Separate Beds (22 page)

“You didn't accept it either. All I said was that you were a beautiful bride. Does that threaten you?”

“I—I don't know what you mean.”

“Forget it then.”

“No, you brought it up, let's finish it. Why should I feel threatened?”

“You're the one who's supposed to answer that question.”

“But I'm not
threatened
in the least.” She swished her rose through the air offhandedly. “You were a terrific-looking groom. There, see? Does that sound like I feel threatened by you?”

But her very tone was defensive. It reminded him of a child who, taking up a dare, says, “See? I'm not either afraid to walk up and ring Crazy Gertie's doorbell,” then rings it and runs to beat hell.

“Hey, what do you think,” he said in a bantering tone, “are we supposed to thank each other or what?”

That at last drew a smile from her. She relaxed a little as if maybe the wine were now making her sleepy.

“Do you know what your mother said to me?” Clay asked.

“What?”

He mused silently, as if deciding whether or not to tell her. Abruptly he leaned forward and occupied himself with refilling his glass. “She said, 'Catherine used to play wedding when she and Bobbi were little girls. That's all those two would play, always arguing about who'd be the bride.'“ Then he lounged back again, propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, rested his temple against two fingers and asked lazily, “Did you?”

“What does it matter?”

“I was only wondering, that's all.”

“Well, don't wonder. It doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't it?”

But abruptly she changed the subject. “One of your uncles mentioned that you usually go hunting at this time of year but that you haven't had much chance this year because of the wedding interruptions.”

“It must've been Uncle Arnold.”

“Don't change the subject.”

“Did I change the subject?”

“You can go, you know, anytime you want.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“I mean, we're not
bound
to each other, and nothing has to change. We can still go our separate ways, keep our friends, just like before.”

“Great. Agreed, Stu and I will hunt all we want.”

“I wasn't really thinking about Stu.”

“Oh?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“I was talking about her.”

“Her? Who?”

“Jill.”

Clay's eyes turned to gray iron, then he jumped up, stalked to the dresser and clapped his glass down hard. “What has Jill got to do with it?”

“I saw you standing in the foyer together. I saw the two of you kissing. I include her when I say you're not bound to me in any way.”

He swung around, scowling. “Listen, our families have been friends for years. We've been—” He stopped himself before he could say
lovers.
“I've known her since we were kids. And furthermore, her father was right there in front of us, and so was Grandmother Forrester, for God's sake.”

“Clay”—Catherine's voice was like eiderdown—“I said it's all right.”

He glared at her silently, then swung toward his suitcase, shrugging his shirt off as he went, flinging it carelessly across the foot of the bed before disappearing behind the bathroom door.

When Clay returned, Catherine was sitting on the far edge of the bed with her back to him. The wilted gardenia lay discarded on the bedside table while she brushed her hair. His eyes traveled across the white satin sheets to the robe lying on the foot of the bed, to the back of her pale yellow nightgown, to the brush moving rhythmically. Without a word, he doubled his pillow over and lay down with both hands behind his head. The brush stilled. He heard her thumbnail flicking across its bristles, followed by a clack as she laid the thing down. She reached for the lamp and the room went black. The mattress shifted; the covers over his chest were pulled slightly in her direction. He had no doubt that if he reached out, he'd find her back curled against him.

Their breathing seemed amplified. Sightlessness created such intimacy. Clay lay so rigid that his shoulders began to hurt. Catherine huddled like a snail, involute, acutely aware of him behind her. She thought she could hear her eyelids scraping on her dry eyeballs with each blink. She shivered and pinioned the satin sheet tightly between her jaw and shoulder.

A rustle, barely audible, and she sensed his eyes boring into her back—invisible though it was.

“Catherine,” came his voice, “you really have a low opinion of me, don't you?”

“Don't sound so wounded. There's no reason to be. Just to keep the record straight—it should have been her who was the bride today. Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I couldn't tell how she
belongs?
I felt like a square peg in a round hole. And seeing you and her together brought me back to reality. I was becoming rather swept off my feet by all the lavish trappings around me. I'll answer your question now. Yes, I did used to play wedding with Bobbi when we were kids. I'm an old pro at weddings, so this time I found myself really getting into the act. But I'm not pretending anymore. I see things for what they really are, okay?”

Goddammit, thought Clay, I should thank her for giving me permission, but instead it makes me angry. Goddammit, I shouldn't feel like I have to be faithful to a wife, but I do.

Catherine felt the bed bounce as he tossed onto his side and punched his pillow.

