Sacred Time (16 page)

“Want…You want to hear about the one man I wanted.”

“In addition to the men you
had?”

“I met him just once—on my wedding day. He was Malcolm's best man.”

“Julian.”

“You remember him.”

“Julian Thompson. I danced with him.”

Floria's eyes sharpen.

“He was a sensational dancer.” Leonora arches her back. “Not half as handsome as Malcolm. But what a dancer. He builds furniture, right? Mostly I remember him because Victor got jealous. It was only our second date. So…Julian Thompson…Did you do it with him, too?”

“Of course not. It was my wedding day.”

“Well…how about the day after?”

“That's enough.”

“Or you could have waited a week or two.”

“I'm not a slut.”

“Of course not. I'm sorry. Will you still tell me about Julian Thompson?”

Floria hesitates.

“I'm sorry I teased you like this.”

“All right…Malcolm rented a room in Hartford from Julian's parents for a while. You know…after he left England, when he lived all over the place.”

Leonora nods.

“He stayed in Hartford for almost a year. Became friends with Julian. Years later, he invited him to our wedding. To be the best man and to drive the limo. Typical Malcolm—renting a stretch limo without a driver—grandiose and cheap. It was snowing when Julian drove me to St. Nicholas of Tolentine, and when we arrived, he opened my door and reached for my hands. I tell you, a jolt ran up my arms, down my entire body and through my legs into the earth—something that's never happened with Malcolm, and I knew I was about to make a huge mistake, marrying Malcolm. Julian was looking at me with such regret, such tenderness, that I was sure he felt the same. But here I stood, shaking all over—supposed to walk up the church steps in this wedding gown I'd sewn, walk down the aisle on Papa's arm toward the altar, where Malcolm waited in a suit he'd borrowed from a neighbor—and what else could I do?”

“Run the other way?”

“It never occurred to me that I could.” Floria draws her lower lip between her teeth. “Maybe now.” She nods. “Maybe now I would.”

“What happened to Julian?”

“I haven't seen him since. He married the following January, and we couldn't afford to go to his wedding. But we used to exchange Christmas cards, sometimes photos, their son, Mick, our girls—” Floria pulls her head into her shoulders as if she'd been struck.

Our girls.

Quickly, Leonora covers the back of Floria's hand with her palm.

“It's always there.” Floria turns her hand beneath Leonora's, palm to palm. “Except sometimes I forget and hear myself say ‘the twins' or ‘the girls.'”

“There are no words to tell you how terribly sorry I am,” Leonora whispers. “Every day. Every hour.”

“Every day…every hour…” Floria curls her fingers upward, laces them through Leonora's. Her nails are perfect ovals without polish. “Do you know how often I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed in your kitchen with her? Or if I'd come back a few seconds sooner?”

“I keep doing the same thing. See myself screaming at Bianca to get away from that window.”

“Screaming at her to take off that cape. Slamming the window shut. And it all becomes so real that I feel the cold air on my arms…see the snow.”

“I am so sorry….” Though Leonora has waited for Floria to mention that day, has imagined this, it doesn't restore what she hoped for, that quirky, dependable closeness. “So very sorry.” Lowering her head, Leonora presses her lips against the knot of fingers between them, tightens her fingers. And still Floria feels unreachable. Unforgiving.

Ever since Bianca's death, Leonora has been afraid that her father's violence may live on in her son, confused because it's a violence that doesn't fit her son. But, then, it didn't fit the father from before the violence started, the father
who carries me beneath the red umbrella, the father who takes me to Far Rockaway, to his favorite restaurant, which is no wider than a hallway. Fried chicken and home fries and creamed corn. As I finish eating, a tall black man comes in, bends across my plate, looks closely at the chicken bones and skin. “What have you been eating, girl? Was it splendid and tasty?” I tell him yes, tell him it was splendid and tasty, and he's laughing along with my father. “I'll have the same,” he tells the waiter. And my father winks at me and says, “Excellent choice.”

She believed she'd left the fear at her father's grave, but it's here with her now, fear for her son, and there's a sadness in Floria's face that makes Leonora certain that she, too, is fearing for Anthony. Floria's fingers are longer than her own, rounder, causing wider gaps than when Leonora laces her own fingers, and when Floria disengages her fingers those gaps feel carved, feel forever, and Leonora readies herself for any accusation Floria will make against Anthony.

“He's divorced now,” Floria says.

“Oh—you mean Julian.”

“Don't you think he has forgotten me?”

Leonora divides the last of the clear Sambuca, a few drops more for Floria. “Maybe he's waiting for you.”

“Don't be silly.” Floria rests her forehead on the table. “I'm so tired.”

