The Cruel Ever After (4 page)

As she stretched her arms over her head, Chess’s face bloomed inside her mind. When she thought about him these days, which she rarely did, she still felt, for multiple reasons, that she’d made the right decision in marrying him. Yet a core part of her remained ashamed.

“I was in too much of a hurry back then,” she said to Mouse, absently stroking his velvety ears.

She couldn’t recall ever being ashamed of being gay. It was just another human variation. She’d been outraged by the inequity in Chess’s parents’ edict. Still, all the sneaking around, and the fact that she got paid to lie, made her complicity feel sordid.

“We should head up to bed.”

Without lifting his head, Mouse raised his eyes.

“But between you and me, sitting in the dark with you, drinking a brandy, it’s got to be my favorite part of the day. It’s quiet, you know? There’s nobody knocking on my door, or phoning me, or asking me to do something, or expecting me to dig my way out of a crisis.” In years past, that had been exactly what she loved about her work. It was fast and furious. Something always needed her attention. She would lose herself in the energy of it all, and time would disappear. Where had that gone?

“Maybe I need to learn to meditate. What do you think?”

Mouse’s tail thumped.

“Or take up knitting.” She swallowed the last of her brandy. “Nah.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

Mouse sat up, sniffing the air.

Nobody came to her house at this hour of the morning except for Cordelia. Occasionally, she even brought a pizza, a welcome thought.

“You feel like some pepperoni?” she asked as she headed through the dining room into the front hall, Mouse trotting along next to her. Before she opened the door, she looked through the peephole. “No pepperoni, babe. Sorry.”

“I’ve been mugged,” groaned Chess, leaning a hand heavily against the door frame. His jacket was ripped and soiled, and he had some nasty abrasions on his face.

“Come in,” she said, holding his arm and helping him inside.

“Cordelia told me where you lived,” he said a little breathlessly. “I’m sorry to wake you, but—”

“I wasn’t asleep.” She helped him to the couch in the living room. Although his legs appeared rock solid—as thick as tree stumps—he was so out of shape that she was afraid he might fall. When his jacket spread open, she could see his belly pushing against his belt. He reminded her of a middle-aged Marlon Brando, before he fell off the weight cliff altogether and ballooned. Chess was still attractive, but he was fast going to seed. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m just shaken up.”

“I’ll get my first aid kit.”

Mouse, always the gentleman, sat down in front of him and held up his paw.

“Nice dog,” said Chess, patting his head with little enthusiasm.

Jane returned with the kit and began to clean the scrapes on his face. Chess winced and pulled away a couple of times but eventually let her finish her ministrations.

“What happened?” she asked, before telling him to close his eyes as she covered the abrasions with antibiotic spray.

“I was coming out of a bar. Two guys jumped me.”

“A gay bar?”

“What?” He looked away. “Yeah.”

“You’re lucky all you have are a few bruises.”

He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging several tiny sticks and pieces of gravel. “They took my wallet. All my money, traveler’s checks, and credit cards. And my ID. Everything.”

“We need to call the police.” She started for the kitchen to get the phone, but he gripped her arm.

“No police.”

“But you need to file a report.”

“What I need is a friend, a place to spend the night.”

“Chess—”

“I know what’s best.”

She stood looking down at him. “Where did you stay last night?”

“With … a guy. But I can’t go back there.”

She wasn’t sure she was getting the full story. She sat down across from him, on the rocking chair next to the fireplace.

“Can I stay? Maybe I could sleep on the couch. I promise, I’ll leave in the morning. You can trust me. You know that.”

“It’s hardly a matter of trust. Anyway, you don’t have to sleep on the couch. I’ve got a guest bedroom upstairs.”

“No, that’s too much trouble. Just let me bed down here. I thought about sleeping outside somewhere, but I’m too rattled.”

“I still think you should report what happened to the police.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because if it got out that I was at a gay bar—”

“You’re still in the closet?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “More or less.”

“But who even knows you around here anymore?”

“More people than you might expect.”

She shook her head. “That’s a hard way to live. You still have your suitcases? Your clothes?”

