The Saving Graces (8 page)

I knew exactly what it was. In fact, I - knew everything in an instant, all that would happen, up to and including my death. Fortunately, I was half wrong. But half was enough for Dick. He stayed around for the surgery, but after that he "couldn't see us going anywhere." I wasn't angry-I left all that to Emma. What would I do without her? My surrogate man hater and grudge holder.
But Richard was over two years ago, and since then there's been no one. I haven't felt the lack; I'm delighted by the pleasures of my solitary life. I love my cramped apartment. I painted it peach, white, and sea green, and I ripped up the rusty carpets and left the scarred wood floors bare. There was too much furniture in my Chevy Chase house, Gary is welcome to all of it. I have my bookshelves, my rocking chair. An old sofa, an assortment of rickety floor lamps, and for my friends, oversize pillows to sit on -when they come to see me. I have enough dishes and silver to serve dinner to eight people, the perfect number. I have raucous neighbors, quiet neighbors, eccentric neighbors. My landlady, Mrs. Skazafava, barely speaks English. Lee says I'm living like a hippie, and I suppose I am-I missed that -era when I was young. Ramakrishna says our lives move through cycles in no prescribed order. I'm traversing a circle that my contemporaries experienced thirty years ago. No matter; it's only the journey that counts.
I was daydreaming at my desk in the- afternoon, petting Grace and staring-out the window instead of studying for my families-at-risk exam when, overhead, I heard the door to Kirby's apartment open and close. I hear it all the time and unconsciously, unwillingly, keep tabs on him that way. Soon I heard footsteps in the ball, a knock at my door.
Grace stopped barking the second I opened it and she saw Kirby. He had on his uniform: corduroy trousers and a baggy sweater. And something in his hand. "Look what I bought," he said, and held out a still-wrapped CD. It was Beethoven, the Triple Concerto. "Would you like to hear it?" So I made a pot of tea, and we sat and listened to the concerto, and it was almost like old times. Except that it wasn't. When the music ended, I decided against small talk and asked him a straight question. No pun intended.
"Have you ever been married?" "Yes." "Really." I masked my surprise by fiddling with the tea strainer. "You've never mentioned it." "I was married for nineteen years. I had a son and a daughter." He stirred sugar into his cup and sipped. "They were killed eleven years ago. All three, in an accident on the Beltway. Julie was twelve, Tyler was eight." "I'm so sorry." Why do those words always sound feeble, heartbreakingly inadequate? You wish and you search for better ones, but there aren't any. But Kirby said, "Thank you," as if he meant it, and that sad little ritual was over.
"Eleven years," he said after a pause. "It's a long time to be alone. It suited me at first. Not anymore." And he looked at me with frank meaning over the rim of his cup.
I stood up and went to the stereo, took his CD out of the player, put it back in the box. Leaned over and ran a finger across the titles in my music holder, looking for something suitable to accompany what I was going to say to him next. I couldn't find anything.
"Kirby. . . "I leaned back against the windowsill.
"You know about my breast cancer." He did-I'd told him months ago. It's not something I keep secret, but then again, I don't go around blurting it out to people, either. But I'd told Kirby. Just the bare fact of it, no details. "I thought that . . . maybe you thought I only had the tumor removed, a lumpectomy. Or that I had had reconstruction. But, no. I just have-nothing. Here." I gestured. "A prosthesis in my bra." Except for medical professionals, no one has ever seen my naked, asymmetric chest. Of late I had been coming, quite easily, to terms with the idea that no one ever would. And so I had stopped imagining myself having this unbelievably awkward - conversation with a prospective lover. - Kirby unwound his long legs and levered himself up from the floor, coming to stand in front of me. I folded my arms across my chest. His narrow face looked stern and ever so slightly impatient. "That doesn't matter to me in the slightest. I don't give a damn. I couldn't care less." "Well," I said. I believed him.
"Isabel, I'm falling in love with you." I moved away from him, shocked. That I didn't believe. I wasn't interested in falling in love with anyone. I've done that. Now I'm too old, too selfish, I want to concentrate on me, not someone who's falling in love with me.
"Oh, Kirby. I wish you hadn't said that:' He turned, and it was a huge relief to see that he didn't look miserable or angry or embarrassed. He looked thoughtful. He smiled. "Then I wish I hadn't said it, too:' He took something from his pocket and came toward -me, holding it out. A ring-I started back in horror. "I brought -down some-washers to try," he said mildly.
"You. . . What?" "The faucet in the kitchen. It's still leaking, isn't it?" I nodded stupidly.
"I'll see if I can fix it." He went out of the room, into the kitchen, and started puttering. - I sank down on the floor, right where I was. Grace hauled herself up from her place by the radiator, padded over, flopped down beside me. Grace loves Kirby, I mused, stroking her soft gray muzzle. Other than that, there wasn't a coherent thought in my head.
