Last Night - James Salter [18]
She went to get more ice and in the hallway caught sight of herself in a mirror.
— Have you ever decided this is as far as you can go? she said, coming back in.
— What do you mean? said Kathrin.
Leslie sat down beside her. They were really two of a kind, she decided. They’d been bridesmaids at one another’s wedding. They were truly close.
— I mean, have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror and said, I can’t . . . this is it.
— What do you mean?
— With men.
— You’re just sore at Bunning.
— Who really needs them?
— Are you kidding?
— You want me to tell you something I’ve found out?
— What?
— I don’t know . . . Leslie said helplessly.
— What were you going to say?
— Oh. My theory . . . My theory is, they remember you longer if you don’t do it.
— Maybe, Kathrin said, but then, what’s the point?
— It’s just my theory. They want to divide and conquer.
— Divide?
— Something like that.
Jane had had less to drink. She wasn’t feeling well. She had spent the afternoon waiting to talk to the doctor and emerging onto the unreal street.
She was wandering around the room and picked up a photograph of Leslie and Bunning taken around the time they got married.
— So, what’s going to happen to Bunning? she asked.
— Who knows? Leslie said. He’s going to go on like he’s going. Some woman will decide she can straighten him out. Let’s dance. I feel like dancing.
She made for the CD player and began looking through the CDs until she found one she liked and put it on. There was a moment’s pause and then an uneven, shrieking wail began, much too loud. It was bagpipes.
— Oh, God, she cried, stopping it. It was in the wrong . . . it’s one of his.
She found another and a low, insistent drumbeat started slowly, filling the room. She began dancing to it. Kathrin began, too. Then a singer or several of them became part of it, repeating the same words over and over. Kathrin paused to take a drink.
— Don’t, Leslie said. Don’t drink too much.
— Why?
— You won’t be able to perform.
— Perform what?
Leslie turned to Jane and motioned.
— Come on.
— No, I don’t really . . .
— Come on.
The three of them were dancing to the hypnotic, rhythmic singing. It went on and on. Finally Jane sat down, her face moist, and watched. Women often danced together or even alone, at parties. Did Bunning dance? she wondered. No, he wasn’t the sort, nor was he embarrassed by it. He drank too much to dance, but really why did he drink? He didn’t seem to care about things, but he probably cared very much, beneath.
Leslie sat down beside her.
— I hate to think about moving, she said, her head lolled back carelessly. I’m going to have to find some other place. That’s the worst part.
She raised her head.
— In two years, Bunning’s not even going to remember me. Maybe he’ll say “my ex-wife” sometimes. I wanted to have a baby. He didn’t like the idea. I said to him, I’m ovulating, and he said, that’s wonderful. Well, that’s how it is. I’ll have one next time. If there is a next time. You have beautiful breasts, she said to Jane.
Jane was struck silent. She would never have had the courage to say something like that.
— Mine are saggy already, Leslie said.
— That’s all right, Jane replied foolishly.
— I suppose I could have something done if I had the money. You can fix anything if you have the money.
It was not true, but Jane said,
— I guess you’re right.
She had more than sixty thousand dollars she had saved or made from an oil company one of her colleagues had told her about. If she wanted to, she could buy a car, a Porsche Boxter came to mind. She wouldn’t even have to sell the oil stock, she could get a loan and pay it off over three or four years and on weekends drive out to the country, to Connecticut, the little coastal towns, Madison, Old Lyme, Niantic, stopping somewhere to have lunch in a place that, in her imagination, was painted white outside. Perhaps there would be a man there, by himself, or even with some other men. He wouldn’t have to fall off a boat. It