Next to Love (28 page)

“Good night, Mrs. Banks,” he says, and turns over with his back to her.

She turns and lies staring into the darkness. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps he thinks she is. She knows little about him, but she does know he is considerate. The ceremony. The long drive. And they have to get up early the next morning to catch the boat to Bermuda. He is waiting until they’re on the ship. It will be more romantic. Charlie would not have waited. But she has to stop thinking about Charlie. Everyone has told her so—Babe, Millie, Dr. Gold, everyone except King. You’ll always be Charlie’s wife to me, he said when she told him she was getting married. She had wondered if she was supposed to postpone the ceremony because of his heart attack. She considered it, but even her mother-in-law told her not to. The doctor said it was mild. Later she would come to think of it as an omen.

The next night, she is glad he waited. Moonlight puddles on the sea outside their porthole. The sound of the hull whooshing through the waves lulls her. The night is clement. She has no fear of seasickness.

She takes her nightgown into the bathroom. While she unpacked, she kept stubbing her toe on the raised ledge of the watertight door, but now she remembers to step over it. After she takes off her clothes, she slips on the nightgown, brushes her teeth, and gives her hair several strokes. She comes out of the small bathroom less nervous than the night before. They have begun their life together. She feels herself settling into the rhythm, his rhythm.

He has turned out the lamps, but she can make him out in the light from the waxy moon that hangs outside the porthole. He is lying on his back with his hands crossed over his chest. She lifts the covers and slips into bed. The mattress shifts as he turns on his side and leans toward her. He kisses her.

“Good night, Mrs. Banks,” he says, and turns on his other side with his back to her.

She is up before him in the morning, but then, she did not sleep much during the night. How can she sleep with a stranger beside her in bed? She is quiet going into the bathroom. She positions herself on the toilet so the stream will hit the side of the bowl rather than the water. She does not want to make noise. She brushes her teeth. He will not want to kiss her if she has morning mouth, though Charlie never minded. She combs her hair. She considers putting on lipstick, but she does not want to get it all over the sheets or him. She has figured it out. Her new husband is not a nocturnal man. Before Amy was born, Charlie used to love Sunday mornings, and Saturday afternoons as well. But she will not think of Charlie.

She gets back in bed. He is still asleep. She thinks of reading. She has brought several books, though Millie teased her about it. On your honeymoon? she said, and arched her eyebrows devilishly. She does not take a book from the night table. It seems somehow unromantic.

He sleeps until nine-thirty. “Holy cow,” he says when he opens his eyes and sees the clock. “We’ll miss breakfast. We’d better step on it.”

Charlie would have gone hungry. She does not even fight the thought of him.

That night, she gets up her nerve. The whiskey sour he orders for her before dinner helps.

They are sitting across the table from each other in the dining saloon. He has just finished ordering. She likes the way he does that. My wife will have it medium. I’ll have it rare. He hands his menu to the waiter and smiles through the candlelight at her, and she takes the last swallow of her whiskey sour and does it. She asks him if there is anything wrong with her.

“I’m sure I’ll find something. That you burn the toast or forget to tell the laundry not to put starch in my shirts. I already know you don’t leave the cap off the toothpaste. So far I have no complaints, Mrs. Banks.”

“Then why don’t …” Her voice trails off.

He smiles. “Oh, Gracie.”

She swore she would never let anyone call her Gracie again, but suddenly she does not mind. The name is a balm.

“You know I do,” he goes on, “but I feel like such a kid saying it.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Okay, here goes. I love you.” He shakes his head in wonderment. “As far as I’m concerned, you and Amy are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

That night the same thing happens. “Good night, Mrs. Banks,” he says, and turns his back to her.

The next evening, when he starts to order her a whiskey sour, she says she wants a martini. She has never had one.

“My wife will have a martini too,” he tells the waiter. “Dry.”

She is halfway through it before she gets the courage to bring up the subject again.

“You know what I asked you last night, about something being wrong with me?”

He grins. He has a nice smile, wide as the open air. He is a kind man. He is a good man. He spends his life healing people. Not like Mac. She does not blame Mac, but she admires Morris.

