Authors: Elyse Douglas
At the extremity of the moment, I pressed the button to break the connection. I held it down firmly, pressing hard, imagining my head being shoved and forced violently down into deep water. “Drown, you failing son of a bitch,” I whispered.
I struggled for awhile. Exhaled, and listened, numbly, to the OM of the dial tone.
Chapter Four
“I don’t know where she is,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, rather coldly. “She doesn’t tell me much. Not much at all.”
We were on the phone again. I was surprised by her unfriendly tone. I’d expected the opposite. “How is she?” I asked, tentatively.
“She has her good days and bad. Today…well, this morning…well, she didn’t sleep all night.”
I was an hour from Hartsfield, driving in medium traffic, a half-eaten turkey sandwich on the seat beside me, still mostly wrapped. Twilight gathered in deep blue shadows in the valleys, grew soft gray over the trees and far hills, and glowed orange and purple on the horizon.
“Is she at work now, Mrs. Fitzgerald?”
“No…she doesn’t work on Fridays. She…well, she left early this morning. Didn’t say where. That’s all I know,” she said, curtly.
I gave Mrs. Fitzgerald my cell number and asked her to pass it along to Rita when she returned.
“Tell her I’ll be in Hartsfield for the weekend.”
It was dark when I arrived at the house, pulled into the driveway and got out. The night sky was close and rich with stars. Crickets sang and frogs belched. Lightning bugs flashed golden flecks. I paused on the lower step of the porch to watch, to listen, to take the pulse of the night.
Before inserting the key into the lock, I glanced back at the low-rising half moon and stared. Seduced, I strolled to the porch swing and sat down. I rocked, easily, listening to the comfortable squeak of the chain. I had brought nothing with me: no suitcase, clothes or food. I hadn’t gone back to the apartment after my conversation with Nicole. I’d finished the day, working on automatic pilot, and at the end of it, I had left without a word to anyone. I wanted to run off—to escape—to the house.
It was an oddity to be comfortable at the house that had never seemed quite like home to me, in a town that had often felt foreign and isolated from the “real world”. The world where “it was happening.” Where history was being made.
But the isolation was now a boon; the quiet sleeping giant of a house, a secret and welcomed haven from the battles of life. It was a retreat; a place to rest, to try to heal, to forget Nicole’s last words.
The house was a time capsule, so hauntingly present in the now, so filled with the apparitions and impressions of the past. I continued to swing and breathe easy, feeling the rise of a lonely and lovely contentment. Much of the anguish of the day was lifting and merging with the intoxicating night songs.
I’d longed to be at the house; how it had lifted my spirits to think of it as I finished out the day, making my way to the parking garage on 83rd Street to retrieve the Mercedes. And I thought of Rita. She was a healing thought—implicating me in a crime of passion: Rita would be in Hartsfield, and I couldn’t deny that I was refreshed by the anticipation of seeing her again; of escaping the pain I was feeling.
Let Nicole have her Walker Towne, his two kids, and half of everything we owned together, or more, I didn’t care. Truth be told—and I was boiling with it as I drove—I’d never felt emotionally secure with Nicole. When she was serene and quiet, an eruption was imminent. When anger or frustration flared or insecurity struck, she craved attention and domination. Lovemaking became a kind of battle that left me confused, while leaving her aloof and hungry for something more or different. She’d leave the bed, pace, drink wine and gossip with her girlfriends on the phone, ignoring me for hours and sometimes for days. What had I done or not done? I didn’t know.
And then, she’d somehow hotwire her head to her heart and lavish me with kisses and gentle love making and presents: new shirts, an iPad, DVDs, a pricy stylish sport coat.
“You were a hot baby the other night,” she’d sometimes say. I tried not to look back enigmatically.
I stopped the swing, leaned forward with hunched shoulders and laced my hands. I cared for Nicole. I did. No doubt about that. I loved her.
