Traveling Light (9 page)

“Roger always hated driving anyway,” she said.

“Interesting use of the past tense,” Celeste remarked. “Kind of a crazy day to make decisions, don’t you think?”

They were quiet for a few moments.

“It’s not a rash decision.”

“Keeping a dog’s a big decision, on top of everything else.”

“Maybe.”

“And what about the conference?”

The conference.

“Paula, are you okay?”

She couldn’t answer. Everything rushed in on her at once. Her throat became a spasm of grief.

“I don’t know,” she eked out.

They were quiet.

“Breathe,” Heavenly said. “Take a couple breaths. Want me to come over?”

Paula shook her head. She’d call Guillermo; he could handle the conference. He was practically acting director anyway. Then she’d call Christoff. Tell him she needed time off.

“I can’t do it anymore.”

Celeste waited for Paula.

“I just can’t.”

“Who are these old friends from grad school?” Celeste asked.

“Bernie Kalgan. You and Tony met him. Eleni met him, too, when he walked me down to get my Ph.D.”

“Oh yeah,” Heavenly remembered. “We all had dinner at that twenty-four-hour Chinese place that served free refills on margaritas.”

“That be the place,” Paula said. “The others are old friends. We peer-review each other’s articles.”

“How long since you’ve seen them?”

“Saw Bernie this past March.”

Her opening statement at the March conference had been awkward. As she began to present her findings on why English-language acquisition was more rapid among Arabic-speaking populations than Spanish, her heart clattered against her ribs. It felt like the audience could see everything, every moment of her life with Roger, on the surface of her skin, documenting her own humiliation. She fought to swim against the undertow of layered emotions, her eyes focusing on her PowerPoint slide, reaching for it like a life preserver.

“We exchange Christmas cards.”

“You’re gonna show up on someone’s doorstep from Christmas cards?”

“I’m not
showing up
on anyone’s doorstep, Heav,” she said. “I’ll call—tell them I’m in town.” She hated the desperation in her voice. “Things aren’t right, Heav.” The partial confession eased her. “Someday I’ll tell you.”

“Anytime.” She could hear Celeste waiting.

“I just need to take a vacation. Get away, to think. For some reason this dog is important.”

“So you’re taking a road trip,” Celeste announced.

“Yeah,” Paula said in surprise. “A road trip.”

“Shit, I wish I had more time off.”

Paula could almost hear Celeste calculating. But while traveling with her would be fun, Paula needed time alone.

The more the idea sank in, the more excited she felt.

“What about a car?”

Paula shrugged. “I don’t know—rent one, buy one.”

“You’re taking the dog?”

She looked at Fotis, who’d been circling the room, sniffing. He instantly looked back at her.

“I don’t know why that makes me feel better, but it does,” Celeste said. “Will you at least call?”

“Of course.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t know.” She wanted to leave that instant. “I’ll call you tomorrow after I talk with Guillermo, call the Dean.”

“And call Roger…,” Heavenly said.

“Of course.”

The joy of the last few moments tarnished quickly. Call Roger. He was probably fuming at her for pulling a “stunt” like this. Her chest burned with resentment like an acidy burp. Shit, what would she even say?

Just as she’d ended the call with Celeste, Roger called. Even the ringtone sounded pissed.

“Okay—you win. Where are you?” he demanded.

She looked at Fotis.

“I’m staying with a friend.”

“Celeste?”

Let him think what he wanted.

“Okay, so what’s happening, Paula? Why now, the night before I leave?”

“I need a break.”

“So come to France with me,” he said, sounding relieved. “Take a break there. You can stay as long as you want.”

“I don’t think—”

“Look,” he said in his low, advisory tone. “I know things have been tense.”

Were they?

“And I know you’ve been unhappy for a very long time.”

He did? Her heart softened.

“So come to France,” he urged. “Give me a chance to make it up to you. I love you, Paula. You’re the most beautiful thing on earth.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He never said things like this. Declarations of love. Why say it now? She looked at Fotis. Why this day, when so many things were happening?

“Please, Paula, I’m your husband. Give me a chance to make it up to you.”

But she felt sorry—for what she wasn’t sure.

“I know you’re my husband.” She wanted to say she loved him but couldn’t.

