With a last wave to the girls and a few more motherly words about keeping the house clean and an ear out for Ben, June hurried out the door and followed the path into the dunes behind the house. She looked back over her shoulder, but Stone cottage was obscured from view. Was Richard in the house now, but unable to get away because his wife had planned every minute of his vacation? June’s high heels sunk in the sandy path and she leaned over to pull them off. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Richard, Richard. She wanted to shout his name for joy.
Except for leaving the children alone in the house, June refused to feel guilty. She and John had grown so far apart over the last couple of years that she didn’t think she was actually deceiving him in any way that mattered. Everything about her romance with Richard felt right to her. As she walk through the scrub pines she thought about all the things she would tell him, everything that had happened to her in the week since she’d seen him last. But then a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Would all her silly prattle bore him? What did she have to talk about anyway? Small domestic crises, Ben’s incessant fussing, worries about Claire’s illness, John’s exhaustion from working around the clock? She supposed she could tell him about the storm and Emma’s panic and then about going out on John’s boat and getting her nose burned in the sun. All small town happenings of little consequence. Things that would mean nothing to him. Not to Richard with his important job and moneyed life and vast circle of friends, all successful, moving up in the world. Her chatter would put him to sleep, if not bore him to tears.
June felt a flash of panic as her mind groped around for a suitable topic. She supposed they could talk about current events, but she hadn’t been following the news lately, hadn’t had the patience or time to read a newspaper or sit in front of the television in the evening. There was always too much housework to do and too many things from the children that needed her attention. Should they talk about that lady astronaut the Russians had sent into space, or the President’s trip to Berlin? It was all so abstract and far away, June thought. Nothing to do with me. What a bore she would sound. The only thing to do was to turn the conversation around to him. Men always liked to talk about themselves. She’d ask about his work, his interests. That would keep the conversation going. Or maybe they wouldn’t even have to do much talking. In the two secret trysts they’d had already, there hadn’t been a whole lot of time for conversation, just an anxious cleaving of bodies, clinging flesh, searching mouths and feverish hands. But June wanted their relationship to go deeper than that. She wanted to talk to Richard on a deeper level, to find some way into his heart, discover the key to his mind so he would want her forever.
The fisherman’s hut came into view and June quickened her pace. She looked around furtively before slipping inside. The last thing she wanted now was for someone to see her. The hut was empty. June was glad she was the first to arrive so she could tidy things up a bit before Richard came. In the last week she’d managed to bring a few extra things from the house to make the place more comfortable. A faded pink chenille bedspread she’d found in the basement in a box of old clothes, a couple of candles and a saucer to hold them. A jelly jar holding a bouquet of black-eyed Susans and cornflowers. She’d wanted to bring a thermos of iced tea along so they’d have something cold to drink, but she was afraid if she ran into anyone, they would think it was strange to find her walking around with a thermos. More than anything else, June feared wagging tongues and malicious gossip. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to suspect that something was going on between her and Richard. Not yet, not till she was sure of his feelings for her. A couple of years back Gail Carson had run off with a fisherman, not a local man, an outsider who’d come up in the summers to work on the boats as an extra deck hand. June hadn’t known Gail very well, except as the mother of one of Claire and Evie’s classmates. But everyone still talked about it, as if it were the scandal of the century. There’d been a buzz in town for months after she ran off. The women who gathered in Dot’s Coffee Shop would speculate out loud where they’d gone off to and how they’d met. Whether or not they were truly happy together. The women imagined great romance, the men winked at each other knowingly. Gail’s children suffered the worst of it and her poor husband still went around town in a daze, a mere shadow of the jovial family man he’d once been, the object of whispering and the pointing. Suffering the sorry fate of all cuckolds.
Thinking of Gail’s treachery made her heart seize up. Would that be the fate of her family too? Claire and Evie and John’s, if she were to leave them and run off with Richard? It would destroy them if she did that. She brushed away these nagging thoughts like cobwebs from a corner, and tried to think only about curling up in the safety of Richard’s arms. There would be plenty of time later to consider their future.
She propped open the door of the hut to let in some light and air and unrolled the rug and spread the blanket on top of it. June looked at her watch. It was just past two. Now all she could do was wait. She stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette, slowly drawing the smoke into her lungs, hoping it would calm her. It had been only a week since she’d last seen Richard, but it felt like a century. They hadn’t even been able to talk on the phone after he’d gone back to New York. With their house was on a party line you could never be sure who might be listening. She hadn’t imagined she would be so nervous, that her breath would come in little gasps, her palms tingle with sweat. And what if he didn’t come? How would she stand it, how could she possibly go back to the house and talk to the children and John in a normal voice, prepare the meal and wash the dishes as if there wasn’t a storm raging in her heart?
