The Shape of Desire (15 page)

T
he next two days creak past like an old woman clinging to a walker as she navigates an icy sidewalk. There are no more midnight calls from Dante, there is no communication at all. I don’t hear from Christina, either, though I half expect to. Half hope to. I would love another overnight visit from that enchanting little girl.

The workdays amble by, enlivened by conversations and outings with coworkers. Ellen has continued with her campaign to incorporate Kathleen into our little circle of friends, so she has lunch with us the rest of the week. One day we are joined by Marquez and one of the copyeditors; another day Grant Vance tags along with Ellen, Kathleen, and me, something I can only remember happening once before in the past three years. I think Ellen is trying to make a point to Kathleen, though it’s a subtle enough one that I’m not sure even
I
get it. I think the message is:
Normal people lead a different life than you do.

What I want to tell Ellen is:
Give it up. There are no normal people.

Now and then Ellen is more blunt than sly. On the day that
Grant has joined us, we’re back at the pizza place, which turns out to be his favorite venue, so he’s smiling widely. Well, of course he is. He’s Grant. He’s always smiling.

I wonder if Ellen has decided to try to rescue Grant from Caroline. How many people does she think she can save at one time? Maybe she hopes to promote a romance between Kathleen and Grant. I actually like the idea, since he seems gentle and she seems like she could use some kindness, but I think there are far too many hurdles in the way—primarily the fact that they’re both in love with other people.

Ellen is wearing an electric blue blouse that’s tight enough to show the lines of her bra. It looks like she’s just had her hair touched up, because it’s as blond as a Dolly Parton wig. Still, she looks five times better than I do today in my drab black and washed-out pink outfit, which was all I could find in my closet after I got up late because I failed to set the alarm last night. She’s holding a copy of the newspaper, and she rustles the pages of the metro section as she reels off the headlines. “‘Priest Accused of Sexually Assaulting Four Boys’…‘Bank Robber Holds Ten People Hostage for Eight-Hour Standoff’…‘Young Couple Killed in Suburban Park.’ I mean, each story is more depressing than the last.”

“Yeah, I read about those people being killed,” Grant says, his cheerful face drawing into an expression of sympathy. “They were mauled by animals.”

“And then, here’s another one—” Ellen starts, but Kathleen interrupts.

“What? Mauled by animals? In a suburban park? In
St. Louis
? Are you reading the local news?”

Somewhat grudgingly, Ellen turns back to that story. “Well, it’s extreme suburban. Out past Wildwood.”

“What kind of animals?” I ask. “I know there are coyotes around here. Foxes. I saw a fox at the Botanical Gardens once.”

“Hey, I saw that same fox!” Grant exclaims. “It was cool.”

Ellen is frowning at the paper now, clearly annoyed at being sidetracked. “No, not foxes. Not wolves. It says—well, it says they still need to do forensics to determine exactly what kind of creature killed them.” She reads a little further into the article. “Also, apparently they were dead for a few days before anyone found them. So there’s been some decay. We won’t know all the details for a while. Like how they were killed or even when.”

“I don’t want to know the details,” I observe.

Kathleen shivers a little. “I don’t, either. That’s creepy.”

“But we know all we need to know about this article,” Ellen continues. “‘Father of Three Kills Wife, Children, Self.’ Boy, seems like every time you open the paper, there’s some version of that story in it.”

I realize what Ellen’s trying to do, so, feeling clumsy about it, I try to support her. “You always wonder if maybe the women in those situations don’t realize they have somewhere else to go,” I say. “Like, maybe they have a friend who could help. Or there’s a hotline they could call.”

Ellen taps the paper. “It gives a number right here. But if I were a woman in an abusive situation, I’d tell a friend. Someone who knew the right resources. Hell, if someone came to
me
when she was in trouble, I know I could help her out.”

I can’t tell from her expression if Kathleen realizes what Ellen is saying. Her eyes are shadowed; it’s clear the tale is affecting her. “I feel sorry for that woman’s family,” she says in her soft voice. “Her mother and her father. Just think. Last week they had a daughter and three grandchildren. Now they don’t. How does something happen so fast? Everything wiped out in a minute.”

Grant makes a strangled noise. “Can we talk about something else? I’m never having lunch with you guys again.”

