Bodies and Souls (42 page)

“
He’ll
probably be here any minute, too. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s not interested in meeting the Talbotts. They seem young to us, but they probably seem old to him.”

“But I’ve set a place for him in the dining room. He knows I was expecting him for dinner. He’s never inconsiderate. I’m not saying that he should ask us for permission to go places, but I do expect him to be courteous enough to let us know if he’ll be here for dinner or not.”

“Well, I promise to speak to him about it when he comes home. But don’t get so upset.”

“I can’t help it. I—oh, I just feel so nervous. He’s been acting strange for weeks now. Not showing up for meals, disappearing at odd hours, staying out all night—”

“Come on, Judy. He’s a grown man. He has to have his private life. Look, he’s getting married soon. He probably just wants to have a little time to—to sit around and drink beer with friends. Be irresponsible. Take long walks and think about life. That sort of thing.”

“What if he’s still with that Howard creature? That’s the last time we saw him today, going out the church door with her. I suppose he meant to drive her home, but then how was
he
to get home? And why should he be so nice to her anyway?”

“Johnny’s nice to everybody. Why don’t you call the Howards’ house and see if he’s there.”

“I called. No one answers.”

“Maybe they went down to the hospital.”

“No. I called there, too. No one has seen him—or her.”

“Well,” Ron said. “I don’t know, then. I’ve run out of guesses.”

“I think we should call the police.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Judy!” Ron said, and in his exasperation he began to fold up into neat rectangles the various sections of the
Times
he had been reading and scattering around. “He’s only been gone from your sight for
four hours
. The police wouldn’t even take you seriously. Judy, honey, this isn’t like you.”

She rose and went to stand close to the fire, warming her hands, her back toward Ron. “I know it isn’t. I’m sorry. I just feel so—Maybe they were in a car accident.”

“Maybe they went out to a restaurant and are having a long lunch.”

“Oh,
Ron
.” Judy turned from the fire and glared at her husband. “Why on earth would John go to a restaurant and have a long lunch with Liza Howard? He doesn’t even
know
her. To say nothing of what it would
look
like.”

“Well, it’s just as likely that they’re having lunch somewhere as it is that they’re in a car accident somewhere.”

“I’m not sure which would be worse.”

Ron laughed, stood up, and took his wife in his arms. “Judy,” he said, “what a terrible thing to say.”

“I know. I don’t mean it. Of course I don’t want him to be in a car accident. But I don’t want him … getting involved … with that Howard woman, either. You know what she’s like.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what Liza Howard’s like,” Ron said. “But let me remind you for the fiftieth time: John is a grown man. He can take care of himself. He’s not about to ‘fall into her clutches’ or whatever dreadful thing it is you’re imagining.”

Judy pulled away, unconvinced. “I
hate
this!” she said. “I’m going to call the police. Just to find out if there have been any accidents.”

“All right,” Ron said. “Fine. I’ll go take a place off the table. The Talbotts will be here any moment.”

But the Talbotts were there right then, lifting and dropping the brass lion’s-head knocker. Judy stared at the phone, looked at Ron, then smiled and sighed.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “He’ll probably turn up just as we’ve sat down to eat and
are putting the first bites into our mouths.” She walked out of the kitchen and through the long hall to the front door, rearranging the expression on her face as she walked so that by the time she opened the door she looked serene again.

“Hello!” she said to her guests. “How lovely to see you! Come in!”

What’s that word, Wilbur thought. That word that means that man can adapt to almost any condition.
Atrophy?
No, no, that’s not the word at all. What’s the matter with my mind? I’m getting so old and
muddled
. What
is
that word? There was that show on television the other night, about the pioneers who settled the midwestern United States. What a lot they had to contend with: savages, wolves, droughts, floods, insect plagues, crop failure, tornadoes, and always the constant repetitive hard work. Norma had said that she could have stood all that, but she couldn’t have taken the isolation. She said it’s a good thing she hadn’t been a pioneer woman, because the loneliness would have killed her. No television, radio, telephone, not even any neighbors close by—she would have died of it. But I don’t know, Wilbur thought, it occurs to me now that if she had
had
to, she would have survived. I have to believe that, I have to believe that she would have survived that isolation—that man can survive almost anything. But how do people survive the worst? How am
I
going to survive this?

I hate lying here, helpless. I’m scared to death. No. Not
that
scared. But I
am
scared, and I don’t think I can stand it. I don’t want to be here. It seems I’ve been here years already. The room’s dark and I’m weak, helpless. Goddamn, I never was much good at this sort of thing. I used to have to have a stiff drink before going to the dentist. The pain never bothered me; it was that feeling of being trapped in the chair. Well, I’m sure trapped now.