Somewhere outside a jet went over, its faraway whine and whistle ebbing off into oblivion. The bed was very large; neither of them had much sensation of sharing it physically, except for the sound of their breathing, far away from each other and in opposite directions. But the animosity between them was a much more palpable presence. It seemed like hours had gone by and Catherine thought Clay had gone to sleep. But then he flung himself onto his back again so abruptly she was sure he'd been wide awake all this time. She was stiff and cramped from staying in her tight curl for so long, but she refused to budge. Her shoulder got a cramp and she had to relax it. The sheet slipped off, and at last giving up, she eased onto her back.

“Are we going to get in each other's hair this way every time bedtime arrives?” he asked coldly.

“I didn't mean to get into your hair.”

“Like hell you didn't. Let's at least be honest about it. You meant to bring a third party into bed with us and you succeeded very well. But just remember, if she's here it's at your request, not mine.”

“Then why do you sound so angry?”

“Because it's playing havoc with my sleep. If I have to go through this for the next year, I'll be a burned-out wreck.”

“So what do you think I'll be?”

Against his will, as he lay brooding, Clay had been resurrecting pictures of Catherine at the ceremony. The way she looked when she'd come around the living room doorway, when they spoke their vows, when she'd discovered all the girls from Horizons there, when he'd kissed her. He remembered the feel of her slightly rounded stomach against his. This was the damnedest thing he'd ever been through, going to bed with a woman and not touching her. All the more absurd because for the first time it'd be legal, and here he lay on his own side of the bed. Dammit, he thought, I should've watched the champagne. Champagne made him horny.

He finally concluded that they were being quite childish about all this. They were husband and wife, they'd been through some decidedly sexual teasing during the course of the evening and were now trying to deny what it was that was keeping them both awake.

What the hell, he thought, things couldn't be worse. “Catherine, do you want to try it again, with no strings attached? Maybe then we can get some sleep.”

The muscles in her lower abdomen cinched up tight and set to quivering. She shrank to her side of the bed, turning her back on him again.

“The wine has gone to your head” was all she said.

“Well, what the hell, you can't blame a guy for trying.”

She felt like her chest bones might burst and fly into a thousand pieces. Angry with herself for wishing the night to be more than it was, angry with him for his suggestion, she wondered what exquisite torture it would be to turn to him and take him up on his invitation.

But she remained as she was, curled into herself. In the long hours before sleep she wondered over and over again if he had any pajamas on.

Catherine was awakened by the sound of draperies opening. She sat up as if a hundred-and-twenty-piece band had struck up a Sousa march beside her bed. Clay stood in the flood of sunlight, laughing.

“Do you always wake up like that?”

She squinted and blinked, then flopped backward like an old rag doll, covering her eyes with a forearm.

“Oh God, so you
did
have pajamas on.”

He laughed again, free and easy, and turned toward the view of the awakening city washed in pink and gold below them.

“Does that mean 'good morning'?”

“That means I wasted a perfectly good night worrying about a dumb thing like whether or not you were wearing pajamas.”

“Next time just ask.”

Suddenly she was pulling herself off the bed, and running for the bathroom door which thwacked shut behind her.

“Don't listen!” she ordered.

Clay leaned an elbow against the window frame, chuckling to himself, thinking of the unexpected charms of married life.

She came out looking sheepish and went immediately for her cover-up.

“I'm sorry if I was a little abrupt about that, but this little feller in here has made some sudden changes and that's one of them. I'm still not used to it.”

“Does this confidence mean you're not mad at me anymore?”

“Was I mad at you? I don't seem to remember.” She busied herself doing up the front of the garment.

“Yeah,” he said, moving away from the window, “I made some underhanded suggestion and you got huffy.”

“Forget it. Let's be friends. I don't like fighting much, even with you.”

He confronted her now, barechested, giving her hair the once-over so that she started combing it with her fingers.

“Listen,” she explained, “I'm not at my best in the morning.”

“Who is?” he returned, rubbing his jaw. Then he turned toward a suitcase and rummaged inside it, beginning to whistle softly through his teeth. Mornings she was used to her mother scuffling around the house with an air of martyrdom and tiredness as if the day were ending rather than beginning. And the old man, with his belching and scratching, drinking coffee royals and muttering imprecations under his breath.

But this was something new: a man who whistled before breakfast.

He stopped on his way to the bathroom, holding a leather case of toilet articles.

“What do you say we get dressed and find some breakfast, then go out to the house and pick up the gifts.”

“I'm starved. I never did finish my dinner last night.”

“And you're not the only one who's hungry?” He dropped his gaze briefly to her stomach. She was contouring it with both hands.

“No, I'm not.”

“Then let me buy you both breakfast.”

She colored and turned away, realizing she liked the morning Clay.

When the shower was splattering away she dropped down onto the bed again, fell back supine in the sun, thinking of how different Clay seemed this morning. She even enjoyed his teasing. She heard the bar of soap drop, then a muffled exclamation, then light whistling again. She remembered him turning from that window with those coolielike pajamas hanging so tentatively low on his hips, and the thin line of red-gold hair sparkling its way down the center of his stomach. She groaned and rolled over and cradled her face in the L of an arm and the sun crept over her in warm fingers of gold and she fell asleep, waiting there that way, as pregnant women are prone to do.

