by Andre Dubus
“You were naked?”
“I was naked.” She smiled at LuAnn, then looked up at the sky. “I’ve thought about it over the years. Wondered if I meant to hurt him more. But I don’t think so. I was never trying to hurt him, anyway. I may have had time to slip on my underpants, maybe my shirt—run down the hall, trying to button. But I don’t think so. It was a small place, one story of a duplex. If Ted came home like that, you’d have time to get the guy down the back stairs, and dress and make the bed. ’Course you wouldn’t hear him come in, either; you’d hear him on the stairs.”
“What did Rick do?”
“I said: ‘You can’t come in. Somebody’s here.’ He said: ‘Somebody’s here?’ He said it quietly, like we were conspirators. And he was conspiring with me, not about what I had been doing but about what he and I were doing right then, at that moment. He had made a decision: he wasn’t going down the hall to confront, or to fight—”
“I would.”
“I wouldn’t be able not to. He was. He wasn’t angry yet. Oh God, he was hurt. He put down his suitcase and briefcase. He kept looking at me. Tears were in his eyes; his mouth was open. Then he turned to leave. He took one step and stopped, and turned back to me again, and he looked at me that way. He picked up his suitcase and briefcase, looking at me. Then he walked out. His head was down; I watched him, and his head was down. At the back door he had to put down his suitcase and briefcase, to open it. I wanted to go pick them up, hold them for him while he opened the damned door; but I saw it in my head, and it looked like a cruel thing to do. It would look cruel. He opened the door and lifted the things through it and put them on the step. Then he went through and closed the door. I stood there and listened to his car starting and backing out and turning in the street. Then I went to the horrible bedroom, and Derek was dressed, his uniform coat, his gloves, and he looked as bad as Rick. I’m sure I did, too. But Derek’s bad was fear. If he’s stayed married, and he kept cheating, I think he goes to motels. I got dressed. I could not put on clothes fast enough. I said: ‘That was Rick.’ I said: ‘You better go.’ He just kept nodding his head. That man was already ten miles away, standing in my bedroom. He pecked me on the mouth, and was gone. Rick checked into a motel and called me. He wasn’t angry yet. That came later. But from the instant I heard him open that door, I paid for my fun. Paid and paid. Rick came back to the house once, to get his things. Derek brought water. We’d shake hands. He was nice and all. He’d ask how I was doing, say he was sorry. I’d look at him, and it didn’t seem real. There was Derek past and Derek present, and Marsha past and Marsha present, and I felt nothing exciting for him. Just this shared mistake. Regret. Then he’d leave with the empty bottles, and I’d drive to work and get on with other things. You know something that I’ll never know?”
The road straightened and LuAnn saw the park, and heard shouting from the stadium.
“I’ll never know if Rick and I would’ve made it. I loved him, there weren’t any rules, or I didn’t have any, I trusted my IUD, and I was just having fun. I never thought I could do so much damage. Because I never thought I’d get caught. So. I’m glad I’m with Bill. And if I were still with Rick, I wouldn’t have Annie and Stephen. Maybe other children, but not Annie and Stephen. And Rick has children, and a wife he can probably trust, and loads of money. Still: if he hadn’t come home early, or he’d called first, my fun with Gunga Din would have dried, and maybe I’d still be married to Rick. I tried to stay married to him. I begged, I promised, but I had broken his heart, and there was no way it would mend. Not with this woman, anyway.” She looked at LuAnn. “I said I wished I’d had the chance Thursday night. That’s all I meant. I hope I never cheat.”