On Tuesday, I would be having my last six-month checkup. After that, assuming all was well, I'd only have to see my surgeon/oncologist once a year. Another breast cancer milestone. Petting Grace, staring into space, it came to me that I'd made a decision. If I was all right, no spread, no lumps or bumps, no fishy X rays-and I was sure there wouldn't be-then I would think, think about the possibility of a relationship with Kirby. Just consider it. No pressure, no timetables, no agendas. I'd just give it some thought.
Meanwhile, it was nice to sit here with Grace and listen to - the rattles and thumps and clanks of a man doing a chore for me in my kitchen. Mysterious, masculine sounds. Comforting. They made me feel like a woman. Now, that's something I haven't felt in a long time. 10.

   Curtis thinks I shouldn't get a real job because we don't need the money. He says my volunteer work (excluding the Call for Help Hotline) helps others and satisfies me, and any sort of paying, full-time career would make me crazy, I couldn't handle the stress.
I don't know. I'm not sure. I guess he's right.
But I look at Lee, a Ph.D., director of a federal child care center. She always knew what she wanted, and for her it's been a matter of taking step after logical step to get it. I can't even imagine being that responsible or that clear-sighted. And Isabel, going back to school at fifty, methodically working on a degree that will get her exactly where she wants to go. How do they know what they want? Even Emma knows, although she's careful not to let anybody in on her secret.
- Like me, she's afraid. Her fear comes from pride, though, and not wanting to make a fool of herself. Mine comes from understanding my own incompetence.
I tried to explain that to her, driving home from the movies last night, but I couldn't. Curtis is the only one who really understands. Emma and I almost had a fight. I stopped the car in front of her house, wishing we'd gone for drinks instead of ice cream after the movie, because then I'd have been able to argue better.
She glared at me with one hand on the door handle, the other crushing out her cigarette in the ashtray. She wears a black wool beret when the weather's bad; she pulls it low over her forehead, almost past her eyebrows, and her crazy red hair shoots out like fire all around. "Rudy, you're an artist. You are incredibly talented, you could be anything you want, but it's like you're frozen or something. You're stuck, and for the life of me I can't figure out what's holding you back." Cowardice. Inadequacy. Inertia. I felt defensive, but I didn't want to fight, and throwing Emma's own fears back in her face would've hurt her feelings.
"I am doing things. I might enter some prints in a photo contest at the Corcoran. Oh, and they want me to teach a pottery class at the Free School next year." "A pottery class? But you don't even throw pots anymore." Another sore subject. Emma blamed Curtis when I sold my potting wheel. I kept it in the basement, and it's true his exercise equipment started crowding everything else out, but that's not really why I gave up potting. It took up a lot of time, and Curtis said, and I eventually agreed, that if I wasn't going to do it full-time, actually make a career for myself in ceramics, why do it at all?
"I don't do it actively," I told Emma, "but I could still teach it to beginners. So anyway-I am working on some things, I just don't always tell you." "Yeah, okay. I know you are." She was backtracking; she knew she'd hurt my feelings by being so blunt. "I'm sorry if I came on like your mother. Well, not your mother. Some normal mother." "Yeah, not my mother." I laughed, to make her laugh, and then we were okay again. But when she asked me to come in, I said I'd better not. In spite of that last-second mollifying, Emma was in a feisty mood, and I was afraid she'd start in again if I stayed.
"Night," she said, and gave me a light slap on the shoulder-she's not much of a hugger. I waited while she ran up to her front porch in the rain. Once inside, she flicked the porch light on and off-our signal that we're safe, no rapists hiding in the shrubbery-and I tooted the horn and pulled away.
The rain turned to sleet as I drove home along Rock Creek, and then I was glad instead of sorry we hadn't ended the evening with a few drinks. And when I got home and saw all the downstairs lights on in my house, I was more than glad.
Thank God I'm sober, I prayed as I circled the block, looking for an empty space. Curtis was back from Atlanta a day early, and I should've been there. He hates to come home to an empty house.
I thought of Eric's advice about pointless guilt- I'm supposed to ask myself exactly what I've done wrong, and the answer, he says, will almost always be nothing. Well, maybe, but I never feel innocent. There's always this sense, especially with Curtis, that I could do, should do, more, better, something else.
