Stop Here (15 page)

• • •

The dogs bark as she nears the door. Inside, they wrap themselves around her legs. Stroking their sleek bodies, she murmurs, “Hush,” refusing to say their hateful names. Murray, in a thick terry cloth robe, watches like a pleased proprietor. He offers her a sip of his wine, which she declines. “Tired, I'm off to bed.”

“I've been waiting up. I have something to say about us,” he declares.

Is this the moment where everything changes? Has he had enough, wants out from this woman who fills so few of his needs. Oh she sleeps with him, but is she affectionate? Does she make him feel important? Or has someone told him about Harry? Is he about to send her away? She wants to say can't this wait till the weekend, that she doesn't like being blind sided, but Murray's withheld fury can be frightening. She follows him to the living room.

He sits too close on the ridiculously long sofa. She glances at the refurbished room, new chairs, lamps, and tables, paintings hung; the dogs are asleep in the corner; the silence broken by the sound of the surf, which pulses like an angry heart. Is now the time for truth? When he takes her hand, she feels only trepidation.

“I want to make you happy. But you're not behaving the way a wife should.”

“Behaving? I'm not a child.”

“Cut me a break, okay? I don't want to fight over words.” He drops her hand. “I've decided we should go away for a week. I can't leave the diner longer than that. Lie on a beach, relax together.” Oh god, he's climbed into her Harry fantasy. Is he toying with her too? Does he know more than he's letting on? Except it isn't like him to be subtle.

“And I don't like your job . . . it takes all your time . . . the hours . . . the nights . . .” The familiar lament goes on but she tunes out.

She sighs loudly. He stops talking and gazes at her.

“Having a beautiful house doesn't fulfill me the way it fulfills you. It's why I went back to work.” The truth in pieces. It's the only path that seems possible.

“Why do you have to come home so late?” his voice plaintive, his expression sorrowful, deepening creases track the sides of his mouth. He can't fathom being the cause of her distress.

“A day or two . . . then I promise we'll have this talk. Now, though, I need to get some rest.”

“We can't put it off longer than that.” He strokes her hair. “Okay, go to bed.”

She walks away quickly, praying he won't call her back. Coward! He turns off the lights, follows her, then slides in bed spooning her. He kisses the back of her neck, presses her shoulder to turn around. She does, easier than explaining why not.

• • •

She prepares the morning coffee, then leaves quickly to take her shower. When, finally, she hears his car backing out of the garage, dogs in the backseat, the relief floods her. She phones the office, leaves a message that she won't be in without saying why. Indecision churns her insides. Pulling on a pair of sweats and heavy socks, she finds her sneakers, and wraps a scarf around her neck. She grabs her old peacoat from the hall closet and stuffs gloves in her pocket.

• • •

Walking along the muddy shore, hair whipping her cheeks, spray dampening her face, she misses Liam again. He knew about Harry. She told him the affair was opening her mind to possibilities she'd forgotten existed. That Harry's hand might lead her out of her marriage. Liam thought she was searching for her feelings the way a painter seeks light.

She makes her way to where Liam had his lean-to. All traces of it are gone except for a vague shadow where the coal fire used to be. Up here the sand is drier. She sits and stares at the dusky horizon, the black water. A few gulls sweep over her still-discernible house. There's no hint of sun. The fast-moving clouds are dizzying. She never saw Liam work. He painted in the early morning but often he'd leave out a canvas for her to see. She'd marvel at his ability to see so many different scenes in the same place. He explained it's what made creating exciting.

Almost overnight, it seemed, he stopped painting and retreated to a chair on his patch of lawn. She brought whatever creature comforts she thought he needed, though he never asked for a thing. He wouldn't discuss what was ailing him. He hardly ate, barely talked. He took to his bed and stayed there. His last weeks remain painful to contemplate. He'd look around the room with faint wonder or study his hands as if they held some final secret.

Two of his sea paintings hang in her living room. Murray likes them because they prove where he lives. No doubt Harry would appreciate them as well.

