Silence and the Word (21 page)

“I’ll make up the bed in the guest room,” she
said.

Saul nodded, turned, and walked back into the
studio, quietly closing the door behind him.

Sarah waited at the Alaska Airlines gate
window, her face an inch or two from the cold glass. It was raining
outside, a cold hard rain, typical for Oakland in January. The
baggage handlers drove their little carts back and forth, luggage
covered by dark tarps. The plane had been delayed, leaving her with
nothing to do but wait and remember.

The last time she had made love to Daniel,
they had been alone. He was leaving in the morning; Ruth had
already said what they all suspected would only be a temporary
goodbye. Sarah knew her own would be a final one, and so she had
taken this last night alone with him. She had planned for it to be
tender, sweet and slow. That had seemed appropriate for a goodbye.
But instead, Sarah had found herself biting his neck, raking his
back, riding him until they were both exhausted, until she was
trembling with tiredness. Daniel hadn’t been gentle with her
either, had dug his fingers into her ass, had bitten her breasts.
They had left marks on each others’ bodies, dark and brutal and
bruised. They had kissed until their lips were puffed and sore. And
it was only in the morning, with the long night giving way to a
grey sunrise, that their pace had slowed, that they had settled
into a hollow of the bed, his hand stroking her dark hair, her fist
nested in the curls on his chest. He had asked her then to come
with him to Seattle. She had let silence say no for her, and he
hadn’t asked again. Sarah had gone to Saul the next night with
Daniel’s marks on her body. He had been gentle with her that night,
and for some time afterward.

The passengers were walking off the plane,
some into the arms of family or eager lovers. Ruth walked down,
wearing a dark dress, her eyes puffy and red. She had been crying
on the plane. Ruth had never cared what people thought about little
things. She cried freely in public. She had occasionally tried to
provoke screaming fights in parking lots and malls. She had been
willing to have sex in the woods, in open fields, had teased and
persuaded them all until they joined her. It was only in the big
things that she was at all conventional.

They had once travelled east together, two
couples in a car, perfectly unremarkable to all outward eyes. They
had stopped in Wisconsin, had decided to camp that night instead of
staying in a motel. Two separate tents, and the night sky overhead.
While Daniel and Saul finished washing the dinner dishes in a
nearby creek, Ruth had taken Sarah by the hand and let her into the
woods, searching for fallen branches to build a fire. Sarah had
dutifully collected wood until Ruth came up behind her, lifting her
skirt, kneeling down on dirt and twigs and grass. Sarah wore no
underwear in those days, at Ruth’s request. So when Ruth’s mouth
reached for hers, Sarah had only to shift her legs further apart,
to try to balance herself, a load of wood resting in her arms, eyes
closed. Ruth’s tongue licked under her ass, tracing the delicate
line at the tops of her thighs. Ruth’s tongue slid up over her
clit, then back again, sliding deep inside her. Ruth’s hands held
onto Sarah’s hips, her fingers gently caressing the sharp
protrusions of hipbones, the skin that lay over them. Sarah was
usually quiet, but in the middle of the empty woods, she let
herself moan. Ruth’s tongue flickered over and around, licking
eagerly until Sarah’s thighs were trembling. Her heart was
pounding, and just as she began to come, waves of pleasure rippling
through her, as the wood fell from her arms, Saul was there with
her, in front of her, holding her up—his mouth moving on hers, his
chest pressed against her breasts, and his hands behind her, buried
in Ruth’s hair. Then they were all falling to the ground, Saul and
Ruth and Sarah and Daniel too, a tangle of bodies, clothes
discarded, forgotten, naked skin against dirt and moss and
scratching twigs. Leaves and starlight overhead, and Ruth laughing
in the night, laughing with loud and shameless delight. It had
always been that way with her.