"Curtis?" He'd left the lights on, but he wasn't downstairs. I went up, taking my coat off as I went. He wasn't in the bedroom, wasn't in the bathroom. "Curtis?" I heard a noise from his darkened study. I went in, but he didn't turn around; he stayed slumped in his chair at his desk, staring at his black computer screen. "Curtis?" He still had on his suit. I touched his shoulder. When he didn't move, I slid my hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tight tendons there bunch and flex. "What are you doing, baby? All by yourself in the dark." His hair grows to a perfect little V at the back. He hates it; he instructs his expensive Capitol Hill hairstylist to blunt it every two weeks, but it never quite goes away. I used to like to play with it, but he doesn't let me anymore. It annoys him. - "Where've you been?" he asked in his slow, meticulous southern drawl.
"I thought you weren't coming home till tomorrow." He waited for the real answer. - "I just went to the movies." "Alone?" "No, with Emma. She wanted to see this French film, a love story, I've already forgotten the name. She -liked it, but I thought it was silly." That wasn't quite the truth. "It had subtitles you could barely see," I added. To make it clearer that I hadn't had a very good time.
I slipped my fingers under the collar of his jacket and started a soft, slow massage. I could smell his cologne, still fresh after his long day, and the musk-scented mousse he puts on his neat, glossy hair. His head bowed slowly, a little at a time, and I felt him begin to relax. "How was Atlanta?" I asked.
A mistake. I shouldn't have asked him that, not yet. All his muscles tensed. "A disaster." Why did I feel responsible? Whatever happened in Atlanta, it didn't have anything to do with me, but still I heard his words as an accusation.
I waited, but when he didn't explain, I said, "What happened?" "Morris." "Oh, no." I made a scornful, sympathetic sound, squeezing his shoulders. Frank Morris is Curtis's enemy. He has much less seniority, but he wants Curtis's job, and he always tries to make him look bad in front of the congressman. "What did he do?"~ No answer.
"Hm? What did Morris do?" "What do you care?" I could feel that heavy, smothering fog of guilt seep inside, bog me down. From where? Why? "You know I care." But what had I done? Something, I knew it was something. Curtis knew what it was, but I didn't dare ask him.
A long minute passed, and I realized he wasn't going to tell me. That was his worst punishment-not letting me in. But why couldn't he see that it punished him, too?
I put my arms around him, leaning over to rest my cheek against his ear. "Oh, baby," I whispered. If I could just warm him, soften him. "Curtis, it's-" He stood up. My hands fell away as I stepped back. Without a glance, he passed beside me and walked out of the room.
We have a ritual. This was just part of it, this would pass. He wasn't really shutting me out. No one understands that Curtis needs me as much as I need him. More sometimes. But he's the strong one. I would be lost without him. Eric says no, but I would.
Later, I brought him a glass of cognac in bed. "I don't want this," he said, and he wouldn't take it.
I sipped it, watching him. I'd put on the nightgown he likes best, black and cut low, soft crushed velvet. "Tired?" He shrugged. He almost smiled at me.
"You have such long days." I set the glass down. He let me take the Forbes out of his hand and put it on the night table. A lock of his hair fell across his forehead; he looked so boyish and young, and I thought of the early days, in Durham, when we first moved in together. The happiest, safest time of my life. He really loved me then.
"Morris is such an idiot," I said. "I've never been able to stand him." Curtis grunted. "And he's going bald awfully fast." He sniffed his breath out, a kind of a laugh, and reached for my hand. His smile meant the beginning of forgiveness.
"I'm getting out of there," he said, pulling on the black ribbon bow at the top of my nightgown. "I'm going with Teeter and Jack." "You're what? -You are?" He kept yanking at the ties; I had to cover his hands to make him stop. "You mean you're quitting?" "I decided tonight." "But-" "Assholes, Rudy, I can't deal with it anymore. And I don't have to." "No-no, you should leave, you haven't been happy in ages." What a surprise! I could hardly think. But he hadn't been happy in his work; there was too much back stabbing in Congressman Wingert's office, he said, too much hypocrisy. Teeter Reese and Jack Birmingham were old friends from law school. They'd started a lobbying firm, and they were making tons of money, according to Curtis. Maybe that would be perfect. He couldn't bear authority. But if he could be a partner, his own boss instead of somebody's underling, he might thrive. And the springboard to political office-Curtis's true ambition-was almost as direct, I imagined. It was just a different route. - He- was peeling my nightgown over my shoulders, starting to caress me. "Wingert can fuck himself," he said, his eyes shining, white teeth flashing. "He can fuck Morris, too. They can fuck each other." His vulgarity shocked me-he rarely swears. He pulled me down. I let him touch me too roughly, but he needed to, because of the strange mood he was in. But he finally stopped when he realized I wasn't with him, wasn't ready. He gentled his hands, grew tender.
