The Carlton Club (8 page)

Kathleen smiled as she hung the last picture. It was perfect. The picture, the matting, the frame.

She hoped he liked it.

She hoped he liked her. Still.

Mark called at six. He sounded tired but normal.

“ETA one hour, OK?”

“Sure. Bad day?”

“The usual. But things are slowing down. A sick GI bleeder, but Leslie’s here tonight. She’s got it under control,” Mark said lightly.

Kathleen had the distinct impression that Leslie was within earshot of Mark. Kathleen liked Leslie. She had been so gentle with her mother. Just as Mark had been.

Mark appeared an hour later. He was obviously happy to see her.

“I want to take a shower before I touch you. And I want to touch you. So I’m taking my shower now, all right?”

“OK,” Kathleen answered, kissing his lips briefly as he passed.

“You did a great job of painting,” he said.

Kathleen followed him from the entry area to the bathroom door. It was a matter of a few feet.

“Thanks. Wait until you see today’s improvements!”

“Can’t wait. Do you want you join me in here? After I wash off a few layers of blood and germs.”

“No thank you,” Kathleen said, watching him undress. “I have to keep an eye on dinner.”

She looked at his white resident’s pants, truly splattered with blood, and said, “You are careful, aren’t you. Mark? About the blood. About hepatitis? And the new one, AIDS?”

Mark was a little surprised that Kathleen knew that hepatitis was transmitted by blood and even more surprised that she had heard about AIDS. AIDS, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, was new. It had only been recognized in North America recently. San Francisco had a substantial share of the cases, and the rumors were just beginning that spread might be through blood products as well as sexual contact.

“Blood splashes on clothes don’t do any harm. It’s needle sticks, splashes in the eyes, mucous membranes. We’re careful about those.” Mark was talking about the transmission of hepatitis.

“Have you—do you—take care of patients with AIDS?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. Mark had two patients with AIDS, both dying, on his service right now.

“Does it bother you? From the pictures I’ve seen, it looks awful.”

“It is awful.” The worst, he thought. “It doesn’t bother me to take care of them. What bothers me is that it’s killing young men, men my age, and we don’t know what causes it, how to treat it, how to stop it.” Mark’s voice, through the sound of the shower water, was angry.

“But if you know so little about it, and it’s so awful, doesn’t it bother you that you might catch it?” Kathleen persisted.

“I’m a doctor, Kathleen,” Mark said with an edge to his voice. “I take care of sick patients all day, every day. There is no reason to think that you can catch AIDS by taking care of patients. Not if you’re careful. Not if you take the usual precautions. And I am careful.”

“I have to go check on dinner,” Kathleen said, suddenly, realizing that the tone of his voice, sharp and intense, made her uneasy.

After she left the bathroom, as he lathered himself with soap for the third time, Mark thought about his patients with AIDS. They were young men wasting away—fighting because they were so young, had been so healthy, had everything to live for—and inevitably dying of the lethal mysterious new disease. He wondered if there was a best way to die. A warm, peaceful, quiet death.

Mark didn’t know what was the best, but he knew that AIDS was one of the worst. They all knew it. It was the disease they all didn’t want to get.

They were very careful.

When Mark rejoined Kathleen after his long shower, he looked refreshed and untroubled. He wore khaki slacks and an oxford shirt, open at the collar, with sleeves rolled halfway up his pale but finely muscled forearms.

He noticed the pictures immediately.

“They are wonderful, Kathleen,” he said. Then, moving closer to the picture of the brick mansion, he asked, “What’s this?”

“Look closely. The pillar on the left.”

Mark leaned forward and read aloud, “The Carlton Club.”

“I had to get something to counterbalance the Cornhuskers’ banner.”

“Maybe we should put this above our bed. It goes much better with feather pillows and Laura whoever sheets.”

Our
bed, Kathleen thought, a rush of joy pulsing through her. She said softly, “Ashley.”

She thought of saying, No, the Cornhuskers’ banner captures the spirit of our bed. But it wasn’t true. Their lovemaking was everything, all moods, Cornhuskers to Laura Ashley, uninhibited sport to proper Carlton Club. Laughter and quiet tenderness. Lust and romance. Adventure and tradition. Everything.

During dinner Kathleen told him about her meeting with Janet.

“I assumed she left the box at the door and that you brought it in when you came to paint.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Mark, do you remember the woman I told you about? The amateur we auditioned on Wednesday for
Joanna
?”

“The one you thought was so sensational? The one who got the lead over all the pros? Sure. I remember. Why?” he asked idly.

“Janet,” Kathleen said quietly.

“Janet?” Mark asked. Of course Janet, he thought. That’s what she had done in high school and college, stolen the leading roles from the pros. Not because she cared about being the best. Just because she needed to sing.

Mark blinked back a sudden mist in his eyes. Then he said, his voice husky, “Good for her.”

After a few moments, he asked, “Did you know that on Wednesday?”

“No. Not until I met her here yesterday. She used, is using, her maiden name.”

“Oh,” he said softly. “That makes sense.” Then, knowing that she had to be but that it might not show, he asked, “Was she thrilled?”

Kathleen only remembered the tears and Janet’s hurt, comprehending expression as she looked at the photograph of Kathleen and Mark.

“I’m sure she was,” Kathleen said.

The conversation shifted. They talked about nothing of importance. They talked less than usual. Mark was quiet.

Later, as they got ready for bed, he asked, casually, “Will there be parties for the production? Ones you’ll need to attend?”

