The Lavender Hour (17 page)

“There's really no need. But I know it will mean a lot to Nona if you see her.”

“You sure you don't want me to call Faye so she can arrange for another volunteer to spell you until the night nurse arrives? You have arranged for that, right?”

I felt a breathless flutter in my chest. “I've taken care of everything,” I said.

S
OMETIME AFTER
three, the rain stopped. I brought my things in from the car.

“Jessie,” Luke called.

“Be right in.” I ran upstairs and found a towel and single sheet in the upstairs bath closet.

“What's that for?” Luke asked.

“You'll see.” I dug through my bag, retrieved my comb and a pair of scissors. I shook out the sheet and draped it over his shoulders before he could refuse, tucked the towel around his neck. I set the comb and shears on the table.

“Wait a minute. You're giving me a haircut?”

“You got it,” I said. A mindless rhythm vibrated in my chest.

“You sure you know what you're doing?” he said.

I snipped at the air with the scissors. “How do you think I made drinking money all through grad school?” I said, although, in truth, I had given only one other man a haircut, a Buddhist from Cambridge who had moved to Richmond seven years ago. We'd met at a flea market and were lovers for about two months. The one thing I remembered about him was that he once told me that yearning was at the center of all human experience.

I hadn't thought of the Buddhist—Paul—for a long time. His hair was sandy, and although he was only twenty-seven, it was so thin as to be wispy. Nothing like Luke's. I combed through his hair, dampened the thick clumps of curls with water. His head was beautifully shaped. I couldn't get enough of touching him, as if I could store it up. Slowly, working from front to back, I cut and trimmed and shaped. He didn't move. Black chips of hair fell onto his shoulders and pooled in his lap, vivid against the white sheet.

“The last time I had a home haircut, I was about four,” he said. “I think Nona used a bowl.”

I resisted the impulse to stroke his cheek, to bend my face to his scalp. I took longer than the job required. Finally I was done and
stepped back to check. “Lookin' good,” I said. “Yes, sir, you are looking mighty fine.”

He rubbed his palm over the back of his neck and up over his scalp. “I have to admit it feels better.”

“Want to see? I can get a mirror.”

He shook his head. “I'll take your word for it.”

I carefully folded up the sheet, taking care to scoop up the cuttings. “I'll be right back,” I said. “I'm just going to shake this out.”

“Want to take Rocker with you? He hasn't been out since morning.”

“Come on, boy,” I said. “Does he need the leash to go in the backyard?”

“Just keep an eye on him. If he starts to head for the road, call him back.”

I stopped for a moment inside the kitchen door and, on impulse, reached inside the folded sheet and withdrew two ebony curls. I twisted them inside a paper towel, which I tucked in my bag.

Outside, the Lab ran in a frenzy of joy at being loose. He sniffed the ground and ran laps around the yard while I shook out the linen. Luke's hair twirled though the air; the longer strands floated down to the grass and lay there like black commas. I imagined chickadees or a titmouse swooping in and carrying the curls off for nests and, remembering the Greek myth, felt an unreasonable flash of fear. I should not have shaken the sheet there, but it was too late now. Once things are released to the wind, it is impossible to recapture them. I refolded the linen and waited while Rocker peed on a shrub, called him to me, and returned to the house.

T
HROUGHOUT THE
afternoon, Luke dozed on and off. He asked me to stay with him, even when he slept, said my presence helped keep him steady, that he had never known anyone like me in that regard. Of course, I would have stayed by him even if he hadn't asked. Later he tried to call Paige, and again, there was no answer. “She must be off at work,” he said.

The sun had reappeared earlier, after it stopped raining, and now it slid toward the west. Inside the house, it felt cozy, almost as if this were an ordinary day. While Luke watched the early news, I slipped out and performed housewifely chores: a load of laundry, a quick dusting of the living room, emptying the trash. Around six, I went in the kitchen to start dinner. I set the chicken soup on low. While it heated, I found two matching bowls. I put some saltines on a plate, poured two glasses of ginger ale. I could only find paper napkins and regretted I hadn't thought to bring cloth ones. I ran outside and cut two lilac stems and put those on the tray. When everything was ready, I carried it in to him. Rocker roused himself and came to the bed by Luke's side.

“You didn't have to bother with this,” he said. He snapped a saltine in two and fed the halves to Rocker.

“It wasn't any bother.”

He reached over and touched the tiny bells of the lilac blossoms. “They're in bloom already.”