“Still haven’t found anything. Though I have to admit I’m not looking too hard.”

“Then why …” She takes another swallow of her drink. “At night, when we go to bed …” Her voice trails off again.

He is still smiling, but he is not helping her.

“Is there something wrong with me that you don’t want to …”

The smile has slid from his face, but he still doesn’t say anything.

She takes a big swallow of the drink. “Make love.” The second word escapes as a lament. The candle on the table between them flickers in its force.

He leans back in his chair, an indulgent look on his face, the patient expression of an adult for a bewildered child. And he loves children.

“Gracie. I’m forty-one. You’re thirty-two. I thought we agreed we were beyond that kind of kid stuff.”

Agreed? She never agreed.

It’s the martini, she tells him. She has never had one before. It has gone to her head. She’ll be fine. She just has to lie down. No. You stay here. The words come faster. Fine. I’m fine.

She starts to stand. A steward is pulling back her chair. She stumbles through the maze of tables. The room is spinning. It is the drink. It must be the drink. The steward holds the door for her. Her heel catches on the low ledge. He puts a hand on her elbow. His touch humiliates. She twists away.

She is running down the passageway, holding on to the railing, ricocheting off the walls. The door of the cabin is locked. Morris has the key. He has locked her out. He has locked her up. Their stewardess is coming down the hall. Sick, Grace hisses. The stewardess unlocks the door. She starts to ask if there’s anything—but Grace stumbles into the room and slams the door behind her. She hurls herself onto the blue satin spread. She does not care if she is sick all over it.

She is not sick, not that way. She is shamed. Humiliated. Furious. At Dr. Gold for telling her what she needs is a husband to keep her from floating off into the stratosphere. At Morris for making her beg. At King for warning her about men. At herself for being so gullible. Any man who truly cares for you will not try to take liberties, King said. She took the absence of an arm around her shoulders for respect, the ascetic kiss at the end of the evening for self-control, the want of sweet touch for patience. Morris is not wrong. She did agree. And the terrible joke, the joke on her, is that if he had been demonstrative and ardent and insistent, she would have run for her life.

She wraps her arms around herself. She wants to be held. She wants Charlie to hold her.

SEPTEMBER 1952

I was a nice girl once, Grace will tell herself when she cringes at the memory of her ridicule of Morris at the barbecue. She almost said it to Babe. I was a nice girl once, wasn’t I? But if you have to ask someone else, you know the answer.

All day, as the sun sears its way up the sky, and the coals grow hot in the grill, and the children chase one another around the yard, they keep coming back to it. Can’t we change the subject? Millie pleads. What do you think of those Red Sox? Al says. But they cannot get away from it. Babe says good for Frankie and the other two boys. She sounds as if she is the one who caused the fuss. Al says it’s disgraceful.

“That the boys went swimming?” Babe’s voice is spoiling for a fight.

“That other people got out of the pond,” Al answers.

Grace looks at Millie, who stares back at her unhappily. They are against bigotry. They are for justice. But they are mothers.

Then Babe makes it worse. She and Grace are putting the paper plates, plastic utensils, mustard, ketchup, and relish on the picnic table when Morris comes over carrying a gin and tonic in each hand.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” he says, holding the water-beaded glasses out to them.

Babe takes hers. “And while you’re passing out medical advice, I wish you’d explain to your wife that Negroes do not spread polio.”

Grace is furious. If Babe is going to make fun of anyone, it ought to be Morris.

“That’s right,” she says as she takes the other drink from him. “Explain it to me, Morris.” She turns to Babe. “Morris is an expert on the human body. At least in theory.”

That night she lies in bed listening to the even breathing of her husband. Husband. She used to roll the word around in her mouth to savor the taste. Now it turns sour on her tongue. The breathing comes from a little distance. They have bought twin beds. Like a married couple in a movie. She lives with her own Motion Picture Production Code.

When did she become a cynic? She used to be a nice girl, she keeps reminding herself. Now she’s a wife, though she doesn’t feel like one to Morris, making tasteless marital jokes in front of other people. Spiteful. Malicious. A bitch. Her daughter thinks so too.

