Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend (12 page)

Later, with post-football game traffic moving along the streets outside, he fetched beers for them. When he came back into
the bedroom Jellie was sitting on her knees, legs under her. She’d grinned at him, hair hanging in disarray above her breasts.
He lay down beside her, and she touched his chest. “It was worth the wait,” she said quietly. Malachi lay in the doorway,
head on his paws, brown eyes turned up toward the bed. Casserole sat on the dresser and licked a paw.

Michael ran his hand slowly along Jellie’s body.
“Now
it seems worth the wait. It didn’t seem that way while waiting.” He raised up on one elbow. “One of my many quirks is I get
crazy hungry after making love. How’s a toasted cheese sandwich sound? That’s about all I have.”

“Make three, and we’ll each have one plus another to share.” She leaned over and kissed him. “My secret passion is fried potatoes
with a little onion mixed in. You got potatoes, motorcycle man, big fresh ones?” She smiled. “Out in the kitchen, I mean.”

“I got potatoes, Jellie-Who-Sometimes-Talks-Raunchy-in-the-Afternoon. I also got onions and lots a beer.”

“We’re in fat city. You cook the sandwiches, I’ll handle potatoes. Deal?”

“Deal. Do we have to get dressed, though? I love seeing you naked.”

“God, no. Given what I suspect—what I hope—will go on after we eat, that’d be wasted effort.” She bounced off the bed. “On
to the naked kitchen for naked lunch, then. Who said that, naked lunch? I should know. William…”

“Burroughs. OP wild and woolly William S. It’s the title of one of his books.”

“Get out the bread and show me the potatoes, Captain America. I’m starving, too.”

Two weeks later she was gone. She’d had surges of guilt about Jimmy. So had Michael. Jellie cried once, thinking of it. “How
can I be so callous and yet not care I’m being callous? I want you so much nothing matters, not guilt or anything like that.”

But something had gone wrong in her marriage. It had been there for a long while, and the semester in England had underscored
it, brought it into hard, sharp relief. Michael asked if that was merely rationalization to salve over what the two of them
were doing.

She shook her head. “I keep thinking of the word
inertia.
Sometimes, I think people stay together because of inertia and not much else. I have the feeling Jimmy and I are riding a
tired horse, but we just keep going on because we don’t know what else to do. Jimmy wants to be a university administrator,
a dean or something, and I can’t get very excited about that, about being a good little administrator’s wife. I told him I
want to finish my master’s, go on for a Ph.D., and find a teaching position. He only said it would be difficult for both of
us to find jobs we want at the same university. We had a couple of bad arguments about that in England.”

Michael let her talk, let her work through all of the complicated things she was feeling. In some ways, Jellie was a traditional
woman. In other ways, she was the new and emancipated woman, intent on finding her own way in the world. All of that was difficult
enough to sort out by itself, and now he’d entered the situation and cluttered it up even more. Though, when Michael mentioned
that, she was kind enough to say he was not part of the clutter. But he was.

Jellie had to go to Syracuse for Thanksgiving. Her parents had come out to Cedar Bend last year, so it was her turn to visit
them. Jimmy’s folks were coming up from Rhode Island. She and Michael spent the entire afternoon together the day before she
left, and he picked up something a little different in her behavior, something that started to haunt him.

“Anything the matter, Jellie?”

She looked at him lovingly. There was no question about how she felt, as far as he could tell. “No, not really.” He didn’t
push it, figuring it would pass.

Michael fiddled around over the long Thanksgiving weekend, counting the hours until Jellie would return. He fixed a tuna sandwich
on turkey day and ate it while looking at the Polaroid of Jellie standing by a stone wall in Ireland. The computer keyboard
was dusty, and the Shadow needed work, but he couldn’t find any motivation to do anything except jog in the mornings and think
about her.

On Sunday evening the department head called and asked if Michael could cover Jimmy’s econometrics class the next day. Jimmy
had been delayed in Syracuse, some kind of personal emergency was all the department head knew. Michael went crazy, paced
the floor, pounded the walls, Malachi and Casserole watching him in a kind of wonder.

Monday night and still no word. He got the Markhams’ phone number from information and dialed it. Eleanor Markham answered.
Jesus, it would have to be Mother Markham. Michael used the pretense he was covering Jimmy’s class and wanted some idea of
how long he might be away. Shallow, transparent, but then he wasn’t thinking very well.

