Real Life (36 page)

“Fat lot of good that's going to do anybody,” said Nina. “Why don't they get in that specialist from New York?”

Dorrie washed the mug in the sink, dried it carefully, set it on the shelf. She took the postcard from her pocket and read it again. “Forgive me for running … love you forever.” Well, maybe he would, but she had a fast, desolate premonition that she would never see him again. He would end up in California. His tan would never fade. He would become a handsome old man, growing old in the sunshine with some other young wife, with his boys nearby. They would never let him go: how could they resist such a father, such charm? How could he resist his own children? He would finish his book sitting under a lemon tree. She would go into a bookstore sometime next year and see it:

An Infinite Number of Monkeys

by Alexander Willick

In the last chapter, Henry and Woofy would climb down the North Rim to the Colorado River, and Henry's moment of truth would be authentic, researched, the real thing. The dedication she knew he had planned would stand: “For Dorothea Gilbert.” People would read the book and wonder who Dorothea Gilbert was—might notice that their two names set up the same rhythm. Then there would be the next book, dedicated to someone else. She would read reviews of it; she would go to a bookstore and buy it. It would be full of things that were strange to her, told in Alex's familiar voice.

She looked out at the pond, clear and still in the cold autumn light. This was it, then: the end of something. Here was the abyss she had seen that night in the rain. She stood there thinking that: The end, the end; and without warning she began to cry, the old familiar tears, while the old familiar banners waved through her consciousness:
UNFAIR
and
LIFE IS CRUEL
and
WHY ME
? She looked again through her tears at Alex's postcard, his crabbed writing. She turned it over and stared for a long time at the hot gold sun setting over the Grand Canyon, and one thought came vividly, from nowhere: I can't let him go.

In the phone book, she found the area code for Santa Monica, and dialed information. No, there was no Beth Willick, but there was a number for Elizabeth Willick. Breathless, the blood beating hard in her temples, Dorrie scrawled it down. She imagined Rachel telling this as one of her wacky stories: So of course the logical thing was to call his ex-wife in California—right? And get him on the phone and say, “Listen Buster, if you think you can get away with this you're out of your mind. You think I don't see through you? It's not some mixed-up teen-ager you're afraid of, it's
me
, the Big C—Commitment, sweetie, that's the name of the game.”

Dorrie hesitated, frowning. Was that true? She didn't know, had no idea; she didn't even care. Fear of commitment, the unresolved relationship with his own children, the specter of Phinny hovering over Hugo—whatever it was that had driven Alex away in the rain, it wasn't lack of love. Of that she was sure. She must have been crazy to let him go without a struggle.

She dialed the number, watching dreamily as her finger moved the dial around. All those digits. Dust on the phone. Her finger with its ragged nail. All we can do now is hope. All we can do now is grope, mope, cope.…

“Hello?” A pretty, musical voice, just the voice she had expected.

She said, “Is this Beth Willick?”

“Yes?” the voice said, sounding rushed and impatient. Dorrie pictured a man climbing half dressed down a fire escape.

“I wonder—I was wondering—is Alex there, by any chance? Alex Willick.”

“No, he's not, I'm afraid. Is this Dorrie?”

“What?” Dorrie leaned her head against the wall. Her cheeks burned; her mouth was dry. “I mean—yes, this is Dorrie. How did you know?”

“Well, my Lord, he did tell us about you, you know.”

The voice sounded amused, beautiful, condescending. Dorrie said, “Told you what?”

“Well, I mean, that you exist! That you two are engaged. All I can say is good luck.” She laughed. “I don't mean that the way it sounds. I just mean, sincerely, good luck, best wishes to you both. The boys are thrilled; they're dying to meet you.”

Alex. “Is he—can I reach him somewhere?”

“He's en route back east. Jeremy and I just took him to the airport. I let Jeremy cut school. Jeff had a physics test, so I wouldn't let him.” She laughed again. “I know I'll never hear the end of that one.” Dorrie tried to imagine the woman behind the voice: blond, petite, curvy, with a wonderful smile. In Beth's voice, Dorrie heard Alex's history as he had told it to her; it was a my-last-duchess voice, one that wanted to be liked and loved and admired. “On the other hand,” Beth said, “Alex went to Jeff's soccer game last night, so that evens things out, in my opinion.”

