Читать книгу Indiscretion - Charles Dubow, Charles Dubow - Страница 17

AFTER GRADUATION HARRY WAS COMMISSIONED IN THE Marine Corps. As a college graduate he was automatically entitled to become an officer, and he entered flight training school. Madeleine followed him. They had been married the day after graduation. It was a small ceremony held in Battell Chapel, followed by lunch at the Yale Club. Ned was best man. Madeleine’s father and brother, Johnny, came, as well as her stepmother at that time. Mister and Mrs. Winslow. I had never met them before. His father was a prep school English teacher. Tweedy, articulate, wry, the same broad shoulders. Harry had grown up a faculty brat in Connecticut, living on borrowed privilege. A pet of the upperclassmen as a child, and a guest on classmates’ ski trips and holidays while a student. Unlike most of them, he worked during the summer, one year as a roustabout on the Oklahoma oil fields, another on an Alaskan fishing boat.

Why the Marines? It struck me as an odd decision at the time. No one we knew was joining the military. Our fathers had been raised when there was a still a draft, but most of them were of an age that fell between the Korean and Vietnam wars. Maddy’s father had actually left Princeton to enlist to fight in Korea, an act that had always been difficult for me to square with the debauchee I knew in later life. Or maybe it partly explained it. I wouldn’t know, having never been a soldier or even heard a shot fired in anger.

We never heard Harry discuss going into the military in those waning school days. Most of us had been obsessed with softening the impact of graduation by lining up jobs at investment banks, newspapers, or earnest nonprofit institutions, or obtaining postgraduate degrees. I had known for months that I would be entering law school in the fall, so I simply let the days of May spool out without any particular anxiety.

I had been aware that Harry echoed my outward calm, but he rarely spoke about the future. When he had revealed his intentions over one of those endless farewell dinners to a table consisting of Maddy, myself, Ned, and few other confidants, I could tell I was not the only one surprised. Even Ned, who had landed a job in Merrill Lynch’s training program and was Harry’s best friend, goggled.

“You’re joking, right?” he had asked.

“Not at all,” Harry had responded. “I wouldn’t joke about something like that. I’ve always wanted to learn how to fly. Anyway, I’m not good enough to become a pro hockey player, and I have zero interest in working on Wall Street. I really have no idea what I want to do, so I figured while I am making up my mind the least I can do is serve my country.”

Maddy, of course, knew. What’s more, she obviously approved. If he had told her he was going to become a lion tamer or a salvage diver, she would have followed along just as happily.

As a married couple, they lived off base at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola for the first year. Harry flew fighters. They had a dog then, a brown mutt named Dexter. Maddy drove the same red MG she had at Yale. They cut a glamorous path wherever they went. Senior officers would be found at their frequent cocktail parties. Their new friends had been football legends at Ole Miss and Georgia Tech, now married to former cheerleaders.

This is when Maddy discovered her talent for cooking. Inspired by the local cuisine and with plenty of time on her hands, she tackled shrimp étouffée, rémoulade, fried chicken, pecan pie. Then she began working her way through Julia Child, Paul Bocuse, James Beard. Soon she was making béchamel sauces, coq au vin, salmon terrines, beef bourguignon, cheese soufflés. Invitations to her dinner parties were as sought after as presidential citations.

During the day, Harry flew endless training missions and sorties, and attended ground school. But luckily there was no war. On weekends, they traveled, driving all night to visit friends on Jupiter Island or to go bonefishing in the Keys. I visited a few times from my first year at Yale Law. They also got moved around by the Corps. Bogue Field, North Carolina. Twentynine Palms in California. A year in Japan. Maddy says this is when Harry began to write. His first efforts went unread by anyone other than her, but she encouraged him. There were numerous short stories and even a novel. All now destroyed.

Once she told me, “When I fell in love with Harry, I never thought of him as being a writer. He was simply the most confident person I had ever met. He’s always determined to be the best. He was the best hockey player, then he was the best pilot, and I guess it just makes sense that he would be the best writer. If he wanted to be the best jewel thief, he could probably do that too.”

He kept at it. At some point he began submitting short stories to magazines and literary journals, most of them obscure. Finally he had one published, then another. When his six years were up, he resigned his commission to write full-time. A few years later his first book, a roman à clef about an Air Force officer, met with modest praise and milder sales. Critics recognized him, though, as someone who needed more time in the bottle.

He and Maddy moved to New York, then outside of Bozeman for a year, and after that Paris, where they lived above a Senegalese restaurant in the distinctly unchic 18th Arrondissement. Maddy’s trust fund subsidized them, allowing them to get by but not live extravagantly. Johnny was born, and then Harry’s second book, which took seven years to write, won the National Book Award. There is even talk of a movie.