Mrs. Markham was cool, very cool—brittle, in fact—and said Jimmy was on his way back to Cedar Bend. She had known something
about Jellie and the motorcycle man a year ago. She knew a great deal more now, Michael had a hunch. She’d said
Jimmy
was on his way back. She hadn’t used both their names or a plural pronoun, indicating both of them were returning. Michael
was screaming inside and wanted to ask about Jellie, but he had the clear sensation Eleanor Markham had no interest in talking
with him about anything.

He hung up and went absolutely wild in his head. The phone rang fifteen minutes later. It was Jimmy. He was back and wanted
to come over. Michael said, “Yes, come right away, no problem, come as soon as you want to,” obviously overplaying it, but
Jimmy didn’t have a feeling for that kind of stuff and missed it completely.

He rapped on Michael’s door five minutes later. Michael knew there was serious business afoot, just by looking at him. No
tie, rumpled clothing, hair askew. Not the Newport Jimmy Braden Michael had come to know.

“Michael, something terrible has happened, and I don’t have anyone to talk to about it. I’m close to falling apart.”

The voice inside Michael’s head was shouting, “Jimmy Braden, you fey little bastard, what’s going on? Where’s Jellie?” It
was screaming loud enough for Jimmy to hear, but he didn’t because he wasn’t listening. Jimmy merely sat on a kitchen chair,
put his head in his hands, and cried. Michael brought himself down—level, brother—get level, stay level, and ask the right
questions.

“Talk to me, Jimmy. What’s happened? Does it have something to do with Jellie?”

He sobbed and moved his head up and down in the affirmative. Don’t panic, get the information, get to the bottom, omit the
extraneous junk and side issues. “Where’s Jellie?”

Jimmy looked up, crying hard, and got it out: “She’s gone to India.”

“What?” Michael nearly shouted. “India? What the hell for? What’s going on? Get straight and talk to me, Jimmy. I can’t be
of any help unless you do that. Why’d she go?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t have a fight or anything. Saturday morning Jellie just said she had some things to think about and
was going to India. Christ, Michael, I begged her, groveled, said whatever it was could be worked out, but she wouldn’t talk
about it. She wasn’t mean or cold, none of that, just far away from all of us, thinking about something. It was an awful scene,
an absolute hell. Her parents were screaming, my parents were screaming, I was stumbling all over the place, and Jellie was
packing her suitcase.”

“Okay,” Michael said. “We don’t know
why
she went, but do you know
where
she went? She once mentioned a place called Pondicherry, in the southeast. Is that where she went?”

“I don’t know.”

Jimmy was sniffling again. Michael scrounged around for a box of tissues, couldn’t find any, went in the John and brought
out a new roll of toilet paper. Jimmy ripped off a wad and worked on his eyes with it, his voice thick and wet, phlegm in
his throat. He blew his nose and said, “I tried to find out where she went, but the airlines won’t give out that information
on passengers. India’s a huge place, so it’s hard to say where she is, but, yes, she spent time in Pondicherry when she was
there before.”

Jimmy didn’t drink coffee or beer. Michael poured him a glass of orange juice, lit a cigarette, and went over to the Shadow,
straddling it, arms folded. He looked up at the wall and saw the picture of Jellie hanging there, decided it wasn’t a good
idea for Jimmy to see it displayed so prominently. When Jimmy went back to wiping his eyes, Michael took it down and slid
it under some papers on the desk. Jimmy Braden sat bent over, elbows on his knees, at the same kitchen table where Michael
had made love with his wife a week ago, scraping the salt and pepper shakers onto the floor as he laid her down. She was laughing
then.

“When did she leave, Jimmy? What airline was she taking out of New York?”

“Saturday night. She left Saturday night. She took a flight out of Syracuse to Kennedy. Wouldn’t even let me or anyone else
go to the airport with her and wouldn’t tell me what airline she was taking out of New York.”

“Somehow none of this sounds like Jellie,” Michael said. Smiling, warm, caring Jellie. It didn’t sound like her at all.

“I know it doesn’t. That’s what makes it so strange, Michael. It seems so unlike her.”

