Wanting Rita (29 page)

Her mood seemed to fall as she considered my offer. I was just about to despair when she smiled a little. I sat up a little straighter when I saw that old girlish invitation in her eyes. There was nothing like it. It was an allure that brought heat and pleasure, swelling desire.

She leaned intimately close. “Alan James…I love being with you…talking with you. I always have.”

I didn’t respond, but she surely saw my desire for her.

There was a little wine left. She poured her glass half full and tasted it, swallowing it thoughtfully, as she studied me long and hard. Finally, she lowered her voice, almost to a whisper, into an exciting intimacy. “Alan James…I want to feel alive again. But I am so scared.”

I squeezed her hand. “Don’t be scared, Rita. I’ll help you. I’ll be with you no matter what happens. You know that.”

She trembled. “I’ve been scared for so long, Alan James. Scared of waking up and facing another day; scared of people; scared of killing myself.”

“Stay at the house. Please, Rita. Just try it for awhile. If it doesn’t work out, then you leave, that’s all.”

Rita considered the offer, with shifting eyes.

The waiting seconds became unbearably long.

“Can we?” she asked, in a small voice.

“What, Rita? Can we what?”

“Can we start again…?”

I leaned toward her. “Yes, Rita. I believe it. I believe in us. Yes.”

She lowered her head. “I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out,” she continued. “I am…but ever since Mom called you—and I did ask her to call you... I know I should have called you myself, but I didn’t have the courage. So, I begged her. I begged her until she finally agreed. It was one of the hardest things she ever did and, when she broke down like that, I was sure I’d never see you again.

“Alan James… I want us. I want the life we missed. I want to try to get better.”

I heard Rita’s words, and I took them in with excruciating pain and pleasure. She looked at me strangely and, for a moment, because I didn’t answer, she retreated a little, surely afraid that she had said too much.

“Then come home, Rita. Come home with me.”

Chapter Seven

In the living room that same night, Rita and I lay naked on a thick burgundy comforter spread on the floor, touching and kissing in the meager yellow light. A growing fire washed the walls with trembling shadows and enveloped the room with the scent of pine. Rain ticked at the windows, and the antique grandfather’s clock ticked relentlessly, like a reminder that I’d already lost 15 years of life with Rita.

Nothing was rushed or forced in those moments before joining, when Rita’s long lashes opened, revealing dewy eyes, filled with longing and anticipation. I found her lips parted and waiting, and I took them, believing in us, believing in the power of my body as I found the moist deepness of her. I moved us. When she grew eager, I steadied us, remembering all the days and nights I’d waited for her. I wanted the forever of our love; the “now” of love that buffets intrusion. So I found new places to kiss her neck, breasts and stomach.

But she was fervent and wanting. When emotion overwhelmed, I went with her, believing, driving us forward into the future, with all my gentle and forceful love. I drew myself away and back to her, high-edged and strong, watching her face in shadow, waxy and intense, loving her with breath, strength and spirit.

Wild rain and wind lashed at the house, as we rocked toward the burning core of love, helpless in intoxication, silent and loud, echoing rapture, arching and bracing for climax. I kept believing, kept praying, kept building my passion—feeling the hardness lengthen, the hot pool swell to a boil. When the moment came and I let go, her body seized me, grasped and milked the exploding seeds of love. She worked and twisted and drew it all from me, in frantic rhythms and cries, until we both fell away into exhaustion.

Dawn came quietly, with pale light and singing birds. The storm had passed. Our love-making peaked in silence; in worship of ourselves; in gratitude and wonder. When Rita fell into a deep sleep, bundled within the comforter, I sat crossed-legged and watched her until sunlight streamed in through the stained glass. In the fireplace was a bed of white ash. I closed my eyes and prayed for us, to any God who might be listening.

When I brought her breakfast on a tray, with a newly picked rose, she awoke with a marvelously sleepy face, slitted eyes and unruly hair. We drank orange juice, ate Total and sipped coffee.

With an unexpected self-consciousness, she covered herself with the comforter and screwed up her lips. “I know I’m skinny, Alan James, but in a month, I’m going to be the sexiest woman you’ve ever seen.”

I drained my coffee and smiled. That’s when I should have told Rita the truth. It would have been so easy. Simple. I should have said, “Rita, I’m infertile, but there are options. Easy options. Medical science has it all down to a science.”

But I didn’t tell her. I told myself that it could wait. Why spoil the mood. Why risk a setback if Rita took the news hard. No, it could wait. Meanwhile, I decided to see another doctor—a referral—a doctor friend had told me about some months back. I called for an appointment as soon as I got back to New York.

The next day, on Sunday, I helped Rita move into the house. We chose a time when her father and mother were gone. She packed quickly, only taking essentials: toiletries, two suitcases of clothing and a few books. Rita wrote a note and left it on the kitchen table.

Dear Mom:

I have moved in with Alan James. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Love, Rita.

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Throughout the summer, Rita lived in the house and I came down every Friday night, staying until early Monday morning. I took a week’s vacation in July and Rita and I worked the gardens, pruning roses and repairing trestles. We went swimming and fishing; walked the hills and made love. She continued to work four days a week at Jack’s, at her insistence; she cleaned the house and paid for all the groceries. She also worked with Cindy Purty, who brought buyers for the antiques. Meanwhile, Rita expanded her knowledge of antiquing from books and the internet, and she and Cindy became good friends.

Back in New York, I walked the streets nervous and shamed, avoiding faces, as if they all knew that I had failed and that Nicole had left me for a real man. I didn’t return friends’ curious and sorrowful phone calls and I didn’t return Nicole’s repeated requests to call her to discuss divorce proceedings.

