Sea Lovers (6 page)

“No,” he said. “But there's a wall here.”

She stood near him and they looked back at the house. It was so brightly lit that it seemed to be ablaze, and the noise of voices and music poured out the windows and doors like a liquid. Anne detected a melody she knew. “Oh, I like that record,” she said.

“Who is that?” Aaron listened, then smiled. “Oh, that's Gato Barbieri. Do you like him?”

“I like that record,” she said dreamily, for the music, even at this distance, was languorous and exotic. “It's pretty romantic though.”

She met his eyes but he looked away. He had his hand on a branch of a crape myrtle tree, and his arm was so raised that Anne stood in the shadow of it. “I'm going to have to leave soon,” he said, shaking the ice in his glass. “As soon as I finish this drink.”

“I'm a little tired too,” Anne lied.

Then he didn't move, nor did he speak. She stood looking down into her drink. She could feel his eyes on her hair and on her shoulders and she thought that he would touch her, but he didn't. She looked back toward the house, taking in the whole patio of people, none of whom, she saw, was looking in their direction. Say something, she told herself, but she couldn't think of anything. Aaron lifted his drink and sipped it; she heard the clinking sound of the ice, but she didn't look at him. The music was growing more emotional; it exacerbated her desire. She put her drink down at her feet and turned so that she faced the young man, so that she was very close to him, but she didn't meet his eyes because, she thought later, she didn't think it was necessary. Instead she placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and raised up on her toes, for he was several inches taller than she. She had barely touched his lips with her own when he pulled away. “No,” he said. “No, thank you.”

She dropped back on her heels.

“I'm really flattered,” he said. “I really am.”

She shook her head, hoping that this moment would pass quickly, that she could shake it away, but time seemed to seep out slowly in all directions like blood from a wound.

“Now I've hurt your feelings,” he said.

She looked at the wall past his shoulder, at the bricks between her own feet. She could not look at him, but she moved out of his path. “Please go,” she said, and he agreed. Yes, he would go. He apologized again; he had no wish to hurt her feelings; he was really so flattered…She cast him a quick look, enough to be sure that he was as uncomfortable as she. “It's all right,” she said. “I'm all right. But please leave now.”

“Yes,” he replied. “I'll go.” And he walked away. She didn't watch him cross the patio. She waited for what seemed a long time, without looking at anything or thinking of anything, as if she were stone. Then she was aware of being cold. The temperature had plummeted in a few minutes, and the other people on the patio were moving indoors, looking about, as they went in, at the trees and the empty air, as if they could see the difference they felt. Anne followed them, but no one spoke to her. Inside, her friend caught her by the arm and pulled her into the kitchen. “What happened?” she asked. “Aaron just left in a hurry. Are you meeting him somewhere?”

Anne smiled; she could feel the bitter tension of her own smile. “I made a pass at him and he turned me down.”

“He did what?” Her friend was outraged.

“He said, ‘No, thank you.' ”

“That little prick!”

“I've never made a mistake like this.” Anne paused, then added, “I was so sure of myself.”

“God, what a jerk. Don't think about it.”

Anne was suddenly very tired. “No,” she said, “I won't.”

“Stay a while,” her friend urged. “Stay till everyone is gone. Then we can talk.”

“I want to go home,” Anne replied. “I want to drink some hot milk and wear my flannel pajamas and socks to bed.”

“It's so cold,” her friend agreed.

By the time she got to her car the temperature had dropped another five degrees. The wind whipped the treetops and riffled the foliage. Overhead the sky took on sheen, as if it had received a coat of wax. Anne was oblivious of everything save her own humiliation, which she did not ponder. Rather, she held it close to her and wrapped her senses around it. It was a trick she knew for postponing tears, a kind of physical brooding that kept the consciousness of pain at bay. She steered the car mindlessly around corners, waited at lights, turned up the long entrance to the expressway. There was hardly any traffic; she could drive as rapidly as she liked; but she only accelerated to forty-five. She looked down upon the quiet, sleepy city as she passed over it, and it seemed to her mysterious, like a sleeping animal breathing quietly beneath her. This must be what death is like, she thought. Coming into some place alien yet familiar.