They were quiet for a few moments.

“I just need a break from our life,” she said. “From the house, the mess. Normal people don’t live like this.”

“Oh, come on, Paula.” He laughed. “You’re a social scientist; ‘normal’ is a relative measure.”

His laughter changed in a way that let her know although she’d pushed too far she was on the right track.

“Well now, don’t forget that some of that mess is yours, too,” Roger said with a scolding reminder.

Her chin dropped. Disappointment was eclipsed by confirmation. It took too much effort to hold up her head.

“Right, Roger.” She was too exhausted to start.

“Think about France.”

“Thanks, but I’m staying here.”

“Think about it anyway.”

Right.

“So what will you do on your break?” He sounded nervous.

“Maybe take a drive.”

“With my car? Who with?”

She didn’t want to say much.

“With the dog.”

“You met someone online, didn’t you?” he said. “I’ve been afraid of this.”

She sat up. What a strange thing for him to say, much less be afraid of. Like anyone would want her.

“Roger—”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Oh please.” She wouldn’t indulge such craziness. Yeah, I met him on the downstairs couch a couple of years ago. “Call me when you land so I know you’re okay.”

“I love you,” he offered. She’d usually say it first.

“Me too.” She ended the call and turned off her phone for the night.

She looked at Fotis. “Are you sleepy?” She unrolled the dog bed, setting it on the floor next to the king-sized bed. Fotis watched.

“Here’s your bed,” she said in Greek. Kneeling down, she patted the surface. “Look how soft it is.”

He looked at her like she was crazy.

“Very soft. Ummm.” She lay down on the soft bed, trying to lure him beside her.

After a few moments she stood up.

“Okay, under the window instead?” She dragged the bed to the glass and smoothed the surface. “You like this better?”

He didn’t move.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.

He stared at her.

“Look, I’m sorry about Theo,” she said, yawning. “But I’m beat.” She walked to the hotel bed, kicked off her sandals and lay back.

She flinched as the dog vaulted up, on top of her. Her skin prickled in fear as she cried out. “Ahh!” She cringed and shielded her face.

Fotis tromped in circles before plopping down beside her, groaning contentedly. He sighed as if he too was weary from the day.

The pressure from his spine felt good. It surprised and pleased her.

As she relaxed she thought of the Center. If Guillermo agreed to manage the conference, who would take care of the birds? They’d think she’d abandoned them. But maybe it would be okay. Maybe when she returned she could lure them back.

She’d started thinking of Roger. The room had grown cold from the air-conditioning; she’d wanted to slip under the covers but didn’t want to break contact with Fotis. She flipped up the edge of the bedspread to at least cover her feet.

Pressure from the sleeping dog’s back made her eyes fill with tears. Such a trusting gesture to give a stranger who, just hours before, had thought of a million ways to pawn him off on someone else.

As tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. Paula thought back to her wedding night. Roger had tossed and turned before finally switching on the light. Raising himself onto one elbow, he tapped her shoulder.

“What, what, what?” Her eyes stung like bees from unwashed mascara and eyeliner. “What’s wrong?”

She’d pushed her legs between his, cuddling up. The tiny diamond and sapphire pendant she always wore tickled her neck as it fell to one side.

“It’s your breathing, sweetie,” he’d said, and rubbed his face. It released the scent of his aftershave, making her twitch again with desire.

“My breathing,” she said. With her finger, she’d traced the valley in his chest where the breastbones came together.

“Yes. It’s keeping me awake.” The skin around his eyes looked deeply lined, ashen.

“Well—uhh—am I snoring?” She’d burrowed her face into his chest, not wanting to entertain the image of her drooling mouth.

“No. Breathing,” he said as if that were somehow surprising.

“Oh. Would you like for me to stop?” She was such a plucky young thing back then, but the seriousness of his expression made her stop.

“Am I moving around too much?” she asked in a conciliatory way, to show him she took his comfort seriously.

“No—it’s your breathing.” Roger leveraged himself up to a sitting position. He put on his glasses and turned to face her. She chuckled at his white silvery translucent skin, like a fish wearing Coke-bottle glasses. She loved what a nerd he was.

