Last Night (15 page)

— Take care of yourself.

— Yes.

He was in good health, as it happened, a little heavier than he might have been, but nevertheless . . . His roundish, scholarly stomach was covered with a layer of soft, dark hair, his hands and nails well cared for.

She leaned forward and embraced him. She kissed him. For a moment, she was not afraid. She would live again, be young again as she once had been. She held out her arm. On the inside, two veins the color of verdigris were visible. He began to press to make them rise. Her head was turned away.

— Do you remember, she said to him, when I was working at Bates and we met that first time? I knew right away.

The needle was wavering as he tried to position it.

— I was lucky, she said. I was very lucky.

He was barely breathing. He waited, but she did not say anything more. Hardly believing what he was doing he pushed the needle in—it was effortless—and slowly injected the contents. He heard her sigh. Her eyes were closed as she lay back. Her face was peaceful. She had embarked. My God, he thought, my God. He had known her when she was in her twenties, long-legged and innocent. Now he had slipped her, as in a burial at sea, beneath the flow of time. Her hand was still warm. He took it and held it to his lips. He pulled the bedspread up to cover her legs. The house was incredibly quiet. It had fallen into silence, the silence of a fatal act. He could not hear the wind.

He went slowly downstairs. A sense of relief came over him, enormous relief and sadness. Outside, the monumental blue clouds filled the night. He stood for a few minutes and then saw, sitting in her car, motionless, Susanna. She rolled down the window as he approached.

— You didn’t go, he said.

— I couldn’t stay in there.

— It’s over, he said. Come in. I’m going to get a drink.

She stood in the kitchen with him, her arms folded, a hand on each elbow.

— It wasn’t terrible, he said. It’s just that I feel . . . I don’t know.

They drank standing there.

— Did she really want me to come? Susanna said.

— Darling,
she
suggested it. She didn’t know a thing.

— I wonder.

— Believe mc. Nothing.

She put down her drink.

— No, drink it, he said. It’ll help.

— I feel funny.

— Funny? You’re not feeling sick?

— I don’t know.

— Don’t be sick. Here, come with mc. Wait, I’ll get you some water.

She was concentrating on breathing evenly.

— You’d better lie down for a bit, he said.

— No, I’m all right.

— Come.

He led her, in her short skirt and blouse, to a room to one side of the front door and made her sit on the bed. She was taking slow breaths.

— Susanna.

— Yes.

— I need you.

She more or less heard him. Her head was thrown back like that of a woman longing for God.

— I shouldn’t have drunk so much, she murmured.

He began to unbutton her blouse.

— No, she said, trying to rebutton it.

He was unfastening her brassiere. Her gorgeous breasts emerged. He could not take his eyes from them. He kissed them passionately. She felt herself moved to the side as he pulled down the cover of the white sheets. She tried to speak again, but he put his hand over her mouth and pushed her down. He devoured her, shuddering as if in fright at the end and holding her to him tightly. They fell into a profound sleep.

IN EARLIEST MORNING, light was clear and intensely bright. The house, standing in its path, became even whiter. It stood out from its neighbors, more pure and serene. The shadow of a tall elm beside it was traced on it as finely as if drawn by a pencil. The pale curtains hung unmoving. Nothing stirred within. In back was the wide lawn across which Susanna had been idly strolling as part of a garden tour on the day he had first seen her, shapely and tall. It was a vision he had not been able to erase, though the rest had started later, when she came to redo the garden with Marit.

They sat at the table drinking coffee. They were complicit, not long risen, and not regarding one another too closely. Walter was admiring her, however. Without makeup she was even more appealing. Her long hair was not combed. She seemed very approachable. There were calls that would have to be made, but he was not thinking of them. It was still too early. He was thinking past this day. Mornings to come. At first he hardly heard the sound behind him. It was a footstep and then, slowly, another—Susanna turned white—as Marit came unsteadily down the stairs. The makeup on her face was stale, and her dark lipstick showed fissures. He stared in disbelief.

— Something went wrong, she said.

— Are you all right? he asked foolishly.

— No, you must have done it wrong.

— Oh, God, Walter murmured.

She sat weakly on the bottom step. She did not seem to notice Susanna.

— I thought you were going to help me, she said, and began to cry.

— I can’t understand it, he said.

— It’s all wrong, Marit was repeating. Then, to Susanna, You’re still here?

— I was just leaving, Susanna said.

— I don’t understand, Walter said again.

— I have to do it all over, Marit sobbed.

— I’m sorry, he said. I’m so sorry.

He could think of nothing more to say. Susanna had gone to get her clothes. She left by the front door.

That was how she and Walter came to part, upon being discovered by his wife. They met two or three times afterward, at his insistence, but to no avail. Whatever holds people together was gone. She told him she could not help it. That was just the way it was.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With gratitude especially to Rust Hills, long the literary editor at
Esquire,
for his help and cherished friendship, and also to Terry McDonell. I am deeply indebted as well to Frank Conroy for the generosity and affection that provided me the chance to read some of these stories at the Writers’ Workshop in Iowa.

FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, MARCH 2006

Copyright
©
2005 by James Salter

Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage International and colophon are trademarks of
Random House, Inc.

Some of the stories in this collection previously appeared in the following: “My Lord You”
and “Comet” in
Esquire
, “Arlington” in
Hartford Courant Literary Supplement
, “Last Night” in
The New Yorker
, “Bangkok” in
The Paris Review
, “Give” and “Such Fun” in
Tin House
, and
“Eyes of the Stars” in
Zoetrope
. Six of the stories in this collection previously appeared in
Bangkok
by Editions des Deux Terres, Paris, in 2003.

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

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Salter, James.
Last night / James Salter.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Contents: Comet—Eyes of the stars—My Lord you—Such fun—Give—Platinum—Palm Court—
Bangkok—Arlington—Last night.
I. Title.
PS3569.A4622L37 2005
813’.54—dc22 2004057793

eISBN : 978-0-307-42656-7

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