Wanting Rita (20 page)

The day surrounded us in bright yellow glory. Rita nosed toward another red tulip and sniffed.

“I asked her about you,” Rita said.

I straightened a little with bright interest.

“She said you were studying hard.”

“Yeah, I did study hard. I was a good little boy.”

Rita looked me over, closely, I thought, for the first time. She nodded. “So, you’re a doctor now.”

“Yes.”

“Surgeon?”

“No. Primary care. I got tired…And…well, maybe later.”

“You’ve changed.”

“I tried to.”

“Your face is quieter, but your eyes are sad.”

“I don’t know…” I said, leaving a number of unfinished thoughts in the air.

“Yes.” She squinted another look. “There’s confusion there, too. You’ve filled out. Longer hair. It looks good. I like it.”

“Nicole doesn’t like it short.”

“Nicole? You’re married?”

I toed at the ground. “Yes.”

“How long?”

“A little over three years.”

“What does she do?”

“Attorney. Medical malpractice. She defends doctors.”

“Are you happy, Alan James?” Rita asked, presenting her face to the full flood of sunlight.

I pushed my hands into my pockets. “Sometimes.”

Her smile broadened, the years vanished and I breathed her in, feeling the growing pull of her.

She pointed to the little pond. “Let’s walk.”

“Okay.”

We started across the lawn to the narrow salmon pebble path, and ambled along it toward the pond, silently, until we reached it. Rita found a large flat rock and sat down, bringing her knees to her chest and embracing them. Shading our eyes from the glare, we watched water spiders and the gray shadows of fish slithering through shallow water. We followed the capricious and ridiculous flight of a yellow butterfly.

“What’s she like? Your wife.”

“Smart, attractive, ambitious. Fair.”

“Fair?”

I didn’t reply.

“Too personal. Sorry,” Rita said.

“Don’t be.”

“Children?”

“No. None.”

Rita looked up. “Will you?”

“Children?”

Rita didn’t move her steady eyes from mine. She must have seen pain. She looked away toward a green field that slanted up to a line of trees, and then our conversation turned careful. The sun was growing hot on my shoulders.

“Did you ever fish here?” she asked.

“Some, when I was a boy. I usually went over to Sawmill Lake. It’s bigger and you can swim there.”

Rita’s face suddenly enlivened with an idea. “Should we?”

“Go to Sawmill Lake?”

She nodded, more vigorously.

“To swim?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

“The water will be cold.”

“Okay with me.”

I felt a sudden release of hope. “Hey. Why not?”

Rita waited downstairs while I grabbed towels, sunglasses, swimming trunks and a couple pairs of flip flops. We took my car and drove back to the Farmers Market, at Rita’s request, and bought cheese, bread and bottled water.

Sawmill Lake was one of the smaller but more picturesque lakes in the county. It was more oval than round and was fed by freshwater streams. The lake itself was stocked with large and small-mouthed bass that had drawn both the local fishermen and the prosperous of the county, who had put up modest summer cottages.

As we turned off the highway onto the asphalt road and traveled beneath quiet white birch, oak and elm, I immediately and sadly saw the evidence of relentless progress. There were new bungalows and cottages, and they were all hefty and invasive. Some were still in progress and the smell of fresh cut lumber mixed with the wind, blowing in through our open windows. There was more traffic than I’d remembered and, in the distance, I heard the wicked snarl of a jet ski.

We drove past old trees and protruding rocks that I remembered passing on my bike so long ago; quiet witnesses to the relentless passing of humans and their many dramas. They made me feel as vulnerable and fragile as the little insect that splattered against the windshield. I had no idea where that thought had come from. A second earlier I’d been ecstatic just being with Rita again. It occurred to me that the thought could have been picked up from Rita—a thread or fragment of her thinking. I’d had that ability in the old days, when we met at Jack’s.

I looked at her. She looked back. Her expression was subdued, her eyes clouded and gleaming, like the sun shining through a storm. Again, I wondered what medication she was taking.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“There were more woods fifteen years ago,” I said. “None of these damned houses.”

“Most are vacation homes,” Rita said. “The people aren’t from this area.”

I turned onto a dirt road and parked 10 feet from the lap of the water’s edge. We got out and took in the lake, the surrounding trees and the cloudless blue sky. I saw three rowboats. Two were wide apart and motionless, with fishermen hunched over poles, serene and hallowed in the good sun. Another boat crawled along the far side bank, mostly in shadow, its lone rower striding easy, long strokes.

I heard Rita sigh. She slanted me a look of pleasure and nodded.

“Brings back memories,” I said. “Long summer days.”

Suddenly, Rita rolled up the cuffs of her pants and started for the lake. A moment later, she unlaced her red sneakers, peeled off her socks and stepped to the water’s edge. Slowly, she dipped her right wiggling toes into the water. “Ooohhh…Cold!” she exclaimed, yanking her foot back.

I came up. “I told you. I didn’t swim here until late July or August. The mountain streams make it like ice water.”

In mock defiance, she heaved her fists to her hips and curled her lip. “Going in…”

“Rita…” I said, in a tone of modest apprehension.

But she marched forward, her face set, not breaking her stride as she entered the still water. She stamped in, splashing, advancing deeper until she was nearly waist high, gasping and trembling. I watched in astonishment.

“I wouldn’t go too far, Rita,” I called.

“Cold!!!” she yelled and it echoed. “Cold!!”

“Yes…” I said uneasily. “Maybe you should come back.”

She started to laugh. A low staccato sound, cramped. It crescendoed, found freedom, and broke though a trapped harshness into a tense stridency. It sounded less like a laugh and more like a call for help. I was alarmed.

“Rita!”

I’d never heard the sound before. It was unsettling, disturbing. A violent shout of agony. “Cold!!”

