We fucked, and fucked hard. John slid his hands under my buttocks and gripped them tight, lifting me up, fusing our hips together. He pushed deep into me. I wrapped my legs around him tightly, trying to cement him to me while he swung up and down, over and over, like a madman on a rocking horse. I could see the muscles of his neck straining in taut relief underneath his skin. I began to watch him more closely as he sucked my nipples and licked the sweat off my body. He seemed absorbed in a private fantasy, devoid of tenderness or even connection. His performance struck me as more of a feeding frenzy—trying to sate long years of hunger in a single feast. As we went on, my excitement drifted into detachment. I pretended to have an orgasm so that John would come. At his rough, frantic climax, I saw myself as Cassandra Griffin, impaled on the bed with a knife through my heart.
“Great,” John said, rolling off me with a grunt.
He kissed me and dozed off. As I lay next to him, I felt the familiar loneliness. His presence now was crude and harsh. The aging man lying next to me now, with his fitful snoring accompanying a restless sleep, was hardly the brilliant lover of my dreams.
I thought of the time one summer, years ago, when John and I had gone swimming together in the ocean off Amagansett and I’d gotten caught up in a riptide. John had a rubber raft. I called out to him to help me.
“Don’t panic!” he cried. “Just tread water and let it carry you.”
“I’m being carried out to sea!” I screamed. “Swim to me on the raft! Help me!”
“Don’t panic!” he yelled.
“Help me, John, please help me!”
He started swimming toward me on the raft but stopped short at the edge of the swirling foam.
“John, please, come get me—!”
“I’ll get caught up too . . . Just don’t panic—”
“Throw me the raft! Please!”
“It won’t reach you. Just relax. You’ll drift back in again.”
I felt as if a great cold serpent were wrapping itself around me, dragging me out to sea. The more I struggled against it, the farther out it pulled me.
“Listen to me, Faith—float! Just float! Let it take you!”
I reached out for John but he was much too far away. So I did what he said—I floated, just floated, closing my eyes and letting the water take me where it wanted. The tide carried me out so far that John’s bobbing raft was just a speck on the horizon. I drifted for what seemed an eternity, certain I was going to die. And then suddenly, just as suddenly as I’d been caught up, I was released. I felt myself being carried back to shore by the slow, heaving motion of the waves. Out of the riptide’s grasp at last, I swam frantically to the beach, scrambling up out of the water, collapsing on the blessed sand, exhausted and crying.
I looked up. There was John, standing above me, blocking the sun.
“You see? I told you not to panic.”
“You bastard.”
He knelt down, stroked me, kissed my face, my hair. I turned my head away, feeling drowned inside.
“There was nothing I could do,” he said. “Honestly. You weren’t in any danger. The tide comes around again. All you have to do is float with it, not panic. I couldn’t have helped you, Faith. Don’t you see, you had to do it yourself. I couldn’t get to you. You see that, don’t you?”
“John,” I said finally, turning to him once more, “why didn’t you come out and float with me? You had the raft.”
His expression flickered slightly. “You want too much.”
“Or too little,” I replied.
That was one incident. There had been others. Ugly moments where he’d threatened me, even struck me, then repented in a frenzy of passion and regret. I skimmed over them in my mind, glancing at them fleetingly, as if they were traffic accidents involving other people.
John rolled over and got up out of bed. He walked over to the window and stood naked in front of it, his back to me, staring outside.
“John?”
He didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the shadowy wall, bracing himself with one hand, head bent forward, his profile outlined by lamplight.
“John?” I said again.
“Hmm?” he replied, after a time.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing . . . I’m thinking about your view,” he said.
“I don’t have a view.”
“That’s what I was just thinking.”
“John?”
“Hmm?”
“Where’s your wife?”
“We’re separated. I told you.”
“What was she like?”
He turned and glared at me.
“I’m not going to answer those questions,” he said harshly.
His response didn’t surprise me, nor did it frighten me. In fact, he no longer frightened me. I looked at him as I might have looked at some intricate, outdated object, the exact function and purpose of which had been lost over time. Lacking any further investment in him, and no longer compelled by a feeling of danger, I decided to play with him a little.
“It feels strange, doesn’t it, John?” I said.
“What?”
“Us being together again.”
“Hmm,” he replied without conviction.
“Don’t you think?”
“What?”
“It feels strange.”
“I haven’t really thought about it.” He sounded vaguely irritated.
“Let me ask you something. Did you ever wonder what it would be like if we got back together?”
“No,” he said, glancing out the window once more.
“No?” Despite my newfound detachment, I was vaguely stunned by his response. “You mean you never thought about me?”
“I thought about you. But I’m not a planner.”
