Sex and Death (10 page)

So the question, as Cora saw it, was: how to knot up the present mess with a minimum of collateral harm? Returning home was essential, as soon as possible. If the postcard was in Rodney's clutches, well, that was music she would face. If, by some miraculous postal mercy, the postcard had not arrived, she would lie in wait for it and destroy it, after which she would dedicate herself to the expert demolition of her marriage by the least explosive possible means. It was for Rodney's sake, not hers, Cora told herself, that she feared being found out. The least she could do was tiptoe backwards out of his life, to leave a minimum of footprints and derangements for his next mate to clean up.

Fleeing Clément called for tact as well. Full disclosure was out. To know that his postcard had collapsed a marriage would be
a hurtful, grown-up burden for the guileless St Bernard. The only decent thing to do, Cora decided, was to tell Clément that her apartment had caught fire and that she had to board the next flight to New York to deal with the calamity. So great was her concern for Clément's feelings that she went to the trouble of counterfeiting an email from the building superintendent, bolstered with years-old insurance photos taken after her loft had indeed gone up in flames.

A little before six, she woke Clément, brandishing her laptop and wringing from her actual anxieties a simulated panic that wasn't so persuasive. ‘That sucks,' ran the extent of Clément's sulky, rote condolences. His mood, however, perked up a little at the news that, if he liked, the room was his for the next three days, paid for in advance, incidentals, too. She leaned in for a farewell kiss. With éclat that seemed vituperative, Clément thrust his stale tongue into her mouth.

On the wet dawn streets of Amsterdam, Cora feels giddy, unlimbered, scrubbed clean. Suffusing her is a spirit of melancholy clarity that is not so far from joy. It does not degrade until the airspace over Boston, when the plane's descent begins.

At 6.30 pm, she debarks into a decrepit terminal. The ceiling is underpinned by conical tarps to catch rainwater and sloughing plaster. The linoleum underfoot bears cigarette burns dating to the Idlewild period. Intimations of age and dereliction season very nicely the dripping meal of despair on which Cora inwardly feeds just now. No word from Rodney, or from Clément, on her telephone.

The parking lot attendant exacts from her a punitive sum. Cora pilots her Volvo through the balky bowels of the transterminal roadway. Blocking her path are vehicles that, after Europe, seem cottage-sized. It is Good Friday. Cora rides her brake through a street fair of embracing Catholics. At last, her way is clear to
the leftmost lane, where the traffic flows free. She gooses it, then screeches to a bumper-nodding stop. A middle-aged woman has selected the fast lane toward the highway as the place to board a cab. She is obese. With her is a boy of seven or eight. Cora blasts the horn at her with both thumbs.

‘Would it kill you to be patient for five seconds?' the woman yells.

‘Five seconds looking at your fat ass?' Cora retorts through the open window. ‘Yeah, it might!'

The shock on the faces of the woman and the child is legible and pure. Even Cora is a little stunned. First
go fuck yourself
to the French girl in the hash bar, and now this.

Rodney would not have stood for it. He would have insisted that she apologise and, failing that, stepped out of the moving car and apologised on her behalf. The nastiness to strangers has something to do with her husband. It is the tentative flexion of a powerful muscle Rodney has long been trying to train her not to use. Now she can use it if she likes. Out of Queens she speeds, feeling potent and bleak.

The sound of running water welcomes Cora home. Rodney is showering. There are no packed suitcases on the kitchen floor. The postcard, Cora permits herself to hope, has not penetrated the apartment. Her lung capacity briefly doubles.

But here is the mail, heaped on the wallward end of the kitchen table, where it is always heaped. This evening the irrelevant mass of windowed envelopes and coupon circulars assumes a brazen, evidentiary quality. She rifles it. Between a catalogue and a credit card offer is Clément's postcard. It is what was once known as a ‘French postcard', a cyanotype of a woman's naked torso, plastered with sycamore leaves. The text on the back is not an exact accounting of cunnilingus past and pending but close enough. Cora's aorta pumps vinegar. The shower cinches off with a baying of intramural pipes.

