Sight Reading (20 page)

Hazel's hands were shaking now. She managed to turn off the water, then stood and stared. How had three of them come at once, overnight, right on her face?

She covered them up. It took a long time, but she was able to do it, her makeup thicker than usual, and a finishing coat of translucent powder from the big plastic tub with the twist-off top. All day at work she waited for Maria to say something, certain that the foundation would wear off and the splotches show through. But Maria spent the day as usual, talking about herself, humming loudly, eating pastries that she kept offering Hazel, as if hoping to make her fat. For a long time she was deep in concentration, tying maroon and green fabrics into elaborate holiday bows. Now she was singing a Whitney Houston song, pronouncing the words all wrong.

“How your Friday night was?” Maria asked, giving up on the song. She had begun weaving strands of holly and pine branches together for the new display.

“Oh, it was fine.” Hazel heard herself talking and was amazed at her voice—that it sounded the same as always, no trace of what had happened last night, or during the horrible hours between night and morning. “How about yours?”

“We saw a movie, you know that movie, what it's called?” Maria began to attempt to describe it.

Hazel's thoughts leapt back to the chestnuts, to what might have happened if they hadn't caught fire. It seemed things might have gone completely differently if only the chestnuts hadn't burned.

“The star, she so beautiful, what her name is? You know. That girl, the blonde.” Maria began to describe the other movies the blonde had starred in, since she couldn't recall those titles, either. Now she was describing one that took place in California. “In San Francisco. You know . . .” Hazel had trouble listening. Her thoughts had fallen into the same old loop: How could he not be “able” to be with her? What did that mean? The more Hazel thought about it, the more it seemed that this had to be a lie, that in fact he was “able” but had somehow decided against her.

As Maria talked, Hazel readjusted the window display, dark curtains of a fabric imported from France. Only their wealthiest clients could afford such stuff. She glimpsed herself in the glass, made certain that her makeup had not faded, told herself that she was still prettier than most of the other mothers; as biased as she might be, this was still a fact. Sure, there was Sonia Fajed, who was half Pakistani, half Danish and so had that alluring combination of dark skin with fair eyes, but she was in another category altogether, and probably even Hugh wasn't classy enough for her. When it came to single women in their circle, Hazel's only real rival—if one wanted to use that word—was Roberta Plotnik, whose daughter was a year below Jessie. Roberta had been widowed when she was in her twenties and still wore her husband's wedding band on a gold chain around her neck—a gesture Hazel found a bit precious. Yes, Roberta was younger than Hazel, she had that going for her, but she was small and dark-eyed and rarely smiled.

Hazel dusted off the folds of an Egyptian import. What was it that had caused Hugh to hesitate? All that Hazel could come up with was her skin. Wasn't that what these new splotches were trying to tell her? Hugh had sat close enough to her, and spent long enough hours with her for her makeup to fade, kissed her enough for it to rub off, so that already he must have seen the mark where her neck met her chin, or perhaps the one by her ear. No matter how generous a disposition he might have, she supposed it was inevitable that Hugh would find such a thing repulsive.

“We was so cold!” Maria said. “I never forget, I thought it's California, it's spring. I bring with me my T-shirt! No sweater but the one I wear on the plane! Then they tell me, June in San Francisco is winter.”

Unless, thought Hazel, stepping back down from the window display, it was the same old thing, the most basic reason of all: that such happiness—the kind that came from love—simply hadn't been allotted to her. Hugh must have somehow picked up on this, glimpsed it in her eyes, or in a splotch of white on her hand. The tattoo must be her bitterness, her grief.

The fury of this realization nearly caused Hazel to lose her balance. She leaned against one of the large bolts of fabric.

“You all right?” Maria asked. “You tired, I think.”

“I had a bad night,” Hazel told her. “But I'm all right.” That her old, old grief had gotten the best of her again was more painful than the feeling itself. Still, she believed what she told Maria, that it would all be all right. She had her own kind of happiness, a diluted one that was nonetheless real. She had a job that interested her, and friends to talk to. Jessie would be coming home with her tomorrow and would give her one of her long, warm hugs.

For a moment Hazel thought she might burst into tears. Sometimes things were hard, she reminded herself, that's all: being told you were unable to be with, it was just a bit hard, especially when she had wanted so badly for things to work out, and thought they might, thought there might be a joy for her that was something beyond herself. And so it was a bit hard, that's all, let's just play.

Chapter 6

R
emy pulled up the collar of her coat as she made her way along the avenue, her steps brisk, as if to escape the weather. Instead of heading straight to the pool for her postrehearsal swim, she had decided to stop by the conservatory, to pay a surprise visit to Nicholas.

