The Deep End (33 page)

“Are you angry?” she asks.

“Yes,” he tells her truthfully, “but I’ll get over it.”

“It really has nothing to do with you.”

“So you’ve said.” Fully dressed now, he turns to face her. “I’m not sure quite how to take that, to be honest. What exactly does it mean?”

“That I love my husband,” she says quietly. “That it may be stupid and old-fashioned and even pathetic, I don’t know, but something inside me is telling me that there’s still hope for Paul and me, and that if I give in to … this, then I’m somehow giving up on us, that I’m setting myself down a different path, starting down some irreversible course, and I’m not ready to do that. Not yet anyway. I don’t know if I’m making any sense …”

He shakes his head. “I’m a tennis pro,” he says, “what do I know of sense?”

She smiles. “I like you,” she says, meaning it sincerely, hoping he understands this.

“I like you too.”

They laugh.

“You’re a nice boy,” she tells him.

“Man,” he corrects.

She nods.

“I’ll show myself out.” Joanne can see the question in his eyes. He is wondering whether he should kiss her good night. “Goodbye,” he says finally, having decided against it, disappearing through the doorway. Joanne listens to his footsteps on the stairs, hears the front door open and close, listens as the house lapses into silence. Drawing her knees up against her chest, she lowers her face into her hands and pulls at the sides of her hair in frustration.

The phone rings.

“No!” she yells, jumping out of bed, running into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her. The
phone’s persistent ring follows her to the bathtub as she frantically turns on the faucets full blast, trying to block out the unwanted sound. “Stop it!” she screams through the closed door. “Stop it. I can’t take it anymore!” The phone ignores her. It continues to ring, mocking her pleas.

Joanne suddenly pulls open the bathroom door and glares at the telephone. “Come and get me already!” she yells. “Just stop playing with me!” He is out there somewhere watching me, she thinks, twirling around. He is hiding out there, has been hiding out there all evening waiting for Steve Henry to leave. He is out there now—right this minute. He knows what I’ve been doing. He knows I’ve been a bad girl. Soon he will punish me for it.

She runs to the phone and yanks the receiver from its hook. She says nothing, only waits.

“Joanne?”

“Eve?” Joanne collapses on the bed, tears springing to her eyes.

“What took you so long to answer the phone? What’s going on there? Where did Steve Henry go?”

“I was in the bathtub,” Joanne replies, stretching the truth in order to simplify it, answering Eve’s questions one at a time. “Nothing’s going on. He went home.”

“What do you mean he went home? Is he coming back?”

“No, he’s not coming back.”

“You’re finished already?”

“Nothing happened, Eve.”

“Please don’t tell me that, Joanne, you’ll ruin my night. What do you mean, nothing happened?”

Joanne shrugs, grateful for the sound of Eve’s voice though she is reluctant to go into details, wanting to forget the evening as quickly as possible.

“You mean he just ate dinner and left? No pitch? Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Joanne confirms.

“Nothing? I can’t believe that! You’re not telling me something, Joanne. I can feel it.”

“He made his pitch,” Joanne says, giving in part way. “I said no.”

“You said no? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. I don’t know anymore.”

“If you don’t know, I’ll tell you. You’re crazy! I can’t believe that you actually let that magnificent hunk get away. I said to myself as I saw his car pull out, she can’t be letting him leave. Maybe he’s going out for some cigarettes, maybe he forgot his toothbrush and he’s going home to get it, but surely to God,
surely
she didn’t tell him to leave!”

“What were you doing watching my house?” Joanne asks suddenly.

“I wasn’t watching your house,” Eve replies defensively. “I happened to look out my window and saw his car pulling away. How is that watching your house? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Joanne says quickly. What
is
she talking about? “Where’s Brian?”

“Asleep.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I can’t. I’m too nervous.”

“About what?”

“About that CAT scan on Monday morning.”

“Well, try not to think about it. Why don’t you come by the office on Monday after it’s over and we’ll have lunch together.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t. Look, I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Get back in your bath and contemplate what a jerk you are!”

Joanne stares into the receiver as the line goes dead in her hands.

