The Wintering (32 page)

“I do love you.” She spoke softly, but the words seemed to have the force of a trap sprung. “Oh, I do love you,” she repeated, feeling released.

“Yes.” His bottom lip trembled a little. “I believe you do.” He spoke against her hair. “And, someday, you'll learn to love more.” The trembling of his lip was all the indication that his happiness had sunk deeper. She held as still as a baby exhausted from crying.

“It seems so funny though,” she said, sitting up, continuing aloud a conversation she had been having with herself, “that no one ever recognizes you when we're out together.” She moved over one pillow on the sofa. “I'll bet no one would ever imagine your spending time in New York like this. They'd think you were constantly surrounded by people.”

“In Europe,” he said, “it's very different. There, young people worship writers the way they do baseball players here. One time, a group waited outside my hotel, for hours, until I came out and followed me along the street. Afterward, one of the young women I met even sent me a present. A travel clock and embarrassingly expensive.”

“Well, that was very flattering, and you deserve adulation,” she said. “I ought to give you a present.”

“You are here.”

“That's not much.”

“She lives in New York now,” he said, rather shortly.

“Who? The girl who gave you the clock? Oh,” Amy said. She stuck her nose into her glass and breathed. She sipped brandy with deliberate slowness, considering whether she had been jealous, and whether that had been his intent. Between them, the invisible clock ticked in the silence. He reached for her and said, as if in apology and in a rush, “Yes, the girl who gave me the clock. And she is beautiful, too, Amy. But she is not you. And even crumbs, I'll take those.”

It seemed an accusation that she gave only crumbs. Amy said nothing. His hand had rested on her knee, trembling a little. She freed herself by going across the room to set her empty glass on the bar.

“Another?” he said.

“No, thank you.”

“Shall I take you downtown then? You look sleepy.”

“Wine and brandy,” she said, trying to smile.

“Well then, I'd better take you back downtown.” As he got up, the elevator clicked past going to another floor. Voices were heard saying goodnight and the elevator came back past, causing a reminiscent flickering of yellow, like the flickering of yellow summer moths, along the foyer floor. Silence returned, heavy as sleep.

“Can't I just stay here?” Amy said.

“Of course, if you will.” He had given a little start, before setting down his glass with a slow movement.

Looking indecisive, she said, “I think this one switch turns off all the lights in here.” Moving to it and reaching out as hesitantly as if expecting a shock from the electricity, she drew down the switch. Darkness seemed inordinately quick. Peering through it Amy experienced the childhood sensation of hiding, but feeling terror at not being found at once. Light came on placidly in the adjoining hall where Jeff stood and waited. Beyond him, the bedroom was revealed only by light from apartments the other side of the fire escape, across a courtyard from Alex's window. Objects in the room were difficult to see, the lights opposite somewhat obscured by a half-drawn Venetian blind. When she entered the room, Amy stumbled against the bed. With her knee aching and clutching it, she went about as if crippled.

Jeff's toilet kit had a homeless air atop Alex's dresser, which being cleared was ownerless-looking. Of some dark wood, the dresser did not take kindly to clutter. Searching for bobby pins somewhere in the bottom of her handbag, Amy had scattered the top with lipstick-dabbed Kleenex and other possessions: a pale blue wallet, a companionless earring, a rattail comb, a tiny brush. Reprimanded by the furniture's heavy look, she stuck things back into her pocketbook hastily.

After making little pin curls above each ear, she stood dead still, no longer really seeing herself in the mirror. Assuming she had changed her mind, Jeff made an offer. “If you'd prefer, I could make myself comfortable on the couch in the living room.”

She bent then toward the mirror, dissatisfied, and redid the curls; her throat muscles seemed strained with the effort. Her hipbones pressed the dresser so ardently, she might have been holding it back against the wall. In a resigned way, her hands left the curls alone. “Why should you have to sleep on the couch? I should, if anyone does,” she said.

