Read The Last Time They Met Online
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Adult
The Last Time They Met (14 page)
Once inside the door, Linda ran to the phone, praying the ringing would not stop just before she got there. She listened to the voice at the other end. Her free hand spiraled into the air and fluttered awkwardly. Thomas, beside her, held her errant hand.
—
I’m just so relieved to hear your voice,
she said into the phone, half laughing, half crying. She sat heavily on the bed. Thomas sat with her, releasing her hand.
I’m just so relieved to hear your voice,
she said into the phone, half laughing, half crying. She sat heavily on the bed. Thomas sat with her, releasing her hand.
Linda turned and mouthed,
It’s OK. It’s Marcus.
It’s OK. It’s Marcus.
—
I’m sorry about David,
Marcus, who sounded remarkably clear-headed, said.
I know he can be an asshole sometimes. I was too groggy to protest. I wanted to talk to you, but he was . . .
I’m sorry about David,
Marcus, who sounded remarkably clear-headed, said.
I know he can be an asshole sometimes. I was too groggy to protest. I wanted to talk to you, but he was . . .
—
Protective.
Protective.
—
Yeah.
Yeah.
—
Where are you?
Where are you?
—
I’m here. In Brattleboro.
There was a pause.
Mom, are you OK?
I’m here. In Brattleboro.
There was a pause.
Mom, are you OK?
—
I ran to get the phone. I was locked out. It’s a long story. I’m glad you let the phone ring so long.
I ran to get the phone. I was locked out. It’s a long story. I’m glad you let the phone ring so long.
—
They only let us have one phone call. Like jail. I wasn’t sure they’d let me try again.
They only let us have one phone call. Like jail. I wasn’t sure they’d let me try again.
—
How are you?
How are you?
—
I suppose I should be scared shitless, but, truthfully, all I feel is relief.
I suppose I should be scared shitless, but, truthfully, all I feel is relief.
—
Oh, Marcus.
Oh, Marcus.
She put her hand over the mouthpiece.
Marcus is at Brattleboro,
she said to Thomas.
Marcus is at Brattleboro,
she said to Thomas.
—
Mom? Who are you talking to?
Mom? Who are you talking to?
—
A man, Marcus. A man I used to know. Before your father.
A man, Marcus. A man I used to know. Before your father.
—
Really? That sounds intriguing.
Really? That sounds intriguing.
She was silent.
—
They only let you talk for five minutes,
Marcus said.
That’s what they said. And I can only make two calls a week.
They only let you talk for five minutes,
Marcus said.
That’s what they said. And I can only make two calls a week.
—
Is David there with you?
Is David there with you?
—
No, they made him leave. Almost immediately. I think the theory is that people from home put you in jeopardy. They want them out as soon as possible.
No, they made him leave. Almost immediately. I think the theory is that people from home put you in jeopardy. They want them out as soon as possible.
She, of course, was a person from home.
—
But they do allow visits. They invite you to come. In fact, I think they’ll insist that you come. They have all-day seminars so that you can learn how to handle me when I get out.
But they do allow visits. They invite you to come. In fact, I think they’ll insist that you come. They have all-day seminars so that you can learn how to handle me when I get out.
She smiled. Marcus’s irony might get him through this. Or was the irony part of the problem?
—
You’ll have to come with David,
Marcus added tentatively.
You’ll have to come with David,
Marcus added tentatively.
—
I like David,
Linda said.
I like David,
Linda said.
—
No you don’t. Sometimes I’m not even sure if I like him. You know how you can love someone but sometimes wonder why you’re with him?
No you don’t. Sometimes I’m not even sure if I like him. You know how you can love someone but sometimes wonder why you’re with him?
—
Yes. Yes, I do.
Yes. Yes, I do.
—
I’m going to have to go. There’s a man standing next to me, telling me to hang up. I can’t call Maria. I’ve used my one phone call . . .
I’m going to have to go. There’s a man standing next to me, telling me to hang up. I can’t call Maria. I’ve used my one phone call . . .
—
I’ll call her,
Linda said, relieved to have been given a task.
—
Don’t worry about that.
I’ll call her,
Linda said, relieved to have been given a task.
—
Don’t worry about that.
—
I love you, Mom.
I love you, Mom.
The
ease
with which he said it.
ease
with which he said it.
—
You’re doing the right thing, Marcus. You’re doing a wonderful thing.
You’re doing the right thing, Marcus. You’re doing a wonderful thing.
—
Mom, just one question. Did you know? Did you know I was a . . . an alcoholic?
Mom, just one question. Did you know? Did you know I was a . . . an alcoholic?