That was stupid; that was the way people hoped it would be. But what would it be like? She asked herself this question as personally as she could, speaking to herself, who, after all, would miss her more than anyone. What, she asked, will your death be like?

Death was perhaps far away, but at that moment, because of her solitude, it seemed that he drew incautiously near, and she imagined his arms closing about her like a lover's. She shrugged. He was so promiscuous. Who could be flattered when sooner or later he would open his arms to all? Yet, she thought, it must be quite thrilling, really, to know oneself at last held in his cold, hollow eyes. Who else can love as death loves; who craves as death craves?

At home she found Hannah awake, surprised at being relieved so early.

“It's getting ugly out there,” Anne told her. “You'd better go while you still can.” She stood on the porch and watched the girl safely to her car. Now, she thought. Now, let's see how I am.

She closed the porch door and sat down on the couch, flicking off the lamp and plunging the room into welcome darkness. Tears rose to her eyes, but didn't overflow. Only her vision was blurred and a pleasant numbness welled up, so that she didn't care even to rub the tears away.

Surely this was not important, she thought. It was not an important event. Not worth considering. He was too young; that was all. She had misread him. It wasn't serious. He was flattered, he had said, and that word pricked her. If only he had not said that.

She covered her face with her hands and moaned. Never had she felt such shame; never had she been so thoroughly humiliated. The clear, distinct, precise memory of the failed kiss developed like a strip of film in her memory—his stiffening and drawing away, her own inability to comprehend it so that she had left her hands on his shoulders for many moments when it should have been clear to her that she should release him. He had so immediately withdrawn his lips from her own that she had found her mouth pressed briefly against the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then thin air. She had staggered away, she knew now, though she had not known it then, staggered to the tree, which had the courtesy to remain solid and hold her up. There she had remained, devoid of feeling, while he beat his retreat, but now the bitterness came flooding in, and it was so pure and thick that she could scarcely swallow.

Ah, she hated him. He had known all along; he had teased her and smiled at her, confided his sophomoric fears and absurd ambitions to her, laughed at her weak jokes, observed her growing affection for him, encouraged her at every turn, all so that he might say, “No, thank you,” and leave her standing alone, blinded by the shame of having wanted him.

“Well, I wouldn't have him now,” she said aloud, “if he paid me.” She laughed; it wasn't true. I suppose, she thought, I should be grateful. This sort of thing was bound to happen. Now it's over and I won't ever make the same mistake again.

But she sat for a while, brooding, resigning herself to having played a major part in a dreary business. She was so tired that even the mild activity of preparing for bed seemed more bother than it was worth. But it would shock her daughter to find her asleep on the couch in her dress, and she would be ashamed of herself, more ashamed than she was already. At last she roused herself.

The wind lashed the house with the same bitter fury she had quelled in her heart, and it suited her, as she walked through the dark rooms, to hear it rattling the doors and windows, blasting bits of branches and leaves against the glass so that they seemed held there by a magical power. She could see through the bamboo shades in her bedroom, and after changing into pajamas she sat for a few moments watching the big plantain tree straining against the force of the wind, its wide leaves plastered helplessly open along the spines like broken hands. The room was getting colder by the minute. She pulled on her warmest socks and, thrusting her legs under the covers, lay down wearily, feeling as her cheek touched the pillow a welcome sensation of relief and release. She threw her arms about her pillow and wept into it, amused through her tears at the comfort it gave her. Then she wept her way into sleep.

The sound woke her gradually. She was aware of it, in a state between sleep and consciousness, before she opened her eyes. It was a repeated sound. Her first thought was that it was coming from the wall.

Clink. Clink, clink.

She reached out and touched the wall, then turned and pressed her ear against it.

Clink. Clink, clink.

