Last Night - James Salter [42]
In the doorway, Walter stood, as if waiting for permission. She looked at him without speaking. He had it in his hand, she saw. Her heart skidded nervously, but she was determined not to show it.
— Well, darling, she said.
He tried to reply. She had on fresh lipstick, he saw; her mouth looked dark. There were some photographs she had arranged around her on the bed.
— Come in.
— No, I’ll be back, he managed to say.
He hurried downstairs. He was going to fail; he had to have a drink. The living room was empty. Susanna had gone. He had never felt more completely alone. He went into the kitchen and poured some vodka, odorless and clear, into a glass and quickly drank it. He went slowly upstairs again and sat on the bed near his wife. The vodka was making him drunk. He felt unlike himself.
— Walter, she said.
— Yes?
— This is the right thing.
She reached to take his hand. Somehow it frightened him, as if it might mean an appeal to come with her.
— You know, she said evenly, I’ve loved you as much as I’ve ever loved anyone in the world—I’m sounding maudlin, I know.
— Ah, Marit! he cried.
— Did you love me?
His stomach was churning in despair.
— Yes, he said. Yes!
— Take care of yourself.
— Yes.
He was in good health, as it happened, a little heavier than he might have been, but nevertheless . . . His roundish, scholarly stomach was covered with a layer of soft, dark hair, his hands and nails well cared for.
She leaned forward and embraced him. She kissed him. For a moment, she was not afraid. She would live again, be young again as she once had been. She held out her arm. On the inside, two veins the color of verdigris were visible. He began to press to make them rise. Her head was turned away.
— Do you remember, she said to him, when I was working at Bates and we met that first time? I knew right away.
The needle was wavering as he tried to position it.
— I was lucky, she said. I was very lucky.
He was barely breathing. He waited, but she did not say anything more. Hardly believing what he was doing he pushed the needle in—it was effortless—and slowly injected the contents. He heard her sigh. Her eyes were closed as she lay back. Her face was peaceful. She had embarked. My God, he thought, my God. He had known her when she was in her twenties, long-legged and innocent. Now he had slipped her, as in a burial at sea, beneath the flow of time. Her hand was still warm. He took it and held it to his lips. He pulled the bedspread up to cover her legs. The house was incredibly quiet. It had fallen into silence, the silence of a fatal act. He could not hear the wind.
He went slowly downstairs. A sense of relief came over him, enormous relief and sadness. Outside, the monumental blue clouds filled the night. He stood for a few minutes and then saw, sitting in her car, motionless, Susanna. She rolled down the window as he approached.
— You didn’t go, he said.
— I couldn’t stay in there.
— It’s over, he said. Come in. I’m going to get a drink.
She stood in the kitchen with him, her arms folded, a hand on each elbow.
— It wasn’t terrible, he said. It’s just that I feel . . . I don’t know.
They drank standing there.
— Did she really want me to come? Susanna said.
— Darling, she suggested it. She didn’t know a thing.
— I wonder.
— Believe mc. Nothing.
She put down her drink.
— No, drink it, he said. It’ll help.
— I feel funny.
— Funny? You’re not feeling sick?
— I don’t know.
— Don’t be sick. Here, come with mc. Wait, I’ll get you some water.
She was concentrating on breathing evenly.
— You’d better lie down for a bit, he said.
— No, I’m all right.
— Come.
He led her, in her short skirt and blouse, to a room to one side of the front door and made her sit on the bed. She was taking