Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (25 page)

“Jill, I was about to call you,” Iris says.

“You were?”

Iris lowers herself into a well padded chair, swivels toward her computer. She taps the keyboard and frowns, then rotates the monitor so I can look at the screen. Columns of numbers make me dizzy, especially when they’re red and they’re mine.

Thank God for Colin’s check.

“How about I pay three months on the mortgage and put fifteen-hundred against my loan?” I say.

Iris’s face breaks into a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

“I’d like to open a savings account as well.”

“Statement or passbook?”

“Passbook.” I haven’t had one of these in years, not since the boys were small. I’m kind of surprised they still offer them, and I have visions of watching my nest egg grow, compounded by interest and the money I’ll add by whipping up the odd logo or selling a kids’ book now and then. Maybe I’ll help Alistair pay off his college loans, give Jordan a down payment for a house instead of his wasting money on rent, or—

Iris hands me a form to sign. “How do you want to handle this?”

“With a banker’s check.”

She waits, smiling, hands resting on her desk while I dig into my purse. Where the devil is that check? When’s the last time I saw it? The day the water main broke, right before Colin arrived. Have I switched bags since then?

No.

Then it’s here. Somewhere.

Wallet, address book, and credit cards spill onto my lap. I fan the pages of my checkbook, paw through receipts, old shopping lists, a reminder from the vet about Zachary’s next checkup. I plunge deeper and rummage in the detritus at the bottom of my bag—pens with no tops, broken pencils, half an emory board, a comb sprouting brown and gray hairs.

Gray?

In desperation, I upend my bag and shake it. Two pennies and a dime roll across Iris’s desk. Three paperclips tumble out.

But no check.

Shit.

“How about your car?” Iris says.

Brilliant.

Ducking my head, I bolt from the bank in a downpour and tear through the Volvo, groping under seats and reaching inside door pockets. I lift floor mats and search the trunk while rain pelts my shoulders, sluices down my legs.

My toe starts to throb. Shivering, I slide into the passenger seat and pull off my sneaker, ease the sock off my foot. Doesn’t look good. Red, a little puffy. With wet, clumsy fingers, I tear the wrapping off a Band-Aid I find in the glove box, wrap it around my toe, and limp back to Iris’s office.

“Any luck?” she asks.

“No.” Slumping into my chair, I scowl at my purse, flat and empty like a deflated balloon amid a scatter of loose change. It swung from my shoulder throughout half of New England. Colin’s check could be anywhere—a motel in New Hampshire, a restaurant in Maine, the ladies’ room at Rosecliff. Feeding the fish in Newport harbor.

Lining someone else’s pocket?

“Can anyone besides me cash it?” I ask.

“Sure, with adequate identification,” Iris says. “But for now, let’s assume it’s lost, but not stolen. Okay?” She pulls another form from her desk, asks who issued the check and when. And yes, we can stop payment on a banker’s check but it has to be authorized by the person who actually purchased the check. You’ll have to contact them to arrange for this to be done.

She hands me the phone.

“Now?”

“The sooner the better.”

Colin doesn’t know I didn’t deposit his check.

Do I want to call and admit my stupidity with Iris sitting across from me, listening even though she’ll pretend not to?

“I’d rather handle this from home.” I scoop up my belongings and stuff them in my purse. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“No problem,” Iris says, “and if all else fails, I’m sure we can refinance your loans. Just remember to bring your last two tax returns, and a P-and-L for this year.”

“P-and-L?”

“Profit-and-loss statement.”

Profit?

Iris signals to a couple waiting outside her office. “Be with you in a minute.” To me, she says, “Jill, don’t waste any time. Arrange for that stop payment as soon as you can.”

My fingers tremble as I punch in Colin’s number. Please, please pick up. Please, please. I hear a click. Then another. The tone changes. Damn, I’m getting his voice mail again.

The number you called is no longer in service.

What the hell?

I must’ve misdialed, or mispunched, or whatever. Come on Jill, get a grip. Stop mucking about and do it right.

Click.
The number you called is—

Now what?

E-mail? But when I fire up my computer and launch AOL, I discover the note I sent him last night bounced back.

Unable to deliver, yada, yada …

I’ve got one option left. Call the lodge. But suppose Colin’s not there and I end up with Shelby, or Diana? What then? Do I hang up? Pretend to be somebody else? No, because this isn’t multiple choice. I take a deep breath and make the call.

But nobody answers.

Another storm hits at dawn, and I wake up, groggy and slow from the sleeping pill I took with reluctant desperation four hours ago. Rain pummels the roof, batters the balcony. My gutters overflow. Staggering out of bed, I close the sliding door and lean against it, hands and face pressed to the glass. The wind lifts a willow branch, shakes it and lifts another, and then another until the whole tree is shaking and leaning into the one beside it as the wind tears into that one as well, and the next, one by one, like a line of dominoes, shaking each one in turn before circling back and tearing through them all over again.

Over and over again.

Like me, yesterday, trying to reach Colin. Finally, I connected with an English operator who told me there’d been storms there as well. Many lines were down. Everything’s messed up, she said. Try again later.

Water plops on my head, trickles down my cheek.

That damn ceiling’s leaking again.

I gather towels and spread them on the floor, place buckets beneath the worst drips. Lightning strobes across the dunes, chased by cracks of thunder that rattle my windows. Zachary streaks between my legs and dives beneath the bed. More lightning, closer this time. Something pops, fizzles; the lights flicker and die, come back on again. Better unplug my computer, just to be safe. I stumble downstairs in the gloom and head for my office.

