Last Night - James Salter [41]
Dinner was quiet. It was difficult to talk casually. They had two bottles of the wine, however. He would never drink this well again, Walter could not help thinking. He poured the last of the second bottle into Susanna’s glass.
— No, you should drink it, she said. It’s really for you.
— He’s had enough, Marit said. It was good, though, wasn’t it?
— Fabulously good.
— Makes you realize there are things . . . oh, I don’t know, various things. It would be nice to have always drunk it. She said it in a way that was enormously touching.
They were all feeling better. They sat for a while and finally made their way out. The bar was still noisy.
Marit stared out the window as they drove. She was tired. They were going home now. The wind was moving in the tops of the shadowy trees. In the night sky there were brilliant blue clouds, shining as if in daylight.
— It’s very beautiful tonight, isn’t it? Marit said. I’m struck by that. Am I mistaken?
— No. Walter cleared his throat. It is beautiful.
— Have you noticed it? she asked Susanna. I’m sure you have. How old are you? I forget.
— Twenty-nine.
— Twenty-nine, Marit said. She was silent for a few moments. We never had children, she said. Do you wish you had children?
— Oh, sometimes, I suppose. I haven’t thought about it too much. It’s one of those things you have to be married to really think about.
— You’ll be married.
— Yes, perhaps.
— You could be married in a minute, Marit said.
She was tired when they reached the house. They sat together in the living room as if they had come from a big party but were not quite ready for bed. Walter was thinking of what lay ahead, the light that would come on in the refrigerator when the door was opened. The needle of the syringe was sharp, the stainless-steel point cut at an angle and like a razor. He was going to have to insert it into her vein. He tried not to dwell on it. He would manage somehow. He was becoming more and more nervous.
— I remember my mother, Marit said. She wanted to tell me things at the end, things that had happened when I was young. Rae Mahin had gone to bed with Teddy Hudner. Anne Herring had, too. They were married women. Teddy Hudner wasn’t married. He worked in advertising and was always playing golf. My mother went on like that, who slept with whom. That’s what she wanted to tell me, finally. Of course, at the time, Rae Mahin was really something.
Then Marit said,
— I think I’ll go upstairs.
She stood up.
— I’m all right, she told her husband. Don’t come up just yet. Good night, Susanna.
When there were just the two of them, Susanna said,
— I have to go.
— No, don’t. Please don’t go. Stay here.
She shook her head.
— I can’t, she said.
— Please, you have to. I’m going to go upstairs in a little while, but when I come down I can’t be alone. Please.
There was silence.
— Susanna.
They sat without speaking.
— I know you’ve thought all this out, she said.
— Yes, absolutely.
After a few minutes, Walter looked at his watch; he began to say something but then did not. A little later, he looked at it again, then left the room.
The kitchen was in the shape of an L, old-fashioned and unplanned, with a white enamel sink and wooden cabinets painted many times. In the summers they had made preserves here when boxes of strawberries were sold at the stairway going down to the train platform in the city, unforgettable strawberries, their fragrance like perfume. There were still some jars. He went to the refrigerator and opened the door.
There it was, the small etched lines on the side. There were ten ccs. He tried to think of a way not to go on. If he dropped the syringe, broke it somehow, and said his hand had been shaking . . .
He took the saucer and covered it with a dish towel. It was worse that way. He put it down and picked up the syringe, holding it in various ways—finally, almost concealed against his leg. He felt light as a sheet of paper, devoid of strength.
Marit had prepared herself. She had made up her eyes and put on an ivory satin