Where are the doctors, where are the nurses? Where is Norma?

Oh, God, where’s my sense of humor? I always said to myself that when my time came, I wouldn’t lie around on my deathbed sniveling and crying, losing dignity, letting self-pity drip down my old face. Where did I hear that story about the man who died—he was a priest or a cardinal or a statesman, something. A great man. He was lying on his bed, his family all gathered around him, waiting for him to die so they could mourn him and get on with life. He’d been dying for hours. The young ones must have been bored; I don’t blame them. Deathwatches can’t be fun. One of them whispered, “Is he dead yet?” Another said, “I don’t know. I can’t tell.” “Well,” another said, “feel his feet. If they’re
cold, he’s dead. Everybody’s feet are cold when they die.” “Except for Joan of Arc’s,” the old man said, and then he died. Imagine that. Imagine having the self-possession to make a joke like that when you’re dying. Well, I think I could pull it off right now. I think I could be pretty funny—if only I had an audience. If someone were here right now. It’s hard to be funny all by yourself. I wonder if God has a sense of humor. I wonder if there will be laughter in heaven. I don’t see how, because I don’t see how there can be laughter without imperfection. Banana peels. If we’re all perfect in heaven, what will we have to laugh at? Maybe we’ll get to watch what happens on earth; that would be nice. I’d like that. Still, if I had my way, I’d rather
be
here on earth some more, rather than just watch. Even if I have to be confined to a bed or an old people’s home, I’d like to stay alive awhile longer. I can’t imagine how anyone who’s healthy can commit suicide. I can’t imagine anyone I know committing suicide. Life’s too tempting. I’m not afraid of dying, but I don’t want to give up my life on this earth just yet. Not without a fight. I
will
fight. I’m not that old. There’s so much left I want to see and say and do—”

“Wilbur.”

A skinny, gray-haired figure in a nurse’s uniform slid into Wilbur’s view.

“I’m glad to see you,” Wilbur said.

“I’ve been here all the time,” she said.

“I hate having my hands tied. It scares me.”

“Ah,” the nurse said. “I wondered why you were getting so agitated. You do realize you’re in a hospital, don’t you? You’ve had a heart attack.”

“Yes. Of course I realize that. But I don’t see why I have to have my hands tied.”

“Well, I’ll make a bargain with you. You promise not to pull out the equipment—don’t even touch it—and I’ll untie your hands.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The nurse released Wilbur’s hands, then began to pump up the blood pressure cuff on his upper arm. “A hundred twenty over eighty,” she told him.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“That’s good. Let’s take your temperature.”

Wilbur marveled, as he had when he was in the hospital for his bladder operation, at hospital technology. The thermometer was a prong stuck in his mouth and attached by a cord to a little white metal box which he knew from experience printed out his temperature digitally. I might as well be in a spaceship, he thought.

“Ninety-eight flat,” the nurse said. “That’s fine. How do you feel?”

“Tired,” he admitted. “What’s your name?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I had told you. I’m Selma.”

“Selma. A good old-fashioned name. Well, Selma, I’m tired, but I—I keep getting scared.”

“Wilbur, you’re doing fine. You’ll probably be sitting up in the morning eating scrambled eggs and complaining about them. You just need to rest.”

“I know. But it scares me to drift off … to let go …”

“I’m here with you all the time.”

“You are? All the time?”

“That’s what intensive care is all about.” Selma laughed. “Why do you think it’s so expensive? Now you go back to sleep and the next time you wake up we’ll get your wife in here to see you again.”

Wilbur dutifully shut his eyes. Selma’s words floated through him like the fluids from the IV:
I’m here with you all the time
. That was better, then, that was all right. That was really all that was necessary, one friendly human being to stand watch. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Let Selma watch me through the night and keep me safe till morning light.

“Thank God that’s over,” Judy Bennett said as she watched the Talbotts’ car lights disappear down the drive and out of sight. She waved again, although no one could see, then shut the front door and leaned against it, sagged against it. “I thought they’d never leave.”

“It’s only seven-thirty,” Ron said. “They weren’t here very long. And I thought they were nice. You’re just upset because Johnny hasn’t come home. Come on, I’ll help you clear the table, then we can sit down by the fire.” He put his arm around Judy’s shoulders as they walked toward the dining room.

Judy began to stack plates. “You’ve forgotten. Reynolds Houston’s coming at eight.”

“He is? Oh, God, that’s right. I’d forgotten. What did he say he wanted?”

“I don’t know. He just called and asked if he could stop by.”