Ruth paused at the bottom of the walkway,
eyes scanning the crowd, passing right over Sarah. It had been over
a year since they’d seen each other last. Between Christmas and New
Year’s, Sarah had gone up to Seattle for a few days. Saul had
originally planned to come as well, but had gotten caught up in a
painting and changed his mind. Sarah had come alone into a house
full of children and grandchildren, a house full of laughter. Ruth
had cooked a feast, with her daughters and sons helping. The
grandkids had made macaroons, and each one of them had begged a
story from Auntie Sarah. Sarah had left their house a little
envious; Ruth had built exactly the kind of home that she’d dreamed
of. And while it wasn’t the kind of home Sarah herself had ever
wanted—still, it was lovely. It wasn’t until the following March
that the cancer had been diagnosed. Sarah had always meant to go up
and see Daniel again—but she hadn’t, in the end.

She stepped forward, raised a hand to Ruth.
There was the blink of recognition, the momentary brightening of
eyes. Ruth looked lovely despite puffed eyes, slender and fair in
her button-down dress, a raincoat over one arm. Her hair had gone
entirely to silver, a sleek and shining cap—like rain in moonlight.
Ruth came down through the thinning crowd, paused a few steps away.
Then Sarah held out her arms, and Ruth walked into them, her eyes
filling with tears again. Sarah held her close, sheltering her in
the fragile privacy of her arms, until the crowd had entirely
dissolved away.

Saul met them at the door. He’d changed out
of his paint-stained clothes. Ruth dropped her raincoat, letting it
fall in a wet puddle on the floor, and threw herself forward, into
his strong arms. She had calmed down in the car, had been able to
talk about the last week with Daniel. He’d gotten much weaker
towards the end; in the last few days, he hadn’t really spoken.
Sarah’s chest had ached a little, with various regrets. Ruth hadn’t
cried for most of the ride, but now she was sobbing, great gasping
sobs, catching the air in her throat and letting it out again. Saul
held her, looking helplessly at Sarah over Ruth’s head. Sarah
shrugged, put down Ruth’s bag, and bent to pick the raincoat up off
the wood floor. She turned and hung it neatly on the rack, while
Saul gently led Ruth into the living room. Sarah waited in the
hall, listening to them walking across the room, sitting down on
the sofa. Slowly, Ruth’s sobs quieted again. When it was silent,
Sarah walked into the room. Ruth was nestled in Saul’s arms, her
eyes closed. His eyes were fixed on the doorway, and met Sarah’s as
she entered. She hadn’t expected that, that he would be looking for
her. She should have known better.

“Do you want some coffee, Ruth?” Sarah
asked.

Ruth shook her head, not opening her eyes.
“It would just keep me awake. I haven’t been sleeping much this
last week. I’m so tired… .”

“Dinner? Saul made pot roast for
lunch—there’s plenty left.”

“No, I’m okay. Just bed, if that’s all
right?”

“That’s fine, dear. Come on—I’ll get you
settled.”

Ruth hugged Saul once more, and then got up
from the sofa. Sarah led her into the guest bedroom, turned down
the sheets, closed the drapes while Ruth pulled off her clothes and
slid into bed. She had always slept nude; Sarah remembered. Sarah
came back to the bed, and stood over it, hesitating. Ruth looked
exhausted, with a tinge of grey to her skin.

“Do you want me to sit with you a bit? Just
until you fall asleep?”

“No, no—I’ll be okay.” Ruth reached out,
taking Sarah’s hand in hers and squeezing, gently. “Thank you.”

Sarah leaned over and kissed her gently
twice—once on the cheek, once, briefly, on her lips. “It’s nothing,
love. Sleep. Sleep well.” She stood up then, turned out the light,
and slipped out the door, closing it behind her.

They sat at the kitchen table, cups of coffee
nestled in their hands, not talking. Just being together. Sarah
remembered the day when she realized that she would rather be
silent with Saul, than be talking with anyone else. They hadn’t met
Ruth yet, or Daniel; they’d only known each other a few weeks.
They’d just finished making love on a hot July night and were lying
side by side on the bed, not touching. It was really too hot to
cuddle, too hot for sex. They had both ended up exhausted, lying on
the bed with waves of heat rolling off their bodies. Saul was
quiet, just breathing, and Sarah lay there listening to his
breaths, counting them, trying to synchronize them with her own.
She couldn’t quite manage it, not for long. Her heart beat faster,
her breath puffed in and out of her. But being there with him,
breathing was a little slower and sweeter than it would normally
be. Being with him, not even touching, she was happier than she’d
ever been.

