Separate Flights (29 page)

But that was all. She assumed there was a God, but maybe there wasn't; worse still, it didn't seem to matter. She didn't know whether Lee believed or not. She could not remember ever talking about God. You didn't do that, sit around talking about God. You talked with frustration about things outside your life, like Johnson and the war; or you talked about the surfaces of your life: the children and grandchildren and school for Peggy and things you had done and things you had to do:—
had all the groceries there and then I looked in my purse and no wallet, I had left it in the other purse, and no checkbook either, so she had to wait while I went to the courtesy counter and used one of their checks; what should we get Peggy for graduation? a watch? you take the VW to work then, and they can pack the wheel bearings on the Lincoln while I'm shopping; a watch, do you think?
You scheduled these things, got them done between the hands of the clock, and at night they gave you conversation. Maybe late some night when Peggy was asleep she ought to make Lee sit down with her and a bottle of gin and she would tell him what she did at night and why, tell him of Robert and how she had waited for a bracelet in the mail, and tell him that on those nights when he made love to her she was eager and hot, but only for herself, and a hand covered her heart and would not yield it to him.

As the summer grew hotter, the idea of such a conversation enticed her. If her belief in God had changed passively, her marriage could change in one violently quick night. The frightening and appealing thing was she could not predict what would happen. Separation, divorce, a marriage counselor—even something new and good, both of them with painful and productive honesty voicing all their dislikes, their secrets (she recalled the moment in San Francisco when she had thought of his plane crashing), and after that maybe they could stand among the fallen roof and exploded walls of what they had called their marriage, and wounded and trembling and alone they could hold hands and start from there. But such a dream was nonsense, and she knew it, and the days of summer went on.

Then one night in mid-July she woke and lay smoking and listened to the hum of the air conditioner in the window. She didn't know what time it was, nor did she want to: she knew she would be awake for at least an hour, probably more. Her hand moved down, then stopped; she didn't want that, it was boring and it took too long and didn't even help her sleep. She got up and put on a summer robe; she would drink gin and tonic in the living room and talk to herself until she was sleepy. Tomorrow was Saturday, so she had no reason to get up; going downstairs she thought of living a nocturnal life when Peggy went to college. She could stay up most of the night until she was truly sleepy, wake up long enough to fix breakfast for Lee, then go back to bed and sleep into the afternoon. Insomnia was only bad if you had to go to sleep and wake at certain times. A bizarre solution, simply to throw away schedules, but you couldn't deny it was a solution; and crossing the kitchen floor in the dark she was pleased, thinking how Lee would despise a life of that sort. He would find several reasons against it but he would never admit his real objection: that people were supposed to be awake in daylight and asleep at night.

She switched on a light and blinked at the clock on the kitchen wall: ten minutes to three. She could hear the air conditioner in the living room; she thought either she had forgotten to turn it off or Peggy and Bucky had come in after their date and turned it on, then Peggy had forgotten it, which was just as well, for already the kitchen was hot and she would go sit in the cool living room and drink gin and perhaps watch the sunrise. She opened the refrigerator and saw there was beer and decided to drink that, because it was simpler and enough of it made her sleepy. She popped open a can and turned off the kitchen light, for she wanted everything dark; she pushed through the swinging door into the living room then stopped, her eyes snapping toward the other sounds which she understood even before she saw the two standing and quick-moving silhouettes at the couch across the room. Her hand darted to the table lamp beside her, but for an instant she squeezed the switch between thumb and finger; her mouth opened to speak but she didn't do that either; then she turned on the switch and stepped back from the sudden light and what she saw in it: Peggy's face hidden inside the dress she was pulling down and shrugging into, and Bucky with his naked back turned, snapping his trousers at the waist. Beth turned out the light before Peggy's face came out of the dress. She backed through the kitchen door and leaned against the sink and took a long swallow of beer.

They would be whispering now. She couldn't hear them, but she moved farther from the door anyway. She finished the beer before she heard the front door closing, then she waited again. She lit a cigarette and was going to the refrigerator for another beer when Peggy came in, standing with lowered head while the door swung shut behind her. Beth hugged her and stroked her long hair.

‘Do you want a beer while we talk?'

Peggy nodded against her shoulder. They went into the living room and, avoiding the couch, Beth chose the easy chairs where she and Lee sat at night to watch television or read. The chairs were side by side, with a table and lamp between; when Beth and Peggy sat down, the lampshade hid their faces.

‘Has it been—going on?'

‘Yes.'

‘I won't tell Daddy.'

‘Please don't. Ever.'

‘No. No, he won't know. He sees things—I don't know how he sees things, but it's different. And now—'

And now what? Instead of turning on that lamp she could have backed out of the room, gone upstairs to bed, and never mentioned it again: she could have pretended to Peggy and gradually to herself that she thought they were only kissing. Which was still another lie: everyone knew that young people did everything short of making love, yet you called it kissing. And she could have done that tonight, but she hadn't, and by turning on the lamp she had committed herself to something more, to the awful risk of forming words and throwing them out into the dark like so many sparks in a dry season. And now that it was time she had nothing to say, and she nearly said, Let's have a good night's sleep and talk about it tomorrow while Daddy's playing golf. But she would not do that, she would
not
. So she decided to talk about those things she did know, to at least deal with and probably eliminate them.

‘If I were still a Catholic then you'd be one too and all I'd have to do is send you to the priest tomorrow. I'd tell you it was a sin and he'd tell you it was a sin and you'd believe it. Then he'd tell you to break up with Bucky. But we're not Catholics or anything else, so that leaves us with clichés, and what's wrong with that is a cliché is an out, it just sort of hangs around and waits for someone to use it and when you do use one it saves you from having to think. So now I could say that nice girls make love for the first time on their wedding nights and they never make love with anyone else unless they're divorced first—' The word divorce made her think of Lee sleeping above them, and that she was forty-nine, and that Peggy was leaving for college in two months and during the next four years her need for parents and a home would gradually diminish. ‘But you see there's no sense in my telling you all that because you know it's just not so. I mean, do you
feel
bad? Evil?'