What is she doing here? Joanne wonders as the outside air brushes against her bare legs like a cat. How did she get here?

She is standing in her backyard by the deep end of her empty, aborted swimming pool, staring through the darkness at what looks like a giant open grave. My grave, she thinks, for when he comes for me.

There is something in her right hand. Joanne lifts her arm into the air. The tennis racquet slices silently through the night sky. Follow through, she hears Steve Henry say. “Damn!” she curses into the surrounding stillness. “Damn!” She lets the tennis racquet fall to her side, feels its weight heavy in her hand.

What is she doing here? Why is she standing in the middle of her backyard in the middle of the night with nothing on but her panties and a hot pink T-shirt with the name Picasso scrawled across its front—a remnant of the 1980 exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art—clutching her tennis racquet tightly in her right hand? Why isn’t she asleep?

She isn’t asleep because she couldn’t sleep. After a scalding hot bath that she hoped would relax her—but that only succeeded in making her more restless—and an hour spent tossing and turning in her bed to no avail, she finally abandoned any hope of sleep and came downstairs, where she first cleared the dining room table, then
stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and finally made herself a fresh cup of coffee, all the while replaying the night’s events in her mind like a series of bad television reruns.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispers, feeling her toes overlapping the side of the pool, wincing as she recalls her little speech to Steve Henry just before his departure. I can’t give up hope, she hears herself say, or whatever dumb phrase she used. “What hope?” she asks out loud. The hope that your husband will come back? Your husband is going forward, not coming back! He’s away for the weekend, out for the duration. You can bet that he isn’t standing beside the deep end of some empty summer cottage without the traffic worrying about his soon-to-be ex-wife. What’s to worry about? He knows she’s there waiting should he ever decide he’s had enough of the little Judys of this world and want to come home.

Eve is right—I
am
a jerk. Joanne thinks. A middle-aged jerk who doesn’t even have enough brains to let a beautiful young man give her one night of pleasure. Jerk! she hears Eve chide. Follow through, Steve Henry urges.

Lifting the tennis racquet, which she only vaguely remembers having retrieved from the front hall closet, Joanne hurls it with all her strength into the deep end of the pool. It crashes against the side of the concrete and bounces several times along the pool’s bottom before finally spinning to a lonely stop. She can’t make out where it has finally come to rest. She doesn’t care. She has no more use for tennis racquets. Standing alone in the darkness, Joanne thinks that this empty, concrete hole is the perfect symbol for her life. Nature (or Rogers Pools anyway) imitating the thoughts of man.

It is several minutes before she is aware of other sounds, a crackling of branches, a subtle rustling of grass. Movement unconnected with the natural sounds of night. She turns quickly, but sees nothing, hears nothing. But something is there. She can feel a new presence, knows instinctively that she is not alone.

So he has come, she thinks, feeling her heart beginning to race. He has been waiting for just this opportunity and now she has handed it to him without even a struggle. She pictures the headlines in the morning paper, wonders where the police will discover her body, tries to imagine her final seconds of life. Can you imagine what must have been going through her mind those last minutes? she remembers Karen Palmer asking.

“Mrs. Hunter,” the voice wafts eerily through the stillness.

Joanne gasps, closing her eyes against the sound of the recognizable dull rasp. “What do you want from me?” she cries.

“You know what I want,” the voice replies.

Where is he? Joanne wonders, opening her eyes to strain through the darkness, trying to figure out from which direction the voice is coming. Somewhere to her left she hears movement, feels someone walking toward her.

“Mrs. Hunter,” the voice calls from almost at her side.

Joanne spins around to see a tall figure emerging from the blackness. Gradually she discerns the familiar outline of a long, angular face framed by hair that falls in even waves around its narrow chin. “Eve!” she cries as the figure comes fully into view.

Eve’s laugh is almost a shriek. “You should see your
face!” She hoots. “Even in the dark, you look like you’re going to shit your pants!”

“What the
fuck
are you doing?” Joanne screams, not aware of the profanity until she hears it echo against the silence of the night.

Eve is nearly hysterical with laughter. “You should have heard your voice—‘What do you want from me?’” she mimics. “I love it! You were wonderful.”