What will Cora do as a single woman of forty-four? She will reactivate her gym membership. She will learn to relish solitude. She will give up alcohol. She will take daily comfort in loving fatuities with her little dog. She will strive for a life of work and continence with her heart nowhere nearby.

Now here is Rodney fresh from the shower. Black underpants are all he wears. His body is a totem of amiableness. Thick skin the colour of two-minute toast, boyishly innocent of visible fat or muscle. Hairless save a furred naevus on his left scapula, shaped like a paramecium. So familiar is she with this body, she reflects, she could probably pick from a line-up any domino-size sample of her husband's flesh.

Cora dislikes personal photos. She neither takes them nor looks at them. Yet she is tempted to ask Rodney, before the hashing-out begins, if he would consent to prostrating himself on her light table and permitting every part of his anatomy to be photographed. But Rodney speaks first.

‘So,' he says, twisting a pinky in his ear. ‘They're doing dollar oysters at that place on the canal.'

Cora and Rodney go eat oysters at that place on the canal. The postcard goes unmentioned. In the weeks that follow, Rodney is unusually kind to Cora. He makes her coffee in the morning. In the evening, he rubs her horned, yellow feet. Cora suspects that Rodney's gentleness with her is weaponised, a force multiplier for when he finally drops the bomb. The weeks wear on and Cora's preparedness for his exit erodes. At some unsuspected and maximally harmful moment, she knows, the confrontation and departure will take place.

This keeps failing to occur. Midsummer, Cora learns that she is pregnant. Rodney is the father. They resolve to leave New York, something Cora always swore she would not do. Rodney gets a teaching job at a third-rate college in Virginia. The town is a bland Tartarus of off-brand chain stores and tract-built homes on
one-acre lots. In fact, this nonreactive agar tray of a town may be the ideal place to raise their daughter, whose ultrasounds reveal a troublingly thick neck-fold. Yet the baby emerges free of Down's Syndrome and the other malfunctions associated with what the doctor terms Cora's ‘geriatric pregnancy'.

The daughter is, however, a tantrum-thrower to be tranquillised only by TV or mobile phone screens. Books, in particular, seem to enrage the child.

Cora stops doing magazine work. She makes intriguing photographs of Southeastern ruralia. A university press publishes her books in limited runs. Her professional esteem is mostly local.

Rodney has an affair with a colleague. The idea of dissolving the marriage is once again raised. During this time, while cleaning the gutters, Rodney falls off a ladder and permanently loses the use of his left arm. His lover retreats. Rodney retires.

In high school, their daughter exchanges her addiction to video games for tennis, which she is frighteningly good at. She is accepted to Dartmouth on a full athletic scholarship. She goes off to school and telephones her parents no more than minimal propriety requires.

Cora and Rodney move farther out into the country, far from provocations to lead a more resounding sort of existence. In the evening, the sounds are owls and distant trains. The odours from a nearby pig farm reach their house but rarely. On infrequent occasions, they are invited to dinner parties at the attractive homes of the warm, sophisticated people in their circle. These gatherings are enjoyable. But Cora and Rodney are always happiest at the end of the evening, driving home through the deep black trees, when they observe to one another, in a kind of tender ritual, that they do not envy the life of anyone they know.

She arrived home after work, sat at the kitchen table and took a large chocolate bar out of her bag. She said nothing, not even hello. She split the foil, broke it apart, and proceeded to eat the entire thing, square after square; a look of almost sexual concentration on her face.

Had a bad day? he asked.

She smiled faintly.

Not like you to go for the junk. Did you miss lunch?