Jeff, having undressed to his undershorts, had gotten into bed. Amy travelled back and forth to the bathroom, apparently able to remember only one thing at a time. She took the tiny brush and went away stroking her hair, then came back for the comb. A bedside clock had stopped, which Jeff wound and set. Leaning on an elbow, and pretending interest, he flipped through a publisher's catalogue, on a table next to the bed. Amy came back in, to search again through her purse, which she then shoved against the mirror, a dead end.

The catalogue was bound stiffly and falling shut seemed never to have been opened. Jeff set his reading glasses atop the bedside table. “Would you like for me to lie on top of the covers for a while?” he said.

Amy dawdling beside the bed shook her head. Suddenly, her arms went up full-length on either side of her head, and she drew in her breath. Her back arched. A diver, she would have been about to plunge headfirst from a high board. Here, her hands clutched beneath either armpit, and she drew off her dress. She got in gingerly beneath the sheet; their heads turned instantly toward each other. For the first time, Amy did not look away from his close observation. But she was not stirred.

“You've been yawning all evening,” he said.

“I know it. I can't help it. Aren't you ready to sleep?”

He said, “I'll doze off and on. I don't need many hours of sleep.”

“I feel like you'll be watching me.”

“I will be,” he said, laughing.

“It makes me feel funny.”

“All right. I'll close my eyes.”

When his hand touched her, she stiffened. Behind closed eyes, she longed for some great emotion to take hold of her. She thought of movie scenes with limp heroines being lifted in strong arms, their hair streaming floorward. Sex, with Tony, was an experiment. She had wished he loved her, knowing she could not love him. It was always evident in the way he rolled off her and went to sleep immediately, that he never thought of her until the next time. She lay then wishful for love and staring into the darkness. Jeff's hand moved cautiously. Her brain became alert. If only she could stop thinking. She remembered going to a birthday party where she had known none of the children, the hostess's mother being a friend of Edith's. When Edith left, the others drifted toward games. Then ice cream was served, and she had been revealed, still standing in the doorway, and had begun to cry. Edith had been summoned and arriving had said, “I'd be ashamed,” although she had thought her mother so beautiful, coming through the door, all she had longed for was never again to be left by her. Questioned at home, she remembered blurting out that she had not been to the bathroom for two days; then irritatedly Edith had said, “But why didn't you tell me!”

But how much, Amy thought, clenching her teeth against the feel of Jeff's hand, she had never told anyone. Was she now responsible for feeling nothing? He was older and married and everything in her past told her what was happening was wrong. She cried silently, Don't! with her teeth gritted. Her soul and her spirit were unmanageable and ungiving.

He said, unexpectedly, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

Having been about to move over her, he lay back. Opening her eyes, Amy was not sure exactly what had happened. Then she understood nothing had happened and, therefore, she need not feel guilt.

Jeff said, “I had waited for you too long.”

Never thinking to brush aside apology for what she had not wanted, and ignorant of anything she could have said or done, Amy slid down a little on her pillow and, shortly, fell asleep.

Jeff coddled her, and she knew it. She did not blame herself for falling asleep, but him for leaving her behind. Where could he have gone? Waking, she felt deserted by his independence. The sun likely shone elsewhere. It could not penetrate the crevasse protuberant with fire escapes between Alex's building and the surrounding ones. Her eyes came open. She saw first the furniture, shadowed and hostile-looking. Then, only her head moving slightly, she looked up toward the window, which emitted a solid greyness.

I'm awake, Amy had thought, a little terrified. Fear was a continuous state of being, suspended briefly while she slept. She accepted its return. Slats of the venetian blind were unthoroughly closed; the shifty light gave her a sense of having been drugged. Beyond, the apartment seemed full of animosity, silent and soundless. Barely could she see in the dimness of the tiny hallway, which seemed confining as a boat. Reaching out, she touched the wall once, to stop some shaking in herself.

Everywhere in the kitchen copper utensils had been hung, a decorator's fine touch. They served as decoys, diverting attention from the fact that most of the drawers and cabinets were empty. Alex seldom ate at home. Perfected, the kitchen seemed an unused stage prop, particularly because of the stillness. Amy's own sense, as she walked in, was of playing a part. Her face registered disbelief while she stared at the unshaven man, dispiritedly at the kitchen table, on which a whiskey bottle sat. Hollowly she spoke as if a memorized line: “You shouldn't be drinking in the morning.” But because she was Amy, she added a little uncertainty even to that of which she was sure. “Should you?” she said.