“Yes. I told her you wouldn’t be at any of them. I probably won’t be, either. It’s her show. OK?”

“Yes.”

A few moments later, he said, “I want to see the show, though.”

“I know. She wants you to.”

That night they made love in a new way. In the oldest way. The most chaste way. First they kissed for a long time. Just kissing, just their mouths. Their hands and their lips didn’t explore. Then he entered her and they moved, together, united, entwined. Slow, rhythmic, leisurely lovemaking. Wonderful romantic lovemaking.

Kathleen had no idea that was the way that Mark and Janet had made love. Only. Always. Hundreds and hundreds of times.

Over the next two weeks there were periods when Mark was distant and preoccupied. Kathleen didn’t know the cause. It could have been because of Janet. That would make sense. Or it could have been because of the death of both the AIDS patients within hours of each other. Mark had been there. He had watched them die. Helpless. Unable to prevent the inevitable.

Perhaps it was the long telephone conversation with his father. Mark asked Kathleen to wait in the bedroom, but she heard bits, angry tones she had never heard from Mark before. When she decided the conversation was over, when she heard only silence from the other room, Kathleen joined him. Mark didn’t even acknowledge her presence. He had already retreated to a corner of the living room and was reading
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
. Kathleen picked up the book that lay on the end table,
Ulysses
by James Joyce, and tried to read, too.

She couldn’t read, couldn’t concentrate.

Finally, she gave up and simply watched Mark, absorbed in his book, oblivious to her stares.

“This isn’t good,” she whispered after over an hour of silence.

Mark looked up at the sound of her voice, startled, almost disoriented.

“What did you say?”

“I said, this isn’t good.”

“What isn’t?”

“You shutting me out like this.”

Shutting me out.
Janet’s words. Now Kathleen’s words.

Mark put his book down and went to her side.

“What do you mean?” he asked gently, with concern in his voice.

“I mean you had a horrible conversation, I assume, with your father, after which you withdraw completely and behave as if I’m not here and never existed.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” Mark said. “What should I do?”

“I don’t know. How about saying, ‘My father is such a bastard. Kathleen, do you mind if I just escape into the streets of London with Holmes for a while?’”

“That sounds easy,” Mark said with relief.

“Except I don’t think you’re even aware when you are doing it.”

“Have there been other times?” Mark pulled her close to him, gently, worried.

“In the past two weeks, several. In the past two months, a few.”

“I honestly wasn’t aware.”

“I know.” Kathleen believed him. He would know if he paid attention. It was probably an old bad habit. Kathleen wondered how Janet had felt about it, assuming it wasn’t all simply because of Janet.

“So what should I do?”

“Pay attention. I don’t need to know what’s bothering you, unless you want to tell me. I just need to know it’s not me.”

“It’s not you, never you,” he said, kissing her.

“Then do I have permission to point it out when you’re doing it? In case you don’t know?” So you’ll learn, she thought.

“Yes! Kathleen. I don’t want to shut you out.”

“And you won’t snarl?” she asked, kissing him back.

“I don’t snarl,” he said softly.

“Oh yes, you do.”

The next week was better. Mark’s need to retreat into a book or lose himself in dark troublesome thoughts was not less, but he good-humoredly announced his moods and his intentions. Kathleen respected his privacy and struggled with
Ulysses
as she waited for the mood to pass. It always did. It was always gone before they went to bed.

“You probably understand
Ulysses
, don’t you?” she teased one night as she lay beside him. “I didn’t really get it when we studied it at Vassar, although I think I got an A on the paper I wrote about it! I still don’t get it.”

“It’s one of my favorites. A masterpiece.”

“Can we pick our way through it sometime? Word by word?”

“Sure. But not now,” he said, nuzzling her soft round breast.

“No,” she sighed, “not now.”

By the third week in February, Kathleen realized that despite the new ground rules, which allowed her not to take his moodiness personally, Mark had too much on his mind. Too many things to resolve: Janet, his failed marriage, whatever it was with his father.

Mark couldn’t build a new relationship until the residual feelings and emotions about his marriage were resolved. That would take time. And privacy.

Kathleen couldn’t help him. He wasn’t that kind of man, and she wasn’t that kind of woman.

They could solve their problems—Mark and Kathleen problems—together, but she didn’t want to help him with old problems. She didn’t want the burden of Mark and Janet problems.

By the end of February Kathleen made her decision.

“Betsey and I have decided to take a trip.”

“Without Jeff? Without the groom-to-be?”

“He’ll survive.”

“Where are you going?”

“Hawaii. The Mauna Kea Hotel on the big island. It’s a favorite. Betsey and I go there every six or eight months—just the two of us—to talk, take stock of our lives and lie in the sun. We’ve been doing it for years.”

“When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“When do you return?”

“Betsey will be back in a week,” Kathleen said. She hesitated a moment before saying. “And I’ll be back in four months.”

“Four months!”

“You’re snarling.”

“This is not a snarl. We’ve gone beyond snarl. What the hell are you doing, Kathleen?”

“I’m giving you, in the jargon of the day, space.”

“Why?”

“Because you need it.”

“Really? You know what I need and I don’t?”

“Don’t get angry, Mark,” Kathleen pleaded. “You’re right. I don’t know what you need. I know what I need and what I think you need.”

“Which is?”

“I think you need time to resolve your feelings about your marriage.”

“The marriage is over. Resolved,” Mark said flatly. He looked into her eyes and repeated gently, “It’s over, Kathleen.”

“You don’t think about it? About what went wrong?”