She must have looked at her watch a dozen times before she heard someone whistling in the distance. Richard? Instead of rushing out to meet him, June ducked inside the hut and closed the door, just in case it was someone else. Her heart was pounding, her mouth felt as dry as an old sock. The door to the hut opened and the dark outline of a man filled the doorway. She blinked in the light.
“June?”
“Richard.” She flung herself against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. The pulse in his throat beat against hers. She kissed his neck and his ears, breathed in the clean, citrusy scent of his aftershave. “Oh, how I missed you.”
Richard squeezed her briefly and extracted himself gently from her embrace. “Let me look at you.” He held her face in his hands. “I can’t stay long,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. “Tibby’s invited people for cocktails later and I’m supposed to be in town buying a few things.”
“But Richard, I’ve been waiting all week. You don’t know what it’s been like. I’ll die if…”
He cut her off, kissing her mouth hard. “I want you desperately, but I can’t stay and I don’t just want to…it wouldn’t be right.”
“I don’t care, I don’t care,” June said, tugging at the buttons of his shirt, blushing at her brazenness. But she needed Richard to make love to her, possess her in some way, to convince herself that he was hers. She refused to be content with a brief kiss and a promise of another time. To have him disappear now just when she thought she’d die from the waiting. It would kill her.
Richard hesitated a moment. He held her at arms’ length and searched her face. “We don’t have much time. You won’t feel bad if I….”
“It’s all right,” June said. “We’ll have more time later.” She undid her belt and removed her dress. Richard hesitated again and then unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants. June lay down on the bedspread in what she hoped was a seductive pose and Richard lay down next to her. He kissed her lips and her ears, stroked her arms and her thighs and then rolled over and entered her quickly. There was some pushing and caught breath, a confused groping of arms and legs. His belt buckle banged painfully against her ankle. And then just as quickly their awkward coupling was over and he collapsed against her, breathing heavily in her ear. June pressed her hands against his back, wanting to hold him inside her, but he rolled away an
d leaned back on his arm, smiling.
“That was nice,” June said uncertainly, even though it had all been over much too quickly and now all she felt was the start of a strange emptiness, like the tide going out. She pressed herself up against him to keep the heat of her body from ebbing away. He pulled the bedspread over her to cover her nakedness, but she pushed it aside and reached for her cigarettes.
“Can I have one of those?”
June handed him one and they smoked in silence.
“How was your week?” Richard said, stroking the back of her neck. He finished his cigarette and stood up, struggling to pull up his pants.
“So, so,” June said. She watched him straighten his clothes. He seemed far away now, his mind elsewhere. “Do you have to leave so soon? I’ve missed you so much. I wish…I wish just once… I could be yours until morning.”
Richard tucked in his shirt and ran his hands over his hair. He bent and kissed her quickly on the mouth. “I’ve missed you, too. Very much.” His hands drifted down and brushed lightly against her breasts. She had not bothered to remove her bra. “I’m sorry I can’t stay. We’ll have more time later. You’ll be all right here?”
She nodded.
Richard looked at his watch. “Tibby will have a fit if I’m late.” He smiled sheepishly. “But we’ll see each other soon, when things calm down a bit.”
“When?” June said, hoping she didn’t sound too anxious. “When can we meet again?”
“Soon. I’ll leave you a note under the boulder.” He bent to kiss her again and then he opened the door and was gone.
June pulled the blanket up over her knees. She lit another cigarette and stared at the burning coal, trying to make sense of her chaotic emotions. Her chest felt hollow and she rubbed her breastbone with the flat of her hand. Of course it was wonderful being with Richard, it was, no matter how brief, but she felt let down somehow, having expected more from this encounter. She had imagined they’d have an hour or two together at least. A chance to talk, to tell each other silly stories, to lie in each other’s arms. She wanted to hear about his childhood, his family home, to be able to picture what he’d been like as a little boy. She wanted to fill in all the years of his life, all the way up until the day they’d met. Greedy for information, she longed to discover his habits, his likes and dislikes. She wanted to know everything about him. Everything.
June tamped out her cigarette and rose from the floor. She shook out the folds of her dress and slipped into her shoes. The hut smelled like cigarette smoke and the stale odor of played out passion. She opened her powder compact and repaired her face, trying not to dwell on how disappointed she felt, on the hollow ache in her bones.
Out in the air she took deep breaths, smoothed down the skirt of her dress, adjusted her bra and panty girdle through her clothes. Damn Tibby and her cocktail parties. Sending Richard off to buy things in town like her errand boy. Now she’d have to listen all evening to forced merriment, the tittering laughter of women, ice clinking in glasses. Was Richard flirtatious? Would he maneuver some other man’s wife into a dark corner and whisper in her ear, run his finger along her collar bone, kiss the tip of her nose? June shook her head sharply. Of course not. She knew she was being silly.
Evie and Claire were in the kitchen making a pan of brownies from a package of Betty Crocker mix.