Murray and Harry, each with his version of her. If she has an abortion, neither man would have to know. So what's stopping her? Nothing but a clump of cells moving toward recognition, that's all it is now, the doctor said. Soon, though, it'll resemble Casper the ghost in those ultrasound pictures women bring to the office. Except it'll be
her
ghost taking shape.

Dolls never attracted her, fake babies with silly big knees. A real baby will have needs she can't even fathom. She used to imagine being a mother different from her own. A ridiculous memory, as ridiculous as thinking she could care for a child by herself. Food, clothes, rent, sitters . . . her theater-days are over. And so too any chunks of money they used to bring in. Besides she's too old for anything but character roles and would have to wait eons between them.

The screams of wheeling gulls split the air. Wind bites her cheeks, sand lands on her lap. A coin of sun peeks through the clouds, then disappears, the entire scene bleak. If Liam were here he'd remind her that place reflects feelings. If she shared her ambivalence, he'd no doubt say there's such a fine line between delay and denial.

Hoisting herself off the sand, brushing herself off, she wraps the scarf around her head and trudges back to the house. If she dresses quickly, she'll make the afternoon train to Wantagh.

• • •

She pays the driver and watches the taxi head to the mall to pick up a fare. In the graying late afternoon light the neon sign flashes
Murray's Diner
. A silver-striped bus with polished aluminum siding. The long, wide windows clean as new morning. Murray's as fastidious about the diner's appearance as she is about her own. Dressed now in forest-green slacks, lime color sweater, makeup, she's ready for an audience.

Pushing open the door to the tinny sound of chimes, the sizzling smells of burgers and fries greet her along with the faint scent of barbecue sauce. Ava waves, eyebrows raised with questions. Why isn't Sylvie at work? Is something wrong? Did she quit? Q uestions only slightly offtrack. Once the affair ends, so will her job. Mila, wrapped in her puffy jacket, is ready to leave. The shift changes at four but everyone's putting in extra hours to cover for Rosalyn. The wall clock reads ten past five. She hangs her coat on one of the hooks.

“How are you?” Mila asks on her way out.

“Fine. And how's Darla?”

Mila shrugs, frowns. “Haven't heard bad news yet. Murray's in the storeroom, want me to get him?”

“No. I'll find him, thanks.”

“I'm out of here, “ Mila swings past, allowing in a burst of cold air.

“Coffee?” Ava calls.

“Tea, thanks.” She sits on a stool, elbows on the counter. “You look wonderful.” Ava's newly styled hair frames her slim face with soft curls.

“You think so?” Ava half turns to catch herself in the mirror, then leaves to set up two customers. It's not quite dinnertime, but half the tables are filled and there's a low buzz of voices.

Nick carries out a heavy tub of clean coffee mugs and places it under the counter. He looks a bit sleepy but handsome as ever; perhaps he just came in. He nods to her; she smiles, wonders if he opens up with Ava. Their romance upsets Murray, who fears that Nick will walk if he complains. Murray brings home each employee's transgression and wants her sympathy. It pisses him off when she defends the staff. He
is
holding open Rosalyn's job for another month, though he's sure she's not coming back. Even more surprising, he visited Rosalyn twice, once in the hospital, once at home. He said Dina was there helping out. She would've asked for particulars, but Murray's more about what's right or wrong than descriptions.

The leather booths, small, square tables, inlaid floor, low ceiling, Formica counter, familiar reflections in the gold-flecked mirror. At this very counter, she and Murray spoke for the first time ahead of a short courtship full of activity: bars, restaurants, sightseeing, Saturday nights at B&Bs in the Hamptons. Weekday evenings he'd show up outside her office full of enthusiasm about a new dinner place he'd discovered. He seemed indefatigable and it charmed her. He admired her, it was clear. He listed all the things about her that pleased him, and not just once. He was open about why he never married, how most women bored him. He told her what he wanted, what he was waiting for, drawing her into the simplicity of his confessions more than any chemical attraction.

What of that matters now? she wonders. Her face in the mirror offers no clues; her resolve dissipates by the second. She must get this scene over with. How else to go on? Leaving the comfort of other people's presence, she descends the storeroom steps slowly. The urge to turn back remains strong. Halfway down, the dogs leap up to greet her, nearly toppling her. “Easy, easy,” she cautions. There are boxes piled against walls, supplies fill metal shelves that reach the low ceiling where a dim overhead bulb casts an eerie light.