Or maybe it isn’t, Michael thought. Maybe there are things about Jellie Braden none of us know, or at least that he and Jimmy
didn’t know.

“Jimmy, I’m going to ask you a question. You can choose whether or not to answer it. I don’t have to know, but I’ve somehow
gotten this sense Jellie doesn’t like to talk about her India days. Did something happen to her over there?”

Jimmy looked up. “Michael, I can’t say anything about that. I’d tell you if I could, but I just can’t. I just can’t. Please
understand.”

Michael appreciated him for feeling that way and sticking to it. It would have been easy at a time like this to spill out
the whole story, but he didn’t. Michael decided Jimmy Braden might be a better man than he’d given him credit for.

“All right, then let me ask this: Do you think whatever happened to her in India had anything to do with her going back there
now?”

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine why, if she’s told me the truth about her time in India. Like I said, I can’t talk about it,
but I guess I
can
say what occurred in India was over a long time ago, or at least I thought it was.”

Michael needed time to think, be by himself and start working out the options. Yet he didn’t want to let Jimmy go home alone
in this condition.

“Jimmy, want me to arrange for someone to take your classes for a while, until you get yourself together again?”

“No, I need to be doing something. I’ve never been good at just sitting around and thinking, at introspection. I’ve got to
get myself squared away somehow, and maybe getting back to school will help. Jellie just needs time to think, I’m sure.”

Michael lowered his opinion of Jimmy by an amount greater than he’d raised it a moment ago. Jesus Christ, he thought, don’t
put up with this shit, man. Screw the university. Get on the first plane to India and start looking for your wife. Talk to
her, try to sort it out. That was not the way of Jimmy Braden, though. He was going to lie back and take it, and hope.

But Jimmy Braden had never changed the oil in a banker’s car when summer was high and the wind from the western lands was
hot and made your greasy clothes stick to your body. He’d never stuck his head under the hood of an automobile and listened
to the turn of an engine while his father staggered around with a flask in his pocket and yelled at him. And Jimmy Braden
had never cut hard to the right and gone into the air with his knee swollen and twelve thousand crazed assholes screaming
for and against him.

Jimmy had counted on the momentum of blood and wealth to carry him along. He’d never ridden in steerage, which made him inert
when assertiveness was required—if there’s no need to climb, then there’s no reason to learn how to climb. That was Jimmy’s
way, and Michael understood it.

But it wasn’t Michael’s way. And, at that moment, he felt something deep and sad for Jimmy Braden. Inside of Jimmy, someplace,
there had to be the old push from our times forty thousand years back, out on the grasslands, when the choice was either to
fight for what was yours or have it taken by the malevolence around you. Civilization has its benefits, but it had robbed
Jimmy and others like him of the basic instincts.

When things stabilized and Michael was reasonably sure the husband of Jellie Braden could make it through the night, he got
him into his Buick and on the road. Jimmy said just talking about getting back to his work made him feel better, that at least
he still had his work and maybe they could talk some more tomorrow.

He also blurted out a curious statement, saying he believed how he felt was mostly a matter of pride. Some of the old ways
from the grasslands evidently
were
still there, but he couldn’t take the next step. Before Jimmy’s car turned the corner, Michael was looking in the Yellow
Pages for airline telephone numbers.

I
f you want to get to India fast, you deal with Air India. It’s the national airline and a good one. Every night at eight-thirty
flight 102 lifts off from Kennedy and makes a two-hour stop in London the next day. Afterward it heads nonstop for either
Delhi or Bombay, alternating between the two cities, depending on the day.

There are other options, some of them convoluted. Aeroflot can get you to Delhi, but you have to put up with a long layover
in Moscow. Before it collapsed, Pan Am went to Delhi twice a week from New York via Frankfurt. Those were the major eastern
routes, except for British Air, which Michael had never ridden out to India. The western routes can get even more circuitous—several
different airlines and overnight layovers in Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur or Singapore.

After checking his atlas to make sure he knew where Pondicherry was located, Michael called Air India. It was booked solid
for the next fourteen nights, with two seats available on December 11 and one on December 13, then solid again until after
Christmas. Given the number of expatriates and former citizens out in the world, India has relatively sparse international
air service, but the Indians all go home around Christmastime, and things get very tight from Thanksgiving forward.