They moved into the pine shadows and onto the parking lot. A man with silver hair sat alone at a picnic table, reading a book. LuAnn said: “I didn’t know I would till Thursday. I knew I could. Lots of times. With pleasure. But I knew I wouldn’t. That was the trap: that I believed I knew I wouldn’t.” She looked at Marsha’s eyes. “If you ever hear me say I know I won’t do something, be gentle, okay?” Marsha smiled. “But love me, slap me.” She looked past Marsha at the river; in the stadium, people cheered, someone beat the bass drum, rolled snare drums, and struck cymbals together. “Sex is like the weather. It’s just there. One summer afternoon you drive to the mall, shop inside, go out again, and water is falling from the sky. It was blue when you went in, and now it’s gray and water is falling, and you’re wearing shorts and a T-shirt. There was a bright moon and a streetlamp down the road. I was standing on the steps, looking at Roger’s hair in the light. He didn’t move. So I went down the steps and on the driveway and he heard me and turned. When I got close, I could see his sorrow: in his cheeks, his mouth, his eyes. He said: ‘LuAnn.’ I wanted to hold him tight, in his sorrow. He said: ‘Are you all right?’ and I said: ‘Shaken. How are you?’ He said he was tired. His voice was a sigh. I told him I didn’t know how he stood it—he works sixty, seventy hours a week—and I asked if he thought Sylvie would be all right, would ever really be all right, and he said: ‘I don’t know.’ Then he looked down and said: ‘She’s got to.’ The front lawn there is deep and my car was parked beside the road, behind a row of lilacs. I looked at its roof and said: ‘Are you going to the meeting?’ and he said: ‘Not right away. Sherri’s running it,’ and we started walking to my car. I got in and opened the window and he leaned down to it, looking at me, and I looked away to get my cigarettes. He said: ‘Could I have one?’ I opened my mouth to say sure, but the image that came was us sitting in the car, smoking; I said: ‘Join me.’ Before he got to the passenger door, I was feeling that first wave of thrill. Oh, thrill is dangerous; living is dangerous. He filled the seat. I gave him a cigarette and a light and lit mine. He’s divorced and isn’t with his children enough; he doesn’t go home to them and wake up with them. He takes them on weekends, but sometimes he doesn’t have whole weekends; the home takes him—girls run away or try to kill themselves, or some staff have the flu. So he hurts. He’s one of those who hurts and just keeps going. There was a tree between us and the streetlamp in front of my car, and the road was lit, but we were in shadows there, and the lilacs between us and the home are tall, and I couldn’t see the downstairs windows. There were houses across the street with lights low, people watching television. You could make love on their front lawns and they wouldn’t know. Murder somebody, and they wouldn’t know till morning. I wanted to kiss him and I was trying to think of something to say, about Sylvie, about anything. Three drags on my cigarette. Two or three on his. Then he said: ‘I like watching you read.’ I didn’t say anything; it was in my face, though. Probably since he got in the car like a panther, if panthers were shaped like bears. Probably since I said: Join me.’ He leaned to kiss me and I leaned, and we were kissing and I reached behind him and dropped my cigarette out his window, and I felt him drop his. Then our hands were free: shirts unbuttoned. I was wearing jeans; we pulled them down and my underpants, and his. I wanted to get in the passenger seat, with him kneeling on the floor and my feet on the dashboard. I said: ‘Move.’ He pushed the seat back, got a condom from his wallet, and took off his shoes and slacks and shorts, and I was pushing my underpants and jeans—I had them to my ankles; then I knew I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Because of those seconds when we weren’t kissing and touching. I was touching my jeans and my pants and my skin. I saw myself walking into my house. I saw myself walking through the kitchen and the dining room to Ted in the living room. I didn’t see Ted. Or Julia and Elizabeth and Sam in their beds. I saw my face and the front of my body, walking toward—me. Walking on the floor toward me. And I knew I must not do this. I wanted to. All I could feel was my body and this thing in my chest that wanted to explode. Into blossom. But I knew, and I pulled on my underpants and I was pulling up my jeans and feeling with my feet for my moccasins, all that breathing in the car, and I said: ‘I can’t.’ I looked at him. I hadn’t stopped looking at him, but I looked at his eyes and said:
‘I’m sorry.’ I had my jeans up and my moccasins on and by the time I was buttoning my shirt, he was dressed. His eyes were beautiful. He said: ‘Don’t be.’