She shook her head. Her jaw moved, slow and bovine, working the substance against her palate. She was looking but not seeing him. There was something endogenous about the gaze, something private, as if his presence in the room was irrelevant. She ate the entire bar, methodically, piece after piece, while he put the kettle on and began dinner. He heated a pre-made lasagne in the oven, opened a bag of salad and dumped it into a bowl. She ate only a little of the meal.

I guess the snack ruined your appetite.

Her eyes flickered up from the plate.

Yes. I don't know why I had the whole thing. Only, I'd been thinking about eating some for days. Then I had to.

She didn't apologise for the wasted food. Usually she would; she was the type who apologised over any minor or innocuous discourtesy. He wondered if she was angry with him, whether a passive campaign was playing out, though he could think of nothing he'd done wrong.

Over the next week she began to eat chocolate regularly. She
would snap off portions while watching television or between chores. In her car there were smeary wrappers strewn on the floor. She'd never had a sweet tooth before, had never ordered dessert in restaurants. She'd always kept her figure because of it. Now, she seemed addicted. And not just to chocolate, but anything sugary: pastries, puddings, fizzy drinks. She would leave her steak or pasta half finished, leave the table, and come back with something glazed that she'd evidently bought in a bakery between her office and the house.

God, I just can't seem to stop with this stuff, she said one night.

It was true. She went with a predatory look to the cupboards. She wasn't thinking, just acting on impulse. She was drinking more too. Wine with dinner every night, a few extra glasses at the weekend; becoming gently hedonistic. They'd been for a meal at Richard's and she'd finished a bottle of Cabernet by herself, as well as the lemon torte he'd served.

Hey, hey, Richard had said, taking her hand and helping her up from the couch, after she'd slumped on the first attempt to rise. Nice to see you letting your hair down, Evie.

How gallant, she'd said, a mock-belle voice. Then, whispering, I know you want this.

She'd leaned up and kissed him. A kiss not on the cheek, but on the mouth: a deliberately erotic move that implied nothing less than seduction, as if her husband, sitting next to her on the couch, did not exist. Richard of course had been too dazed to respond. This was a glimmer from a long-desired, alternate world, where his best friend's wife was available to him instead for nightly plunder. After a moment Richard roused himself, took hold of her wrists, and looked over to the couch, as if to say,
here, hadn't you better intervene.
Evie was staring at Richard's mouth. Her lips were parted, her lashes lowered. Together they'd helped her into her coat and into the car. Once the seatbelt was buckled and the door shut, Richard had turned to him.

That was a bit unusual. Is she all right?

Evie's head was drooping to one side; she was asleep, or passing out.

I don't bloody know. She's all over the place lately. She's fine, I think.

What do you mean all over the place?

Just acting up. For attention, maybe. I don't know. She's fine. Sorry, Rich.

You're sure?

Yeah. Yeah, just had a few too many.

On the drive home the incident preoccupied him. The look of desire, the unboundaried gesture. It wasn't that she hadn't looked at him that way, of course, in the past – nights when they were at their best, their least inhibited, when the act was intentional rather than habitual. But to see her looking at another man. It'd shocked him, and Richard too, clearly. It had been exciting. Something had flared inside him. Possessiveness, naturally – she was his wife – but there was another sensation too. Pride. Or worth. He didn't quite know. She suited the attitude; perhaps most women did.

He glanced down at her legs as he drove; the skirt riding untidily on her thighs, the flesh pale in the glow of the streetlights. Her arms were cast out either side of the seat – he'd already moved one away from the gear stick – in a pose that looked supplicatory, almost religious. She roused minimally when they arrived home, walking into the house and upstairs like a somnambulist, lying on the bed fully clothed. He'd run a hand up her thigh, but by then she was unconscious.

She had a hangover the next day and he caught her in the kitchen having a shot of whisky. Her makeup was smudged round her eyes. The silk robe was loosely belted, with one breast partially exposed.

For God's sake, Evie. Didn't you have enough last night.

Hair of the dog, she said.

You're acting like a student. That's going to make you feel far worse.

Let's see.