“A planner?” I repeated, not quite understanding what he meant.
“I don’t plan things,” he said.
“But when you think about things, don’t you imagine how they’re going to be?”
“No. I just think about them, that’s all.”
He faced me directly and squinted his eyes.
“I’m sorry I can’t be the way you want me to be,” he said.
“What do you mean, John?”
“You want me to think in a certain way, behave in a certain way, say certain things.”
“No, John, I don’t. Not anymore.”
“Oh yes you do.”
“All right,” I said, playing along. “Let’s say I do. Is there something wrong with that?”
“It’s naive,” he said, turning back to face the window once more.
“Really? How?”
“Because we’ve just established our connection. We’ve just done it—”
“By making love—?” I offered.
“That, yes. By being here. Together. This is our connection.”
“What’s wrong with talking?”
He raked his fingers through his hair impatiently.
“I hate words,” he said dryly.
“That’s a drawback for a writer, isn’t it?”
Closing his eyes, he massaged the bridge of his nose.
“Very funny,” he said, clearly unamused.
“John,” I continued, “I want to know about you. What you’ve been up to all this time. All these years I’ve thought about you, I felt somehow you were thinking about me too. I want to know what your wife was like. I want to know if she reminded you of me. What did she look like? Do you ever see her? Do you have any children?”
I could see him growing more and more irritable. I knew I was getting to him and I rather enjoyed it. John crushed out his cigarette and sat down on the bed.
“Do you want to meet from time to time?” he said casually.
�
�What do you mean?” I feigned surprise.
“I mean get together from time to time. Like this. Have dinner, you know . . .”
I pretended to think for a moment, as if the idea had caught me off-guard.
“I don’t know,” I said. “What’s from time to time?”
“Whenever we feel like it.”
“Nothing regular?”
“No,” he replied uncomfortably.
“So,” I went on, trying not to sound sarcastic. “Maybe once a month, or once a week, or once a year? Just whenever?”
“We can play it by ear,” he said.
“I’m not a musician, John.” I smiled perfunctorily.
“Well, listen, I’d like to very much,” he said, sweetening his tone a bit, “if you would. Why don’t you think about it? I should be going.”
I swallowed hard. This was unexpected.
“Going?”
“I have to get home. To pack.”
“Pack?”
“I’m heading down to the Amazon for a few months,” he went on. “Researching a new book on the rain forest.”
“Um . . . What about Tuesday?” I said, trying to restrain myself from an unseemly outburst. “We have a date, remember?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I won’t be here.”
“What?”
He cupped my face in both his hands, holding it as if it were a precious object, kissing me gently on the lips.
“You haven’t changed,” he said.
I pulled away. I really didn’t give a damn, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.
“Let me get this straight, John. You knew you weren’t going to be here on Tuesday?” I pretended to be incredulous, when, in fact, this was so typical of him. “I mean,” I continued, “you just came here to get laid or what?”
“Stop it, Faith.”
“I can’t believe that was your single motivation. Knowing you, you could get laid a hundred places—”
“Stop using that expression.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities. What I can’t figure out is why?” I said.
“Why what?”
“Why bother?” I was genuinely curious.
“I wanted to see you again. I needed to see you again,” John replied.
“Why?”
“I don’t know why!” he snapped. “Does everything need a reason? You wanted to see me too. Do you know why?”
“Yes, in fact, I do,” I answered calmly.
My attitude seemed to annoy him.
“Why?” he said, glaring at me.
“You look really annoyed,” I said, smiling back.
“Just answer the question, will you?”
“Why I wanted to see you again? Because I wanted to understand why you didn’t succeed in killing me.”
“Jesus!” he sighed. “We’re back to that again, are we?”
“I don’t think we ever really got away from it,” I said. “I guess I wanted to see why I survived where others didn’t. And, in a curious way, I guess I wanted to see if I survived, because, you see, living doesn’t necessarily mean one has survived.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t interest you anyway.”
John picked up a sock from the floor. I watched him, fascinated with his catlike movements. He bent down on all fours.
“John?”
“Yes?” he said, from his hands and knees as he retrieved the other sock from under the bed.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Stop dressing for a moment. This is something I always wanted to tell you and never really had the courage to.”
Socks in hand, he paused, looking at me with renewed interest.
“You love me,” he said perfunctorily.
“No, it’s not that. I told you that, a lot. It’s something else.”
“What?” He seemed wary.
I paused a second. For effect.
“John,” I began slowly, measuring every word, “I don’t think you’re a great writer. I never have.”
For a moment, he seemed unable to react, unable even to move. He threw the socks on the bed, then reached down and swiped up his shirt from the floor, putting it on in short spasmodic gestures.
