The Heart of Henry Quantum (16 page)

But she couldn't help pulling back just a little.

She knew he was going through a nasty divorce and that he was currently living in a rented apartment with hardly any furniture in it, and that his wife had the house, and that she wasn't quite sure what he did for a living, and that somewhere he had two children, but he hardly mentioned them. This concerned her: the fact that she'd never met his children, because why was he shielding them from her?

Of course she was being absurd—how would he introduce her to his children? Kids, this is my lover, Margaret, who is also married, by the way, and, no, your mother and I are never getting back together because as you can see, I prefer Margaret to her by a long shot, so go ahead, give her a big hug!

Crazy.

But it was all about the children, wasn't it? All about the children.

His lips were but a millimeter from her own, and his hands were cupping her buttocks and his fingers were groping the space between them and she felt him ratchet up the hem of her skirt and then the galvanizing roughness of his right hand on her left thigh sent a pulse through her entire body, and she cried out, “Peter, I have to meet your kids!”

“What?” he said.

“What?” she replied.

“What did you say?”

“Did I say something?”

“You asked about my kids.”

“I did?”

“For Christ's sake, Margaret, what's with you today?”

“No, no!” she said. “Don't move away! Stay. Keep doing what you were doing.”

“Margaret, sit down. We need to talk.”

“No, no, I don't want to talk!”

“Well, I do,” he said. “You sound so—”

“I'm not neurotic!” she cried. “I'm the least neurotic person I know!”

“I didn't say you were neurotic. For Christ's sake, just sit down!”

She collapsed beside him on the edge of the bed. Immediately she noticed the mattress was too firm for her, but she ordered herself not to say anything about it, to let it go.

“Margaret,” he said, “what's going on with you?”

“This bed is too hard,” she said.

“It's not the bed that's too hard for you. You're having second thoughts, aren't you? ”

“No, it's just the bed.”

“It's all this subterfuge. Maybe you just can't do this anymore.”

She noticed her fists had hardened into little balls, and she snarled, “Are you talking about me or are you talking about you?”

“Why must you deflect everything?”

“I'm not deflecting anything. Did I say I'm having second thoughts? Did I say it's too hard for me?”

“No, you didn't.”

“So why are you attacking me?”

“I'm not attacking you, Margaret.”

“Then why do I feel attacked? The fucking bed is too hard. It's bad for your back.”

Peter sighed and looked away.

“Oh Jesus, Peter, come back,” she cried. “I'm just, I don't know. It was the bridge. It was that woman, or girl, or whatever she was. Can't you understand it upset me? Wouldn't you be upset, seeing someone jump off the Golden Gate Bridge?”

“She didn't jump,” said Peter.

Margaret slapped herself. “Oh shit!” she cried. “I forgot completely. I left it in the fucking car.”

“What did you leave? I'll get it for you.”

“No,” she said, “in the MINI Cooper. My Christmas present for you. I have this present I want to give you.” Suddenly she was weeping, just weeping, and it was crazy because what was the big deal? “From Tiffany's,” she cried.

“It's all right,” he said. “Honestly. I don't need a gift. I have you.” And she knew at that moment that he hadn't bought her anything for Christmas. She felt a little ridiculous, because, of course, presents are superfluous if you have love.

“You're right,” she said. “I didn't see anyone jump. But I could imagine it. I could feel what it was like. You know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

Only now did he stand up and, without a word, pulled her into his arms. His face loomed above her, the mop of blond hair framing his pale blue eyes, the tan skin glowing even in winter, the slight pudginess of his cheeks and neck bespeaking health and the kind of imperviousness that comes with being one of the owners of the world, and not, like Henry, a mere observer. She glanced down at his hands and at his school ring and on his other hand the mark where his wedding band used to be, and then up to the tie he was wearing—a tie even on a day of trysting—as usual it hung slightly askew from his collar. She took note of his lips, which she always thought of as sweet but in fact were firm and hard, and then she dared to stare back into his eyes, which were so intensely focused on the pleasure he was about to experience.

“You don't think about all that much, do you?” she said.

“I guess not,” he said.

“I'm glad,” she said. “I really am.”

And with that he began to methodically unbutton her blouse with his practiced hand, one button and then another and another, and she knew with absolute certainty that each button opened was a step she was taking off the edge of her own Golden Gate Bridge, and that when no buttons were left and her breasts were exposed to his callused hands, she would have already leapt beyond the railings, and in her falling she would be filled with regret, but also exultation, and for once in her life she would be flying without ropes, without a net, and without ever again having the chance to go home.

December 23rd, 2:24–2:35 p.m.

What exactly was in Daisy's mind we don't know, only that she uttered aloud, “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, you ninny, you idiot.” No doubt she wished she could compress herself into the size of an atom or a molecule like one of her retinal neurons and disappear into the glop of some cosmic eyeball, but in fact she waited (and waited) for Henry in front of SlinkyBlink thinking, or hoping at least, that he would follow her, and when after an interminable five minutes he hadn't, she felt herself grow slightly hysterical and had to remind herself that he needed to pay the bill and that takes time, but after another five minutes and then another, that battle was lost: she burst into tears. People on the street began staring at her, and one young woman even came up to her and offered to call a cab. This was so humiliating she couldn't even manage a thank-you and instead ran off in the direction of the garage, up the Sutter Street hill. Get it together, she scolded herself. But the tears still burned in her eyes and the stifled sobs constricted her throat and made it hard to breathe. She was standing at the pay station when out of the corner of her eye she saw him—Henry passing the entrance to the garage—and by some perverse instinct hid herself behind the ticket machine. Only when she was sure he had gone did she step out onto the street to watch him disappear past the Starbucks on the corner. She didn't call out, didn't run after him. She did take out her hanky and blow her nose. Then she went back inside, put her money in the ticket machine, and made her way to her car.