“What are you talking about? What are you doing here?” Joanne repeats, her knees giving out as she collapses to the ground, sobbing. “You scared me half to death!”

“Oh, come on,” Eve retorts, managing to sound like the injured party, “where’s your sense of humor?” The laughter has left her voice. “I was looking out my bedroom window and I saw you come out here. I thought you might like some company.”

“Are you crazy?” Joanne can see Eve clearly now, as if someone had suddenly turned on all the lights. She sees the smile on Eve’s face turn sour, her expression freeze. “Why should you try to scare me like that?”

“I didn’t think you’d take it so seriously,” Eve replies, again sounding as if she, and not Joanne, is the one aggrieved. “I forgot how obsessed you are about all this.”

“Obsessed?”

“Yes, obsessed. You should hear yourself sometimes on the subject, you sound positively Looney Tunes.” Her voice slips back into its former eery rasp. “‘Mrs. Hunter,’” Eve mimics, “‘I’m coming to get you, Mrs. Hunter …’”

“Stop it!”

“Look, Joanne, I’m sorry I scared you. I really didn’t think you’d turn it into such a big deal.”

Joanne says nothing. She is suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion and cannot find her voice.

“Are you going to sulk?” Eve demands.

Joanne shakes her head. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” she whispers finally.

“Well, I’m going home to bed,” Eve informs her, making no move to go anywhere. “Serves you right for letting Steve Henry get away,” she adds, trying to joke.

“Eve,” Joanne begins, her voice rising with each successive word as she pushes herself up off the flagstone. “Get out of here before I push you into the goddamn pool!”

A masculine voice cuts through the darkness. “What the hell’s going on down there?”

Both women turn toward the sound, looking up, seeing nothing but the outline of Eve’s house next door. Joanne recognizes Brian’s voice, is grateful for it.

“Joanne, are you all right? Is that Eve with you?”

Joanne swallows hard. She feels dizzy and light-headed and wonders if she is going to faint.

“We’re fine,” Eve answers for her.

“Well, what the hell are you doing? This is hardly the time for a hen party. It’s after midnight. Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s fine,” Eve says wearily. “Stop yelling before you wake up the whole neighborhood. I’ll be right up.” She turns to Joanne. “You’re not still angry, are you?” she asks plaintively.

“Yes, I’m still angry,” Joanne responds, her voice a frustrated, disbelieving whisper.

Eve’s eyebrows arch and her jaw stiffens. She says nothing as she spins around and vanishes into the night.

“A
re you tired?” he is asking.

Joanne closes her eyes against the bright morning sunlight—she has forgotten her sunglasses on the kitchen table—and leans her head against the deep tan leather of the car’s interior, realizing that it has been a long time since she has occupied the passenger seat of her husband’s car. It feels good, she thinks, glancing over at him. “A little,” she confesses. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I guess I’m a bit nervous.”

“Don’t be,” Paul tells her. “Everything will be fine.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You brought the food they asked for, didn’t you?”

“Every piece of junk they requested.”

“Then they’ll be happy.”

Joanne smiles, trying to look reassured. Will the girls be glad to see her? She pictures Lulu running full throttle toward the car, sees Robin linger behind in the shadows, her eyes as unforgiving as they were a month ago, her posture as unapproachable.

“It’s hard to believe the summer’s half over,” Paul is saying.

Joanne nods. Time goes by quickly when you’re having fun, she thinks, checking her watch. It is almost eight o’clock. They have been driving for an hour, making good time despite the steady stream of traffic. Barring any unforeseen accidents, they should arrive in Massachusetts in another two hours, arriving at Camp Danbee when the gates open at 10 a.m. Will Robin be waiting at the gate to greet them?

She has received only one letter from her older daughter in the month she has been away, as compared to Lulu’s five. The letter was brief, mildly informative, and decidedly formal: “Dear Mom, how are you? I am fine. The weather is good. I am participating in all the sports. My swimming has improved. The girls in my cabin are nice enough. The counsellors are okay; the food is not. Your new job sounds interesting.” Signed, simply, “Robin.”