“Why can’t I call him Dad?” Amy asks. “I thought you wanted me to.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” Amy taunts.

Watch yourself, or I’ll tell you. She is dying to unburden herself.

“You can call him Uncle Morris,” she says.

“I have plenty of uncles. Uncle Claude. Uncle Al. Uncle Mac. I don’t need any more.”

“Fine. Have it your way. Call him Dad.”

She does, though Grace can tell she doesn’t mean it. Amy senses something is not right in the house. She intuits something is off about this man she counted on to turn them into a normal family. But she calls him Dad anyway. She knows it riles her mother.

NOVEMBER 1952

Two or three times a week he brings her flowers. He comes walking in the door, his black doctor’s bag in one hand, a bouquet of roses or peonies or whatever is at the local florist in the other, and holds them out to her.

The first time he did it, she was suspicious. It wasn’t her birthday or an anniversary or any special occasion. “What are these for?”

“Do I need an excuse to bring my wife flowers?” he asked, and leaned over to kiss her cheek on the way to the front hall closet.

But she knew what they were for. He was making a guilt offering.

At first, after she got over the shock of their honeymoon, she began to wonder if he was … well, one of those men she has heard about, though never met. But he can’t be. He doesn’t look effeminate, or speak in a high voice, or walk funny. Besides, if he was that way, why would he have pursued her, and he did pursue.

As the weeks and months pass, and she throws out one bouquet after another, and washes the bowls and vases, and fills them with the fresh flowers he brings, she realizes the bouquets are not guilt offerings. He does not think he has anything to feel guilty about. He thinks they are happy. He thinks they are normal. It makes her crazy. But he is oblivious. He is like a cartoon character who walks through life leaving fallen trees and collapsed buildings and maimed bodies in his wake, emerging not only unscathed but unaware of all the mayhem and disaster behind him. That is the way she thinks of him sometimes, her cartoon husband.

Tonight he has brought her red velvet tulips. They glow in the bright light of the kitchen as he comes up behind her at the counter, where she is making a salad. Charlie would have put his arms around her, cupped her breasts, and pressed himself against her. Morris reaches around and holds the flowers in front of her.

“They’re lovely.” Her voice is flat. Can’t he hear how flat her voice is?

“Think of them as a peace offering.”

This is a new twist. “For what?”

“I should have phoned to ask if it was all right, but it would have been awkward to call him back after we hung up. And I knew you wouldn’t mind. I spoke to Mac Swallow today. Some medical business. He said he was coming home this weekend, and I asked him to dinner Friday night.”

MAC STANDS WATCHING
Grace move around the kitchen. The last time he stood this way, tracking her with his eyes, remembering old times, was after Charlie’s reburial. Now he is here because another friend, another husband, has asked him to dinner.

She is putting on weight again. It does not bother him, but he notices. This time, he reminds himself, the gain is the result of contentment, not grief.

“He called half an hour ago,” she says, “and swore he wouldn’t be too late, but the Willis boy has pains in his lower-right abdomen, and Mrs. Willis is sure it’s appendicitis, so naturally Morris agreed to stop in on his way home.”

“Your husband is the last doctor standing who makes house calls.”

“He loves taking care of people,” she says, and he wonders if that is a dig at him.

He asks if he can do anything to help, and she tells him he can pour himself a drink, which he does. Then he stands leaning against the counter, watching her lift the lids off pots, peer into the oven, take things from the refrigerator, and put other things back. She pushes a recalcitrant piece of butter from knife to pan with her index finger, then raises the finger to her mouth and licks it. She might as well have driven the knife into his heart.

“You sure I can’t do anything to help?” he says again.

“Do you know how to set a table?”

“I do it every night. Just because I live alone doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian. Like the Englishman in the jungle, I dress for dinner, or at least use a knife and fork.”

She takes out the place mats and silverware and hands them to him, and he carries them into the dining room. By the time she follows with the plates and glasses, he has set four places. She stands looking at the table.