Daisy had moved all the way out to Fairfax in Marin County several years before, so she had a long drive, which would at least give her time to think, but it was not thought that filled her, it was desire: not carnal desire, but desire of the soul—she wanted what she had once possessed but had discarded like old wrapping paper. She wanted her companion; she wanted peace; she wanted laughter in her bed and passion in her veins. She wanted Bones—her dear, beautiful Bones, her funny, silly, brilliant, impossibly possible Bones. When you lose something, she thought, you can't have it back just because you want it. You have to accept loss. That's what Bones was always telling her about Buddha. You can't hold on. You can't become attached. But all these years had passed and she had not accepted.

What a selfish bitch I am! she thought. She was so upset she pressed too hard on the gas and had to swerve to avoid some prostitute on the corner of Pine and Mason—well, she looked like a prostitute—and suddenly Daisy was filled with jealousy. That prostitute is so damned lucky, Daisy thought. She doesn't need love. She just needs fifty bucks. And then she got angry at herself for thinking this. Prostitutes have feelings, too. It's not their fault. Something horrible happened to them. Something horrible some man did. A father. A brother. A pimp.

But Henry hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't taken anything from her. He'd given. And now he lived inside her in ways she could not have anticipated that terrible night when she ordered him out of her life. Out of her life! What a joke. She had been so appalled at his lack of contrition. But really what he meant was that his love was greater than some stupid, moribund convention and the life he offered her was so full of truth and fire that everything else was a lie.

The day she broke up with Henry was a Thursday. She remembered this because
Glee
was on that night and they used to watch it together over the phone when Edward wasn't home and she had just the kids—she would call him “Sally” so her children wouldn't guess she was speaking to a man. A lot of men did not like
Glee
, but Henry liked
Glee
. When she'd asked Edward to watch with her he'd say, “So gay!” and go back to whatever it was he was doing that wasn't quite so gay. Frankly, she couldn't imagine Margaret watching it, either. Of course, she barely knew Margaret. They had met at a function or two for BrainPower for Kids when Margaret had accompanied Henry. She was quite—let's say—
erect
, with sharp hips pointed at whomever she was speaking with. Her hair was incredibly glowy and smooth, cut in a severely angled bob. Elegant and intimidating, at least to Daisy. Not to mention the boarding-school savior faire about her, a frisson of noblesse oblige that was evident in the way she twisted her right foot on its stiletto heel as she spoke. Daisy had to remind herself over and over that Margaret sold fucking real estate and Daisy was the one with all the money.

She wasn't even supposed to break up with him that Thursday. It just sort of happened. Earlier that afternoon they'd met in Sausalito, as they so often had. It was a sunny and cloudless afternoon, which Bones remarked upon because it had been so cold and foggy in the city and he was delighted to be in the sunshine. She wore her cutoffs and a little halter because, she said, it was so damn hot. It really wasn't that hot and she knew it, so why, on that day, did she wear that outfit?

“Let's go inside,” she said, pointing to the café on the square.

“No, no, let's enjoy the weather.”

“I want to go inside,” she insisted.

“But why?”

“Because it's too public out here.”

“Who cares if someone sees us?” he said. “We're just talking.”

But she knew he would try to kiss her—he always did. She would put him off with a playful shove and then he would throw his arm around her waist thinking it very surreptitious, but they both knew it wasn't: it was dangerous—and something in him liked danger.
Henry Danger, private dick
, that's what she secretly called him. But today, she didn't want to risk it.

She found herself throwing off his hand and quickening her pace. The square was teeming with tourists—moms, dads, kids, young honeymooners. Families, she thought. All these families. The other night she'd asked him—don't you feel any remorse? How can you not care about other people's feelings? It had been working on her for days, actually. Where was his moral compass? Where was hers?

She jogged over to the café and found a table off to the side even though he wanted to sit by the window.

“What are you going to have?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Not hungry?”

“No. You can eat if you want to.”

“You should eat.”

“I don't want to eat.”

“Then why are we in a restaurant?”

“It's not a restaurant. It's a coffee place.”

“Then have some coffee.”

“Jesus, what are you, Mother Teresa? Stop it!”

That's of course when he started stuttering. He always stuttered when people yelled at him. Not exactly a stutter, more like sleep apnea only awake. Gagging. Gasping.

“Can you stop that?” she said.

“Sto-sto- wha-wha-?”

“Stuttering. Stop stuttering.”

“I don't st-st—”

“If you don't breathe you're going to faint, for God's sake. Calm down.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Whatever I did—”

“It's okay. It's okay. I'm just cranky. I think you're right, I need something to eat.”

He smiled. “Hypoglycemia, I've seen it before.”

“Have you?” she said.

“Many times. I'll get you a
pain au chocolat
. It's a sure cure.”

“Fine,” she said, watching him go. Instinctively she went for her lipstick, then decided against it. Instead, she adjusted her shorts, tried to stretch the bottom of the halter to cover a little more of her tummy. He came back with the croissant, a couple of cappuccinos, some napkins, and a banana.