The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [65]
—Something, he said. Not a meal.
She went into the kitchen. He spoke to her back as she moved from counter to fridge to counter. You have electricity? he asked.
—Sometimes.
The cottage was so dark inside they might have turned a light on.
—Have you ever eaten giraffe? he asked.
—No, but I’ve had antelope. And crocodile.
—Crocodile isn’t so bad. It tastes like chicken.
She put bread and cheese on a plate. Something that looked like jelly. He had a sudden craving for sugar.
—I sometimes feel like the wrong person in the right place, he said. His unease was so great, he was grasping at ways to explain. Or vice versa.
—You’ve always been that way.
The kanga a second skin knotted at her hip. The cloth moved easily about her calves as she worked.
—Living here is like watching an endless documentary, he said.
She laughed.
—Tell me about Peter, he said.
She thought a minute. No.
Thomas was daunted by her refusal, though he admired the loyalty. A loyalty he hadn’t quite been able to manage himself.
—It’s exhilarating, he said. Talking to you. It must be a form of blood-letting, this desire to pour the soul into another person.
—You don’t believe in the soul.
She brought food to the table, gestured for him to sit. He put a generous amount of cheese and jelly on a piece of bread.
—We have no good word for it, do we?
—Spirit? she suggested.
He shook his head. Too religious.
—Ghost?
—Too supernatural.
—Personality?
—God, no.
—The word life is too broad, I suppose.
—I need another fucking thesaurus, Thomas said. Mine was stolen while I was having a beer at the Thorn Tree.
She laughed. What a funny thing to steal, she said.
She had made tea. The mention of beer made him want one. I have an overwhelming urge to spill myself messily at your feet, he said.
Her hands froze as she poured the tea.
—Sorry, he said. You should ignore the sexual implications of that remark.
She shrugged.
—You look wonderful, he added. I should have said that sooner.
—Thank you.
—Do men follow you in the streets? he asked.
She put the teapot down. Kenyan men are normally very respectful of women that way, she said. She paused. The rains had suddenly ceased, as if someone had turned off the faucet. Their voices were now too loud. Wouldn’t your wife have told you this?
—My wife might want me to think they did, he said without hesitation when he should have hesitated. Linda turned her face to the window. It was the most disloyal thing he’d said about Regina. Doubly disloyal, implying not only that his wife would lie to her advantage, but might also want to make him jealous.
—I’m sorry, he said. To whom or about what, he wasn’t sure.
—Do you have children? she asked.
—No. He paused. Regina was pregnant once, but she miscarried when she was five months along.
—I’m sorry.
—It was a hideous miscarriage that ended in the delivery room. It was a week before our wedding.
He didn’t add that backing out of the marriage would have been unthinkable, though, miserably, the thought had crossed his mind. Since then — fit punishment — Regina had not been able to conceive, a fact that sometimes made her sad and paradoxically maternal. The way she carried on with Kenyan children — any child — was heartbreaking to watch. It had been three years, and it was time to take the tests, but she, who would know, had little faith in Kenyan medicine. She wanted to wait until they got home. Which was fine with him.
—You don’t have children? he asked.
—Oh, no.
No more than he had expected, but he felt relief all the same. I feel like someone just hacked open my chest with a machete, he said.
—Another scar, she said lightly.
There was a long silence between them.
—Rich is coming, he said after a time.
—Rich? she asked, brightening. How old is he now?
—Sixteen.
—Imagine! She shook her head slowly back and forth. What’s he like?
—He’s a good kid. He likes boats. He works at the yacht club during the summer, ferrying the launch.
—He was seven when I knew him. Such a sweet boy.
—Well, maybe if you’re in Nairobi,