“Then you know what? I had one clear thought: What’s the difference between stopping now and going through with it? And it seemed right. Not the question, but the answer that was already in the question. There’s no difference; that’s what I felt, this great pull just to kiss him and get it done. We were still breathing hard. I said: ‘I have to go.’ He said: ‘I understand.’ He looked like he wanted to kiss me good night, hug me, maybe just a little kiss; I shook my head. He got out and shut the door and lowered his face to the window. I said: ‘I’ll see you Thursday.’ He nodded, and I said: ‘I’ll see you carefully.’ ‘I won’t bother you,’ he said. Some of them think you’re dormant till they kiss you. I said: ‘I know.’ I buckled the seat belt and started the car. He said: ‘Good night, LuAnn.’ He said it sweetly. I said: ‘Good night’ while I was shifting gears; then I drove. I looked in the mirror. He was standing by the road, watching. I stuck my arm out and waved. He waved. The road curved and I couldn’t see him anymore and I drove home.”
“Intact.”
The path turned and LuAnn looked at the light on the river, then the trees on her right, and shadows on the ground beneath them and sunlight on fallen brown leaves. Then she looked ahead, at the stadium and the park.
“I guess so.” She looked at Marsha. “Would you say intact?”
“Yes. That’s what the struggle was about.”
“It’s still going on.”
“No smoking in the car.”
“No.”
In the stadium the music was joyful and LuAnn walked to its beat. They passed the boys playing basketball, and she said: “I’ll go to confession today.”
“Really?”
“It’s at four on Saturdays.”
“I didn’t know you did that.”
“Not much.”
“Do you think you need to?”
“Yes.”
“To be forgiven?”
“No. I’m always being forgiven. But I’ll get strength from it. We do it face-to-face now. I’ll just go sit with the priest and tell him.”
“If you tell him like you told me, you’ll have another struggle on your hands.”
“It’s a very simple language. I’ll say I placed myself in the occasion of sin, and I nearly committed adultery, and I don’t want that to happen, ever.”
“So you rehearse it?”
“I did, driving home Thursday night.”
They came to the parking lot and slowed their pace, then stopped and turned around and stood watching the boys play. Marsha said: “That’s it? What will the priest say?”
“Not much. Tell me to do something, and absolve me.”
“Penance?”
“Not on my knees for hours. He’ll probably tell me to spend a few minutes with God, asking for help. I’ll be talking to you, too.”
Marsha held LuAnn’s shoulder, looked at her eyes.
“Do not ever tell Ted.”
“No. It wasn’t him in the car. And why ever tell him there was a time when there wasn’t him? There wasn’t even Julia and Elizabeth and Sam; there was just me. It was the jeans that saved me. If I had been wearing a skirt I could’ve just pulled up. There wouldn’t have been those seconds when I was only touching my own skin. And you can’t be saved by jeans. So it was God, grace; and I don’t think of Him with eyes, glancing away from all the horror and seeing what I was doing and stopping me before He turned away again to look aghast at the world. I don’t know how it happens.”
Marsha lowered her hand and smiled.
“Some people would just say you were being good.”
“What I was being was hot. If I take all the credit for getting out of it, I have to take all the blame for getting into it, too. That’s too simple, and too unbearable. My job is to try, and to be vigilant, and keep hoping. I need my jacket, and some water.”
They turned and walked to the car.
At Night
SHE ALWAYS KNEW SHE WOULD BE A WIDOW; why, even before she was a bride, when she was engaged, she knew, in moments when she imagined herself very old, saw herself slow and lined and gray in a house alone, with photographs of children and grandchildren on a mantel over the fire. It was what women did, and she glimpsed it, over the years, as she glimpsed her own death. She had the children and the grandchildren, and some of the grandchildren moved to other states, but most of them stayed, and all her children did, close enough to visit by car, and they came to her, too, and filled her little house. The photographs hung in the bedroom and in the hall, and were on the mantel above the fireplace.
She was seventy-seven and her husband was, too, and by now she had buried her parents and his, and a sister, and two of his brothers, and so many friends; and that had begun in her thirties, burying friends who were taken young. So she knew death was inside of her, inside him, too; something in her body would change—would stumble and fall, or stop, or let go; and something in his would. She did not want to lie helpless in bed for a long time, in pain, and she did not want him to, but she knew it was the way: you went to a doctor because of some trouble your body couldn’t leave behind; then you were in the hospital; then you came home and took medicine and died.