“Alan, will you please call me back. I want to get on with this, just as I’m sure you want to. Call me.”

I didn’t.

She called the office. I told reception to tell her I was out.

I did make an appointment to see Dr. William Keffer on Park Avenue at 55
^th
Street. He had extensive experience with male infertility evaluations, as well as contemporary sperm retrieval techniques.

He was an earnest man, with quiet dark eyes, short white hair and a thin athletic build. With his black-rimmed glasses and quiet reedy voice, he reminded me of one of those concerned scientists from a 1950’s sci fi movie, in which the deadly invaders from outer space were fast approaching, but he possessed the calm assurance that modern science could repel the bastards, come what may.

I sat opposite him in his brightly lit, cheerful office, where floor plants bloomed little white flowers and abstract oil paintings of white and pink filled two walls.

Seated behind his desk, with small hands folded, he directed his pleasant gaze on me. I blinked rapidly and sat stiffly in his burgundy upholstered chair. I related, in a halting voice, the inevitable divorce, largely because of my infertility, and my pressing need to correct the problem so that I could have a child—if the situation presented itself—with another woman.

“I received your medical records from Dr. Long,” Dr. Keffer said. “However, I’d like us to start over. I want a complete medical history—the full range of tests—including childhood illnesses, medical illnesses, surgical and sexual history.”

I felt a nervous dread. Most of the tests I’d already had. The thought of repeating them nauseated me.

Dr. Keffer continued. “I also firmly believe in genetic testing. Genetic abnormalities are a well-recognized cause of male infertility.”

I sighed audibly. Dr. Keffer smiled. “I know it sounds like a lot, Alan, but I’m sure that as we proceed, step by step, we will find a satisfactory solution and a successful remedy for this problem.”

My hands had formed tight little fists.

“Finally, Alan, do you exercise regularly?”

“I sometimes jog.”

“Do it more often—or perform some other regular workout.”

I left his office, feeling every city sound beat at my nerves: the taxi horns, the jack hammers, the low rumbling subway beneath my feet. I couldn’t wait to get back to Rita and the quiet of Hartsfield.

I joined Rita in an exercise routine of jogging three miles four times a week. I ran with her on weekends and ran alone in Riverside Park when I was in the City. Rita ate generously, gained 10 pounds by the middle of July and became tantalizingly voluptuous again, more so, I thought, than when she was 18. She developed a golden tan working in the gardens; her hair grew thick and long, and there was a new flame of life in her. She laughed easily, cooked us delicious and creative food, and with the aid of her doctor, (whose identity she kept secret) she gradually reduced her medication. She told me she had begun several short stories, but she didn’t show them to me.

Rita’s father, Frank, did leave town, just as Rita had said he would, and her mother found a job at the hospital, filing medical records, answering the phone and processing insurance forms. It comforted Rita that her mother was working again, and she met her twice a week for lunch. Rita told me that her mother was pleased we were living together, but she thought we should leave Hartsfield. Frank Fitzgerald was out of town, but he would surely return and her mother wanted to avoid provoking him.

The thought of Frank coming to the house when I wasn’t there alarmed me. One afternoon, I finally sat Rita down and delicately stated my concern. I mentioned to her that Dad had a .38 caliber pistol that he’d kept in the house for protection and that I should show her where it was and how to shoot it.

Rita grew edgy and frightened. “No...” she said, sharply. “No guns. I hate guns! No.” She stood abruptly, folding her arms, head turned away from me. “He won’t bother me here, Alan James.”

“How do you know that, Rita?” I asked, forcefully. “The man’s a psycho. How do you know?”

“Because I know him! And anyway, he may never come back.”

“You said he always comes back.”

“I never said that.”

“Look, let me just show you where the gun is, just in…”

“No, Alan James. A gun killed my little girl! No!”

She fled the room. I found her minutes later, working in the vegetable garden.

Rita continued to suffer from nightmares. She dreamt of the tragedy or some variation of it. She dreamt of Darla and jerked awake sobbing, searching the house, nearly out of her mind, trying to find her. Once she dreamed that Dusty was chasing her through the house with a shotgun, screaming that it was her fault that he’d killed Darla. I held her and talked softly to her until she relaxed and drifted into uneasy sleep.

Sometimes after similar dreams, we’d slip downstairs to my father’s wine cellar and choose a bottle of wine. We’d sit in the kitchen, or out on the front porch, and sip and talk until the dark emotions passed; until the stillness, the chat and the wine loosened the knots of fear and stress. Then we’d return to bed, light-headed and jolly. Those were the best nights—the easy talk about books and philosophy; reminiscences of high school and our dates; words that soared with ideas and promise for the future.

I always drank the wine stingily and uneasily, conscious of the fact that alcohol does affect the reproductive system. By mid-July, I had completed most of the tests that Dr. Keffer had prescribed and I was taking an experimental medication that hadn’t been fully tested, but one I was willing to try and one Dr. Keffer sanctioned.

I felt strong and optimistic about my chances to get Rita pregnant. And I wanted her pregnant. I wanted to prove it to myself, to Nicole, and to the world that the waste and extravagant failures of the last two years were far behind me. The thought and image of Rita carrying our baby began to consume me.

On a warm summer night, as we lingered on the porch swing, sipping wine, nibbling cheese and discussing plans to paint the house in the fall, Rita turned her serious eyes on me, staring as if she had a new idea.

“What?” I asked.

“Alan James. I’m very fertile.”

My throat tightened.

“I’ve tried not to think about it,” she added, playing with the curls of her hair.