“They’re all at Robert’s house.”

She wanted to ask who Robert was but decided to let it go. As they sat staring at each other, the conversation stalled and then died.

To fill the silence, Jane said, “Want to wash up?”

“Maybe later.”

“Want a brandy?”

“Desperately.”

She left the room and returned a few seconds later with two glasses and the bottle.

As she poured them each a drink, he said, “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Of course you can stay.”

“Still, thanks.”

She sat down and studied him for a few seconds. “You never mentioned what you do for a living these days.”

Looking relieved that the conversational ball had been picked up, he said, “I deal in antiquities. Mostly jewelry. I work for a broker in Holland.”

“And you live in Istanbul?”

“That’s where my primary residence is. I live in what’s called Cukurcuma. It’s the SoHo of Istanbul, although that doesn’t do it justice. It’s a very West-leaning section, very grand, trendy but ancient. Lots of shops on narrow, winding streets. Lots of new restaurants and nightclubs. It’s like nowhere else on earth.” He gazed straight ahead into the cold fireplace.

“What about when you’re in Amsterdam?”

“I have a small flat. Both of my residences are small, bare-bones affairs. You might not believe it, but money has never been important to me. It’s simply a means to an end.”

“Traveling? Seeing the world?”

“The experience of life in all its varied incarnations. When I was younger, I wanted to visit every corner of the world.”

“Have you?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m on a buying trip. Not that I’ll be doing much buying without my credit cards. You know—” He glanced down at Mouse, who was lying on the braided rug next to Jane. “I wonder sometimes. Do you ever let your mind wander, think about what our lives might have been like if we’d stayed married? If we’d really been in love.”

She found the question strange. “But we weren’t.”

“No. But what if we had been? You were so beautiful. You’re still beautiful. I’d forgotten those amazing icy blue-violet eyes of yours.”

Jane wasn’t sure what to say.

“You’ve done well for yourself. Two restaurants. This big old house. I mean, look at you. You’re fit and prosperous.”

“The recession has hit the restaurant industry pretty hard.”

“Didn’t seem that way this afternoon.” He crossed his legs, leaned back against the cushions. “And Cordelia. She’s still as exotic, as curvaceous as ever, although she’s put on weight. Then again, so have I.”

“She never does anything halfway. If she likes something, she wants to wallow in it. If she doesn’t like it, she’d just as soon take a flamethrower to it.”

“That sounds about right. Is she seeing anyone?”

“Her partner’s name is Melanie Gunderson. She’s a journalist. They live across the street from each other—both in downtown lofts.”

“Not together?”

“To quote Cordelia, they each need ‘a loft of their own.’ It’s an updated, more or less consumer-driven spin on Virginia Woolf’s famous essay.”

That made him laugh. “I think I’ve missed you two.”

“You’d better call your credit card companies—report the thefts.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the numbers with me. I’ll have to get hold of my assistant back in Istanbul, have him make the calls.” He slipped a cell phone out of his jacket.

Jane was surprised at how cheap it looked. Maybe he really did live a bare-bones life. “Better get you a pillow and a blanket.”

“I owe you, Jane. I owe you so much.”

“We settled all our scores long ago.”

“I know. Even so, thanks.”

5

Julia leaned toward the bathroom mirror, applying the finishing touches to her makeup, feeling a kind of grim resignation at the image staring back at her. Severe headaches had dogged her ever since her return to the United States. They’d gone away for a time but in the last few months had returned with a vengeance. Along with the headaches came a kind of continuous nausea. She’d lost weight, which she could hardly afford. She’d already lost too much as a result of the drug-resistant strain of TB she’d contracted while working in southern Africa. The AIDS crisis in that country had consumed her life for the last few years. She would probably still be there if she hadn’t become ill. Her lungs were clean and healthy again, but she wondered if some of the vestiges of the disease—and the cure—weren’t the cause of her current problems.