But three years later, I was not the man she’d married. I had failed us, and this was not self-pity, but a fact. I had become distant and mostly passionless. I was barren, and I had cast that compact shaft of light onto both Nicole and our relationship, revealing every stain and weakness. That light had shown into our hearts, illuminating the startled shadowy figures that had been cowering in corners for years.
In the end, we didn’t possess the strength—the mature passion—to face them and grow. As a result, we never truly became one. We held on to ME and I, finally becoming just another “them,” whom friends and family mention over cocktails or dinner, with a sad shake of the head or a casual remark in an e-mail. “Nope, they just didn’t make it together. So unfortunate. So sad. But, that’s the way it goes. Have you seen any good movies lately?”
What was Nicole saying to Walker right now, over drinks at the Oak Room or some other trendy restaurant or bar? I could hear her voice clearly, a low scratchy sorrow, with a hint of a French accent, persuasive and wise, after two or three glasses of Chardonnay. “Alan always seemed to be holding something back. I wasn’t surprised when he learned he was infertile. It seemed to confirm the obvious to him and to me: he lacks true passion, and I am half French after all. I am, if nothing else, passionate. Well, maybe we had that passion once but…”
Nicole would pause then, perhaps recall an intimate touch or night of love, before our problems had congealed, before our wisdom and love begat emptiness. Because she was raised Catholic, there would be guilt, remorse and tears for years to come.
She would hold the chilled wine glass close to her parted thoughtful lips, but not sip it. No, she would first crown the instant memory of us with thorns, as she set off on the arduous journey through the old broken streets, stumbling past crushed hopes and dreams, arriving, alone and resigned, to climb the barren knoll of the present piteous truth, where our relationship would, at last, meet its end on the cross of retribution.
Nicole would finally lift her opulent brown liquid eyes to Walker, drink some wine and say… “And a passionate woman, if she’s honest—and she must be if she is to live with herself—a passionate woman wants a husband who wants her, and she, in turn, wants her own, natural child.”
Walker was surely nodding, commiserating, sipping scotch, his gleaming randy eyes anticipating a good night of sex. He would toast her. “I think you’ve made your case, Nicole. Let’s adjourn to my chambers.”
And what was I thinking here on the porch swing in the magic of the night? “I wish I had a sturdy defense, Nicole, but I don’t and, right now, I don’t even have the strength to mount one. The defense simply rests.”
But maybe this defenseless and weak resignation was nothing more than the happy recognition that the marriage had been in trouble for a long time and it was finally, and mercifully, over.
I saw it all so keenly now. It was mountain-creek clear: I had seen Rita again and that was my crime of passion. Secretly, guiltily, I was glad to be free of Nicole and free to open my heart again to Rita. I had returned to the past and revisited nescient emotions, more true, more natural than experience. Seeing Rita again had made everything apparent, somehow, like a brilliant flash of light thrown from the heavens onto the Ten Commandments of my passionate soul: “Thou shalt love Rita Fitzgerald with all thy heart, mind and strength! Go forth and rediscover that root of authentic love, Alan James! Go forth with Rita Fitzgerald and save her! Find thyself in her!”
I was aware of the illusion—the mirage of molecules; the elaborate webs of self- deception. Run from thyself Alan James. I could simply remove myself from one place to another, carrying all the heavy baggage; slip from present to past and become miraculously reborn and happy in the future. It was so obvious, trite and alluring: don’t face yourself, Alan, run to Rita and let her save
you
by your saving
her
. And saving her suddenly dominated my thoughts and gave me a new purpose, a definite goal, a way to channel my disappointment, anger and failure into a stunning success and achievement.
I began swinging again, staring into the darkness, thankful that the world was hidden around me and that, for now, I was very much alone with my eager, private thoughts. Although I was utterly drained and exhausted, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. So I rocked.
“Mr. Lincoln?”
When I heard the deep voice, I jerked with a start, anchored my feet to the porch and twisted abruptly toward it. I saw the silhouette of a big man, below on the lawn, strolling toward me.