Ellen raises her gaze and gives him a considering look. “Sure. Let’s talk about something more fun. Didn’t I see your name on the wall calendar? Aren’t you going on vacation pretty soon?”

Grant’s smile returns, a bright curve against his dark skin. “Yes, I am! Italy.” He waves his hand at the restaurant around us. “Where I can get
real
pasta, straight from the source.”

“Have you ever been there before?” I ask.

“No. I’ve wanted to go my whole life.”

“Who are you going with?” Ellen asks innocently.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look self-conscious. Either he’s practiced this lie a hundred times, or he’s telling the truth. “A buddy from college is meeting me in Rome. He lives in England now, and I haven’t seen him since—wow, since grad school.”

“Oh, I think I’d rather go to England if I was going to travel,” Kathleen puts in. “London—and Stonehenge—and Bath—”

We all look at her in surprise. “Bath?” I repeat.

“Haven’t you ever read Georgette Heyer?” she asks. The rest of us shake our heads. “Well, if you’d read Georgette Heyer, you’d want to go to Bath.”

“I was in Paris once,” Ellen says. “Went with some of the girls from the sorority. We—”

“You were in a
sorority
?” I interrupt. “I thought you’d be the type of person who picketed Greek Row because they were so elitist.”

She glares at me. Clearly she was about to make another point and I derailed her. “It was a service sorority,” she says stiffly. “We did charity work around the city. Let me finish.”

“I was in a frat,” Grant offers.

“I thought Greek stuff was stupid,” I say. “Though now I wonder if joining a sorority
then
would have helped me with my social network
now
.”

“I got my associate’s degree at a community college,” Kathleen says. “I don’t even know if they had sororities.”

“Well,
my
sorority went to Paris during the summer between junior and senior year,” Ellen says, wrenching back control of the conversation.
“And we’re standing in line at the Louvre, waiting to see the
Mona Lisa
, when I hear somebody call my name.” She glances around at the three of us, making sure we are ready to be impressed by her revelation. “And who is in line about ten people behind me but the guy I went to prom with in high school! In
Paris
. At the
Louvre
. Isn’t that the most amazing coincidence? I hadn’t even
thought
of the guy in three years.”

It takes me a minute to realize the message she is trying to deliver with this story, and then I get it. She is warning Grant that if he secretly meets Caroline in Rome, he is bound to encounter someone he knows. She is telling him that he can run to the ends of the earth trying to keep his forbidden romance a secret, but the most unexpected coincidence will expose him no matter what precautions he takes.

“Oh, I have a similar story,” I say, fluttering my hands to show how excited I am to tell this anecdote. “I was on a plane once, flying back from—Boston, I think. It doesn’t matter. There was a guy sitting next to me and we started talking and it was all the usual, where are you from, where do you live, what do you do for a living? And at the time I was working for this little accounting firm that no one had ever heard of, but when I named it, he said, ‘Oh, my friend Nancy Kelly works there! Do you know her?’ And I said, ‘Know her? We
carpool
together! What’s your name?’”

I take a sip of my Coke and go on. “So he tells me he’s Tom Marcus, and I almost fall out of my seat. You know how, when you spend a lot of time with friends, you start talking about other friends, and pretty soon you feel like you know those other people? Well, Nancy had told me all about Tom, and how he and his wife were going through this nasty divorce. I knew everything about him.
Everything.
I knew he and his wife had been trying for years to have a baby, I knew they’d considered in vitro, I knew his
sperm
count, for God’s sake. So then when his wife got pregnant, he started to wonder if the baby was really his, and he had her followed, and it turned out she was having an affair—I knew all of it.”

Everyone at the table actually looks sort of amused. “What did you say?” Grant asks. “‘Sorry about your boys being such low shooters’?”

Kathleen seems confused; Ellen chokes on a laugh. “No, I just said, ‘Oh, you know, I think Nancy might have mentioned your name. I’ll tell her I met you.’ And then we talked about movies for the rest of the flight.”

“See, that’s exactly my point,” Ellen says. I can tell she’s pleased with my contribution. “You never know when you’re going to run into someone you know. Or someone who knows
you
, even indirectly.”