“He probably wants to talk about the rec center. He’s one of the Big Five on the board.”

“Why can’t he talk to you about it during the week, during working hours? Why does he have to spoil a Sunday evening?”

“He probably doesn’t think of it as spoiling a Sunday evening,” Ron said. “Maybe he gets lonely on Sundays. He lives alone.”

“That’s his choice,” Judy said. “He shouldn’t inflict himself on others just because—”

“Hey,” Ron said, and took Judy into his arms in an awkward hug; she held a pile of plates in one hand and a gravy boat in the other. “You really are out of sorts. Come on, now. Reynolds is a bit of a bore, but he’s not that bad. Besides, you won’t need to talk to him at all. Why don’t you just go on up and get into bed and watch TV or something?”

“I’m too nervous, too worried about Johnny.”

“I know. I know. But, honey, I’m sure he’s all right. You’ve got to let him go.”

“You don’t think we should call the police? It’s been seven hours now.”

“I don’t think you should call the police.”

Judy pulled away from him, her mouth set in a little moue of disagreement. “Well,” she said, “let’s get the dishes done.”

She felt so tired. The pills, and then the alcohol at dinner, the energy she had expended being charming, had drained her. Yet she was so anxious about Johnny. And anxious about Reynolds Houston. It was the worst combination of feelings. When she got like this, the best thing to do was go to sleep, for she couldn’t be sure now just what effect another drink or pill would have. But she couldn’t sleep, not yet. She carried the dishes into the kitchen and scraped them under hot running water, then stacked them in the dishwasher.

Ron came in with more dishes, then crossed to the other end of the room to stoke up the fire. “Good dinner,” he said.

“Mmm,” Judy answered. She was thinking that she would have to take
something
if she was going to get through the rest of the evening. Or she could slip off to bed as soon as the dishes were done; Ron wouldn’t mind being left alone with Reynolds, and Reynolds hadn’t said he wanted to see her. That was what she would do, then—go to bed. If it weren’t for the mess in the kitchen, she’d go upstairs now, but she couldn’t leave the kitchen like this. It was the main disadvantage of the house, this huge kitchen–family room. Whatever mess was in the kitchen could be seen from the fireplace area, and for Judy, if even a bowl was out of place, the beauty of the room was thrown off.

Ron continued to stack the dishes. Judy rinsed, scrubbed pots and countertops with practiced, efficient movements. Then she sponged down the top of the stove, the oven door, the refrigerator door, and each of the cupboards. She did not ordinarily do this after every meal, but she had been playing a little game with herself all evening, betting that Johnny would walk in the door before dinner was over—and as long as there was some cleaning to do, dinner was not officially over. Besides, if she stopped moving, she’d fall over. She was stuporous, exhausted, and each movement derived from the force of great willpower. But she kept moving.

She set out Armagnac and two brandy snifters on a brass tray on the long pine table and placed a raspberry pie, two plates, two forks, two cloth napkins next to it.

“The whipped cream is in the refrigerator,” Judy said, at last. “If you want to offer Reynolds some dessert. I think I’ll go on up. I don’t feel very well.”

“Fine, sweetie,” Ron said. He looked at her carefully. She has had too much to drink again, he thought—he knew the signs. She never got silly when she’d been drinking, nor loud nor boisterous, but rather very sleepy and melancholy. He leaned against the refrigerator, and pulled Judy against him, and kissed the top of her head. He ran his hands up under her yellow sweater, stroking her back in soothing circles. He could feel the tension in her, and he felt a deep pity dive within him and a deeper love. She was a sweet woman, and she had spent so many years of her life protecting her family that she could not break the habit. He could not say to her what he suspected: that Liza Howard, who, he assumed, was as close to being a nymphomaniac as anyone in Londonton could ever be, had managed to lure Johnny into bed today. He couldn’t blame Johnny for going—he’d gone himself. Any man would want to go to bed with that woman, at least once—especially a man about to end his single life in a proper marriage at the age of twenty-three. No, he even half hoped Johnny was with Liza now, enjoying the thrill of illicit love. Illicit sex, rather, which was something completely different and just as enjoyable in its way. Johnny would look back on it in years to come, when his life revolved around making enough money to keep his family happy, and he’d be glad for the experience. But Ron could not express all this to Judy; she would not approve. Ron could imagine just how she would disapprove, how she’d worry—about what Sarah Stafford would do if she found out, about venereal disease, about morality. We are a good pair, Ron thought, stroking his wife’s back: she is the heart of the house, the warming furnace, the illuminating light, and I am the protecting frame, the wooden supports, the
barricade against the outer world.