Dorrie relaxed. I couldn't help it, she heard herself telling Rachel. I did like her. She said, “They all had a pretty good time, then.”

“Are you serious? Listen, this was the event of the year—Daddy coming for a visit. I'm glad Alex is getting his act together. Those kids are at an age when they need a father, if you know what I mean. I assume I can thank you for some of this.”

“Oh—well.” She still held the postcard in her hand; she pressed it to her cheek.

“I get the impression from Alex that you've had a pretty good effect on him.”

“I don't know, I suppose he—I have this nephew,” she said impulsively. “He complicates things.”

“We heard about the nephew. A real eccentric, I take it. I wouldn't worry about it; these step-family things work themselves out.” Again the musical laugh. “Look at who's talking. I haven't exactly hustled off to the altar again myself. But the quality of available men these days is not terrific, as I'm sure you've noticed.”

“Ah—”

“Don't get me wrong, I don't mean Alex.”

“Oh, I—”

“Listen, Dorrie, I'm late, I've got to run. It was wonderful to talk to you. I'm sure we'll meet one of these days. Alex's flight gets into Logan around eight fifteen, your time, if you're thinking of meeting him. Something like that—eight fifteen, eight thirty-five, I forget. TWA, anyway. You can check it.”

“Thanks, I—”

“And next time Alex comes out here, you come with him. Okay? Promise?”

Dorrie promised, and hung up in a daze. Alex. He was on his way back—in the air now, slumped over a book, drinking beer, irritable because there wasn't enough room for his long legs, scared—flying frightened him, she knew, as heights did. He would look out the window, think of his boys, replay Jeff's soccer game, worry about whether the pilot was on amphetamines, plan his lecture for Monday night. Think of her, maybe. Resolve to call when he got in. And there she would be at the airport: waiting, like his suitcase, to be claimed. She should bring a big sign and stand under it:
FIANCÉE CLAIM.
She imagined his smile, his generous laugh. Alex.

She went over to the sink. Her cheeks felt tight where the tears had dried on them, and her eyes burned. I won't let him, she thought. That's what she would say: I won't let you get rid of me so easily. Okay, my life is messy. All life is messy. And then she would kiss him. Kissing, she would say. Kissing is messy. So is sex. So is literature. So is pottery making. So is the Grand Canyon, for heaven's sake. So is love. Only death is neat, Alex. She would say that, and then they would drive to his apartment and make love.

She splashed cold water on her face. Then she stuck Alex's view of the Grand Canyon to the refrigerator with a magnet and wandered into the living room, to the door of Hugo's alcove.

“She's just being wheeled into surgery,” Hugo said to her.

She asked, “Who's doing the operation? Dr. Wendell?”

“Yeah, but he's been drinking.”

The eyes of the nurses, above their masks, were heavy with makeup. They exchanged worried looks. Cut to the doctor; his eyes were narrowed and red-rimmed, his hands trembled as he reached for the scalpel. Cut to the waiting room, where a woman with glycerin tears seeping from her mascara said, “Everything will be all right, Gus. I know it, I feel it.”

“Ha,” said Nina.

Dorrie watched it with them to the end: Dr. Wendell collapsing in the operating room, another surgeon taking over. Then she left Hugo and Nina in the kitchen eating untoasted English muffins—one of Nina's passions—and went downstairs to her studio. She would have liked to go outside, maybe walk in the fading afternoon down to the pond to see if the Canada geese were still there. But it was a clammy, cold day. November. Good weather for staying in. She walked around the studio, covered a forgotten pot of glaze, admired the row of soup bowls waiting for firing, patted the kitten who lay curled up on Alex's old sweatshirt in the wicker chair. From upstairs, there was the sound of laughter, Nina's squeal. Rain ticked gently against the window.

She sat down at the wheel, wet her hands, took a lump of clay and centered it. She would have to get an early dinner to leave plenty of time to get to the airport, but there were still a couple of hours. The clay revolved between her palms, becoming smooth and sleek. What to make? Something new, something so beautiful that it would surprise even her. She leaned into it, feeling the rhythm in her fingers like music, and let the clay take over.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1986 by Kitty Burns Florey

ISBN: 978-1-4976-9337-1

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