Her life ending worried her very little, for here she was each morning, with him; he was long retired from the post office, and they ate breakfast and went for a walk in good weather, sometimes even in the cold when one of their sons shoveled the driveway and the sidewalk and poured rock salt so they wouldn’t slip and fall and break a bone; and they went to the children and grandchildren, and the children and grandchildren came to them, and there was the house to keep, and the cooking, and their garden, and friends for a visit. They had plots in the cemetery and she knew everything that had to be done. She had four children, and when she called them with news, she started with the firstborn, then the next, and so on to the last; and this is how she planned to phone them, after she called the doctor, when whatever was coming to her husband came. Then she would watch as in the hospital bed and then in their bed he shrank and died, and near the end the family would all gather to see him alive. Then he would not be, and she would be alone in the house, with the telephone and the car and the children coming to see her.
But on the summer night when he died while she slept, probably while he slept, too, she woke in the cool dark, the windows open and a pale light in the sky, and the birds singing, and she knew before she turned to him, and she did not think of her children, or of being alone. She rolled toward him and touched his face, and her love went out of her, into his cooling skin, and she wept for what it had done to him, crept up and taken him while he slept and dreamed. Maybe it came out of a dream and the dream became it. Wept, lying on her side, with her hand on his cheek, because he had been alone with it, surprised, maybe confused now as he wandered while the birds sang, seeing the birds, seeing her lying beside his flesh, touching his cheek, saying: “Oh hon—”
Out of the Snow
ON A DARK WINTER MORNING, UPSTAIRS IN her new home, LuAnn woke to classical piano on the clock radio; she was in her forty-fourth year, she had a few strands of gray in her long black hair, and this was her eighty-third day without smoking; before opening her eyes she remembered dreaming in the night of a red-and-white package of cigarettes. Then she looked at Ted limping naked to the closet. He was a big man; the sideburns of his brown beard were gray. His knee had been shattered and torn by shrapnel when he was nineteen in Vietnam, and it would not completely bend, and often it was painful. She turned off the radio, and in the silence she could feel her children sleeping; it was as though she heard their breath and saw their faces on pillows. She stood, wearing a white gown, and started to make the bed, and Ted in his burgundy robe came to help, and she remembered last night’s lovemaking, and watched him smoothing the blue satin comforter. She said: “I dreamed of cigarettes last night.”
/> “That isn’t fair.”
“I’d love one now, with coffee.”
“So would I.”
“Great. Is that why I’m doing this? So eighteen years from now I’ll want to smoke?”
His blue eyes watched her. That is what he did most of the time, when she was angry or sad or frightened: watched her and listened. He had told her he stopped believing in advice years before he met her, or stopped believing people wanted advice; they wanted to be looked at and heard by someone who loved them. She said: “Nice night, Ted.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “Nice night, LuAnn.”
He went to the bathroom at the far end of the hall, and she went to the one she shared with Julia and Elizabeth. She put on makeup, and in the bedroom she dressed in jeans and a green turtleneck and high black boots. Then she went to the children’s rooms and woke them by placing a hand on their shoulders: Julia, her first child, who was ten, then Elizabeth, then Sam, lying among stuffed bears. She always woke them gently because she felt she was pulling them from childhood. They were dark-haired, sleepy, and slow to dress. She knew they were slow because they were reluctant, but there was something more, something she wanted to acquire; they were slow in summer, too, dressing for the beach. Hurry was imposed on them by adults; they had not lived long enough to see time as something they should control, long enough to believe they could. LuAnn had taken maternity leave to give birth to Julia, and had not gone back to her job. She had been the publicity director of a small publisher in Boston. Two years later Elizabeth was born, and after another two Sam, and by then LuAnn knew what these children knew: they ate when they were hungry, slept when they were tired, and looked at the present with curiosity. She was trying to focus on the present now, as she went downstairs, aware of her breathing, her leg muscles, the smell of coffee, the electric light in the dining room and twilight in the living room; and wanting to smoke, then calling over her shoulder to the children to hurry.