He came into the bedroom wearing pajama bottoms and a towel slung around his neck. He smiled at the sight that greeted him. She lay there sprawled luxuriously and he studied the way the yellow fabric followed the contours of her shoulders, back, buttocks, the one knee drawn up, the other with its bare foot dangling over the edge of the bed.

In daylight, he decided, she was much more amiable. He'd enjoyed their little repartee upon waking.

He looked around, spied the roses, nabbed one and began tickling the sole of her foot with it. The toes curled tight, then the foot rotated on the ankle irritably. Then it kicked him in the knee and she laughed into the bedclothes.

“Cut it out,” she scolded, “I told you I'm not at my best in the morning. I have an ugly disposition until almost noon.”

“And here I was thinking how nice you were before.”

“I'm a bear.”

“What are you doing here? You're supposed to be getting ready for breakfast.”

She looked at him with one cheek and an eye lost in the blankets.

“I was just catching a catnap.”

“A catnap—when you just got up?”

“Well, it's your fault.”

“Oh, yeah? What'd I do now?”

“Dunce. Pregnant ladies tend to sleep a lot, I told you that before.” She reached backward and waggled her fingers. “Gimme.”

He put the rose in her hand, and she sniffed it—one deep, long exaggerated pull—then rolled over and said to the ceiling, “Morning has broken.” And without another word went to bathe and dress.

Catherine could see that her greatest adversary was normalcy. Clay, being well-adjusted, intended to forge ahead as if their marriage were ordinary. But she, herself, was constantly on guard against the compelling gravity of the commonplace. That first day gave her glimpses of what life with Clay could be like if things were different.

They arrived at the Forresters' through the high sun of the November afternoon which had melted away all but a few hints of last night's snows. The doorman was gone now—it was just an ordinary house again. Squirrels, much the color of the lawns, chittered and chased, still on the search for winter stores. A nuthatch darted from one of the festoons beside the door where it had been dining on bearded wheat.

And as it always could, the home welcomed.

They caught Claiborne and Angela nestled together on the loveseat like a pair of mated mallards while the Minnesota Vikings radiated from the screen. There were the inevitable touches of greeting, in which Catherine was now included. They opened most of the gifts together—the four of them—with time out for instant replays, and for teasing Catherine about her ignorance of the game. Sitting on fat pillows on the floor, Catherine and Clay laughed over a grotesque cookie jar that looked like it belonged in a Swahili kitchen instead of an American town house. And she learned that Clay's favorite cookies were chocolate chip. They opened a waffle iron and she learned that he preferred pancakes. Halftime highlights came on and she learned he disliked the Chicago Bears. Angela made sandwiches and Claiborne said, “Here, open this one next,” with a surprising giddiness, now that the game was over.

And amid a mound of used wrappings Catherine felt herself being sucked into the security of this family.

In the late afternoon they piled their loot into the cars and drove to the place they'd now call home. She met Clay at the door and watched as he set down his load and bent to put the key in the lock. Her arms were full of gift boxes overflowing with excelsior, and she peered around, watching him pocket the key.

The door swung open and before she knew what was happening he had turned and deftly scooped up the whole works—wife, excelsior, boxes and all.

“Clay!”

“I know, I know. Put me down, right?”

But she only laughed while he floundered, acting like his legs had turned to rubber, and collapsed onto the steps with her in his lap.

“In the movies somehow the wife never has a paunch,” he teased, leaning his elbows back on the steps behind them.

She scowled, called him a very nasty name, then felt herself being pushed from his lap. “Get off me, paunchy.”

The apartment lay steeped in late afternoon dusk, silent, waiting. As they stood surveying the living room, it seemed to beckon with the intimacy of a lover about to shed her clothes: new furniture, still wearing tags and dust wrappers, waited—stacked, leaning, unassembled. Lamps with their bases encased in padding lay upon the davenport while their shades waited on the floor in plastic sleeves. Barstools and tables stood about. Pieces of bed frame lay beside the mattress and the box spring leaned against the wall. Boxes and suitcases which they'd brought earlier were stacked on the counter, strewn about the room.

The moment held a poignance that took away their laughter and made them wistful for a moment. It all seemed so ironically like the real thing. The reflection of sunset slipped its lavender fingers through the broad expanse of glass, lending an unearthly glow to the place. Catherine felt Clay's hands on her shoulders. She turned to find him startlingly close behind her, his jaw almost colliding with her temple as she swung around.

“Your coat?” he said. She thought there was a tortured expression about his mouth, wondered if he were thinking of Jill Magnusson. But—just that quick—he removed it and in its place was a grin.

