Say When (13 page)

“What was the dream about?” he asked.

“I don’t know. There was this man who kept calling me on the phone, saying really obscene things. Then I walked outside—it was afternoon, real bright outside—and there he was and he started stabbing me all over the place. And I could feel it, it
stung,
you know, like big paper cuts. And I—” She stopped, began to weep. “Griffin, do you think I might have a brain tumor?”

He wanted to laugh. Instead, he sat up, turned on the nightstand light, and patted the bed. “Come here.”

She sat down beside him, though far enough away so as to not have her intentions misunderstood. “I think I might have a brain tumor or something.”

“Ellen, what the hell are you talking about?” Her, pale-faced against a hospital pillow,
Can we let bygones be bygones?

She looked at him, then away. “A lot of times, at night, I wake up totally disoriented. It’s not just that I’m not in my bed, either. I feel disoriented about
everything.
I feel really crazy, and I wish I’d never started anything. I think how you’re my
friend,
and I
like
you so much, and I
know
so much about you and things like…I know just how big your wrist is, from holding it when we used to sleep spoons, remember?” She was crying steadily but unmindfully, as though her tears had nothing to do with her.

“I remember,” he said. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Yes. I know. But anyway, I get this feeling of…
Oh, God, what have I done?”

Now his sympathy converted to anger. “Well, for Christ’s sake, Ellen, I thought you’d found this great
love.”

“I know! But I wake up and I wish none of it had ever happened! I wish I’d never met him! And then the next morning, everything’s…Everything’s different the next morning. And Griffin, I’ve been getting terrible headaches. I think maybe I’ve got a brain tumor.”

“Ellen.”

“Yes?” She stopped crying, sat waiting for him to help her, as Zoe might.

He sighed. “You’re under a lot of stress, that’s all. So am I. That’s what happens when people decide to split. What did you expect? People going through a divorce get crazy. Everybody knows that.”

“I guess.” She looked down, picked at a cuticle. Her hands were so different from Donna’s. As though reading his mind, she said, “Did you have a good time tonight?”

He laughed a little, shook his head.

“Did you?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“What did you do?”

“Why should I tell you?”

She thought about this, then said, “I don’t know.”

“I have to go to sleep now, Ellen.”

She stood. “Okay. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s all right.”

She started to leave and he said, “Ellen? I had a few beers with this woman, Donna. That’s all. She knows I’m still married.”

“Oh.”

“All right?”

“Yes. Okay.” Her voice. Its sleepy softness. Its utter familiarity. But he needed to remember the other side of her. He lay down, closed his eyes, said nothing more.

In the morning, as he was leaving, he asked Ellen, “Any more bad dreams?”

“No.” And then, “Griffin? Zoe’s spending the night with Grace on Friday night, did she tell you?”

“No. No kidding.”

“Yes, she’s going home from school with her. So I guess we can both…I guess neither of us has to stay home that night.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’ll be leaving pretty early. And so if you want to—”

“I’m fully capable of making my own plans, Ellen.”

He closed the door, walked outside. There was the red car. Piece of shit.

He called Donna from work. So nice to hear from him! She’d love to make him dinner on Friday! Did he like pot roast? Why yes, he said! He certainly did!

A
fter work on Friday, Griffin stopped by the men’s room. He stood before the mirror, trying to see himself as Donna might see him. He looked pretty good, damn it. He was an attractive enough man. He straightened his tie, leaned in closer to the mirror. “How are you?” he practiced. No. More casual. “Hey, how
are
you?” He’d kiss her cheek when he said that, lightly but warmly.

He ran his hand over the side of his face. A little rough. Maybe he should stop by home and shave. He looked at his watch—not enough time. He looked himself over once more, then undid his pants so he could retuck his shirt. He was wearing new underwear, blue and white striped. Just in case.

Donna had given him clear directions to her house, but Griffin wondered if he’d made an error when he pulled up in the driveway. The place was huge, a Tudor surrounded by a high, iron fence. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell, full of a jangly nervousness that bordered on mild irritation. He felt like he used to when he went around the neighborhood selling raffle tickets for his elementary school. Taking a deep breath in, he leaned against the door, then turned around quickly when he felt it opening.

“You found it,” she said, smiling, and he nodded, then brushed past her as she held the door open for him. She was wearing blue jeans and a black V-neck sweater. Her hair was held up with a silver barrette, and stray strands curled loosely at the base of her neck.

“You look nice,” he said, and it came out wooden rather than rich. “Something smells terrific,” he added, and it came out lame. He sounded like Homer Simpson when he wanted to sound like James Bond.

“That’s our dinner,” she said, and then, smiling at his obvious discomfort, she said, “Oh, come on. I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

He followed her into the enormous kitchen. It had a center island with copper pots and utensils hanging from a wrought iron holder. There were three different sinks, a massive refrigerator, and the six-burner cast iron stove Ellen had always fantasized about having. “Your kitchen looks like a page out of a magazine,” he said. “I mean that as a compliment. But I guess you know that.”