It wasn't in the wall.

She looked out into the darkness of her room. She could hear many sounds. It was raining, and she could hear the water rushing along the house gutters, pouring out over the porch where the gutters were weak. The wind was still fierce, and it whistled around the house, tearing at the awning (that was the dull flapping sound) and straining the ropes that held it in place. But above all these sounds there was the other sound, the one she couldn't place.

Clink. Clink, clink.

A metallic sound, metal against wood or concrete.

Yes, she thought, it's on the patio. The sound was irregular, but so continuous that it disturbed her. She got up and looked out the window, but all she could see was the plantain tree and the child's swimming pool, which was overflowing with icy water. The weatherman had predicted a freeze, and she did not doubt him now. In the morning the plantains would be tattered and in a day or two the long leaves would be thoroughly brown.

Clink. Clink, clink.

Perhaps a dog had gotten into the yard. Maybe it was the gate. She went into Nell's room and looked out the window. The gate was bolted; she could see it from that window. The rest of the yard looked cold and empty. There was a small corner, the edge of the concrete slab that she couldn't see from any window.

Clink. Clink, clink.

She diverted herself by contemplating her sleeping daughter. Nell lay on her back with her arms spread wide. Her long hair was sleep-tousled and her mouth was slightly open. She breathed shallowly. Anne arranged the blanket over her, kissed her cool forehead. My darling, she thought, touched by the sweetness of her daughter's innocent sleep. My beautiful girl.

Clink. Clink, clink, clink.

She might go out and see what it was. But it was so cold, so wet; the wind blew against the back door, and as soon as she opened it she would be soaked.

The sound stopped.

It was nothing. Some trash caught in a bush, blown free now.

She looked at the clock as she went back to bed. It was 3:00 a.m. She curled down under the blankets and pulled her pillow down next to her. It was a bad habit, she thought, clutching this pillow like the mate she didn't have. She thought of Aaron.

Clink. Clink, clink.

It was nothing, she thought. Some trash caught in a bush. She would throw it away in the morning. Now it was important not to think, not about the sound and not about the party, or her foolish infatuation, or the engaging smile of a young man who cared nothing for her. These things didn't bear thinking upon. It didn't matter, she told herself, and she knew why it didn't matter, but somehow, as she lay in the darkness, her consciousness drifting into the less palpable darkness of sleep, she couldn't remember why it didn't matter. Exactly why.

Clink. Clink, clink.

She woke up several times that night. Each time she heard the sound, but she would not listen to it. Later she would recall that though it was a small, innocuous sound, there had been in it something so disturbing she had shuddered each time she woke and realized that, whatever it was, it was still going on.

Eventually she woke and it was morning. Her daughter stood next to the bed, looking down at her anxiously.

“It's too early,” Anne complained.

“It's cold in my room. Can I get in bed with you?”

Anne pushed back against the wall and motioned the child in under the blankets.

Clink. Clink, clink.

Nell put her arms about her mother's neck. “It's warm in here,” she said, curling down gratefully.

“Go to sleep,” Anne replied. They fell asleep.

An hour later, when Anne woke and understood that she was awake for the day, she found herself straining to hear the sound. It had stopped. She didn't think of it again, not while she made pancakes for Nell, nor when she browsed leisurely through the morning paper, nor when she stood amid a week's worth of laundry, sorting the colors and textures for the machine. She collected a pile of clothes in her arms and balanced the soap box on top. Opening the back door to get to the laundry room was always a problem. She worked one hand free beneath the clothes and turned the knob. The door was opened but it had cost her two socks and an undershirt, which lay in the doorway at her feet. Bending down to get them would only mean losing more. Leaving the door open would let the heat out. She bent her knees, reaching down without bending over, like an airline attendant in bad weather. She retrieved the strayed garments, but the soap powder took the opportunity to fall open, and a thin stream of white fell where the socks had been. “Shit,” she said, stepping out onto the patio. In that moment she saw the dead cat.