“Rita! Come back!”

The sound rose and curled around the lake, bouncing, breaking into a piercing frightening scream. “Cold! Cold!! COLD!!!”

The hair bristled on the back of my neck. The echo reverberated and shattered the peace. Birds burst from trees. Fishermen jolted to attention, jerking toward us.

Rita screamed. “GOD!!! GOD!!!”

“Rita!”

Rita struggled forward, head back, raging at the sky, with clenched fists, screaming out venom at the sky, until the lakebed fell away to deep water and she sank, like a stone, leaving a shocking loud silence.

I whipped off my shirt and charged in after her, knees kicking high, my feet exploding plumes of water. I stumbled, reached and dived, and met the frigid shock of the lake with rasping breath. When I reached her she had already surfaced. She wailed, racking sobs, slapping the water as she struggled for air, swinging and fighting invisible demons. I embraced her, steadied her arms and pulled her back into my chest—dragged us toward shallow water and up to safety on the bank. I held her, rocked her, whispered to her, stroked her ice cold brow; picked the hair from her stormy eyes and blurry eye shadow. “It’s okay, Rita. It’s okay… Okay…everything’s okay…”

She shivered violently, as the cool air poured over us. I struggled into my shirt, and scooped her up into my arms—labored until I found the center of her weight—and then staggered back to the car. I set her down, leaning her against the car. I opened the back door wide.

Rita was lost, caught in some frightening reality. Her blue lips quivered, her eyes were vacant. She mumbled. I reached in, snatched the towels, wrapped her shoulders and hastily dried her hair. Holding her chilly shoulders, I guided her toward the open entrance and gingerly eased her down and back, and covered her with a fresh towel. She instantly shut her eyes. Her pulse was throbbing. I closed the door and rushed to the driver’s seat. I paused briefly to catch a breath, then got in, rolled up the windows and started the engine. I turned on the heat and blasted it back to her.

As I raced down the road back to the house, I instinctively reached for my cell phone, but realized I didn’t know who to call. I didn’t know who her doctor was, or what medication she was taking.

Rita fell asleep in the back bedroom, the room next to my father’s library. It was almost one o’clock. By the time I’d helped remove her clothes, given her one of my sister’s old flannel night gowns and put her to bed, the emotion had nearly run itself out. I’d taken her blood pressure and pulse just before she’d fallen asleep, as she mumbled how sorry she was. Both were normal.

“I’m a doctor, Rita. I can help.”

“I don’t want you to be my doctor. I have a doctor,” she’d said, stammering. “I also have a shrink.”

“Do you want me to call your mother?”

“God, no!”

She turned her head away in shame, grumbled out something else about “heroes and heroines,” and fell asleep.

I spent the next hour and a half wandering the house and the back lawn, gazing longingly at the pond, watching the sky fill with a puzzle of white clouds, nervously glancing at my watch. If I didn’t leave by 3 o’clock, I’d never make it to New York for dinner with Nicole.

At 2:35 I was standing in the kitchen, absent and nervous, nibbling on some bread and cheese when Rita drifted in, still in the flannel gown, sleepy-eyed. Her hair had tight springy tangles, her eyes were swollen, energy low.

“Hi,” I said. “How do you feel?”

She stopped at the island and gave a long stressed sigh. “…Better.” She looked at the gown. “Clothes?”

I pushed away from the counter. “...Oh, I washed and dried them. Hope that was okay?”

She nodded. “I need to go.”

I waited. “Sure.” But I didn’t move. “Rita…”

She held up a hand to stop me. She scratched her nose. “Some reunion…huh?”

“It’s okay... Really.”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, no, Alan James. I’ve been good. So good. I’ve been well.” She tried to explain with her hands. “Just… I don’t know what happened out there.”

“Memories?” I asked.

She lifted a reluctant shoulder and sank a little.

I started for her, but stopped. I could see—no feel—she didn’t want pity.

Then she surprised me by smiling a little. “Glad you didn’t think I was faking this time.”

It took me a minute to awake to her meaning. “Oh yes, the Holiday Inn. The drowning. Yes, well…”

Then she looked through me and beyond me. I saw the struggle of an idea or question and, when she spoke, her voice was small. “I’m not crazy.”

“I know that,” I said quickly. “I know you’re not.” But I knew she wasn’t stable either. There was something else she wanted to say; I could feel it, but she asked for her clothes instead.

After she’d showered and dressed, she met me on the porch, where I sat on the porch swing, gently rocking. I stood as she came over. Her shoulders sagged a little, her eyes were evasive. “Alan James. In two weeks. In two weeks, on Saturday…” She stopped, gathering courage. “Birthday…”

“Your birthday?” I asked, then immediately recalled that her birthday was in August.

“No, no. I’m asking, because I do need… help.”

I leaned toward her, eagerly. “Yes. Anything, Rita. Anything.”

“Dar…” Her lips quivered. “It’s my daughter’s birthday. Darla.”

I pocketed my hands. We stood in a long, painful silence. “Yes, Rita.”

“…I would like you to come—and your wife. I’d like to meet her. Just for dinner or something. I want to be with friends. I’d like to be with you on her birthday.”

Sudden anxiety pinned me to the porch. Nicole and I were supposed to go to Shelter Island that weekend to talk. We had to get away for the survival of our marriage.

Rita’s blue glassy eyes suddenly cleared. They held me for a time, exploring, and then looking away in sorrow. “I understand. I do, really,” she said, her voice trailing away.

“No, Rita. It’s not that I don’t want to come. I do.”

She looked at me frankly, without anger. “I will not break down, Alan. I will honor Darla. That’s what she would have wanted.”

“Rita…It’s just that Nicole and I are going out of town that weekend. It would be, well, kind of difficult to postpone it.”