A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [112]
“What’s this?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.
“Just a rock.”
“Am I supposed to do something with it?”
“Feel it. See how smooth it is?” He looked at it a moment, agreed it was smooth, then gave it back. As they walked, he kept slapping his hands together to get the sticky sand off. Silly that that should annoy her so, but it did. She reminded herself how artificial his existence had been. Now he was wiping his hands up and down the sides of his pants.
When they reached the long, high wall of riprap, he came to a sudden stop. “I’ve got sand in my shoes,” he said almost accusingly.
“Take them off, then. You’ll feel beachier. See!” She gave a quick little jig in the sand.
“I can’t,” he said with a stricken look.
“Sure you can. Go sit over on one of the rocks there.”
“No, I never go barefoot. I have to have something on my feet. I need to.” He began trudging back, his gait even stiffer.
“You didn’t wear shoes on the beach when you were a kid, did you?” she called, laughing as she tried to keep up, then regretted it when he didn’t answer.
In the car he apologized and tried to explain that in prison being barefoot or in any way half-dressed left a man too vulnerable. To make him feel better, she was telling him how painful an experience the beach had been for her as an overweight teenager in a bathing suit. The senior-class picnic had been the worst, an absolute agony, walking around all day wrapped up in the biggest beach towel she’d been able to find. “I spent more time shopping for that beach towel than I did the bathing suit,” she called over the wheel. “Then all of a sudden I hear, ‘It’s Delores the horse!’ and Bucky Dean runs by and yanks off my towel and I stood there feeling so exposed and just wanting to die.” Funny how those things don’t matter anymore, she said. Nothing did, not even his silence, she thought, in such a high state of anticipation that the thirty-five miles back flew by.
She turned off the engine in front of his house and kept the conversation going until he had no choice but to invite her in. She trailed him around the kitchen while he made coffee. His moroseness was back, but she was so determined to keep his spirits up that she found herself giggling at everything, at nothing at all, dropping things, all the while feeling so light that she was almost floating. He poured her coffee, then excused himself to go upstairs for a minute. He had to change his shoes. He thought he was getting a blister from the sand. He doesn’t want me here, she thought, but continued sipping her coffee. It’s not me he’s upset with, but his situation. She could hear him moving around upstairs. Pipes vibrated as he turned water on and off in the bathroom. Then for a while she heard nothing. “Gordon?” she called from the stairs.
She tiptoed up and saw the light under the bathroom door. He was still in there. Passing his bedroom, she thought of taking off her clothes and slipping into his bed but then knew what a mistake that would be. Sometimes her slightest advance could repel him. It had been the same with Albert, except that his prudery had been a vital part of the relationship, his moral moat against their adultery. As long as she was the one always breaching the barriers, he could be the vanquished, helplessly errant husband. Gordon’s reserve was innate, but also self-protective. Maybe all men were like that. Or maybe there was something in her that made them so defensive.
The doorbell was ringing. Opening the door, Delores was shocked by Jada’s appearance. Her hollow face was a rash of zits. She looked skinnier, her arms and legs all bone. “Hi!” Jada said, but the old breeziness was forced and weary. Delores asked if she was sick. Jada said she had been, some kind of flu or something, but she was better now. Delores