She tossed the spirit back.

Boom!

She set about cooking pancakes for breakfast, which she coated with syrup, rolled up and ate with her fingers. He sat opposite at the table, refusing the plate of glistening batter, choosing instead a frugal bowl of muesli. He was annoyed with her; he didn't know why. She was acting a little irresponsibly, a little outlandishly – but so what? He'd always wanted her to be more cattish, hadn't he, like the girls at university he remembered who had tattoos before it was popular, who wore tiny shorts, took pills every weekend and danced on podiums in the union. And the thing with Richard; he knew there was nothing to it. Richard was too restrained, too safe, almost neuter; he was always ill with something and in need of sympathy; he'd never been a genuine threat. It occurred to him she might be pregnant, and hormonal. Though surely she would know, by now, and the drinking was very inappropriate. Evie wasn't like that.

She was washing up at the sink, her rings set aside in the small ceramic dish, her bottom shaking as she scrubbed, hips a fraction fuller under the gown, though not unattractively so. He asked her.

No, she blurted, half turning. I don't think there's much risk of that, do you?

Offended by the overt reference to their irregularity – usually they both avoided the topic with practised denier's skill – he stood and made to leave the room.

Wait, she said. Maybe, well, what do you think?

About what?

About getting pregnant.

Are you serious?

She dropped the scrubbing brush into the basin of soapy water and wiped her hands on the silk robe. The material darkened and stuck to her skin.

Actually, no. But I would like a fuck.

He was stunned. It was not the look of the previous night, but it wasn't the usual furtive pass that one or other of them made, when it had been building a while, and before an argument occurred.

Would you? she asked.

She unbelted and moved the robe away from her midriff. The pubic hair was in a neat brown strip. She had waxed. He looked at her. He was angry now, at the guilelessness, the domestic crisis she seemed intent on creating. Why was she being so bald? It made no sense. The atmosphere around her was unsettling, like irregular weather. He was jealous, and impressed by the approach, by her making a stranger of him almost. All the times he had wondered, imagined getting his cock out, stroking himself in front of her and saying,
come here and suck this
, how she would have responded. He'd never done it. Neither had she, though he'd fantasised often enough about her masturbating in front of him, kneeling, her legs apart, or on all fours. The answer was yes. But he did not speak or move. She was looking at him, her face unreadable, not ashamed, not desperate. There was only so long such a precarious, risky moment could go on, before it spoiled. He was hard. He knew what he should do. Hostility got the better of him.

What are you trying to prove, Evie? What?

She shrugged, a one-shouldered shrug, the definition of nonchalance. She left the robe open and sat down. She lifted one foot up onto the chair seat. He could see more of her cunt, the folds and dark seam. He felt hot and uncomfortable. He should be kissing her, feeling her breasts, doing what she'd asked him to. But this exchange; there was too much and too little intimacy at once. He disliked her casualness, the request as banal as to go and buy milk. He was locked in. It was absurd.

I mean, what are you doing? What are you
doing
?

Asking you to go to bed with me.

I mean, you're being just bizarre. You haven't even showered. You're a mess. You're ruining yourself with junk food. You're having whisky at ten am and saying mad things to me in the kitchen. And then last night. What was that?

I just want a fuck, Alex. That's all. If you aren't up for it, fine. Maybe later.

She leaned across the table and wiped up a viscous smear from its surface, put her finger in her mouth. She was not upset. The transaction hadn't worked, and that was that. Part of him felt ashamed for attacking her, for the impotence of his mood. But she'd walked carelessly across the tripwires of their relationship, as though through a field of mines, as if immune. And her response to the rejection was ludicrous, like a child's or an autistic's. He turned and left the room.