But he still loved flying. When his second book was published, he fulfilled a promise to himself and bought a used plane that he fixed up and now kept at the airport near their cottage. On fine-weather days, he would take the plane up. Sometimes he’d invite others to come with him. They’d fly over to Nantucket, circle Sankaty Head and return. Or up to Westerly. Sometimes he’d touch down for lunch, but he preferred to remain aloft. I flew with him many times. It is very peaceful. Madeleine rarely went. Small planes make her nervous.

FRIDAY MORNING. THE AIRFIELD SITS BEFORE THEM, TANKER trucks idle in the background, the planes of the local elite parked, waiting like ball boys to spring into action. It is just Harry and Claire. She and I had gone over early to the Winslows’.

“I’m going flying,” he announced as we walked in. “Anyone want to come?”

I declined. “I’d love to,” said Claire. “Do you have your own plane?”

“Yep. A single-engine Cessna 182. She’s a little beauty. She’s been in for repairs. This is the first time I’ve been able to fly her all summer.”

“Do I need to change?”

“Nope, you’re good to go.”

At the airport he files his flight plan and does the preflight inspection. Today they will fly over Block Island. The plane is old, but he loves it anyway. The sky is a cloudless blue. It’s already warm, a late-summer heat. The little cockpit is stuffy. Harry opens the windows. “It’ll cool off when we get higher,” he says. He is wearing an old khaki shirt and a faded Yale cap. Around his neck hangs a gold chain. He tells her it is a Saint Christopher he wears for luck. Maddy bought it for him when he was in the Marines. They taxi to the runway. Only one other plane is ahead of them.

Claire is excited. She feels like a child, practically pressing her nose against the plastic of the window. The engine starts to rev, and they begin to taxi down the runway for takeoff. Harry pushes the throttle and they race forward. One second their landing gear is on the ground, and the next they are in the air, climbing, climbing. The earth falls away beneath them, and when they bank, Claire can see they are already hundreds of feet in the air, the people on the ground, houses, trees rapidly diminishing below her.

At cruising altitude, Harry says, “Some view, eh?” He has to yell now above the engine.

She nods her head, leaning forward in her seat. She can see the curve of the earth and beyond, stretching to the end of the horizon, the blue of the Atlantic. She is amazed by how fast they are moving. What would have taken an hour in a car now takes seconds.

“I’ve never done this before,” she says. “I mean, fly in a small plane. It’s incredible.”

He points to his right ear. “You’ll have to speak up,” he yells.

“Okay,” she yells back, smiling.

He smiles and gives her a thumbs-up, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses. As they fly he points out landmarks. They have now left the mainland behind, soaring godlike over the ocean. A fishing boat, white against the dark blue water, bobs like a toy. Block Island looms in the distance, and then suddenly they are almost over it. She sees the waves crash on the rocks.

“That’s Bluffs Beach,” he shouts. “Over there is Mohegan Bluffs and Southeast Lighthouse. In between is Black Rock Beach. It’s a nude beach, but I don’t think you can see much from up here.” He smiles.

She looks at him. He is wearing shorts and moccasins, his legs strong and tanned, covered with golden hairs. She wants to touch them. This is the first time they have been alone together. It is hard to speak. She had no idea it would be so loud.

Words formulate in her mouth, but nothing comes out. There is so much she wants to say, but this is the wrong time. In addition to the noise of the engine, he is wearing a headset, further blocking his ears.

“Did you say something?” he asks, lifting the right earpiece to hear her better.

She shakes her head no. Relieved, she feels like someone who has stumbled on a precipice but miraculously regains her balance. Her heart is racing, her palms are sweaty. Nothing has changed.

“Do you want to try it?” he yells, indicating the controls in front of her.

“What? You mean fly the plane?”

“Sure, it’s easy,” he shouts. “Put your hands on the controls. It’s not like a car. The tiller controls the altitude, which means it lets you go up, down, left, and right. If you pull on it, the plane will go up. Push and it goes down, get it? The throttle controls acceleration. See that? That’s the altimeter. It tells you how high you are. Keep at one thousand feet. That’s your airspeed indicator. You’re going about a hundred and fifty-five miles an hour now. And see that little instrument that looks like a plane? That’s your attitude indicator. Keep it level unless you turn. Okay?”

“What should I do?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have my hands on my controls the whole time. Just go ahead and take your controls. They won’t bite.”

She puts her hands tightly, too tightly, on the tiller. The vibrations from the engine course through her. The plane bucks slightly, and she jumps. “Not so tight,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’ll try.” She inhales and exhales quickly several times and then resumes her grip, this time lighter, on the tiller.

“Good. Now just keep her level.”

He lets go of the tiller. “See? You’re flying the plane now.”

“Oh my god. That’s amazing.” She is giddy. She can’t believe how easy it is.

“Want to try a turn?”

She has to strain to hear him. She yells back, “Yes. What do I do?”