They needed to reconnect, to find again the easy rhythm of a shared life. These things take effort sometimes. She had been confused the other day, with Yoni, in the rehearsal room—but now she knew it was just hormones. What a relief. Vivian said premenstrual syndrome caused all kinds of odd thoughts and behaviors. And for Remy it was of course always an unpleasant reminder. . . . She could use some cheering up. And if nothing else, try to be nicer to Nicholas.

But when she arrived at the conservatory, Nicholas was not in his office. Momentary despair—as if not just her little plan but an entire future had been dashed. Well, she might catch him on his way out. Remy hurried back down the hallway.

“He just left. I don't know where he went.”

“Oh, hi, Yoni.” She said it in her same old voice but felt strange as they kissed each other's cheeks and stood facing each other. “Are you on your way out, too?”

He had looped his scarf like a noose and wore a knit wool cap tight on his head. Gruffly he said, “I'll walk you out.”

They stepped out into the chill, the air moist and cruel, a slap from a clammy hand. “Where are you off to?” Remy asked, as lightly as possible.

“Heading home. I'm done for the day.”

“Me, too. I thought Nicholas might want a coffee break.”

Yoni nodded slowly. “Where were you thinking of going?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe just take a walk. Though it's not really walking weather, is it? Have a cup of tea, maybe.”

“May I join you instead?” he asked. “I'll take you to my favorite place.”

Remy knew the place he meant, the cramped English tea shop that had every kind of tea leaf and not enough seats. “All right.”

The tea shop was full, customers huddled at the little shelf by the window and lingering on the damp bench out in front. From the sidewalk, Remy and Yoni watched all the people warm inside. Remy wanted, quite suddenly, to press her face to his, to feel the smooth cheeks he must have shaved just this morning. He said, “I know a better place.”

Remy followed him. She wanted to think of him as someone who understood how to handle such situations.

He was beside her, had taken her free hand. It wasn't anything he hadn't done before, but this time it was with a certain determination, almost as if she had become an annoyance. He turned a familiar corner, and she realized that they were heading toward his home. Her grip tightened in his hand. She was frightened, but not enough to turn in the other direction.

They arrived at the apartment she knew so well. Large abstract paintings on the wall, books stacked in haphazard towers here and there, an upright piano laden with sheet music, the many horns—trumpet, trombone, euphonium—in their various cases, the wall of stereo equipment, the half-kitchen full of cheap cooking implements. “It's cold,” she said.

“Here, let me turn on the heat.” He put the kettle on to boil while Remy removed her coat and folded it over her violin case. She wrapped her arms around herself. She had made a mistake, she realized: the mistake of being alone with him.

“Here, have a look at all the teas I have.” Yoni's voice sounded strained, as if trying to find its old tone. He opened a cabinet containing various tins and boxes, which Remy supposed must have been purchased by past girlfriends.

“You know,” she said, “I don't think I need tea after all.”

“Okay,” he said, frowning. “All right.” He turned off the kettle. Then he stepped toward Remy and put his hands on her arms, which were still folded around her. It was a gesture he had made so many times in the past, in conversation, or to make a point. But now it felt acknowledged. The flame whipped through her, and she closed her eyes. If he kissed her, that would be the end of her.

“You're trembling,” he said, with surprise.

“This apartment is an icebox.”

To her relief, Yoni stepped back. “Wait here.” He walked away, down the short hallway and into the bathroom. Remy heard the squeak of faucets, the crash of water. She stood and waited, pleased that at least now her pulse had slowed. She looked around the room, at the Indian fabric on one wall, the bamboo stalks by the window, the photograph of Yoni with his mother and his rifle, grinning and squinting at the world.

Yoni came to her, looking relaxed, purposeful. He reached out and took her hand. “Come here.”

He led her down the hallway and into the bathroom, where the tub was half full, the water tumbling into itself. He closed the door behind them.

“What's that smell?” she asked.

“Sandalwood. It was a gift.”

Remy found herself laughing. “I bet it was. It smells nice.”

“Here,” he said, and untied the scarf around her neck.

“Oh, this is brilliant,” she said. “This is just so smart of you.” Yet she was laughing; the nervousness, the racing pulse, the fear, was gone.

“You said you were cold,” he told her, placing her scarf on a hook on the door. “Here, raise your arms.”

Off came her sweater, and her silk chemise. At her bra, Yoni paused, seemed to question his rights. When Remy reached out to unbutton his shirt, he looked pleased, and even, perhaps, surprised. She unbuttoned the shirt in a diligent, efficient manner, not allowing herself to touch the skin of his neck, his biceps, his torso. She removed the shirt and tugged his T-shirt out of his pants, over his head, and let it drop to the ground.

Reaching behind her back, he unhooked her bra and peeled it slowly away, let it fall to the floor. He cupped her breasts in his hands. When he brought his mouth down, the flame shot through her. Remy said, “Oh . . . no.”

