nick rested against the doorframe, listening to the crickets thrumming in the stiff swamp grass around the bungalows. Sweat had dampened her neckline and she could feel the back of her knees sticking to the vinyl. Charlie put his hand on her thigh. She looked at him. He pushed himself along the seat, reaching around the gearshift, to get to her. She didn’t move closer. He seemed to be searching her face for something and she wondered what he saw there. He slid farther, his arm outstretched to catch her to him, but his pant leg caught on the gear and he had to stop to fiddle with it.
Nick almost felt like laughing. It was like watching a desperate contortionist. He pulled at her, trying to get her to move closer to the middle, but she remained still. She could hear him breathing heavily. He finally got one leg around the gearshift and was on her, pushing her back into the corner. Nick thought about how strange they must look to the busybodies who were no doubt watching from their kitchen windows. Now they really would have something to talk about.
He was covering her neck with his mouth, leaving a wet trail around her collarbone. Nick felt too hot, from the wine and the sun and the sound of the crickets, whose song suddenly sickened her. She pushed back at him. But he was tearing at her now and using his full weight against her, one hand up the skirt of her sundress, the other clawing at the straps on her shoulders.
“Stop,” she said. “It’s too hot.”
Charlie wasn’t listening, or hadn’t heard, and Nick wondered if she’d actually said it out loud. She pushed at him, harder this time, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. He ripped the top of her sundress, sending a dozen tiny cloth-covered buttons flying around them.
Nick found the door handle behind her and released it, and they both tumbled out onto the driveway.
She lay flat on her back, with her dress fanning out around her, feeling an uncontrollable urge to laugh. She covered her ripped top with her hand and tried to push the humming laughter back down; it refused to go. She clamped her free hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Tears began streaming down her face as she gasped for breath, laughing and choking into the dusty ground, the force of it threatening to tear her apart. Charlie sat next to her, looking very angry and overwrought, which made her laugh even harder. He pushed himself off the drive. He stood glaring at her, his face red and sweaty.
“I’m sorry, it’s just … oh dear” was all Nick managed before dissolving again.
“Bitch,” Charlie hissed, “you’re just a damn tease.” He kicked dirt at her before getting back into the car and slamming the door.
Nick just lay there laughing and holding her stomach as the car peeled out, watching the dust particles make twisters up into the shafts of sun.
She spent the rest of the afternoon making the tomato aspic that she had promised to bring to the officers’ picnic in Green Cove Springs that evening. It had completely slipped her mind until she saw the handwritten recipe on the counter next to the icebox, calling for her mother’s stock and a little Knox gelatin. It had seemed suddenly so important, possibly the most important thing in the world, that aspic, and Nick threw herself into the task with intense concentration.
She roasted some leftover bones and peeled the vegetables. She watched the stock carefully as she reduced it to a thickened consommé. She boiled the tomatoes and strained them and poured her mixture into the pewter fish mold that had been sent from up north with the rest of her belongings. She then placed it in the icebox to set and went to get ready.
Nick had thrown her ripped dress in the laundry hamper and was fastening her pearl earrings when she heard the Buick cough and spit its way up to the house. She applied a bit of powder and checked her appearance. A good lieutenant’s wife looked back at her. Hair neat and in place, a yellow cotton sweater covering her shoulders and buttoned over her bosom. A little lipstick and no rouge. She walked out into the kitchen and almost bumped right into Hughes. They both hopped back a bit, startled.
“Hello,” Nick said, glancing only briefly at him before fixing her gaze to the floor.
“Hello,” Hughes said quietly. “I’m going to shower and change. We don’t want to be late.”
“I made the aspic,” Nick said. “And I’m wearing shoes this time.” She looked at him and saw his expression soften. “I think it may be the most glorious aspic I’ve ever made.”
“Thank you,” he said.
They regarded each other for a moment, then Hughes turned toward the bedroom and Nick’s heart sank. She heard the shower start and she tiptoed toward the sound. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, to let the steam out. Through the opening she watched her husband stretch and soap himself, rub shampoo into
his blond hair. He really was golden all over, she thought, realizing how long it had been since she’d seen him naked in daylight. She was so close to him and yet he didn’t even sense her presence. Nick wanted to cry. Instead, she went back into the kitchen to see if the aspic had gelled.
She pulled it gently out of the icebox, so as not to break its continuity, and marveled at its perfect color, like a bright tomato swimming pool. She carefully pressed her finger to the top to check the firmness. It pushed back and Nick let out a sigh of satisfaction. She chose a platter and slowly turned the mold over, lifting it away to see the perfect fish-shaped gelatin gleaming and winking back at her. She selected her favorite cloth, with the little Dutchmen printed on it, and covered the platter. She picked it up gingerly, and began heading out to the car.
Nick wasn’t sure if she’d caught her heel or the dish had just slipped from her grasp, but, before she could react, it was tumbling, the aspic bouncing and breaking into tiny ragged cubes across the green and white linoleum floor. A piece of it squished between her toes. Nick stared at her foot, her smudged yellow patent-leather sandals, the red splotches melting in the warm air. Her legs gave out underneath her and she dropped to the floor. Then she hung her head in her lap and cried, her sobs breaking out of her violently, like painful hiccups.
Hughes came rushing out of the bedroom, his white shirt unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. Nick looked up. Rasping and shivering, she spread her hands out, gesturing at the mess around her.
“It’s ruined,” she cried. “It’s ruined and I don’t know how it happened. I wasn’t careful enough.”
“Hush,” Hughes said, crouching down and wrapping his arms around her. He pressed his face into her hair. “Darling, it doesn’t matter. We’ll fix it. Don’t cry, we’ll fix it.”
He put his hands around her waist and pulled her up, leading her to the kitchen table.
“Sit down, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it.” He picked up a bowl and carefully gathered up every piece that hadn’t yet melted. “It’s perfect. Look, Nicky.”
Tigers in Red Weather Page 4