Sarah finished her coffee. “I’m going to go
to bed,” she said. “Coming?”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll just finish
the dishes.”

Sarah nodded and rose from the table, leaving
her coffee cup for him to clear. She straightened a few books in
the living room as she walked through it, gathered his sketches
from the little tables and from the floor, piling them in a neat
stack. She walked into the hall, and then paused. To her right was
the hall leading to their bedroom. Straight ahead was the hall
leading to the library, to the studio, and then to the guest room.
She almost turned right, almost went straight to bed. But then she
walked forward down the long hall, and at the end of it, heard her.
Ruth was crying again. Sarah stood there a while, listening.

When she came back to the bedroom, Saul was
already in bed, waiting for her. Sarah stood in the doorway,
looking at him. He lay half covered by the sheet, his head turned,
looking at her. She knew what would happen if she came to bed. She
could tell by looking at him, by the way he looked at her. He would
pull her close, and kiss her forehead and eyes and cheeks. He would
run his hands over her soft body; he would touch her until she
came, shuddering in his arms.

“Ruth’s crying.” It was harder than she’d
expected, to say it. It had been a long time.

His eyes widened, the way they only did when
he was very surprised, or sometimes during sex, when she startled
him with pleasure.

“You should go to her.” That was easier to
say. Once the problem was set, the conclusion was obvious. Obvious
to her, at any rate.

Saul swung himself slowly out of bed, pulled
on a pair of pants. He didn’t bother with a shirt. “You’ll be all
right?” It was a question, but also a statement. He knew her that
well, knew that she wouldn’t have raised the issue if she weren’t
sure. He trusted her for that. Still, it was good of him to check,
one last time. It was one of the reasons she loved him so. She
nodded, and collected a kiss as he went by.

Sarah let herself out of the house, walking
barefoot. It was a little cold, but not too much. The rain had
stopped some time ago, and the garden was dark and green in the
moonlight. She wandered through the garden—its neat paths, its
carefully tended borders. Saul took care of the vegetables; she
nurtured the flowers and herbs. At this time of year, little was
blooming, but the foliage was deep and rich and green. Winter was a
good time for plants in Oakland; it was the summer’s heat that
parched them dry, left them sere and barren. She carefully did not
approach the east end of the house; even through closed windows and
shades, she might have heard something. She also refrained from
imagination, from certain memories. If she had tried, Sarah could
have reconstructed what was likely happening in that bedroom; she
could have remembered Ruth’s small sounds, her open mouth, her
small breasts and arching body. Saul’s face, over hers. She could
have remembered, and the memory might have been sweet, or bitter,
or both. But she was too old to torment herself that way. There was
no need.

Instead, she put those thoughts aside, and
walked to the far west end of the garden, where the roses grew. It
was the one wild patch in the garden, a garden filled with
patterns, where foxglove and golden poppy and iris and daffodil,
each in their season, would walk in neat rows and curves, in
designs she and Saul had outlined. But the roses had been there
when they bought the house, the summer after Ruth had left. Crimson
and yellow, white and peach, orange and burgundy—the roses grew now
in profusion against the western wall, trimmed back only when they
threatened the rest of the garden. Wild and lovely. She had built a
bench to face them, and Saul often sat on it, sketching the roses.
Sarah liked to sit underneath them, surrounded by them, drowning in
their sweet scent. She went there now, sitting down in the muddy
ground, under the vines and thorns.

There were no roses in January, but they’d
come again, soon enough. She’d be waiting for them. In the
meantime, it was enough to close her eyes, feel the mud under her
toes, and remember Daniel. The way he laughed, bright and full. The
way he would return to a comment from a conversation hours past.
The way he had touched her sometimes, so lightly, as if she were a
bird. The scent of him, dark and rich, like coffee in a garden,
after rain.

when you are old

your skin will be delicate

fragile as tissue paper

my breath will rustle against it

my fingers will slip over the folds

under the creases

slide into the secret places

(I am always discovering

new secrets within you)