Murray in rolled up shirtsleeves and an old cobbler's apron from who knows when stares at her as if she's a ghost.

“Didn't mean to shock you. I just wanted to—”

“Why aren't you at work?” he scolds. He fears surprises even more than she does.

“I took the day.” She scans the room, which has no chairs and only two tiny windows. It's a cellar. A faint whiff of pesticide threatens to nauseate her.

“Why are you here?”

“Can we go somewhere else to talk?”

“Why?” his tone suspicious.

“I can't talk here.” Either the room has contracted or claustrophobia has her by the throat.

“What do you want?” He's not going to make this easy.

“Murray . . . please,” she begs. “Meet me somewhere.”

He stands there as if his feet are nailed to the floor, wearing an angry anxious expression that asks why is she doing this to him?

“Murray? Where? Please?”

“Sully's,” he says reluctantly. His eyes are steady on her.

“I'll be there.” She turns away quickly lest he find a way to keep her in this dungeon.

The dogs follow her up the steps. “No. Stay.”

“Rummy. Cheney. Down, now!” Murray shouts. His voice goes through her. The dogs obey.

Upstairs, a temp is wiping tables. Ava watches the woman with a mournful look, maybe thinking of Rosalyn.

Sylvie grabs her coat. “See you soon,” she calls without turning. The door chimes shut behind her.

Snowflakes drift and whirl in the sudden wind, a purple tinge ahead of the darkening sky. Sounds of highway traffic fill her ears. The distant small houses with doors shut tight remind her there's no one available to help her. Why not simply disappear . . . woman last seen at diner . . . Pulling her coat close, she hurries toward the glittering shop lights of the mall.

• • •

The smell of spilled beer and old cigarette smoke lingers in the air, but it's warm inside. If Sully's were well lit all would be revealed, the warped floor, aging walls. Like an old theater, it's weathered many tales. She finds a table in the rear where early on she and Murray had drinks and spoke of past events. He described how badly he'd wanted to be a boxer, the hours he put in at the gym. But his hands were too small; no one would take him on; how awful the rejection. She told him about her mother's drinking problem, her father's suicide. He said simply, she'd turned out fine. What didn't she see then?

Her eyes travel the dark corridor leading to the door and his arrival. He'll explode, of course he will. He'll be enraged, incoherent, ask—no, demand—over and over why she took up with Harry as if any of her answers will register. He'll accuse her of being wanton, loose, a betrayer of everything good. Or is that what she thinks? He'll be devastated as well. Lord knows what it will do to him. Any other scene she'd know her cues, but not here, not now.

Her thoughts whirl dizzily, her throat tight, perhaps a shot of bourbon to warm the cold fear, or a martini for courage? The bartender is on his cell phone with his back to her. She's the only customer. The table holds a smudgy one-page menu she can't imagine consulting, and remembers Harry fingering last night's menu. It's finished with Harry, has to be, of that she's certain. What's weird is how little she cares.

The door bangs open and Murray rushes in, unzipped ski jacket flapping, woolen hat in hand; snow glancing his hair. His face scrunched tight, his eyes find her.

“I didn't order drinks,” she says before he can sit. “I'll have club soda.” He looks at her with alarm, then strides to the bar. Knocks hard on the counter to get the bartender's attention, then his eyes remain steady on her. She turns away, nothing on the wall but frayed pennants, old photos.

Murray slams down her soda, the spray wetting the table. He takes a long pull of scotch, then drops into a chair without taking off his jacket. His jaw is locked, his hands balled in fists, his shoulders hunched defensively. He's breathing hard. It's unnerving.

“Talk.” His imperial tone, the one he uses with the dogs. Her stomach clenches. She takes a sip of soda. Truth in pieces, she reminds herself, first the pregnancy, then Harry, then she'll flee.

He leans his face close to hers, the smell of scotch on his breath mingling with aftershave. “Talk,” he demands again.