I rose, tense, peering at the figure. “Yes…”
“I’ve scared you…I’m sorry about that.” The voice lacked warmth. It was quietly grave.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He continued toward me, stopping at the base of the porch stairs, hands in his pockets. “Yeah…who am I? Well, we met many years ago, Mr. Lincoln.”
And then I knew—an instant before he said, “Frank Fitzgerald, Mr. Lincoln. Rita’s father.”
My voice was instantly formal, withholding. “…Yes…I remember.” I didn’t move. Neither did he. All the night sounds swelled around us—ringing, scratching.
“My wife said you’d called. Said you were on your way into town.”
I didn’t speak.
“She said you were asking about Rita.”
“Yes.”
“I just thought I’d drop over…say hello.”
He could have called, I thought. There were more polite ways of saying “hello” than sneaking up on someone in the dark. His voice brought the immediate rush of old emotions and memories of that last date with Rita: the artificial deodorant smell of the house; the poor, stale look of the living room; Mrs. Fitzgerald’s sneering face and Frank’s subtly battering style of conversation—quietly sarcastic and manipulative, as though he were a clever spider, weaving a web to trap. I had sensed a prodigious intellect, warped by frustration and jealousy, with the driving need to dominate in any insidious way possible. All of these memories converged with the smooth chilly sound of his voice, and I shook off a little shiver of trepidation. I instantly disliked him.
“You don’t mind, do you, that I wanted to be a good neighbor and stop by to say hello?”
I was irritated at myself for feeling intimidated by him—for feeling like I was 17 years old again. I decided to twist the conversation into another direction. “Mrs. Fitzgerald didn’t say you were in town.”
“Well…I come and go. There’s no work in this town anymore, so I…come and go. I go other places to work and I come home when I can. And you? Coming and going?”
To gain the advantage, I decided to keep asking questions. After all, that’s what doctors do all day long. “When did you arrive this time?”
I heard him chuckle. He was probably on to me. He made himself comfortable, taking a seat on the lower step. “Mr. Lincoln…I…”
I was growing hostile. It was partly fatigue, partly distrust and mostly the sharp emotions of the day. “Alan!” I said firmly. “Just call me, Alan!”
“Okay, Mr…”
I cut him off, sharply. “Alan, Mr. Fitzgerald! Please…call me Alan. If you want to call me Mr. Lincoln, then I’d prefer, Dr. Lincoln.” The force of my tone and overreaction surprised me. Without meaning to, I was certain I had provoked him. The silence was stressful.
“Okay, fine, if you feel you need the title, then Dr. Lincoln it is.”
“Why did you come by, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
He uttered a short, stout laugh. “Have you come to town to see Rita, Dr. Lincoln?” He emphasized Doctor, as if to slap me with it.
“…I came to sell the house…and to see Rita.”
“Yes… the house…an impressive place. Always was impressive, even in the old days. I used to drive by here sometimes on my way to work, and pull over and look at it. Just take it in, like it was some great monument, like Grant’s tomb or something. Well, maybe that’s not quite the right comparison. More like Jefferson’s Monticello or Mark Twain’s home in Hartford, Connecticut.”
“It’s not as grand as all that, Mr. Fitzgerald. It’s just a nice Victorian home.”
“Ever been to Mark Twain’s house?”
“No…”
“Impressive. You should go. I took the tour. Very impressive. You know, Twain once said, ‘There ought to be a room in this house to swear in. It’s dangerous to have to repress an emotion like that.’”
Frank chuckled again, but it was artificial. I had the feeling that he was more impressed at himself for memorizing and reciting the quote, than he was delighting in the quote itself. I wished I could see his eyes and read his face. But we were two dark shadows, shadow boxing with innuendo and insinuation.
He continued. “You wouldn’t believe Twain’s bed. Venetian, intricately carved mantel from a Scottish castle. Impressive. You really should go see it. And his pool table. Now that’s something to see. You play pool, Dr. Lincoln?”
There was something in his voice: a hot spice of superiority.
“Once in awhile. I’m not very good.”