“Thanks.” She handed him wine in an elegant, thin crystal glass. He remembered with some unwillingness the last time he’d drunk wine with Ellen. They’d used juice glasses decorated with smiling oranges. They’d been watching a television movie, and Griffin had fallen asleep almost right away. Ellen had gotten angry and shook him awake, saying it was no fun watching a movie alone. He’d straightened up, tried to pay attention, but then fell asleep again. He’d awakened when she snapped the TV off. “You missed everything,” she said. “And it was really good.”

“Was it?” he’d asked, following her to bed.

“Yes. It was the best thing I’ve ever seen on television.” She switched off the light, turned angrily onto her side. He lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t understand her reaction—it was all out of proportion. What was the big deal? He thought about talking to her about it, but she was so damn crabby. He’d gotten out of bed to make a sandwich, sat at the kitchen table reading the editorials in the newspaper, then a magazine; then he had come back to bed, willing to talk it out. But she had fallen asleep. Why wake her up and get her going again? Better to let it pass.

Now he held his glass up to Donna. “Cheers.” She clinked her glass to his, and he took a long swallow. Better.

Donna took a pan from the oven, and lifted meat and vegetables onto a platter. He loved watching this, he had always loved the ritualistic and cleanly simple demonstrations of domestic life. He liked the satisfaction in routines, in chores completed; he liked the concrete nature of those things in a world grown increasingly abstract. Man. Woman. Food. Drink. It was good.

“I hope you like it when everything is overcooked,” she said. “I like pot roast so that it’s falling apart.”

“Me, too,” Griffin said. He was hungry. His mouth watered at the sight of the rich brown gravy she poured over the platter.

They ate in a large dining room at a black lacquered table. “This is very good,” Griffin said. And then, later, after another glass of wine, “Is this…
your
house?”

She looked around the room as though she too were seeing it for the first time. “Not in spirit. To tell the truth, I never liked it—this is all Michael’s taste. I didn’t want the house, but he insisted I take it as part of the settlement—guilt, you know. I need someplace smaller. But I just haven’t gotten motivated enough to move.” She pushed the remaining food around on her plate, then looked up. “Can I get you some more?”

“No, thanks. Let me help you clean up.”

“Not quite yet,” she said. “You just stay there.” She took their dinner plates into the kitchen, then came back to the table carrying a wildly lopsided pie. She set it down in front of him.

“Well!” he said.

She began laughing. “I think it
tastes
good, though.”

And it did. It was cherry, Griffin’s favorite, and together they ate nearly half of it. When they had finished, Donna leaned back in her chair and groaned. “I never eat this much. It’s fun to eat with you!”

“It is?”

“Yes, you’re…Well, you’re very appreciative.” She looked at his empty plate, from which he’d scraped every last bit of pie.

He laughed. “I’ve never been a problem eater. I was a chubby kid—my father used to call me ‘Whale Belly.’”

“Ohhhh,” Donna said. “Did it hurt your feelings?”

“I don’t know.”

She stood up, began stacking dishes. “How can you not know? It must have! I got called ‘Lard-Butt’ by one of my cousins—just once—and I’ve never forgotten it.”

He followed her into the kitchen, insisted on being the one to at least load the dishwasher. “You were never fat, though,” he said.

“I was.” She leaned against the counter, swirled the wine she had left in her glass. They’d finished the bottle, begun another. “Yup, I surely was.”

“I don’t believe it.” He closed the dishwasher and looked up, found his face very close to hers. “I mean, you’re…Well, you must know this, Donna. You’re a very attractive woman. Very sexy.”

She smiled, looked into his eyes for a long moment, and then leaned forward to kiss him. She was so warm, so good tasting. He pulled her closer. When they broke, he stepped back from her, not sure of what he was meant to do next. She put her glass on the counter, then asked, “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

He didn’t look at her. “Yes. Sure.”

She showed him around downstairs, taking him into the study, the living room, the library. Then she led him upstairs, to a large bedroom at the end of a long hall. “And this, of course, is…this.” She took his hand, led him to her bed, pulled him gently down to lie beside her and kissed him again. Her skin was so softly, wonderfully perfumed, and her hair, unpinned now and loose about her face, was as silky as he’d imagined it might be. But he felt nothing that he wanted to. He was limp, unaroused. His palms were wet. Zoe’s face suddenly appeared before him.
“Dad!”
she would say.

Griffin pulled away, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I think I’m…I guess I’m a little nervous.” He sat up on the edge of the bed.

“I’m not expecting—”

“Oh, I know!”

“I just thought—”

“Right! I’m just…It’s just been a long time since…” He looked at her, smiled helplessly.

She sat up beside him, repinned her hair, straightened her sweater. “I’m sorry. I guess I had a bit too much wine—I didn’t really mean to do this. But you’re the first person I’ve met that I’ve felt any attraction to since…”

“I have to tell you something. I have a really hard time understanding why you’re attracted to me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t see myself as someone a woman like you would be interested in.”