“Thank you!” he said coldly.
“You’re welcome.”
I smiled at him the next time he glanced at me. He nodded curtly, buttoning each button of his shirt with exaggerated precision. Except for his shirt, he was naked from the waist down. His long thin legs looked like two poles under a tent.
“I don’t believe you,” he said at last, stepping into his pants and pulling them up around his waist. He tucked in his shirt and zipped up his fly. In his wrath, he missed closing the belt buckle the first time around.
“About what?” I said, studying his new awkwardness. It was like watching a specimen fluttering around in a jar. I knew I had him.
“You used to tell me I was a great writer,” he said, sitting on the bed to put on his socks.
“People say all sorts of things when they’re in love.”
He stood up and turned to face me. Dressed, he looked less threatening.
“I am a great writer,” he proclaimed. “People all over are finally recognizing just how great I am. I don’t really care what you think.”
“Oh, well, good.”
He hesitated for an instant.
“Just out of curiosity,” he went on, “what is it about my writing you don’t like?”
“I thought you didn’t care what I thought,” I replied nonchalantly.
“I don’t. I’m just curious.”
“All right then . . . In my opinion, it’s too safe.”
“Safe?!” he snarled. “I risk my neck for my books!”
“I know you do,” I replied sympathetically. “But there are no real emotions in them. They’re not about people, they’re about ideals. And,” I sighed, “you’re always careful to be so fashionable.”
“Fashionable?!” I could feel his anger rising.
“ ‘Politically correct’ is the current expression, I believe.”
“Hell hath no fury, perhaps?” he said with a sneer.
I thought about this.
“I don’t feel scorned, John,” I said, after careful consideration. “Just a little bored. The truth is, it really doesn’t matter what I or anyone else says about your writing. In your own heart of hearts, you know you’re second-rate. What other people think—for good or for bad—is irrelevant. You’re just so angry you’re not one of the greats.”
I could see the sides of his cheeks moving as he ground his teeth together.
“What if I told you I didn’t like your painting?”
I shrugged. “You never told me you did like it. In fact, when we were together, you never talked about my work at all, only your own. I was amazed when you asked me so much about myself tonight.”
“Clearly, it was a mistake,” he said humorlessly.
With that, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and left.
“Thanks for the memories,” I called out just before the door slammed.
The next morning in the shower, I heard John leaving a message on my answering machine. When I got out, I played back the tape.
“Faith, John,” it said. “Call me, please, it’s important. I don’t want it to end like this. It can’t end like this, do you hear me?” His voice sounded scratchy.
He left a number. When I finally returned his call that afternoon, a woman answered the phone.
“Hello?” she said.
“Is Mr. Noland there?” I asked tenta
tively.
“No. Who’s this?”
“Oh, this is just an old friend. Who’s this?”
“This is Mrs. Noland. Who’s this?”
I smiled, shook my head, and hung up, thinking that could have been me.
Chapter 9
I called Harry later that morning to find out how he was. There was no answer. I kept trying. I finally got hold of him in the evening.
“Fit as a fiddle,” he said in a spunky voice, which relieved me. “Oh, and you’ll be pleased to know I’m working on our little case. My detective was thrilled to hear from me. I called him up first thing this morning. We’re meeting for a drink tonight. Thank you again, dear, for giving me an excuse to get in touch with him.”
Harry always sounded renewed when the scent of romance was in the air.
“If you ask me, it’s a wild goose chase, but anything for romance. Guess who showed up last night—unexpectedly?”
“Don’t tell me—the dreaded Mr. Noland?”
“Typical, huh?”
“Tedious. Well?” he inquired.
“It was a disaster.”
“We knew it would be,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungover. But, you know, it’s the oddest thing. It’s completely unreal, like it never happened. He told me he was separated or divorced, I forget which. He called me this morning, I called him back, and guess who answered the phone?”
“His wife,” Harry said knowingly.
“Right.”
“And what did you do? Introduce yourself?”
“Hung up, which is what I should have done the very first time he asked me out. Boy, do I feel sorry for her.”
“Don’t waste your energy. She probably likes it. You did, remember?”
“Do you think people can really outgrow masochism?”
“I think, more likely, they just get bored with it. It’s a lot of work. So you’re not depressed?”
“No,” I said. “I keep expecting to be.”
“Frankly, I never did see what you saw in him. He was always such a cold fish in my view.”
“He’s pretty good-looking, even now. But, God, he’s getting old.”
“Not my type,” Harry said dismissively. “I don’t like those ascetic WASPs. I like dark, brooding Mediterraneans, or burly Mitteleuropa peasants. It’s funny, but I think I’ve always chosen lovers who looked as if they could take care of me in a severe winter.”
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