“Tulips will be next,” I said.

“Spring works so hard to come,” he said. He sounded tired.

I dipped a spoon in the broth and raised it to his lips. “I can manage,” he said, and took the spoon from my hand. I knew he would make an attempt, pretend to eat, as he had at breakfast. It didn't seem possible that someone could exist on so little. “It's good,” he said. I didn't tell him Faye had made the soup.

“What's your very favorite meal?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It's hard to remember the last time I really gave a damn.”

“Well, what's the thing you would choose if you could only pick one?”

“You mean like the condemned man's last supper?”

“Not exactly the analogy I had in mind.”

He laughed. My chest pinched at the sound. “The one thing?”he said. “Just one favorite thing?”

I nodded.

“That's tough. It's a toss-up.”

“Between what?”

“Chicken Parmesan made with a thick, red sauce. Or rib roast, end cut, rare, and a baked potato on the side, heavy on the sour cream.”

I smiled.

He fished a chunk of chicken out of the bowl and fed it to Rocker. “But, of course, on a hot summer night, watching a ball game, nothing on earth can beat a pepperoni pizza and a beer. What about you? What's your favorite?”

“Me? Oh, I like everything.”

“You have to pick one, remember? Your rules.”

I looked out the window at the growing darkness, unable to face him when I answered. “This,” I whispered. “This. With you. This is my favorite meal.”My words fell into silence. Finally I dared to look over, but I couldn't tell if he was angry or sad. An ache spread like a stain through my body.

He put the spoon down. The room was so still and empty, every movement drew notice. He stared out at the gathering dusk. “There is nothing here for you, Jess,”he said.

“I don't care,” I said.

“Don't you get it? I can't give you anything. I have nothing to give.”

“I don't care,” I repeated. “Let me give to you.”

He rubbed his eyes, a weary gesture. “Why are you doing this?”

“I can't help it,” I said.

“We can always help it.”

“No. We can't. There are some things we can't stop. Some things that can't be helped.”

“You're wrong,” he said. “This is a mistake.”

“It's not. I don't want anything from you.” A lie, I knew. I was reduced to this single, feverish want. To receive. And to give, too. I couldn't remember ever having such a deep desire to give to a man.

“You're making a mistake,” he said again, and turned from me, looking off into a middle distance.

“Luke?” I said.

He wouldn't answer for a minute. Then he said, in a voice so soft I had to lean close to hear, “It's impossible.”

“Why?”

His mouth twisted in a bitter smile, but he reached for my hand. “I think that's pretty obvious.”

“Is it?”

“Let's just say our timing's off.”

I felt the harsh truth of what he said, felt the unbearable pain of knowing what might have been but couldn't be.

“Do you have any feelings for me?” I said.

His fingers tightened around mine. “That isn't the question.”

“But do you?”

He wouldn't meet my eyes. “You know I do.”

I held the words close. A quiet joy hummed in my chest.

“I wish…,” he began.

“What?”

“I wish you could have seen me at my best.”

“I am,” I said. I thought about his gentleness, his hand stroking Rocker, how carefully he listened to the birdcalls, how patiently he taught me to do the same, how much he loved the ocean, how calmly he faced what lay ahead. “I am.”

“Liar,” he said. He brought my hand to his lips.

A
FTER A
while, he again dozed off. I went to the kitchen. I cleaned up the dishes and dumped the rest of the soup into Rocker's bowl. He came in and lapped it up. I pulled on a sweater and got his leash, for it had grown dark, and I couldn't risk letting him run free. Outside, the air smelled the way it did after spring rain. As if the earth had been cleansed. Renewed.

You know I do.

Back inside, I carried Lily's sheets upstairs and stripped Luke's
mattress. It had the slightly musty smell of a bed long unused. I remade it with the soft linens; then I went down to him. He was awake but had not switched on the lamp, and I could not see him in the dark. “Do you mind if I turn on the light?”

“If you want.” His voice was neutral, as if our earlier intimacy had not been.

“What's your routine at night?” I asked, carefully matching his tone. “Do you need to use the bathroom? Or to change?”

He looked down at his sweatshirt and pants. “I can sleep in these,” he said, “but I need to use the john.”

I helped him up, guided him to the toilet.

“I can take it from here,” he said, and smiled. I was so grateful for that smile. When he was back in the bed, he asked for and I gave him another Dilaudid.

