Last Night - James Salter [8]
— The difference.
Her nostrils flared.
— With a real woman, the buck stops here, she said.
— I don’t know what that means.
— You don’t, eh? I think you do.
After a while, she said,
— So, where is your wife this evening?
— Vancouver. She’s visiting her sister.
— All the way up in Vancouver.
— Yeah.
— That’s a long way from here. You know one of the things I’ve learned? she said.
— No, what?
— One never has the human company one longs for. Something else is always offered.
Perhaps it was a line from a play.
— Like me, you mean?
— No, sweetheart, not like you. At least I don’t think so.
He felt uneasy. What’s wrong, are you afraid of something? she was going to say. No, why? You’re acting afraid.
There was a knot in his stomach. What is it, your wife? she was going to ask. Oh, yes, I forgot, the wife. There’s always the wife.
Deborah had gone to the ladies’ room.
— Hello, Teddy? Keck said. He was talking on his cell phone. I just thought I’d call you.
— Where are you? What’s happened? Is the dog all right?
— Yeah, the dog’s OK. We’re at a restaurant.
— Well, it’s a little late . . .
— Don’t you even budge. I’m taking care of it. I’ll handle it.
— Is she behaving?
— This woman? Let me tell you something: it’s even worse if she likes you.
— What do you mean?
— I can’t talk anymore, I see her coming back. You’re lucky you’re not here.
TEDDY, having hung up the phone, sat by herself. The vodka had left her with a pleasant feeling and the disinclination to wonder where the two of them were. The chair was comfortable. The garden, through the French doors, was dark. She was not thinking of anything in particular. She looked around at the familiar furniture, the flowers, the lamplight. She found herself, for some reason, thinking about her life, a thing she did not do often. She had a nice house, not large but perfect for her. You could even, from a place on the lawn, see a bit of the ocean. There was a maid’s room and a guest room, the closet in the latter filled with her clothes. She had difficulty throwing things away and there were clothes for any occasion, though the occasion may have been long past. Still, she did not like to think of beautifully made things in the trash. But there was no one to give them to, the maid had no use for them, there was no one who would even wear them.
The years of her marriage, looking back, had been good ones. Myron Hirsch had left her with more than enough to take care of herself, and the success she had had was on top of that. For a woman of few talents—was that true? perhaps she was shortchanging herself—she had done pretty well. She was remembering how it had started. She remembered the beer bottles rolling around in the back of the car when she was fifteen and he was making love to her every morning and she did not know if she was beginning life or throwing it away, but she loved him and would never forget.
My Lord You
THERE WERE CRUMPLED NAPKINS on the table, wine-glasses still with dark remnant in them, coffee stains, and plates with bits of hardened Brie. Beyond the bluish windows the garden lay motionless beneath the birdsong of summer morning. Daylight had come. It had been a success except for one thing: Brennan.
They had sat around first, drinking in the twilight, and then gone inside. The kitchen had a large round table, fire-place, and shelves with ingredients of every kind. Deems was well known as a cook. So was his somewhat unknowable girlfriend, Irene, who had a mysterious smile though they never cooked together. That night it was Deems’s turn. He served caviar, brought out in a white jar such as makeup comes in, to be eaten from small silver spoons.
— The only way, Deems muttered in profile. He seldom looked at anyone. Antique silver spoons, Ardis heard him mistakenly say in his low voice, as if it might not have been noticed.
She was noticing everything, however. Though they had known Deems for a while, she and her husband had never been to the house.