A doctor she’d begun to see had put her on a migraine medication that seemed to be helping, although the tests she’d undergone were inconclusive. Except for one. She didn’t have a brain tumor. She’d been so busy starting up a free outreach clinic in downtown Minneapolis that she hadn’t had the time to study the headache issue herself. She did know that migraines didn’t come in clusters, the way hers did. Sometimes she would experience five or six headaches a day, lasting from a few minutes to a few hours. It was debilitating and frustrating when she had so much work to do.

Julia’s medicine chest was full of medications, most of which didn’t work. She was seeing the medical profession from a different point of view these days, and it wasn’t pretty. Nevertheless, she had made progress on the free clinic, which was her primary goal at the moment, and that gave her a sense of accomplishment even in the midst of personal chaos.

Last February, Julia had rented a fully furnished Uptown penthouse loft. She’d been looking around for a place to buy but ended up subletting from a man who planned to spend the next couple of years working on a business venture in China. With spectacular, virtually unimpeded views of Lake Calhoun to the west and Uptown to the north, not to mention green building practices, it was everything she’d been looking for and more. She’d asked her lawyer to negotiate a clause in the rental agreement that allowed her first crack at buying the place, just in case the owner ended up staying in China.

Working in southern Africa for several years had changed her perspective on life and the world—and her values vis-à-vis that world. If she hadn’t had some persuasive reasons for sticking around the Twin Cities, she would have returned. She’d never taken a salary while she was there. She couldn’t. There were so many problems, so much pain and heartache, political corruption, and poverty, and yet the people themselves were generous, dignified, and deeply brave. They were also under the sway of religious traditions that gave them license to live dangerously when it came to HIV and prevented them from getting the help they so desperately needed. One day she would go back. She was sure of very few things these days, but that was a given.

After filling the electric teakettle in the kitchen, switching it on, and making sure the mugs and biscotti were set out on a tray, ready to take into the living room, she drifted over to the piano, pulled out the bench, and sat down. This was turning into one of her good days. Maybe it was the new medication, or maybe the headaches were calming down. Either way, her mood was positive, even buoyant.

The baby grand, stored for many years while she was out of the country, had once belonged to her father, a man she’d never known. Her mother and father had divorced when she was two. She’d inherited the piano after her mother’s death. Just before the funeral, Julia had met a woman who would change her life forever. Everything, invariably, led back to Jane.

Julia’s mother, a psychologist and therapist, maintained—in her endlessly self-analytical way—that she and Julia’s father had never been compatible because they wanted different things. He’d been a free spirit, a musician, who didn’t appreciate what it would take to settle down and raise a family. Her mother cautioned her, over and over, to be careful about relationships. She advised her only daughter to live her life deliberately, find out who she was. If she didn’t know what was truly important to her, it would be impossible to fit into the puzzle of another person’s life.

Julia listened. She always listened. However, unlike her mother, who had been deeply practical, not the least bit romantic, Julia believed in fate. It might not make psychological sense, or stand up to the rigors of reason, but she’d always known that when she found the right person, nothing on earth, with the exception of death, could separate them.

Julia had spent much of her young life searching for that special someone. By her late twenties, she’d come to the unhappy conclusion that, to have any relationship at all, she might need to settle for less. She’d been in exactly two relationships before meeting Jane, both with men, and neither successful. She’d been attracted to women ever since medical school but had never acted on it. When Jane came into her life, she couldn’t deny her feelings, although it did take some time for her to see that this was the hand of fate beckoning her into her future. Roses, though, had thorns. She never would have guessed that wanting a life with Jane would ultimately mean that she would be forced to turn her back on the work she loved so much. At times, she found that she both loved and hated Jane, almost in equal measure—but the love always won out.

Swinging her legs under the keyboard, Julia adjusted the piano seat and then opened a book of classical solos. Music was a cherished solace. She was glad now that her mother had insisted she take lessons. The acoustics in the loft were so good that she felt as if she were on stage at Carnegie Hall. Placing her hands lightly over the keys, she closed her eyes and floated to Pachelbel’s Canon in D. She might not be able to see fate’s entire plan for her life, but it would eventually guide her back to Jane.