Tenderness-it breaks me down, and he knows me so well. He knows I'll be anything he wants if he's tender with me. He stroked the tears off my face with his fingers, murmuring, "Good, Rudy, that's right," and spreading my legs with his knees. I wanted him -to fill me, take up all the empty space inside with himself. Complete me. He never, never lets go of himself, never loses control, but he can make me so hot. I was panting for him, calling him baby, calling out, "God, God," wanting it so much. He buried his face in my hair. Then he stopped.
"Oh, Christ." I went still, too, appalled by the disgust in his tone. "What's wrong?" His lips curled, still wet from kissing me. "What's wrong? I'll tell you. You smell like a God damn ashtray." I reached for him. He shrugged off my hand and rolled away.
"I'm sorry." My skin prickled everywhere, I was freezing. "I'm sorry. I thought I had quit, but Emma and I, we just-she had some and I started again, I smoked in the car. I'm sorry-" I made myself stop. It wasn't the smoking, anyway.
"I hate when you do this," I whispered to his back. I touched his hip with one finger, but he jerked at the covers angrily, and I snatched my hand away. "Curtis, please." He wouldn't answer, not if I went on my knees and begged him. It's easy for me to hate myself, harder to hate him. But sometimes he even manages that.
I got up and took two Phrenilin for my head, a couple of Nembutals for oblivion. Deep, black sleep is the only analgesic for this particular kind of pain. Too bad it's impossible to come by naturally. I need a guarantee.
The next morning, my mother called.
I hadn't spoken to her in about three months. I suppose that sounds like a long time, but it's not unusual for us. She sounded awful. I shut my eyes and thought, Shit, shit, she's drinking again. - "Rudelle? Oh, it's good to hear your voice. How are you, darling?" "I'm fine, Mother. Is something wrong?" "August is in the hospital." "Oh, no. What's wrong with him? Mom?" A sharp noise hurt my ear-I had to pull the telephone away. "Are you there?" "I dropped it." She started to cry.
I took the phone into the hall outside the bedroom. I lay down on the floor, curled onto my side on the crisp mauve carpet.
"Please don't cry, Mom, don't cry. What's wrong with August?" My stepfather turned eighty in September. He's sixteen years older than my mother.
"His heart. Late last night. I called Alien, but he won't come. Oh, Rudelle, if only you would." "Mother-" "I'm not drinking. I haven't been." Maybe. Maybe not. "Did he have a heart attack?" "An episode, they called it. I don't know what else they said, I can't listen." "But-then he's going to be okay?" "They're making him come home today." "They're-" I opened my eyes. "Okay, then, he's all right. It was just a warning. It can't be serious, Mom, or they wouldn't let him leave." I lay still, thinking, She called Allen first, while she blew her nose. My brother is an alcoholic with two ex-wives, a drug habit, and no job, and my mother called him first for help. I could feel my muscles getting weak, lax, my face going slack. The start of my own "episode." "Can you come? It's been so long, Rudelle." "I don't think I can right now." "You could come for Christmas. It's beautiful here. Remember? How beautiful at the holidays? You and Curtis. It's been so long." "We can't. Curtis has to work." That probably wasn't a lie. "Mother, I'll have to call you back." "Rudelle -" "I've got another call. Have to go, I'll call you." -I clicked off and cut the connection.
She used to be beautiful. I wonder if she still is. I haven't seen her in almost five years, not since my wedding. To my friends I call her Felicia, not "Mother" or "my mom," so that's what they call her to me. "How are Felicia and the playboy?" Emma will say. The eighty-year-old playboy. August is Swiss; Mother met him in Geneva the year before my father killed himself. They were lovers, of course. They must have been.
Every once in a while my mother decides she wants to see me. She'll call up and go on about how long it's been, how wonderful it would be, how much she misses me. I can't bring myself to follow through and arrange a visit. Eric thinks I should. He thinks I've got issues with my mother I need to resolve. But I don't do anything. Can't. - I got a mental picture of how I probably looked, curled up in a -ball on the hail floor. Eric taught me to do that-see myself, visualize the way I-look when I think I'm getting sick~ It works sometimes. Shocks me into doing something.
I got up and started toward the bathroom. I made it through the doorway, but as soon as I flicked on the light, I couldn't go any farther. I froze with my foot in midair, inches from the white tile floor. Stop it, I thought in a panic, but I couldn't go in. I could make my hand- work-I turned out the bathroom light. And then I could go backward, back out into the hall. I kept going and went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
I still had the phone in my hand. I hit memory and the number two. The receptionist in Wingert's office said Curtis was in a meeting. Was there a message? "No, thanks." I couldn't recognize my-voice. I disconnected quickly and dialed again.
Emma's voice on her answering machine steadied me. I could see her so clearly, hying not to laugh, eyes dancing while she made her witty, tongue-in-cheek recording. When I spoke into the machine, I almost sounded normal.