A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [116]
“Bill?” she asked.
“All my life I’ve wanted this,” he said, “and now we’ll have what . . . ?”
The question went unanswered. Bridget’s chill was quite real now. She wrapped her arms around herself to stop the shivering but felt only the thin silk of the nightgown.
“It seems so unfair,” Bill cried. “So brutally unfair. And I caused this.”
My God, Bridget thought.
Bill crossed his arms over his chest and began to rock back and forth at the edge of the bed. In his black socks and boxers, he looked unmanned. For too long, he had put at bay the ugly facts of her illness. Why they had chosen this moment to push themselves forward, Bridget didn’t know. Perhaps it had been the arrival of his daughter, his happiness complete, that had unraveled him. The fraudulence of that happiness apparent only when he was alone in the suite for the few unguarded minutes Bridget had been in the bathroom.
She and Bill could not spiral apart, Bridget thought. There was simply too much at stake. There was Matt for one. There was her health for another. And then there were all those years they had not had. This one chance to make up for them. Reaching past Bill, Bridget lit the candle at the bedside and turned out the light.
There was one last thing.
She unclipped the wig from her scalp, slid it off, and tossed it to the floor.
“Why don’t you get under the covers,” Bridget suggested.
She walked to the other side of the bed and slipped between the sheets. She could hear Bill undressing. A man crying was a frightening sight. She hadn’t minded at the wedding, because she’d known those were tears of joy, of relief. These, however, were tears of despair. Terrifying and frightening. Bridget must, whatever happened, stop them. If Bill disintegrated, Bridget would disintegrate. If Bridget disintegrated, Matt would disintegrate. That chain reaction could not be allowed to happen.
When he’d undressed, Bill slipped between the sheets. He reached for her at once, a small involuntary sob escaping him. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said, holding her close.
“I know,” she said.
“You look beautiful,” he said, a small laugh catching itself inside a hiccup. “I’m going to have to kill myself tomorrow when I remember this.”
“Don’t do that,” she said. “I can’t be a widow.”
He ran his hand over her hip. “I didn’t mean . . .” he said.
“No,” Bridget said. “I know you didn’t.”
Though of course he had. He had meant that he believed that she would die soon, and that he would be left alone. And it was sad. Why should Bill not be allowed to feel the pain of it? He and she might have had twenty-seven years together. At best, now, they would have two, maybe three, and most of that time would not be good time. For all she knew, this night might be the best they got.
“Can you ever forgive me?” Bill asked.
“For what?”
“For leaving you. For marrying Jill.”
“I forgave you a long time ago.”
“You did?” he asked. “When?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bridget said, “last week maybe?”
Bill kissed her in the way that he did, a way she liked very much. They were old lovers even though they’d been together for less than two years. They had their routines. They were not adventurous. Perhaps tonight Bill might have tried a little something different. But sorrow—that most effective antidote to sex—had got the better of him.
Bridget took her husband’s hand and brought his fingers to the side of her head. “Touch me here,” she whispered.
She had never made love to Bill without her wig. She knew what her scalp felt like—the frighteningly thin hair, the patches where she was bald—but she believed that this must happen now. For them to be truly married, he must touch her head. For a moment, his hand rested where she had left it. Perhaps he wasn’t exactly sure what she intended. She waited for him, knowing that in a moment he would understand.
He smoothed the side of her head, above her ear, near the temple, and then around to the back of the neck. As he did, Bridget thought about the girl at the sheitel