They changed into blue jeans and sweatshirts and set to work—she in the kitchen, he in the living room. Again the air of normalcy returned. For Catherine it was like playing house, working away in this place that seemed too good to be true, packing away wedding gifts in the cupboards, listening to the sounds of Clay shoving furniture around. As they worked, evening spun in, and at times she allowed the line between reality and fantasy to blur.

“Come and tell me where you want the davenport,” Clay called. She got up from her knees and went to ponder with him, and they arranged the room together.

And once she went laughing, asking, “What in the world do you suppose this thing is?” displaying some odd piece of steel that might have been either sculpture or a meat grinder. They laughingly agreed that it must be a sculpture of a meat grinder and relegated it to a hidden spot behind the tissue box on top of the refrigerator.

And dusk was deep when he appeared in the kitchen, asking, “Are there any lightbulbs anywhere?”

“Shove that box over here; I think it's stuff from the shower.”

They found bulbs. A few moments later, still on her knees, she saw lamplight appear over the peninsula of cabinets from the direction of the living room, and smiled when she heard him say, “There, that's more like it.”

She'd finished most of the kitchen unpacking and was lining the linen closet shelves as he passed through the hall, carrying pieces of clanging bed rail.

“Watch the wall!” she warned . . . too late. The bed rail dug into the door frame. He shrugged and disappeared with his burden. Next he came through with the headboard, then with a toolbox from his trunk. She began unpacking linens, listening to the sounds coming from the bedroom. She was hanging up new towels in the bathroom when he called, “Catherine, can you come here a minute?”

He was on his knees, trying to hold the headboard and bed rails at right angles while he tightened nuts and bolts—and having one hell of a time.

“Hold that up, will you?”

His hair was messed and curling across his forehead while he concentrated on his work. Holding the metal rails, she felt the vibrations wriggle their way to her palms as he plied the screwdriver.

He finished, and the thing was a square. He put the cross-slats in and stood up, saying, “I'll need a little help getting the mattress up the stairs.”

“Sure,” she said, uncomfortable now.

On their way up the steps with their ungainly cargo, Clay warned, “Now, just guide it, don't lift it.”

She wanted to say, don't be solicitous, but bit her tongue.

And then the bed was a bed, and the room grew quiet. They looked across the short expanse—his hair all ascatter and hers slipping free of the combs with which she'd carelessly slung it behind her ears. He had sweat rings beneath his arms and she had a dust smudge on the end of her right breast. His eyes dropped down to it fleetingly.

“There,” he announced, “you can take over from here, okay?”

The new, bare mattress made them both uneasy.

“Sure,” she said with affected brightness, “what color sheets would you like? We've got pink with big white daisies or beige with brown stripes or—”

“It doesn't matter,” he interrupted, leaning to pick up a screwdriver and drop it in the toolbox. “Make it up to suit yourself. I'll be sleeping out on the davenport.”

Catherine was brushing her palms off against one another, and they suddenly fell still. Then he swung from the room. She stood a moment, staring at nothing, then she kicked their brand new box spring and left a black shoe mark on it. She stared at the mark, hands in her jeans pockets. She apologized to the box spring, then took back the apology, then spun and dropped down onto the edge of the unmade bed, suddenly feeling like crying. From the living room came the sound of some bluesy music with soft piano and a husky female voice as he started up the stereo. Finally she quit her moping and made up the bed with crisp, fresh sheets, then decided to put her clothing into the new dresser drawers. She stopped with her hands full of sweaters, and called, “Clay?”

But apparently he couldn't hear her above the music.

She padded silently down the carpeted hall, down the few steps to the living room and found him standing, cowboylike, feet astraddle, thumbs hooked up in his rear pockets, staring out the sliding glass doors.

“Clay?”

He started and looked around. “What?”

“Is it okay if I take the dresser and you take the chest of drawers?”

“Sure,” he said tonelessly, “whatever you want.” Then he turned back to the window.

The inside of the dresser drawers smelled of new, spicy wood. Everything in the place was so spanking, so untouched, so different from what Catherine was used to. She was struck again with a sense of unreality, simply because of the inanity of what she was doing. But when Catherine considered where she was and what lay around her, she felt as if she were usurping someone else's rightful place, and again the image of Jill popped up.

The sound of a drawer opening brought her from her reverie, and she glanced over her shoulder to find Clay also putting his things away. They moved about the bedroom, doing their separate chores, silent except for an occasional
excuse me
when their proximities warranted. She snapped on the closet light to find he'd brought his hanging clothes over sometime during the week. All his sport coats hung neatly spaced, shirts squarely centered on their hangers, pantlegs meticulously flush and creased. She'd somehow imagined that Inella took care of his clothing, kept it flawless and groomed, and was surprised to find such neat precision all his doing.