“Turn the tiller slightly to the right and then straighten out.”

She does, and the plane turns but begins to drop.

“Pull up a bit—but not too much.”

She does and the plane levels out again.

“Very nice. Now just keep heading on this course. See over there? That’s our airfield.” When they get closer, he yells, “You better let me take over now.”

He contacts the tower, tells them they are approaching, and receives permission to land.

He reaches out his right hand and points. “We’re going to pass over our house. We’re right on the flight path. Look down.”

She cranes her neck. Below is the house, like a diorama in a museum, a microcosm. She is a giant. He begins the landing, flaps down, reducing airspeed. The treetops rise up to meet them. Objects become larger again. They touch down with a slight shudder and a bounce as the air pressure resists the wings. He taxis to his parking spot and kills the engine.

“Not bad,” he says, looking at his watch. “And it’s not even noon yet.”

“Thank you so much. That was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever done,” she says.

Her eyes sparkle. Descending from the cockpit, the rest of the world feels flat and ordinary. She wishes she could return to the clouds.

On the drive back Claire, emboldened, now a risk taker, a conqueror, asks, “What happened to Johnny? I mean, his scar. Walter said he had an operation when he was younger.”

“That’s right. He was born with a congenital heart defect. A hole in his heart.”

“Oh my god. What did you do?”

“There was a series of operations. We took him to the Children’s Hospital in Boston. The first time we were up there for months. He could have died.”

“How old was he?”

“The first was right after he was born. The last when he was four.”

I remember sleepless nights in the hospital, the monotonous beeping of the monitors, concerned surgeons in blue scrubs, the small, deflated, unconscious form beneath a transparent shield. It was hell.

“Is he all right now?”

Harry rubs his forehead. “I don’t know. I think so. The doctors are optimistic he’ll be okay. It’s been a long time since we had a scare, thank God.”

“He doesn’t seem sick. He seems like an ordinary healthy boy.”

“It’s been hard. He tires easily. And Maddy watches him like a hawk. She’s always on the lookout that something might be wrong. We’ve had some false alarms, but we can’t be too careful. Even if he looks like an ordinary healthy boy, he’s not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No reason for you to be sorry. We give him love and confidence and try to make his life as normal as possible. He could live another six years or sixty. It’s impossible to know. It’s hard for him at school, though. He can’t play sports. Children can be cruel.”

“It must be very hard on you. I mean on you both.”

“At times it is, but he’s a great kid. He knows what we’re up to, and he tries to make us feel better. He’ll say things to Maddy like, ‘It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t feel sick. Don’t worry about me.’ But you just can’t help feeling so goddamn helpless sometimes, you know?”

“I’m sorry. He’s a lovely boy. He’s such a wonderful combination of Maddy and you.”

They pull up to the house. The boy comes running out. “Daddy, Daddy,” he shouts as the tires crunch to a halt on the gravel. I am sitting by the window, reading the newspaper.

“Hey, sport.”

“Daddy, there was a telephone call for you. From Rome. Mommy took the message.”

“Thanks, pal. Tell Mommy I’m back, okay?” The boy trots back inside.

To Claire, “Got to make a call. Glad you could come along.” He gets out of the car.

“No. Thank you for taking me. When can we do it again?”

“Maybe not for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks at her, a bit puzzled. “I thought you knew. That’s what that call is about. Maddy, Johnny, and I are leaving for Rome in a week. I have a grant to write there. I’ll be working on my new book.”

“No. No, I hadn’t heard.” She feels like she is going to be sick. “How long will you be gone?”

“Almost a year. We’ll be back next June. For the summer.”

“Oh, I see.” And then, “You must be very excited.”

“We are. An old friend of mine found us a place to stay near the Pantheon.”

“What about Johnny? Where will he go to school?”

“There’s an American school. And we have the names of good doctors there.”

“Oh good. I’m so happy for you all.” She tries to make it sound like she means it.

“Thanks. It’ll be a lot of fun. I’ve always wanted to live in Rome. So has Maddy. As you can imagine, she’s very excited about the food. She’s already enrolled in both a cooking and an Italian class.”

“I’m going to miss you.” She throws her arms around his neck and pulls him to her, his cheek next to hers.

He pats her on the back and uncoils himself, smiling at her. “Hey, we’re going to miss you too.”

“Thanks again,” she calls after him as he heads into the house. “I had a wonderful time.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You were very brave. Not everyone likes to fly in small planes.”

“I loved it.”

He smiles and walks inside the house. She does not notice me and I watch her standing there for a long time after he is gone. Finally, she turns and leaves. I am sorry to see how sad she looks.

I FIND HER SEVERAL HOURS LATER. SHE IS SITTING AT THE end of my dock, staring out over the pond, her feet dangling in the water. A family of swans swims by. A pair of Beetle Cats, the small, gaff-rigged sailboats popular with residents who live on the pond, tacks in the distance. It is very peaceful.

