Late in the Season (21 page)

I’ll get no sleep tonight, he thought. That’s some recompense to you, Dan, for your own sleepless night over me. If you really did have one. Which I only half believe anyway.

It would be just like Dan to lie about that. Idiot. And that ridiculous business about change of life. It really did sound as though they were all just housewives sitting around the laundry room, talking about their skin rashes and hemorrhoid conditions. Not to mention that incredible snow job about how he was coming to save him. What movie had Daniel seen to inspire that? Probably some screwball comedy from the thirties, where after this-ing and that-ing for three reels, the hero—say Jimmy Stewart—comes to his senses, and returns home to the girl who almost got away. Idiot! Dan’s entire life seemed to derive from movies or shows. Hadn’t Janet, his ex-wife, once confessed to Jonathan, “I didn’t mind playing Margo Channing to his Max, but I did mind playing Robert Stack to his Marilyn Monroe in
Niagara
!” That summed it up. Poor Janet! What she’d had to put up with: and how few shared references she had to go by, in dealing with Dan. It must have been like living with the television tuned in to the Late Show all the time. Not that Dan had settled down much with Jonathan. Hardly. The time they got a black cleaning boy, and when the boy broke a lovely vase and began to apologize to Dan, what had Dan said? Of course he’d begun his Butterfly McQueen imitation: “I don’t know
nothin’
about birthin’ babies, Miss Scarlett!” he’d cried in the boy’s face. Jonathan had a moment then when he was certain Dan was going to be the victim of a race riot in his very own living room. But no! Dan, ever lucky. The boy had laughed, laughed uproariously. After that, he and Dan did
Amos ‘n’ Andy
routines whenever Jonathan was about. Idiot! Who did Dan think he was? His entire life was one scene after another—if not real, then certainly manufactured—one great moment after another: comic, tragic, pathetic, reflective—and often some indescribable mixture of them. What was he planning this time? Some mad rescue from across the sea? Some
Guns of Navarone
scenario, with Jonathan as the victim, the treasure, the secret document all rolled into one to be spirited away by SST to London? Or was Dan really simply bored over there, in need of a companion: someone to listen to his jibes, to remark on his accents, his witticisms at the expense of the place and the natives; someone to play straight man to him, to be the living audience to his living theater? Really, that’s what it came down to: Dan didn’t need a lover, he needed an audience!

His know-it-all attitude was especially galling, coming from someone who could barely take a cab across town without having some kind of mishap. “Just a change of life, darling. Male menopause, some call it. I had mine last year, remember?” That must be the role he’d decided on—he had to have a role—the friendly psychiatrist. He’d listen wonderfully, suffer patiently, even explain in detail what precisely it was that Jonathan was feeling,
as
he was feeling it. Dan’s sympathy would be boundless, his attentiveness minutely calculated, his understanding complete and unremitting—unendurable. Jonathan would become the patient, the convalescent, Mr. Rochester after the house had burned down. It would be intolerable!

“…a teenager.” She wasn’t really a teenager at all. In many ways, Stevie was far more mature than Dan would be at seventy…

“…that’s who you are!” Said so smugly, Jonathan could have slapped him for it. The whole speech, in fact, cried out to be completed by a hefty backhand across Dan’s complacent mug. Especially that “in this love-filled and hate-filled existence” touch! Leave it to Dan to embroider so cunningly, so spontaneously, one scarcely noticed the embroidery it was—unless you knew him as well as Jonathan did. He was probably already mentally fitting on his Dr. Kildare jacket as he said the words, gazing admiringly at his own compassionately fixed face in the mirror.

“I
do
have a right to change, to be myself,” Jonathan said aloud, but softly, so as not to wake Stevie. “I’ll take the chances. I’ll take the responsibility. Wherever it may lead.”

And so on, and so forth, until morning.

Stevie’s first hint that all was not well was that Jonathan was not in bed next to her when she awakened. Of course, there was always the off chance that he’d gotten up early. He’d done that before.

She threw on the T-shirt and shorts dropped by the bed last night, and went out into the living area. No Jonathan. He might be at the beach.

Brewing coffee, she realized how effortlessly she now went through all the preparations she’d had to think about a week ago: grinding the beans, selecting the mixture, boiling cold tap water only to the first whistle of the kettle, pouring just enough of the water into the filtered cone so that it merely dampened the ground coffee, letting that seep, then pouring the rest of the water in slowly. She knew she’d never make instant coffee again—or if so, only in an emergency. It wasn’t the technique of the coffee-making she’d accepted, so much as the evident higher quality of the result—coffees that leapt at you, that caressed the palate, that were desserts, experiences. The gap that had suddenly yawned open between her and that man—Matt—that’s what that had been all about: her commitment to quality, to the better things in life. Of course there had been other matters involved too—almost too many of them for her to think about. But that point stood out; how first through Rose Heywood, and now through Jonathan she’d learned to aim a little higher in life—higher than her parents had ever thought to teach her, despite their devotion to money and what it could buy. She hoped Jonathan would be back soon, before she had to reheat the coffee and ruin its flavor.

The second sign that this was not going to be a good day happened when she looked out the kitchen door. For the first time in weeks, there was no sun. Instead there was a warm, yellowish mist that seemed to hang inches away—so that when she stepped out onto the deck, coffee mug in hand, her skin was immediately clammy. It wasn’t thick—nothing like a real fog—and it might still burn off before noon. But it seemed all-pervasive. It beaded the lawn furniture, strung droplets on spiderwebs, covered the bushes with a heavier dew than usual, darkened the wood decks in splotches of dampness, hid the surf from view.

It was bound to happen. Two weeks of perfectly sunny, clear weather had to break sometime, she told herself. But why today?