Not telling the truth now would be disastrous.
Yes,
she said.
Yes,
she said.
—
Oh. I just wondered.
Oh. I just wondered.
This was not the time to discuss why she had refused to allow herself to think the word, to say the word aloud.
I love you, too, Marcus,
she offered instead.
I love you, too, Marcus,
she offered instead.
She held the telephone in her hand for a long minute after he had broken the connection. She tried to picture Marcus at Brattleboro, but all she could see was a prison with a guard standing next to her son. This would be so much harder than either he or she knew.
—
There must be some relief in knowing that he’s safe,
Thomas said.
There must be some relief in knowing that he’s safe,
Thomas said.
And she nodded with the truth of what he’d said, although she also knew that he might easily have added, with equal sympathy,
None of us is safe.
None of us is safe.
For a time, they sat together on the bed, thinking about the phone call, not speaking. It was she, finally, who turned to him. She said his name. Not to keep the wonder alive, but for simple comfort, as two who are lost on a mountain will press their bodies together for warmth. She put a hand on his shirt, and he, his face lit with hope, answered with her name. Not Magdalene this time, but rather Linda, stripping away all artifice so that there was only clarity.
And then, as might have been anticipated, as might have been known, the gesture that she’d made became a sexual one. Animallike, Thomas smelled her hair, and she, likewise, was jolted by the scent of his skin. So much to recognize, and yet everything was different. She could not feel his bones along his back as she had once been able to, and she held her breath as his hand traveled along her belly and touched her breast. For a moment, the gesture felt illicit, and she had to remind herself that nothing was illicit now. And that knowledge was so surprising, she almost said it aloud, as one will blurt out a sudden truth. She moved her face to the side as he kissed her neck and collarbone. How long would it have been since he had last made love to a woman? Years ago? Last week? She didn’t want to know.
In silent agreement, they stood and removed their clothing, each avoiding examining the other while they did this, though together they turned the covers back as a married couple might. They slid against each other and along the silky sheets, and she thought of how, in the early years, they had not had a bed; and that later the beds, like their minutes together, had always been stolen, never their own. And that thought let in a flood of images that had been lost to her, small moments obliterated by all that had come after. She smelled a dank, salt-scented pier, her slip wet with sea water. She saw a bedroom in a foreign country, with its roof open to the sky. She saw a boy, standing shyly in a hallway with a box he had wrapped himself. She felt Thomas’s breath on her neck and a loosening in her bones. She saw glints upon the water as two teenagers sat on a hill overlooking the Atlantic, aching to possess the light as if it were water or food and could be stored for nourishment.
Thomas was whispering in her ear. She reached up and touched his scar, ran her fingers along the length of it. She wondered what his images were, what he was seeing. Or was it simpler for a man? Would Thomas have a sense of mission, fueled by desire, touching her as he was with his exquisite sense of timing, his perfect pitch?
—
I’ve always loved you,
he said.
I’ve always loved you,
he said.
She put her fingers to his lips. She did not want words, she who normally craved them, crawled toward them if need be. But now, she thought, just now everything could be said with the body. There were details, small things such as the softness at his waist or the thinning of his hair, that she would not linger over. Denial was sometimes essential for sex or love. Thomas was trailing his lips along her ribs, and it was lovely, and she was glad that this had not been lost.
A voice in the corridor woke her, and she strained to see behind the shades. It was dark still, the middle of the night. She could feel Thomas’s breath on her shoulder. She thought immediately that their coming together had been archival and primitive. Indeed, in retrospect, it seemed preordained. And for the first time since Vincent died, Linda was relieved that she was alone in the world, that there had been nothing furtive or illicit about making love with Thomas.
A foot had gone numb, and she tried to extricate it from the tangle of their legs and arms without waking Thomas; but he woke anyway and immediately pulled her closer as if she were about to leave him.
Don’t go,
he said.
Don’t go,
he said.
—
I won’t,
she said soothingly.
I won’t,
she said soothingly.
—
What time is it?
What time is it?
—
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
He kissed her.
Are you . . . ?
He paused, uncharacteristically lost for words.
Are you . . . ?
He paused, uncharacteristically lost for words.
She smiled. Thomas needing to be reassured, like any man.
I feel wonderful.
I feel wonderful.
And reassured, he stretched his body along her own.
There are more experiences in life than you’d think for which there are no words,
he said.
There are more experiences in life than you’d think for which there are no words,
he said.
—
I know.
I know.
They lay face-to-face, their eyes open.
—
I won’t ask you what you were thinking about,
she said.