“But you’re so…” She touched the side of his face. “You know what I think? I think you’ve been living too long with someone who hasn’t the slightest idea of how wonderful you are.” He started to protest and she said, “No. I can tell, believe me. You think you’re not attractive because your wife has been telling you that, one way or another, for years. But you’re so open, so caring. And you’re quite attractive, yourself—you have a
very
charming cowlick.”

Reflexively, he reached up and she stopped him. “I like it! And you know what I like best about you? That you waved at yourself in your Santa suit.”

“Oh, terrific. You saw that?”

“I see a lot about you,” she said. “Now. What do you say we get out of here and go somewhere? Want to go to a late movie?”

He stood up, grateful. “Anything you want to see?”

“Let’s go to the Music Box. Even if we don’t like the movie, it’s always fun to go there.”

He’d heard of the unique movie theater, but had never gone there. Ellen had mentioned it a couple of months ago after reading an article about it in the paper, and she had suggested that they go that night. But they had not. She was carrying on about how there were twinkling
stars
and moving
clouds
on the ceiling, and he, frankly, was thinking about how difficult it would be to park in that part of town; he hated dealing with lousy parking.

But now he put on his coat uncomplainingly and headed with another woman to the place he’d denied his wife. It nagged at him, but only a little. Surely Ellen was doing favors for Mr. Flywheel, and had been for some time.

Before he started the engine, he looked over at Donna. “I want you to know, I…I mean, I hope this doesn’t spoil our chances of—”

“We’ve got lots of time, Griffin. Let’s go to the movies.”

As Griffin turned to back out of the driveway, he caught a glimpse of Donna. All these years of having Ellen on the seat beside him, and now here was a relative stranger, whom he had just gotten off a bed with. Life was so arbitrary. What if it had been Donna’s profile he’d grown used to? He could have been married to someone like her, lived in a house that differed radically from his own. It was Ellen who had always dictated the style of the places they’d lived. She preferred a warm and somewhat cluttered look; “eclectic,” she’d called it, though Griffin called it sloppy. You could see Ellen in every room—in the books she left lying open on the armrests of chairs, in casual arrangements of the rocks and shells she collected, in the changing displays of things she brought in from outside: forsythia and lilacs in the spring, blue delphinium from her garden in the summer, bowls full of red and gold leaves in the fall, holly berry draped on the mantel in the winter. You could see Ellen in the wear of the furniture, the familiar sloping of the cushions in the chairs she favored.

She started sewing projects and left them on the dining room table; she drank half her coffee and left the mug on the hall radiator. It always annoyed him. And yet Donna’s house, with all its elegance, was cold and uncomfortable—no place he’d want to hang around. When he got to know Donna better, he’d help her sell it and find another place that suited her better.

They found a parking place nearly directly in front of the theater. “I don’t believe this!” Griffin said, and Donna laughed, saying she always had good luck with parking. “Stick with me, kid,” she said, and though he smiled at her, another part of himself grew cold and said,
Don’t.

They agreed to buy tickets for whatever movie the people ahead of them were going to; neither of them knew anything about what was playing. Donna had said that she would buy the tickets, and Griffin had just said no, he would pay, when he saw Ellen. She was standing in the crowded lobby beside a young man Griffin had assumed was there with someone else until he put his arm around Ellen, then looked down at her smiling face and kissed her quickly. He thought, for one red instant, about attacking the guy, then quickly got his emotions under control. He shoved his hands in his pockets, stared at the man. For God’s sake, he had a
pony
tail! And he was wearing a white turtleneck sweater with his blue jeans. Ellen hated turtleneck sweaters. For that matter, she hated ponytails, too, hadn’t she once told him that? Or was it that she’d said she hated businessmen wearing ponytails. Yes, that was it.

Griffin continued to stand immobilized until he noticed Donna moving up to the ticket window and requesting two tickets. He stepped up beside her, apologized for his inattentiveness, saying he’d just seen someone he knew, and paid for the tickets. Then he put his arm around Donna and led her into the lobby. He was halfway across when Ellen saw him. Her face froze, and Griffin could tell she was considering moving away. But she didn’t. She glanced briefly at Donna, said something to Peter, then stood straight, waiting.

“Hello, Ellen,” Griffin said, his voice remarkably smooth and even. Beside him, he felt Donna stiffen, then move slightly away, out from under his arm. Griffin thrust his hand forward, toward Peter. “I’m Frank Griffin.”

“Peter Galloway.” He was calm, guardedly friendly. For an adolescent, his confidence level was pretty high, Griffin thought. Peter nodded at Donna, then, and Griffin said, “Ellen, Peter, this is Donna.” He realized with horror that he’d forgotten her last name. But she smoothly extended her hand toward Peter, then Ellen, and greeted them warmly, supplying her last name of “Parsons.”
Remember!
Griffin told himself.
Like the actress.