*

He had never really loved his wife, not with acute, debilitating passion, the kind that was idealised and sung about. He had become fonder of her over the years, and more attached. She did nice things for him – making him sandwiches to take to work and buying replacement toothbrushes when the bristles on the current one began to splay. Other men found her attractive; colleagues often commented on his good fortune, and Richard had had a thing about her for years. Richard always remembered her birthday, procuring thoughtful and not inexpensive gifts, taking her side in quarrels, though there weren't many. Objectively, she was a catch, but he'd never felt dizzyingly emotional about her. He'd never tortured himself with the idea that she might leave, or stop loving him, that she was irreplaceable.

The first thing he'd really liked about her was her name. Evie.
Like a forties starlet. He'd had a spell of dating women with interesting names, in and after university: Lola, Oriana, Kiki, Simone. They were never as interesting or free-spirited as their names suggested. He'd expected vivacity and petulance, oblique intelligence, someone who would perhaps be difficult to manage, but fascinating and worth any trouble, inspiring something torrid in him, lust leaning towards deviancy; someone who would cancel out the desire to upgrade, someone with whom he could experiment and live interestingly.

Good crazy, rather than bad crazy, that's what you want, Richard had said. A fantasy woman. But it's bullshit. You keep getting them to fall for you, then cutting a swathe. It's ridiculous.

And he had gone through a number of them, telling himself he was on a romantic quest. They were all trying for unique jobs – dance therapists, writers. Often they wore clothes that suggested originality, unusualness: red chiffon shirts with showing-through bras, men's brogues, even rebellious vintage fur tippets. They were confident at first, sometimes conceited. He encouraged them to audition for the part, which gave them licence. Once the novelty of the sex wore off, once they failed to be uniquely talented, he struggled to make a connection. Under the faux exoticism, they wanted husbands, money, three-storey town houses. Or they really were fucked up. By six weeks he was usually disappointed or bored. Or things had exploded.

The last – Simone, the children's musician – had proved disastrous. After her various antics and tantrums, he'd tried to phase her out. She'd turned up at his door, incensed, had made an aggressive pass, and they'd gone to bed. The following day, after he explained his position, she accused him of trying to get her pregnant, dragging him to the doctor's for the morning-after pill and making him watch her ‘miscarry'.

By the time he met Evie he'd given up on the idea of exceptionality. They met at a Christmas party – Richard's. She was lively;
the men in the room were crowded around her. He introduced himself to those in the group he didn't know, weighed her. She was copper-haired and trim, bright hazel-eyed, but not stunning. She didn't have a bone structure that suggested lifelong beauty. They danced. She moved well, neat but suggestively. Her eyes were big and pretty. He could tell Richard liked her, even then. Richard kept bringing a bottle over and offering to top them up, trying to join the conversation.

Their dates were pleasant. Evie was pleasant. She smiled a lot and dressed well. He liked that other men were attracted to her. There was no sulking or ego maintenance. In a way it was a welcome compromise after the extreme terrain he had attempted. But she wasn't stupid. She could tell he was withholding, he was making no declarations; there was no obvious lovers' trajectory. It came up one night in a restaurant and he told her he wasn't sure exactly how he felt about her. He didn't feel anything tremendously, for anyone. There was an argument, unshouted, but definitely an argument.

I don't move you in any great way then? she asked. What am I, wallpaper? Just there in the room?

No. Listen, it doesn't affect the relationship, he said. We're having a good time.

Are you mad? Of course it does. I want more than that. Who wouldn't?

She'd stood up, unhurriedly, gathered her coat, and left. It was a superior, graceful exit. He'd tried to phone her but she ignored the messages. She started dating someone else soon after; he heard about it from Richard, who'd stayed in touch with her. This bothered him; no, it piqued him. He couldn't stop thinking about her and the new lover. He wondered if his emotions had been lagging, or had been masked. He'd lasted two weeks and then he was on her doorstep, saying he couldn't be without her, asking her to marry him. He almost convinced himself. By the
end of the evening they'd had sex several times – it was as close to anything meaningful as he'd ever felt – and they were engaged. It all played out. They married. They bought a house. It was fine.