He stepped back. As if to convince himself that nothing had occurred, he began unhitching his belt, unsnapping his pants as though Remy weren't even there. Remy removed hers, too, and her underwear and socks, and stepped into the tub as if it were her only refuge.

What am I doing? What am I
doing
?

Was she really doing this? It seemed to her almost like a daydream, or a mere consequence of the weather. The water, silky with sandalwood oil, slid itself around her.

In stepped Yoni, sending waves around the both of them. When he sat down, his legs made a vee around hers, her feet at the sides of his hips. They fit there as if they did this all the time, the water containing them, warming them, so that it almost seemed to Remy that what they were doing was perfectly natural.

“I never think to take baths,” he told her.

Remy rubbed her toes up and down his side; to speak would make this fully real. Yoni's hand encircled her calf and moved up her leg. He said, “I haven't stopped thinking about you. I don't want to have to stop. To have to try to make myself stop.”

It was what she wanted to hear, and yet she could not bear it.

She reached out for his bad hand, the wounded one, and held it. Touching the darker patch of skin, she felt fully the realness of this moment—that, without giving it much thought at all, she had allowed herself to move beyond the merely precarious. She rubbed the darker patch with her thumb. “Where did this come from?”

“The graft, you mean?” Yoni took her hand and brought it down to his hip, toward his buttock. “They took a swatch from here.”

Remy thought she could feel a scar. “You've never told me what happened. Just that it was an accident.” Despite what he had always said, part of her had imagined him in a Green Line skirmish, or maybe detonating a suspicious package.

Yoni leaned back, frowning, dislodging Remy's hand. He was quiet for a long time, and Remy felt her heart drop.

“I had a friend,” he said, and his voice seemed to catch. “His name was Elan. We grew up together. We were even born in the same week. But Elan was taller and smarter. Beautiful, actually.” The words had a rusty, halting quality. “He was very funny, always playing practical jokes. That's not how the accident happened. It was when we were in the army, when we were eighteen. We were off duty, and we were setting off fireworks. It was just the two of us. We wanted to get away. It was hard being in the army, you were always in groups, never alone.”

His voice cracked, and Remy feared what he might say. She had done something awful, she realized, in making Yoni recount this. She told him, “You don't have to.”

But he did not seem able to stop. “In a way it's a fluke, what happened. Not to my hand. But a piece of metal ended up in Elan's arm, and then it got infected. They didn't stop it in time. He died.”

Remy watched the shift in his face, first an awful twitch and then a horrible softening she had never seen before. In a broken voice he said, “I think he was my first love, actually.”

“Oh. Baby.” Remy moved closer, reached over and held him, his head on her shoulder. Of course—of
course
. The stream of young girlfriends, perpetually slim-hipped and flat-chested, forever eighteen years old . . . Was Yoni even conscious of this? Remy could not help kissing his moist face. She leaned her forehead against his and imagined this other boy she had never known.

“I want you to know,” Yoni said. “I really want you to know—” It seemed he could barely continue. “You're precious to me.”

Remy thought she might cry. Yoni reached up to stroke her shoulder. He was running his other hand up and down her thigh. Remy closed her eyes, melting into the water.

That was when he leaned over to kiss her, his face moist with heat. Remy tasted his lips, his tongue. They moved toward each other with their limbs and with their hands. For a long while they were entwined, their breath in each other's mouths. She didn't know how much time had passed when they unpeeled themselves from each other, only that the water had cooled. A sudden shiver coursed through her. She said, “We should get out.”

“Right,” Yoni said. And then briskly, “Please don't leave.”

It seemed to her that if only she were out of the tub, she wouldn't have already made an enormous mistake. Water fell from her as she stepped onto the natty bath mat and reached for a big, wide towel. She dried herself and draped the towel over her shoulders like a long cape. Yoni stepped out of the tub, toward her.

He had already lost one person he loved. At eighteen years old, Remy thought to herself, I was just heading to the conservatory, just beginning my new life. When he was eighteen, he was burying his best friend. His first true love.

Slowly he ran his fingers through her hair. Remy nodded to him, to let him know that it was all right; she had decided to stay.

She saw the relief in his face. He leaned into her, kissed her cheekbones, her ears, her forehead. “I love you so much. Thank you for allowing me to say it.” Then he led her across the hall into his bedroom, where she had never been.

When she left, it was without plans for another meeting. Silently she pulled on her coat and retrieved her violin case. She thought to herself that she would take a long walk, in order to return to normal.

“Okay, see you,” she told him, as she often did.

“I love you,” Yoni said, almost desperately, as if sensing her unease.

Remy realized that she was looking at the floor. “I love you, too,” she said, without looking up. As she stepped out the door, Yoni said, “See you soon, I hope.”