“Want me to get the couch ready for you?”

“No. I'll close my eyes for a few minutes before I leave. Sometimes I'm sure it's the most significant love I've known. Because it…stayed like it was that one day.” Floria's voice fades. “We…never had a chance to disappoint each other or…”

“In a marriage you would have found plenty of chances for that.”

Floria sighs. Takes a deep breath. Another. Lets out a delicate snore.

She's still fast asleep at the table when Victor brings Anthony home. He frowns when he sees her here but doesn't say anything. Neither does Leonora. They're silent as they untie Anthony's shoes—wet from rain—and help him out of his suit. Limp with exhaustion, he allows them to lead him to his bed, tuck him in. Leonora suspects he is acting younger than he is to keep them both here with him.

Victor kisses his forehead. “Sleep tight.” He follows Leonora into the hallway.

“Go now,” she tells him.

“Can't we sit down for a while?”

“I already sat down today.”

“I mean sit down and talk.”

“I already talked today.”

“Please?”

“What for?”

“I don't know. I don't even know what I want to say to you. Only that I don't want to go yet.”

“Want want want…”

“It's not like that.”

“Why don't you go home to Elaine and—”

“It's not home.”

“—and figure out with her what you
want.”

“This has nothing to do with Elaine. And it's—”

“That's one hell of a statement to make on the day of your engagement to her.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“I can't help you with that, Victor.” Leonora steps around him, places both hands against his shoulder blades—
How long since I've touched you? How long?
—and shoves him toward the door. All day she's been by this door, waiting for someone to leave or to arrive. Opening it. Closing it. Opening it now for Victor, who is still talking.

Talking about talking.
“How do I know what I really
have
to say to you until I start saying it?”

She seals his mouth with her palm, and doesn't yank it away when he kisses her fingers, her arms, her neck. She pushes the door closed, shakes off her robe, helps him with that ridiculous cummerbund. There, with her back against the front door, it's urgent between them, rougher than ever, lust and danger, while Floria and Anthony are sleeping nearby. She feels weightless as he lifts her, heavy as she opens herself and sinks around him—
and it could always be like that, like that again
—yet, just as she's about to come, she feels disoriented because, it's all new and it's not.

And then she knows. And is livid. “You've learned from that woman.”

“I love you.”

“You have fucking learned from that fucking woman.”

“The only one I want to be with is you.”

“Why don't you try fucking her with both of you standing on your heads?” She snatches her robe from the carpet. Wobbles for an instant and, absurdly, finds herself thinking how it's almost time for the bare floor of summer, and she reminds herself to call the carpet man to pick up the rugs and clean them, keep them till fall. “Remind me to call the carpet man.”

“Let me stay?”

She flings the cummerbund at him.

“You have learned, too. Think about that. We both have learned.”

She's jostling him out the door. Locking it behind him. When she checks on Anthony, he's sleeping on his stomach. At the kitchen table, Floria is snoring softly, and Leonora covers her with the orange-and-green afghan that Riptide crocheted for her.

In her bedroom, Victor watches from the wedding photo, his eyes burning her skin.

“No,” she tells him.

We both have learned.

“Don't you dare,” she tells him, feeling smutty though he's her husband. Though she did not feel smutty with James.

But his eyes remain on her, probing.

And so she makes him stop. Lifts the silver frame off the wall, lays it face-down on the maple dresser. There. Now he can no longer see her. He's out of her life. Even more so after tonight.

In the morning, her head feels light with an almost pleasant Sambuca headache that floats behind her cheekbones like part of her breath. She wraps the wedding photo in an old towel, but as soon as she slips it behind the records in the living room, she starts missing herself, missing how she looked as a bride, graceful and substantial. She reaches for the photo, unwraps it. And there she is.
Graceful. Substantial.
The only thing wrong with the photo is that Victor is in it. It makes her think of the used-furniture shop on Jerome Avenue. She has never been inside though she passes it on the way to the beauty parlor, and she has noticed a hand-printed sign in the window:

 

RESTORE YOUR BELOVED PHOTOGRAPHS!

I
NDIVIDUALS, PETS, FURNITURE, PLANTS,

AND SETTINGS CAN BE REMOVED OR ADDED.

W
E REPAIR CRACKS, TAKE OUT STAINS,

AND REPLACE MISSING PARTS.

Y
OUR ORIGINALS ARE SAFE WITH US.

A
LL WORK DONE ON PREMISES SINCE 1921.

She used to wonder what kind of people would remove others from their photos; but when she steps across the puddle in front of the shop and opens the door, she has no trouble at all handing the intricate frame to the man behind the counter and asking him to remove Victor.