The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [89]
I thought it was you who loved me more. But it is not true. It’s me who loves you more.
I cry all the time now. I’m just as glad you’re far away and can’t see this. Peter is baffled, as well he might be. I have let him think it’s an overlong bout of hormones. He doesn’t deserve any of this.
I will leave a message for you on the message board. You will be called Roger, myself Gabrielle. I have always wanted a more exotic name.
L.
______
He was dozing fully clothed in the bed when the ibises woke him. Dozing because he had willed himself to sleep, unable to tolerate all the hours of the afternoon, which seemed to stretch interminably, leading up to the time when he and Regina could get into the Escort and drive to the Intercontinental Hotel for the party. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to write, his thoughts preoccupied, his nerves frayed. This after returning to Karen from town, where he had searched for and found a note to Roger from Gabrielle on the message board at the Thorn Tree. My darling, she had written, and he had felt the thrill of the endearment even as he had known it was a pose she would be trying on, in keeping with the Gabrielle, having a bit of fun, if fun could be had in such a desperate situation. Thin fun. Meager fun. Were there people, he wondered, who had genuine, more-or-less continuous fun when they fell in love? It didn’t seem possible, the enterprise too fraught to sustain the lightheartedness fun required. My darling, she had written, I am counting the hours until I see you tonight. Folly even to contemplate. But I shall be there. Your Gabrielle.
And he had written back: My darling Gabrielle, No man ever loved a woman more. Roger.
The dogs from next door, Gypsy and Torca, were asleep in the kitchen as they often were. Regina cooked bones for them and let them in and had made beds for them in the corner, maternal instinct gone awry; though Thomas liked the dogs and had to admit that their owners seemed largely indifferent to their pets, who enjoyed the pampering, just as people do. Through the window, Thomas could see Michael sitting on a rock, unemployed, eating cooked meat he had just unwrapped from a paper packet. The grass was brown, the trees had dropped their leaves, there was nothing for a gardener to do. The entire country was waiting for rain.
Thomas turned on the tap in the kitchen (thinking of a cup of tea) and a dozen ants slid out, drowning themselves in the waterfall. In the dry season, there were always too many ants. They irritated the dogs when they tried to sleep under the trees, and sometimes when he entered the bathroom, he would see a trail of ants that Regina had squished with her thumb. Where was Regina, anyway? It was unlike her to be so late. She who had been known to spend an hour and a half getting ready for a dinner party.
But Regina was generally baffling these days. Not normally a baffling or complicated person, she seemed lighter, as if she’d lost weight or had learned how to levitate. Her voice a near lilt, even as she had said, during an argument regarding the wisdom of so publicly supporting Ndegwa’s cause, Do what you want. You always have. Causing Thomas to wonder, genuinely, had he? The question suddenly interesting, as if he’d discovered that someone had taken a film of his life and had invited him to watch it. For it seemed to Thomas that he’d been mostly thwarted from doing as he pleased, even though he couldn’t have said with any accuracy exactly what it was that would have pleased him.
He laid his clothes out on the bed. He would dress with care tonight. He’d bought a suit for the occasion — a gray suit with a new white shirt