“I appreciate everything you've done today,” he said. “This must have screwed up your day.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Is someone coming in later for the night?”

I shook my head. “I'm staying,” I said. “I made up a bed upstairs. I can sleep there.” I wondered what he was feeling. Maybe he wasn't feeling anything.

“You've done so much already,” he said.

“It's not a problem. Really,” I said carefully. “Do you want the TV on?”

“No.”

“Here,” I said. “Let me rub your feet. It will help you go to sleep.” I was afraid he would refuse. The center of all human experience is yearning.

“You don't have to,” he said.

“I know.” I sat at the edge of his bed and folded the blanket back. His feet were long and thin, like his hands. Webbed bones outlined against sallow skin the color of buttonwood. Back in Richmond, my closest childhood friend had been Catholic. A crucifix hung over her bed, and when I stayed there overnight, I would fall asleep
looking up at the body of Christ, the thorn crown, bowed head, impaled hands and feet. Feet like Luke's.

“Thanks,” he said when I was finished. “That felt good.” His voice was heavy from the pain medication.

I shifted on the bed, sat closer to him. The house felt solid and safe around us. I watched the sinking and rising and sinking of his chest, and a river of grief took me with surprising force. I bent and kissed him on the lips. It seemed as if that was all I ever wanted. I kissed him again, felt his lips open beneath mine. When I pulled away, he made a soft sound, like a bird calling to its mate.

His hands, when he reached for me, were unsteady. “I don't want…,”

“What?”

“I don't want your pity.”

Pity? How could he think that? “Trust me,” I said. I brushed his forehead with my lips, then his mouth. “This isn't pity.”

His face twisted, an expression close to disgust. “I know what I look like now.”

“You're beautiful,” I said. I had never before said that to a man, but it was true. I kissed him again, felt him respond, surrender, moan that birdlike sound. I kissed his chest, inhaled the yeasty, medicinal scent of him. I had once read somewhere that everyone had a deeply individual smell, a personal bouquet comprised of diet, hormones, hygiene, and health. I tried to imagine what Luke's was before he became ill. I thought of the herring finding their way home, guided solely by the smell of the water. I understood. I felt as if, after a long battle upstream, I had come home. My body was weighted with desire.

I slid my hand over his shoulders, his chest, the hollow of his stomach.

“Oh God,”he moaned, and pulled me closer.

When I was six and afraid of thunder, I would climb into bed with Ashley. There I felt safe and protected from the storm. I felt that way that night with Luke.

He reached up and stroked my face, kissed me again. Everything felt new. First time new. That first time new. The moment felt near holy. And hopeful, that, too. The impulse toward life is so strong, I remember thinking. Even close to death, we reach for life.

I
MUST
have dozed off, for I woke to hear him retching, deep and racking convulsions. Vomit stained the sheets, his clothes; the reek of it filled the air.

“Christ,”he said, managing speech between spasms. “I'm sorry.”

“Shhhh,” I said. “It's all right.” I got the wastebasket and brought it to his side, held his head while he puked, tending him naturally and easily, as if this were something I had always known how to do.

When he was done, I stripped away the soiled linen and his shirt, then I washed him and found him a clean shirt from a pile on the dresser. While I tended to him, he tried again to apologize, but I shushed him.

I had just finished putting fresh sheets on the bed when he began to shake, trembling so violently, his teeth rattled. “Hold on,” I said. Upstairs, I ripped the blanket and quilt off Nona's bed. I piled them over him, then crept in and lay beside him and let the heat of my body flow into his. Gradually he quieted. “I'm so sorry, Jess,” he said once, but I stopped him, pressing my fingers against his lips. And then he slept.

I waited until he was deep in sleep, and then, too restless to sit still, I rose and switched off the lamp, wandered into the kitchen, made a pot of tea. I checked on him again before finally settling on the couch. I didn't want to go upstairs to the bed I'd prepared, afraid I wouldn't hear him if he called. I didn't believe for a minute that I would sleep, but I woke later from a dream. I was in a hotel somewhere out west. Las Vegas. Somewhere like that. I had become separated from my friends and could not remember my room number. As I got into the elevator, I was joined by five men, all strangers. I stabbed the button for the second floor—still unsure of what room, what floor—but the car shot up, zooming skyward
so fast, we were all thrown off balance. Up and up we went in an elevator out of control. I woke in the panic dreams could produce, unsure of where I was. And then I heard Luke call my name.