The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [88]
“Come in,” he said. “You look like hell.”
Once inside the door, she let her coat fall from her shoulders. “You’re actually dirty,” Robert said.
She slipped off her shoes, which had lost their shape and color. He pulled out the chair from the desk.
“Sit down,” he said.
She did as she was told. He sat on the bed, facing her, their knees touching — her wet stockings, his gray wool. He had on a white shirt, not the same shirt he’d had on at lunch. He looked a different man, drawn and exhausted, the eyes lined, an older man than at lunch. She imagined that she, too, had aged considerably.
He took her hands in his. Her hands felt swallowed by his long fingers.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“I’ve been walking. Just walking. I don’t know where I went. Yes, I do. I went to a pub and drank beer. I walked to a rose garden and unraveled a scarf.”
“Unraveled a scarf.”
“My life, I meant to say.”
“I gather it was bad,” he said.
“You could say that.”
“I gave you thirty-five minutes, and then I followed you to the address. You must have gone already. I walked up and down the street for an hour and a half, and then I saw a woman who wasn’t you leave the building. She had two children with her.”
Kathryn looked at the uneaten sandwich on the tray. It might have been turkey.
“I think I’m hungry,” she said.
Robert reached around, took the sandwich from the tray, and handed it to her. She balanced the plate on her lap, and she shivered slightly.
“Eat some, and then get into a hot bath. Do you want me to order you a drink?”
“No, I think I’ve had enough. You’re being very parental.” “Jesus, Kathryn.”
The meat in the sandwich had been pressed so flat that it felt on her tongue like slippery vinyl. She put the sandwich down.
“I was getting ready to call the police,” he said. “I’d already called the number where you’d gone. Repeatedly. There was never an answer.”
“They were Jack’s children.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
“You guessed,” she said.
“It was a possibility. I didn’t think about children, though. That was her? Muire Boland? Leaving the building? His . . . ?”
“Wife,” she said. “They were married. In a church.”
He sat back. She watched the disbelief turn reluctantly to belief.
“In a Catholic church,” Kathryn said.
“When?”
“Four and a half years ago.”
On the bed was an overnight bag, unzipped at the top. The shirt he’d worn at lunch was peeking out of the bag. Bits of a newspaper had fallen off the bed onto the floor. On the desk, there was a half-empty bottle of mineral water.
She saw that he was examining her, as a doctor might do. Looking at the face for signs of illness.
“I’m over the worst of it,” she said.
“Your clothes are ruined.”
“They’ll dry out.”
He held her knees.
“I’m so sorry, Kathryn.”
“I want to go home.”
“We will,” he said. “First thing tomorrow. We’ll change the tickets.”
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said, handing him the plate back.
“No.”
“You tried to warn me.”
He looked away.
“I am hungry,” she said. “But I can’t eat this.” “I’ll order you fruit and cheese. Some soup.” “That would be nice.”
She stood up, then faltered. She felt light-headed.
He stood with her, and she pressed her forehead against his shirt.
“All those years,” she said, “it was all false.”
“Shhhh . . .”
“He had a son, Robert. Another daughter.”
He pulled her closer, trying to comfort her.
“All those times we made love,” she said. “For four and a half years, I made love to the man while he had another woman. Another wife. I did things. We did things. I can remember them....”
“It’s OK.”
“It’s not OK. I sent him love notes. I wrote things on cards to him. He accepted them.”
Robert rubbed her back.
“It’s better that I know,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“It’s better not to live a lie.”
She sensed a quick change in his breathing, like a hiccup. She drew away and saw that he looked drained. He rubbed his eyes.
“I’ll take my bath now,” she said. “I’m sorry to have worried you. I should have called.”
He