‘I do right now, but not—' She took one of Beth's cigarettes.

‘Not with him?'

‘No.'

‘Good. I want you to be happy, and I'm not going to ask you to stop seeing him—'

‘You're not?'

‘Did you think I would?'

‘I thought you'd have to.'

‘That would be a lie too. Because I don't really have any reason to. Not any good ones, anyway. And you have to believe this: I don't think you're bad, and I love you very much, and you must never feel ashamed. You can tell Bucky I didn't see anything or you can tell him the truth.'

‘The truth.'

‘All right.'

‘He'll be afraid. When he has to see you.'

‘Tell him not to be. Is there anything you need to talk about?'

‘No.'

‘I mean, I've told you what's not the truth about sex, or at least what I think isn't the truth. I suppose now I ought to tell you—I don't know, something else.'

‘You don't have to.'

‘You're all right?'

‘Yes. I love him.'

‘Suppose you get pregnant?'

‘He's careful.'

‘Those things don't always work.'

‘Well, they
have
to.'

‘No, they don't, I can at least tell you that. I want you to take the pill.'

The sky was dark still; in another two hours dawn would come; two hours after that, Lee would wake to a house that had changed.

‘I'll make the appointment and I'll go with you.'

She rose and stood in front of Peggy, who sat with lowered head, her knees pressed together.

‘We'll tell him you're getting married.'

‘Well, I can, but—' Then she stopped.

‘It's all I ask. Will you do that for me?'

After a moment, Peggy nodded.

‘I'd do anything in the world for you,' she said.

With arms around each other they climbed the stairs, then kissed. Beth went to her room and shut the door and looked at Lee's face in the dark: an open-mouthed, weary frown. She thought tenderly of how his face had changed. Then she got into bed and slept. She woke up while Lee was doing push-ups on the bedroom floor. She told him she had been awake most of the night and asked if he could fix his breakfast so she could go back to sleep. He said all right, he'd just have some cereal. When she woke after one o'clock she dressed and went downstairs; Peggy was drinking coffee in the kitchen.

‘Has Daddy left?'

‘Yes.' Peggy blushed. ‘Bucky loves you.'

‘Oh, you called him?'

‘As soon as Daddy left.'

‘Good. I'll have a cup of coffee, then take you to lunch. Unless you're doing something else.'

‘No, he's still afraid to come over till he picks me up tonight.'

They went in the Volkswagen to a restaurant across the street from the university, then walked in the hot afternoon to several stores and bought Peggy a blouse. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking and laughing about trivial things, and at dinner Lee smiled at them with curiosity and pride. During the next four days Beth was sometimes frightened but always happy: she thought it was a wonderful paradox that Peggy's having an affair made them even closer than they had been before. On the fifth day they drove to a gynecologist in Cedar Rapids. Going there, Peggy was nervous and talked about yesterday's swimming party; coming home she was distant and hardly talked at all.

‘He probably didn't believe us,' she said. ‘He knows I'm not old enough to get married.'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘I guess not.'

‘You're safe now. That's what matters.'

That night after dinner, Peggy scraped the dishes, put them in the dishwasher, then went upstairs. After a while Beth went up. Peggy was reading in bed.

‘Aren't you going out?'

‘No.'

‘You aren't having a fight, are you?'

‘No.'

‘It's so early. Do you feel all right?'

‘I'm fine. I just don't feel like going out, that's all.'

‘Oh. Well—'

‘Don't worry. I'm all right.'

Beth stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her read; then she went downstairs. The next night Peggy went to a movie with Marsha. On the third night Bucky took her to dinner. He was able to look into Beth's eyes again and as she walked with them out on the porch and told them goodbye she felt her collusion was with Bucky, not Peggy. It was almost eight o'clock, but daylight savings time, and the sky was still light. She watched them get into the car. Bucky was talking and Peggy, looking straight ahead, shrugged her shoulders. When they drove off, Beth turned to the door then stopped; she did not want to go in. The dishes were washed, the kitchen cleaned, there was nothing on television, and she did not want to read. She sat on the wooden steps of the porch and watched the night come. When she went back inside, Lee was still sitting in his chair, reading
Time
.

‘What were you doing?'

‘Just sitting. It's cool, but the mosquitoes got bad.'

She lit a cigarette and sat on the couch, facing him. For a while she watched him read.

‘Lee?'

‘What,' not raising his eyes.

‘Do you believe in God?'

‘Sure.'

His eyes lingered, probably finishing a paragraph: then he lowered the magazine.

‘Why? Don't you?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You never told me.'

‘No. Will you take me to a movie?'

‘Now?'

‘If you want to.'

‘Can we make it?'

‘I'll call and find out.'

The last feature would start in twenty minutes, so they went.

When they got home Lee finished whatever he had been reading in
Time
, and Beth had a drink. She was going to the kitchen for another when Lee started upstairs, so she closed the liquor cabinet and followed him up and they made love.

‘You didn't want to talk about God, did you?' he said. His voice was sleepy.

‘No.'

‘Good thing. I don't know any more than you do.'

‘Then you don't know a thing.'

‘What made you ask me that anyway?'

‘Because I question the way we live.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Why we do things.'

‘What things.'

‘I don't know. I wonder about the girls, how we've done with them.'

‘We've done all right.'

‘It's not that simple, though.'