The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [25]
She craned her neck so that she could see through the window at the head of the daybed. A large bird sat motionless on the roof of the house next door. The man finished, as he always did, with a convulsive shudder and a slight hiccup. And when he pulled away, she felt a bit of the wetness trickle out of her, a small spill of fluid upon her thigh. She watched him as he sat at the end of the bed, white and shocky all about his eyes. He zipped his pants and laced up his shoes.
She had no tender word from him, nor did she want one. He said only when he stood, “Don’t tell anyone what we did here.”
As if she would. As if she would.
* * *
In the pew, Linda began to tremble violently from the memory, not retrieved in years, until words — reassuring and comforting — allowed her to be still. It wasn’t her doing, she told herself. And it hadn’t ruined her life. Life was more than childhood violations, childhood victories. Life was work and loving someone else and having babies; life was Vincent and Marcus and Maria. But as soon as she had the thought, Maria, Linda began to tremble again. Seen from the eyes of a mother, the episode was inexcusable and terrifying. All she had to do was imagine Maria on the daybed, and she was filled with fury. Beside her, people filed slowly along the aisle, some glancing in her direction. The Mass was over, and she hadn’t noticed.
She took a long breath and slowly let it out. Vincent had been antidote to memory. Now, without him, was she losing that protection? And why that shameful image after so long a time?
* * *
She returned to her room, needing food and a cup of tea, but the message light was flashing. Sitting at the edge of the bed, her coat still on, she composed questions and worded probable replies: How did your panel go? Dinner? Are you sure? Do you think the others would mind? But when she listened to the message, she heard that it wasn’t Thomas who had rung, but rather David, Marcus’s lover, asking her to call him as soon as she got in. Proximity to another’s grief made her panicky as she misdialed the number twice, saying Shit before she got it right. How long had she been gone from the room? One hour? Two hours?
—Marcus has been arrested for drunk driving. The lover spoke without preamble.
Linda leaned forward, as if she had not heard correctly. When?
—Early this morning. Around five A.M.
Instinctively, Linda looked at her watch. They had waited twelve hours to tell her.
—And there was an accident, David added.
—Oh God, Linda said, incapable of words of more than one syllable. Was he hurt?
—He’s banged his knee up pretty bad. He’s had an x-ray. They say he bruised some cartilage.
—Was anyone else hurt? Linda asked quickly, already terrified of the reply.
—No.
She sighed with relief. And to think that she had just said a prayer for Marcus. Is he there? Can I talk to him?
One could not mistake the deliberate pause at the other end. She imagined David — Marcus’s height, but stockier; reddish hair and pale eyes; something soft around the edges though his clothes were beautifully tailored — standing in the kitchen of their Brookline apartment. Or was he with her son in the bedroom?
—Mrs. Fallon, David said (David, who seemed incapable of calling her Linda, even after repeated invitations to do so; David, who’d said he couldn’t read poetry and hoped she didn’t mind), I think Marcus and I need to handle this together.
Linda, dismissed, was silent.
—Of course, David said immediately, softening the blow, if the knee thing gets serious, I’ll call you right away.
Linda was surprised she did not feel more resentful than she did.
—And I think, David added with another pause, I think we need to discuss the possibility that Marcus should go into rehab.
—Rehab? You mean for being drunk? Is that really necessary?
—I’m afraid it is. Marcus has been drinking for days. He missed my concert last