“When I get knocked off my sleep schedule I can’t work.” He shot her a look, both eyes magnified through the lenses like cerulean planets.

“Oh.” She was at a loss for words. “Is my breathing that loud?”

“It’s keeping me awake.”

Paula rolled the platinum chain between her fingers. No one had ever complained about her breathing, not that she’d wanted to point
that
out on her wedding night.

He must have slept with other people. At fifty-two, Roger had never lived with anyone, always joking about how he’d “skillfully avoided it.” He’d called her his dream girl, those first few months. Over the previous year their relationship had been much confined to her apartment, which she didn’t find odd. He was off so frequently at particle physics conferences or working on grants or as a consultant overseas that they’d not slept together often. She’d thought nothing of it at the time—assuming that once they were married it would all even out. Cuddling with your man is one of those assumptions that brides don’t think about.

“Maybe my nose is stuffy,” she’d sniffed, wrinkling it as she tested the airways. “I bet there’s plenty of dust in here,” she’d said innocently, looking around in his bedroom at heaps of objects and cardboard boxes in the dim light. “Maybe once we move all this out and clean up—” She’d halted mid-sentence, feeling a sneeze coming on.

“I’ve already cleared things out.” He’d looked hurt. ‘Plenty of things,” he said with finality.

Her eyes shifted to stacks of boxes, then back at him. He wasn’t joking.

This marked a pivotal moment in their life. A messy bachelor, Roger was never home anyway and had promised he’d clear out the brownstone before the wedding. The only doubt she could remember was a feeling only days before the ceremony, as she signed the lease termination form on her apartment. There’d been something about watching her wet blue signature bleeding into the paper.

After her fifteen years as a faithful tenant, Mr. Mahoney had rented her apartment that same afternoon. You’d have thought he’d give her forty-eight hours or so to think about it. During all those years of waving to her every morning through his ground-floor window where he’d sit reading the paper, she’d never neglected to wave back. The next day she’d mentioned her feelings to Roger. He’d looked at her with such a rush of tenderness and emotion that all was put to rest. “Last-minute wedding jitters,” he’d postulated.

“So, uhh … what do you propose we do about the breathing?” she’d asked.

Roger just stared at her, like the burden was hers. Then his eyebrows rose, and he flashed his goofy smile that always made her concede.

“Okay, okay, how ’bout for tonight and tonight only,” she’d offered, her generosity betraying her like a friend spreading lies, “I go sleep on the downstairs couch?”

Roger smiled in a way that gave her goose pimples. She’d felt frightened; she was his wife now. It must have been that change in Paula’s expression that caused Roger to tilt his head in his endearing “polar bear” way. Assured by the afterglow of the wedding, she pushed back the top sheet and swung her legs over to reach the floor.

“Just until you get back on your sleep schedule, of course,” Paula mewed as softly as a lamb.

“Of course.” Roger’s features had formed a new expression: relief, conquest.

We never know precisely when a bargain is struck. Sometimes it just feels like being reasonable and bighearted. Many bargains are not retractable and must run their course. Sometimes they expire quickly; other times they are taken to the grave. Like the eighty-seven-year-old widow who openly weeps; everyone thinks,
How moving,
but she’s grieving for all the years she never did one single thing for herself.

Paula had grabbed a pillow and a quilt from the foot of the bed. She felt like a kid swinging too high in the playground, not sure whether to grip tighter or let go.

She’d looked at his face. A nose that had at first seemed too large now made perfect sense. His thinning hair was clipped too short for her taste, but his large hands could cradle her spine like she was the most delicate thing in the world. She could be reasonable, understanding. It was an adjustment. They were both older. And after several more days on the couch Paula crept upstairs at bedtime, but Roger refused her and she started to cry.

“Of course I want to sleep with you, too, Paula—” He’d laughed nervously, touching her tears. “You know I want to. Just let me get on a better sleep schedule.” She’d counted that as his first lie.

She settled in on one of his downstairs couches. The couch from her old apartment was still turned on end in the living room where the movers had left it (and where it would remain for a decade). Her books and belongings were heaped on top. She didn’t have much, balancing the number of possessions by what she thought of as her “Bedouin mentality”—if she couldn’t load it up on a horse did she really want it?