A crumpled fax lies on the floor.

Sands Point

August 2011

Do hearts stop beating with shock? With grief? Or do they thrash about like fish in a bucket the way mine is thrashing now? I sink to my knees and fold inward like the spines of a broken umbrella and everything hurts more than I thought it possibly could.

He’s on his way to New Zealand?

The phone rings.

I lunge for the receiver. “Colin?”

A recorded message asks if I’d like to buy life insurance. I drop the phone and begin to shake. I’m cold, very cold, so I haul myself upstairs, feet hitting the treads like sandbags, and pull on a sweater, a pair of wool socks.

Back straight, hands on my lap, I perch on the bed.

I am
not
going to fall apart. I am
not
weak. I am
not
one of those women who can’t cope. I can handle this. This is
not
the end of the world.

I
can
cope.

No, I can’t.

Snatching up a pillow, I wrap my arms around it and hug it so hard, feathers burst out. One settles on my nose, another on my lips. I blow them off. Damn, I ought to be crying, for God’s sake. I certainly
feel
like crying. I’d prefer an honest sob session to this dry-eyed stoicism. I blink, and blink again, but the tears refuse to come. They will eventually, of course they will, and I’ll quietly unravel and have a cleansing, therapeutic howl. I’ll destroy a whole box of tissues, and then …

What?

What, precisely,
will
I do?

I’m still trying to wrap myself around the enormity of this question and all it implies, when Zachary leaps on the bed. He rubs against me and purrs with comforting familiarity. Grateful for a warm, sympathetic body, I gather him up. My heart races, then skips a beat, and I fold my arms across my chest to keep it from escaping. Tears prick at my eyelids and I let them come, because they must, and I wonder if the pain I’m feeling now is the pain I ought to have felt, but never did, at the end of my marriage.

Justice, I suppose, has a way of catching up.

So, too, does loss.

It’s a vague, formless dream in which I’m falling an immeasurable distance with ample time to contemplate all manner of horrible landings. I keep fighting to the surface, and sometimes I get close, but then I remember why I’m sleeping and why I don’t want to wake up, even though it’s the middle of the day and I shouldn’t, really, be in bed.

I held his heart in my hand but he snatched it back.

The room’s almost dark the next time I open my eyes.

Pain. I’m aware of pain. A physical, pulsing pain. But where? It takes me a second or two to locate the source.

My foot.

I turn on the light and pull off my socks, ease the Band-Aid off my toe. It’s so swollen I can barely see what’s left of the nail. I need help.

Medical help.

“You have a nasty infection,” says the doc at the clinic. “Why did you let it get this far?”

I shrug.

“You’ll need antibiotics,” she says.

What I really need is an anesthetic. I need to sleep and sleep and not wake up until some time next year. The doctor jabs me in the thigh, wraps my toe, and tells me not to get it wet. Come back and see her on Friday. And get someone else to drive you, okay?

Sure.

I limp into the waiting room and lean against the desk while my insurance card is scanned. This has expired, says the nurse. She hands me a bill. Check or credit card?

My insurance has expired?

Iris understands when I explain about my foot, and did I stop payment on that check? Well, no, I didn’t. Then come and see me next Monday, Iris says, and don’t forget your paperwork.

Paperwork.

The damn stuff is spread like an accountant’s nightmare all over my desk. For three days, I’ve struggled with overdue bills, taxes, and a warning from a collection agency. Debts I have no way of paying off. One good thing, I suppose, to be said for my financial problem. It keeps me from obsessing over the other one.

What made him leave? Harriet and Beatrice? The fact I didn’t tell him about them? Or is he pissed at me for something else? Maybe I pushed him too hard about breaking with Shelby. I know he wants to leave her. He said so. And I know he wants to marry me because he said—

No he fucking didn’t. He never once said it. I’m the one who said it, over and over, to myself. But it was obvious, wasn’t it? I mean why tell me he’s going to leave England and come to live here if we’re not getting married? Hell, we don’t even have to actually get married, just as long as we live together.

Here. In my house.

Shit! Maybe he didn’t like my house and knew how I felt about it, but was too sensitive to tell me we ought to sell it and buy something together. Stop, Jill. That’s ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. He wouldn’t leave over something as dumb as that. He’d talk to me about it, wouldn’t he? My stupid Burt Lancaster fantasy rears up to taunt me and my brain turns to mush as I search for other clues, but all I do is circle back to one thing.

Colin hates gays. One of my best friends is gay. He can’t handle it. Or …

Maybe he’s right. Maybe we burned our candles at both ends and ran out of wax. My world tilts on its axis. I feel dizzy and lay my head on the table. Biting back tears, I contemplate the mess I’ve made of my life. My foot is infected, the bank’s about to call my loans, and the man I love has swanned off to New Zealand without me. Oh yes, I almost forgot. My two best friends despise me and my business has gone belly up.

What comes next? Rats? Locusts?

Bankruptcy?

The bank won’t refinance my loan unless I can prove a steady source of income. My business is dead, or having a long, embarrassed nap, and so now, obviously, I need a job. But where? Elaine’s made sure nobody in the village will hire me, so I’ll have to travel farther afield—Middletown or Hartford—and my car may not hold up, which means I’ll have to buy another, and God knows where I’ll find the money for that, and—

My head hurts, my toe throbs.

The front door bell rings. I really don’t want to see anyone.

I wait.

It rings again. Longer this time.

Damn! I limp down the hall and wrench open the door.

“I couldn’t find an olive branch,” Lizzie says, handing me a box of pizza, “so I got this instead.”

I stare at her, open-mouthed.