Wild Things (13 page)

Faith seemed at a loss, then said with an impish smile, "I'll have what she's having. Except for the broccoli. Spinach salad?"

"Of course, madam. How about a sizzling bacon dressing on the salad?"

"Sounds wonderful," Faith said.

Stanley smiled genially at them. "I'll bring the brioche in just a moment. Can I get either of you a bowl of soup? I know there's leek and carrot, and New England clam chowder."

"I'll try the leek and carrot," Sydney said.

"Clam chowder would be perfect," Faith said when Stanley glanced at her. She watched him walk away, then turned back to Sydney. "Forgive me for acting like a peasant," she said, her mouth quirking. "I've never been to a place quite like this."

Sydney tried not to stare at Faith's lips, but was only partially successful. "I do like this place. I can wander in after a late meeting and get soup and a BLT at midnight."

"Is the wine cream okay? I hope that's not a stupid question," Faith said.

"You mean because of the alcohol? In cooking it's not a problem, at least not for me. The alcohol's long
gone. I could probably even have a glass of wine, though I don't want to test that theory. Wine was never my problem."

"Single malt scotch whiskey made by five generations of Scots?" Faith's teasing smile made Sydney's nerves turn to honey, which made her all the more disgusted with herself.

"You got it." Sydney sighed. She'd been thinking about drinking too much lately, just like she'd been thinking about Faith too much. Both would get her in trouble.

^"
You know, Eric's told me very little about you." Faith sipped her tea and fixed Sydney with a serene gaze that Sydney envied.

"And I hope that it was all good." She launched into her usual bio speech. "There's really not that much to tell. I got my undergrad at Brown, master's — political science — at the JFK School of Government, and my J.D. at Harvard. Then I made up for being a model student by being spectacularly drunk for about three years, losing almost all my friends, nearly my family, and then I spent two years rehabbing and being generally dilatory."

"Sloth," Faith said, "is one of my favorite deadly sins."

"It was worse than sloth."

"Mendacity? Hebetude?"

Sydney laughed. "Hebetude? You're making that up."

Faith quoted primly, "Hebetude: noun. Dullness of mind. Mental lethargy."

"Remind me never to play Scrabble with you."

"You'd hold your own," Faith predicted. You read a lot, remember."

"I read about four books a week for two years. I didn't really sleep much. I didn't want to," Sydney admitted. It was hard to talk about that time with Faith looking at her so innocently. She could have no idea what kind of person Sydney had been. And Sydney wasn't about to enlighten her further. "After I got sober I started doing free legal work for a women's shelter that was being sued by an irate husband because they'd had him forcibly restrained by their security guards. The lawsuit had no merit whatsoever." She heard her voice becoming impassioned. It always did when she talked about that case. "It was my first case, and it wasn't a hard one, but I prepared as if I were arguing before the Supreme Court. I had to prove to myself I could do it. After that, I had all the requests for pro bono work I could handle. There's no shortage of need. After a couple of years I had my confidence back."

"After the rough start you had, it's amazing that you were elected to office so quickly. People's memories tend to be long."

"Long enough," Sydney said. "But I had an idea a lot of people liked, so they elected me. Measure D passed, and I went back to law. But since I've been in recovery, I've had to be extra circumspect. I get up every morning and tell myself that today I'm proving that I'm not the person I was. It means lots of work. Occasionally I get to relax."

"But no love life?" Faith looked suddenly tense as she asked that, and Sydney decided that Faith knew she was gay but wasn't particularly comfortable talking about it. She was twisting her napkin — no, not comfortable at all.

"Absolutely no love life. Not only would it distract me from my work, it was too closely wound up with drinking. I don't know if I started the one that I wouldn't start the other," she said, hoping she wasn't being too oblique.

Apparently not. Faith nodded slightly and stopped twisting her napkin. Just then Stanley brought the brioche, the core of the hollowed-out bun spilling out chunks of crab and lobster in the aromatic cream sauce. He expertly set out the requisite plates and knives and urged them to enjoy it.

Faith said with a laugh, "Can I come to dinner every night?"

Sydney could only smile, and she hoped it hid the dismay she was feeling. Because her body answered Faith's question quite seriously. "Yes," it said, emphatically enough that Sydney had to clench her thighs and press one hand to her stomach.

"I'm starving," she said. It was far too true.

6

I am poured out like water.. .my heart is like wax.

—
Psalms 22:14

I didn't remember very much specifically about dinner. The food was delicious, of course. Sydney was amusing, and we talked about art and politics — getting along famously, as her mother had put it. But whenever I wasn't completely absorbed with either the food or conversation, I reminded myself that I had no future with her except as Eric's wife.

She would be a good friend, I told myself. She was obviously honorable and dedicated and had come to an understanding of herself after a great struggle. Her strength of character was as much a part of her
as the color of her eyes. It was also obvious that she had set aside a personal life in favor of law and politics. As she discussed a couple of particularly intricate cases, it was clear that she believed sincerely that if she unwaveringly did the right thing justice would eventually prevail.

"If you do become a senator, won't it be difficult, having to trade votes? Isn't that how politics works?"

Sydney looked up from her dessert, a chocolate-caramel torte. "I found that hard when I was an alderwoman. In fact, it keeps me uncertain about being a senator. I will have to vote for things I normally wouldn't favor in return for votes on issues important to me. I can only hope that I keep my eyes on the greater' good and not the game of trading. For some people the game is all that matters. They hardly care about what happens to the people, and that's the reason I'm there."