“You’re back early,” Evie said, trying to shield the bowl of batter with her body. “We were going to surprise you.”
“Well I am surprised,” June said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m going upstairs to lie down. Is Ben still asleep?”
Evie nodded. “Claire! You’re not mixing it right. Here, let me do it.” Evie took the bowl of batter from her sister.
Claire looked up at her mother. “Mom? Are you okay?”
“What?” June pressed her hand against her forehead. “Fine, I’m fine. Just worn out from the heat. I feel a bit of a headache coming on.” She opened up the icebox and poured herself a glass of iced tea. “I’m just going to take this upstairs and lie down. I’ll feel better in a minute or two.”
June wasn’t really tired, but she wanted to be alone so that she could go over every minute of her encounter with Richard, replay the feel of his hands on her skin, the things he’d whispered in her ear. Go back over every detail until each minute of the afternoon was something she could hear and taste and smell, something she could hang on to during the long stretches of time when they couldn’t be together. Her throat felt parched, she really did feel a headache coming on. She looked out the window at Stone cottage, trying to catch a glimpse of Richard, but it was quiet now. He was probably still in town, buying the food and liquor for his wife’s party.
As June stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes, her mind wandered over difficult terrain. Together, apart. Secrets and lies. What would it be like to be Richard’s wife? How well she would treat him! She would never send him into town to do errands. He’d be like a king and I would be his consort, she said to herself, stretching out her legs. But a nagging thought entered her brain. Didn’t all couples feel that way about each other at the beginning? Hadn’t she felt that way about John when they’d first met? Wasn’t she willing to do anything it took to be the perfect wife? She thought about their first small apartment in a rundown neighborhood in Boston when, in those heady first months of her marriage, she hadn’t minded the peeling paint and dilapidated kitchen. At the time it had been enough to be John’s wife. To bustle around the apartment all day in a house dress and apron, dusting and cleaning and preparing his meals from recipes she’d cut out of women’s magazines. She waited anxiously every evening while John tasted the dinner she had cooked and only after he proclaimed it to be wonderful did she permit herself a small sigh of relief.
But after the initial excitement of moving to Lockport and setting up their first real home together, their marriage settled into a rather dull routine that June had not been prepared for. Nor had she been prepared for the constant struggle to stay afloat and the need to stretch their household budget to lengths she hadn’t thought possible. When the girls were born there were moments of real joy in mothering them, in watching them learn to walk and grow and say their first words. She had loved her family, she loved them still, so how could she think about walking away?
I don’t care, I don’t care, June said aloud. She turned over and hit the pillow with her fist. I should be with Richard. I should be his wife. Not John’s. Somewhere her life had taken a wrong turn and she was now on a different road than she was meant to be. She got up from the bed and peered through the dormer window. If she craned her neck she could see part of Stone cottage and a small slice of the lane. She would wait by the window until Richard returned from town, just so she could catch one more glimpse of him, to remind herself that he was real, someone she could dream about tonight while she slept.
* * *
Once, when I was hanging around the boatyard looking for something to do, Emerson told me about growing up in Alabama, how poor they all were and how hard his mother worked to put food on the table. He was one of nine children and said he learned from her that the shortest path to unhappiness comes from wanting things you can’t have. That it was better not to yearn after the impossible. I am beginning to think he may be right – at least about some things. I was too shy that day to say anything to Emerson, but I wish I’d told him about the clean logic of math and science, where the answers, when you find them, appear on the page like a line of raindrops glistening in the sun. I will stick to the world of math where everything makes sense.
From my bedroom window I look up at the mass of stars and wonder if the people in heaven are looking down at me. Can anyone see me here, with my head stuck out of the window in the dark? I think of a poem I once read about the world ending in fire or ice. It must have been written about the desert, which is freezing cold and scorching hot in turns. Fire and ice. I whisper these two words like an intonation, chanting them together, until I feel sleepy enough
to return to bed.
A sandstorm came up during the night. The wind howled through the valley and kicked up gusts of sand. We closed up all the windows and doors and sealed the edges with masking tape, but still the sand managed to find its way in. In the morning we woke to a fine layer of it all over the house, on the furniture and the floors and on the dishes in the kitchen cupboards and on the boxes and cans of food in the pantry. It will take forever to clean it off. I said we should open up all the windows and doors and just let the wind blow it away. But my mother said that would only make it worse.
There were supposed to be orange trees here, but there are no trees of any kind. Or anything else that sticks up above the earth except for the oil pumping stations, bobbing their metallic heads, like giant insects, sucking black fluid out of the ground.
A boy at school says that if you go out into the desert at night and lie on the ground you can feel the earth shake from the atom bombs the government is exploding at the nuclear test site in Nevada. I think it’s just a passing freight train that’s causing the ground to shake, but perhaps it's true that we are much closer than we think to unleashing powers beyond our control.
Yours Until Morning Page 11