Jeff said he was sorry. Crumbs were not enough, after all. But she had gotten into bed with him! Amy said.

“The whole time wishing you were not, Amy. Don't you think I could see that? I don't want pity.”

“I don't pity you,” she said. “And, please, don't drink.”

His head nodded but his hand seemed to have its own mind. He reached for his glass. Amy's heels sank firmly, impressionably, upon the cork floor. Reaching him, she pressed a cheek to the top of his head, one hand shyly touched his back. “You've got to go outside,” she said. “You'll be all right if you take a walk and eat.” The queasy feeling so often with her subsided unexpectedly. She was struck by the disappearance, like that of a close friend. How unlike her to have reached out, she thought. That she could offer only what she wanted might have enabled her to. Jeff set down the glass, understanding that she was trying.

Speaking, she had mimicked her mother who made the same suggestions helping her father over a drinking spree. The words were familiar, the pattern was known; but to follow only what was set out for you limited life. Amy felt that strongly, now, after drawing back from Jeff more quickly than she had wanted. She sensed again she avoided full-blown relationships; the queasiness that had left her began to return.

Coming out onto the broad avenue, though the sun settled on it stingily, Jeff looked better. He wavered, however, and took her arm. Noticeably, he had not shaved. The doorman was amused and unsuccessfully tried to hide a grin. But an older couple about to enter their Mercedes openly stared. Amy found then she had limits to her timidity and knew she was capable of loyalty. Wildly and publicly, if necessary, she would have defended Almoner's right to be drunk on Sunday morning if he wanted to be. When he apologized for being a nuisance, she assured him he was not.

In a restaurant, she placed a paper napkin in his saucer. Raising his cup shakily, he kept spilling coffee. The shop's stuffiness gave his face a false healthy look, his cheeks pink. Unable to stand the stale air any longer, and putting down her protests, he insisted he could walk. Then within a few blocks, he had to admit she was right. Blindingly beyond them, a marquee drew Amy's attention. Docilely, he allowed himself to be led toward it. The movie was the sort that not even Amy had heard of the stars. Predictably, Jeff fell asleep. His head dropped politely forward, as in a formal bow. She fit a cautious shoulder against him, pushing him enough upright that he did not appear to be sleeping. At the sound of snoring, people had turned. But it came from an open-mouthed bum a few seats down the row. Shifting her eyes, Amy directed their attention to the snoring's source. The people looked past Jeff, without realizing that though he faced forward, he saw nothing. She endured the movie halfway through again, for his sake, then woke him.

“Shall I take you downtown, now?” he said when they stood on the street.

“I'd go alone. There wouldn't be any sense in your having to make that trip,” she said. “But I'll stay at Alex's. I don't trust you enough to leave you alone.”

She came to bed less reluctantly and put her head on his shoulder. “Amy,” he said, “you're the most dear and precious thing I've ever held in my arms. Does that embarrass you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “I don't want you ever to be embarrassed by sentiment. That's one thing wrong with the world today.” He then whispered, “I'm afraid of failing you again, tonight. But someday I hope we'll be as close as people can be. Poor baby. I keep trying to help free you of all your Sunday-school morality. On the other hand, I'm stuffing some back into your head, preaching. But, Amy, to give is to get back so much more.”

She turned her face into his shoulder and said, “There's something that's been bothering me. I have to tell you, even though there's no point to it now.”

“There is. This is the time to tell everything, anything.”

“My story about the lonely little girl burning sparklers on New Year's Eve by herself was about me. It was true.”

“Why, Miss Howard! You don't mean to tell me,” he said softly.

Leaning up on her elbow to look at him, she then laughed. “Oh, of course you knew. Why did I think you didn't.” They looked at each other affectionately before Amy moved to her pillow.