My hazelnut cheesecake with bittersweet chocolate lace was almost gone. I felt only mildly ill considering the meal I'd just eaten, but it was a pleasant kind of ill. Gluttony, another of my favorite deadly sins. "There's a similar ethic among some academics who are more concerned in securing awards and grants than in the study itself. The university encourages it, too. I've as much as been told that a
New York Times
best-seller might loosen the coffers enough for research assistants and grants so I can write more — to the greater glory of the university. I might be able to move from teaching in the college to teaching university graduate students in history."

I savored my last bite of cheesecake. "Of course if I don't do my own research, then the insights it
would give me would disappear and I wouldn't produce what I felt was the same quality of work. My goal is to add insights to history, not write two or three books a year. Of course I'd like to be teaching graduate students, but I can live."

Sydney swallowed the last of her torte with a satisfied smile. "I heard a joke once about the university. They're so eager to lengthen their list of Nobel laureates affiliated with the University of Chicago that they put Henry Kissinger on the list because he stopped to ask directions."

I snickered. "That joke has been around a long time and I think it's true. Not that there aren't fine scholars at the university—"

"Present company included," Sydney said.

"You'll make me blush," I said. "If I'm not already flushed with all this food."

''You've got no ego to speak of, have you?"

"So I've been told. But I do. It's just not flashy." I glanced at my watch. It was after ten.

Sydney misread my meaning and said anxiously, "It's getting late. I hope it's not too inconvenient. We could leave right away."

"Oh no, we can take our time. That is, if it's okay with you." I had finished my cheesecake but still had my espresso, which had just reached the right temperature.

"Actually, I was thinking we might see what's playing at the Water Tower cinemas. There should be at least one more showing of everything at this hour."

I told myself a whopping lie, that it was of no consequence to me whether we prolonged the evening. At least lying wasn't a deadly sin.

About fifteen minutes later a cab was taking us the eight blocks or so to the Water Tower. We made our way to the theater only to be disappointed at the selection.

"Violence, violence, Disney, more violence, teeny-bopper slasher, seen it, and really bad reviews." Sydney chewed her lower lip. "I didn't know there was a
Lawnmower Man One,
let alone a
Two
or a
Three."

"None of these is going to be around at Academy Award time."

"What a shame," Sydney said, biting her lip. "I was looking forward to a movie."

"So was I," I said. Well, not so much to a movie as to more time with Sydney.

I tried to call back the thought, but it was too late. I had forgotten to lie to myself. Still, it was only one of few slips for the evening. So far, so good. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home, though. Sitting with Sydney in a darkened theater, feeling the heat of her body only inches from my own — lying might not be a deadly sin, but lust most certainly was.

"How about popcorn and pool at my place? Or table tennis?"

"Honestly, if I ate anything, I'd be sick. Really." That was no lie.

I was about to add that pool sounded like fun, when Sydney abruptly seemed to change her mind. "Let's call it a night, then," she said, quickly. "I've just remembered I have a breakfast meeting."

I agreed, trying to look happy despite the sudden depression I felt inside. She insisted that we take one cab so she could see me safely home, allowing her to give a complete report to Eric.

Eric. This was all getting too serious and too twisted far too quickly.

* * * * *

Eric got back from Hong Kong the third week in October. He had been working almost nonstop on construction supervision. He would have to go back for several more weeks around Thanksgiving.

From the moment I saw him I felt myself divide into two people. I returned his warm hug and gentle kiss without a second thought. Another part of me compared his kiss to Renee's devouring passion and speculated how Sydney's kisses might feel. I felt no tension, only a kind of distance.

We had dinner, then drove all the way to Aurora where an art theater was showing
The Lion in Winter
on the big screen. I found myself sighing in the memorable scene where Eleanor examines her fading charms in a bronze mirror. The nearly sixty-year-old Hepburn never looked more beautiful to me. Her eyes were windows on the character she was creating. Henry called her conniving, deceitful, and manipulative. I preferred astute, political, and determined.

As we were leaving the theater, Eric asked, "Where are we going to get these costumes?"

"I know someone who is in the SCA. I'll bet she knows where we could get them."

"SCA? Some Costumes Available?"

I laughed. "Society for Creative Anachronism. It's a role-playing social club where people create characters from medieval history and dress up and have parties and are very particular about accuracy."

"That actually sounds like fun."

I' ve thought about joining, but it can be time consuming. Not to mention the required schizophrenia." I was growing more familiar with schizophrenia as the evening progressed.

"So you'll check that out? Let me know if I need to do anything. I'm glad you're going to come up to Lakeview for Halloween weekend. I think you'll really enjoy it."

I assured him I would, and part of me believed it while another part knew Sydney would be there. I asked him in to see my new apartment, and he gave it smiling approval, saying its simplicity suited me. Contrary to my mother's expectation, he did not try to ravage me. We enjoyed a cup of coffee, and he took his leave with one of his usual gentle kisses.

Even as I told myself that we'd had a pleasant evening, I was walking to my desk, opening the top drawer, and taking out the Dignity flyer. The very nice man who answered the twenty-four-hour hotline gave me the address of the next support group meeting. I went to bed, feeling like a sleepwalker.

I had lurid, childhood-type nightmares in which flames, horned demons, and the thundering voice of God (sounding very much like my father) boomed at me in a language I didn't recognize but understood. One phrase was clear:
It is an abomination,
repeated again and again. In the morning I laughed at the images, chagrined that my psyche was so obvious.

* * * * *

I realized after my classes on Monday that I hadn't seen James since the previous Wednesday. He didn't answer his phone, and the English department
secretary told me he had called in sick. I then realized I'd never heard the results of his doctor visit, or even if he went. It had been several weeks, and I suspected that he had put it off again. When he came into my office late in the day I was glad to see him.