I won’t ask you what you were thinking about,
she said.
—
You can ask me anything.
You can ask me anything.
—
Well, I was thinking about the day we sat on a hill overlooking the water,
she said.
Well, I was thinking about the day we sat on a hill overlooking the water,
she said.
—
That was the first time I ever saw you cry,
he said.
That was the first time I ever saw you cry,
he said.
—
It was?
It was?
—
You were crying from the beauty of it, like children do.
You were crying from the beauty of it, like children do.
She laughed.
I can’t feel that anymore. So much of the immediacy of beauty is gone. Muffled.
I can’t feel that anymore. So much of the immediacy of beauty is gone. Muffled.
—
Actually, I was thinking about that night on the pier when you jumped in the water in your slip.
Actually, I was thinking about that night on the pier when you jumped in the water in your slip.
—
My God, I didn’t even know you.
My God, I didn’t even know you.
—
I loved it.
He held her with one arm and pulled up the covers with the other.
Listen, I want to sleep with you now. But you have to promise you won’t leave me while I’m sleeping.
I loved it.
He held her with one arm and pulled up the covers with the other.
Listen, I want to sleep with you now. But you have to promise you won’t leave me while I’m sleeping.
—
I promise,
she said. Though he and she both knew that promises could no longer, with any certainty, be made or honored.
I promise,
she said. Though he and she both knew that promises could no longer, with any certainty, be made or honored.
The tables were awash with white linen, salmon chargers and heavy silver plate. In the background she could hear the muted hum of a vacuum. There were nearly thirty empty tables, yet still she waited to be seated while a waitress with a humpback consulted a plan. As Linda was led to a table, a man’s pager went off with a musical song.
She liked the anonymity of breakfast, the license to watch others. Beside her an elderly woman and a middle-aged daughter were discussing another woman’s chemotherapy. Linda fingered the tablecloth and wondered if the linen was washed and starched every day.
Thomas stood at the entrance to the dining room, freshly showered, in a white shirt and gray V-neck sweater. He hadn’t seen her yet, and for a moment, she was able to examine him. He seemed taller and trimmer than she’d remembered from the day before, but perhaps that was just his posture. He seemed less unkempt and more relaxed as well. Or happier. Yes, it might be happiness.
—
You’re quick,
he said, meaning her showering and dressing. He unsnapped his napkin and placed it over his lap. The humpbacked waitress immediately brought another cup of coffee to the table.
You’re quick,
he said, meaning her showering and dressing. He unsnapped his napkin and placed it over his lap. The humpbacked waitress immediately brought another cup of coffee to the table.
—
I was hungry,
she said.
I was hungry,
she said.
—
I’m ravenous.
I’m ravenous.
She smiled. This might be awkward. What would be expected would be arrangements, tentative promises.
Why don’t we plan to meet?
one of them would have to say.
I’d like to see you again,
the other might feel compelled to offer. She wondered if it was possible to live episodically, not planning for the future, not even allowing thoughts of the future to enter into her consciousness. Though such thoughts might be necessary and primeval, the need to plan a vestige from the days of hoarding and storing for the lean months.
Why don’t we plan to meet?
one of them would have to say.
I’d like to see you again,
the other might feel compelled to offer. She wondered if it was possible to live episodically, not planning for the future, not even allowing thoughts of the future to enter into her consciousness. Though such thoughts might be necessary and primeval, the need to plan a vestige from the days of hoarding and storing for the lean months.
—
When does your flight leave?
he asked.
When does your flight leave?
he asked.
—
I have to head for the airport right after breakfast.
I have to head for the airport right after breakfast.
—
I’ll go with you,
he said quickly.
I’ll go with you,
he said quickly.
—
When is your flight?
When is your flight?
—
Not until this afternoon. But I won’t stay here. I’d rather be at the airport.
Not until this afternoon. But I won’t stay here. I’d rather be at the airport.
They would go home on different flights. It seemed a waste, all those hours of separate confinement.
They ordered extravagantly, and it was impossible not to see something of a celebration in that extravagance. When the waitress had left, Thomas took Linda’s hand, holding it lightly by the fingers. The men in golf shirts at the next table looked like boys compared to Thomas. Underdressed. Ill-mannered.
—
Hull is not so far from Belmont,
Thomas said tentatively.
Hull is not so far from Belmont,
Thomas said tentatively.
—
We could meet in Boston for a dinner sometime,
she offered.
We could meet in Boston for a dinner sometime,
she offered.
—
You could
—
theoretically
—
come visit your aunt in Hull.
You could
—
theoretically
—
come visit your aunt in Hull.
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