Walking around the house, she encountered the third sign portending trouble: asleep on a brown and white plastic chaise longue, his clothing soaked through, his face shining with dew, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up around his face like a visor—Jonathan.

She looked at him for a minute, deciding whether to wake him or not. She decided she had to—if only because of the dampness; it might lead to a chill, to a cold, to who knew what.

He looked so exhausted, even asleep. His face seemed fragile, and oddly pale, despite his rich tan. His body, too, seemed contorted, so unlike the ease with which he ordinarily took his rest. One hand was twisted inside his sweatshirt, the other curled around and inside a pocket of the shirt. One leg dangled off the chaise completely, the other leg was half under it. He reminded her of Griinewald’s painting of the Crucifixion she’d studied in school, where the foreground Christ just removed from the cross was contorted like this; each bend of a finger, each jutting elbow or bony knee gave an emotional charge to what otherwise was a rather static depiction.

“Jonathan,” she whispered, touching his face with a finger.

It was enough. His eyes opened. They didn’t immediately focus on her.

“You fell asleep,” she said. “You’re wet. You ought to change.”

He sat up and looked around. He made a face at the weather as though to say, “I told you so,” although he didn’t say anything.

“I made fresh coffee.” She offered her mug to him.

When he didn’t take it, she said, “I don’t know how long you’ve been out here. But I think you ought to take a hot shower and change into dry clothing.”

He sighed loudly, forcefully. “Morning,” he said, then reached up to her. His kiss on her cheek was clammy and brief. He got up and went into the house.

She followed a few minutes later, after telling herself she was being foolish. So what if it was a lousy day. They’d stay inside, listening to music, perhaps; sitting by a blazing fire; doing what they usually did. It might be pleasant for a change if it grew stormy and rained hard. He’d awaken, get warm, and be himself. He couldn’t be comfortable in that position for hours, out here in the dampness. She made a cup of coffee the way she knew he liked it and brought it into the big bathroom.

He was just getting out of the shower. He took the coffee, sipped it, wrapped himself in a large Egyptian motif towel, and sat down on the toilet seat, avoiding her look.

Stevie felt so suddenly, utterly distant from him, she had to do something for contact. She picked up a smaller towel and began toweling his hair in soft little massaging motions.

“You have wonderful hair,” she said.

“What’s left of it.”

“There’s plenty. Only this.” She lightly tapped the bald spot in the center back of his skull. “You can hide that easily. It’s hidden most of the time anyway, because your hair is so curly.”

“I’ve been covering it for five years. Good coffee.”

“I hope you don’t come down with something.”

“I feel all right. It was warm out.”

“But damp. Were you out there long?”

‘‘An hour or two.’’

“Couldn’t sleep?”

‘‘No.’’

“Did you fight with Dan?”

“Didn’t have the chance to fight with him.”

“Maybe that’s better,” she said. It was one of the most direct conversations they’d had; but it was necessary, she felt, for it to be so. “There! That’s pretty well dry.” She moved around in front of him, and began to rub the big towel over his chest, then opened up the towel, and began drying him with another smaller drier towel.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“Try to stop me.”

When she’d reached the area of his groin, he lifted her face and put his own down next to it. For a second she thought they were going to kiss—but no. He simply looked at her. He seemed sad, resigned, very handsome and quiet.

“I have to go into the city today.”

When she didn’t answer, but continued to allow her face to be held, and continued to stare at him, he said: “Dan’s coming here.”

She lowered her eyes then, knowing that what she saw in his eyes was pain; she couldn’t stand looking at him, knowing that’s what it was.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said.

She pulled out of his loose hold on her, and sat back on her haunches, her eyes still averted.

“I don’t know if I’m saying this well. You’re the first woman I’ve ever been this close to, and you’re so different from a man.”

She looked up and even smiled a little. He was so unhappy.

“I mean, I’m not sure how to gauge what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling as I talk. You seem so…” He appeared to give up. “I don’t know. So different.”

“Vive la difference,” she said, trying to make it into a joke.

Then he did kiss her. Softly, warmly, but briefly. He pulled back before she could respond.

“He’s flying in today. Coming out here, he said. He wants some kind of confrontation. Which is fine with me. But I don’t want you around.”

Now she saw a trace of anger replace the pain and sadness in his eyes; and now she really began to feel afraid for them, for him, for herself. She threw her arms around his waist, her head into his lap, and held him tightly, as though if only she could keep holding him tightly now, all would be well.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back here,” he said. “Maybe…maybe, you ought to close up your family’s place too.”

“And then?” she mumbled. She wasn’t sure she wanted even to know.

‘‘I don’t know.’’

So here it was, Stevie thought. I’m holding him, but he’s already gone. Tears came to her eyes as though it was already over, to be mourned for. But she wouldn’t let them fall, wouldn’t let this happen. She would change this moment, as she had changed yesterday’s incident with Matt. This too was a test of some sort for her. Something for her to pass through, not fall into, if she were to go on. She had to show who she was—who, potentially, at least, she could be.

She wiped her eyes on his towel-covered legs, and looked up.

“All right,” she said, pleased by the steady tone of her voice. “We’ll close up and go into town together.” She even managed a smile. “No sense hanging around here if it’s going to be nasty weather, is there?”

His steady look was unfathomable.

She stood up, rather than fall victim again to her worst fears. “Come on. Stand up,” she said. “Let me dry you off properly.”

He let her, and that pleased her. Once more she was able to see, touch, and review this body, once more be thrilled and astonished by how perfectly he fitted into that heretofore unsuspected ideal she had unconsciously earlier formed of what the right man for her would look like.

For a minute, she thought they might make love, he seemed so comfortable in her hands. But he never got erect; only kissed her and played with her breasts a little, before shrugging. She let it pass. He had things on his mind.