“When I was in summer school my junior year, three of my friends and I cut class to go see a baseball game,” Kathleen says. “And my best friend Audrey? She was this really cute blond and she was wearing this halter top and one of the TV guys kept turning the camera over at her. So she’d wave and kind of do a little dance.” Kathleen offers a discreet shimmy. Nothing bounces on her tiny frame, but we get the idea. “They showed the footage on the evening news, and we were all busted. My mom grounded me for the rest of the summer.”

Ellen points at her. “See? There’s always someone watching or a camera pointed at you. You can never be anonymous in today’s world.”

It is hard to tell if Grant finds this a sobering thought, but I surely do. By this reasoning, dozens of people could have—might already have—spotted me out with my own secret lover. I might run into Beth at a restaurant, Kathleen and Ritchie in the state park. We could be at a convenience store when it gets robbed and be captured on the security camera, our pictures broadcast to the entire world.
Who’s that guy you were with, Maria? Why were you holding hands? Hey, do you have a boyfriend?

Well, in fifteen years no one has spotted us together—or, if they have, they haven’t mentioned it to me. And I have a dozen answers ready, ranging from the partial explanation I had given to Kathleen to an assortment of stories designed to fit particular situations or accusations.
He’s an old boyfriend who happened to be passing through town…He’s this guy I’ve been seeing for a few weeks. Cute, don’t you think?…He’s someone that a friend
at work fixed me up with. I don’t think the relationship will go anywhere, though. He’s kind of moody.

Lies are easy. It’s the living behind them that’s hard.

F
inally, finally, it’s nearing the end of the third week since Dante disappeared. Over the weekend, I feel my heartbeat quicken, my nerves grow taut. By Monday at work, I am so tightly wound that when someone accidentally bumps into me in the hallway, I actually give a little scream. I’m continually dropping things, spilling things, losing track of conversations. Surely tomorrow, or the day after, or possibly the day after that, Dante will be back.

The birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

It is important every day to look my best, in case he is at the house waiting for me when I return. Starting on Monday, I set the alarm a half hour early, so I have extra time to style my hair and make up my face. I pick my most flattering clothes, red blouses, purple scarves, tight sweaters that show off my curves.

“You’re looking good, girlfriend,” Marquez tells me Tuesday afternoon. “Did you get your hair cut? Shop some sales? Fall in love?”

I just laugh and shake my head.

When I go home that night, I know Dante is waiting for me. The front door is open to admit the last of the October sunlight—and to let me know he has arrived. Before I go in, I spend a moment indulging in a frequent fantasy: He has stopped to buy champagne, roses, chocolates, bubble bath. I will push open the door to find a path of petals leading from the foyer to the bedroom, where candles paint the walls with warm highlights. Soft music will be playing in the other room, and Dante will
be wearing some Chippendales-style outfit—slick black pants, a bow tie, no shirt. “Darling,” he will say, and pull me into a gentle embrace. We will slow dance around the bedroom, our bodies drawing closer and closer, as we desperately try to hold back from that first kiss. Finally, there will be no more resisting. Our arms will tighten around each other, he will sweep me against his chest, and we will fall on each other with an unappeasable hunger.

Well, we’ve managed that unappeasable hunger part often enough. Perhaps I’m greedy for wanting the romantic prelude, at least once in my life. But Dante doesn’t dance. He doesn’t bother with sexy clothes—he scarcely even notices if
I’ve
gone to the trouble of putting on black lace or red silk. And he never calls me darling.

Still, I feel my chest tightening with anticipation as I push wide the door and step inside. “Dante?” I call in a low voice.

No answer, and I do pause to consider that the door might have been opened by a thief instead of a boyfriend. But the living room is tidy and the mail has been dropped on the coffee table—an act that seems too considerate for a burglar. The most likely answer is that he’s sleeping. I lock the door behind me and creep to the bedroom.

Yes, there he is, sprawled facedown on the bed, his hair a smear of black across my white pillows. He’s naked and smells faintly of soap, so he’s been here long enough to take a shower and wash away most traces of
new Dante
. But I can still sense the wild creature in him. His hands are balled around the chenille bedspread, his face—turned so his left cheek lies against the pillow—is clenched in a frown. A long, half-healed gash runs all the way down his right arm, from the round knob of his shoulder to the bulky juncture of his wrist.