“Where have you been?” I ask. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re going to play tennis.”

Yes, I have a tennis court too. It’s an old-fashioned clay court. I know a lot of people prefer acrylic these days, but I actually still enjoy rolling the court. The preparation as important as the play.

She looks up. Surprised at first and then disappointed, as though she were hoping for someone else. I am in my ratty old tennis whites.

“I’m sorry, Walter. I needed to be alone for a while.”

“Everything all right?”

“Did you know that Harry and Maddy are going to Rome?”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know.”

“You have something against Romans? Did a principe ever break your heart, or did you trip and fall on the Spanish Steps?”

I am trying to be light, but I can tell, too late, she is not in the mood.

She shakes her head silently.

“Anything I can do?”

She shakes her head again.

“Right. Well, I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?”

“Thank you, Walter. I just feel like being alone. Maybe I’ll wander up later and see how the tennis is going.”

“I hope so. You owe me a rematch.” She manages a smile at that. The week before she leveled me, 6–4, 6–4.

We don’t see her again until evening. After tennis, I tiptoe up to her room and see that her door is closed. At seven she comes down. I am in the kitchen, putting hamburger patties into a cooler. We are going to a cookout on the beach. It’s a Labor Day weekend tradition. There will be about fifty people there. Ned, Harry, and I had gone to the beach earlier to build a bonfire, digging a pit in the sand, filling it with driftwood.

“Sorry I didn’t make it to tennis,” she says as she enters. “I wouldn’t have been any fun.”

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks.” She looks beautiful. A low-cut pink dress. She is not wearing a bra. The sides of her breasts peeking out from behind the fabric. I try not to stare.

“You look lovely, but you might want to bring a sweater or something,” I suggest. “It can get pretty cold on the beach at night this time of year.”

“I could really use a martini, Walter. Do you think you could make one for me?”

“With pleasure,” I say, washing my hands and going to the bar. It is a form of communion. I drop the ice cubes into an old Cartier silver shaker that belonged to my grandfather. Add Beefeater gin and a dash of dry vermouth. I stir it, twenty times exactly, and pour it into a chilled martini glass, also silver, which I garnish with a lemon peel.

“Hope you don’t mind drinking alone. I want to pace myself.”

“Oh, you’re such a fuddy-duddy, Walter.” She takes a sip. “Perfect.”

Ned and Cissy come in. “Priming the pump, eh?” says Ned.

“Want one?” I ask.

“No thanks. Plenty to drink at the beach.”

“Sorry not to see you at tennis today,” Cissy says to Claire. “Everything all right?”

She nods her head. “Yes, thanks. Just a bit tired, that’s all. You know how it is.”

“Just as well, I suppose. You missed seeing my man get his big butt kicked by Harry.”

“Harry had a hell of a serve today,” I put in. “He could do no wrong. Don’t feel too bad, Ned. Pete Sampras couldn’t have beaten him today.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll get him the next time.”

“You’ll have to wait until next summer then, won’t you?” pipes up Claire. “Unless you’re going to go all the way to Rome to play a few sets.”

We all stare at Claire, surprised by her tone. Then Cissy says, “Look at it this way, Neddy. At least you’ll have a whole year to practice.”

Everyone laughs at that. “C’mon, Claire, drink up,” says Ned.

We take my car, Ned in the front with me, the women in back.

“Aren’t we going with Harry and Maddy?” asks Claire.

“They’re going to meet us there,” says Ned. “They are bringing their houseguests.”

A Dutch couple. Wouter and Magda. He is in publishing. They have just dropped off their daughter at boarding school and are passing through on the way back to Amsterdam. Their English is flawless.

The sun is setting low over the ocean when we drive up. A finger of brilliant orange extends from one end of the horizon to the other, as far up and down the beach as we can see. There’s already a good crowd. I recognize many of the faces, some from the club, others from Manhattan, the rest a scattering of literary types, friends of Harry and Maddy’s. The fire is roaring. Tables have been set up. There are hurricane lamps and coolers full of wine and beer. Liquor bottles, ice cubes, and mixers. Plastic cups. Several large trash bins. There are a few children. Labradors. By the lip of the parking lot, piles of shoes.

“Can you make me another martini, Walter?” Claire asks. I notice she didn’t bring a sweater after all.

“Of course. But remember the old rule about women’s breasts.”

“You have such a dirty mind.” She winks at me. “Don’t worry, Walter. This is the last big party of the summer, right? Loosen up. Let’s have some fun.”

There’s no shaker, but I still make her a drink. “Not my best effort, I’m afraid,” I say.

“You’re very sweet, Walter. Thank you.” She gives me a little peck on the cheek.

“After this, though, you’d better stick to wine.”

“When will Harry and Maddy be here?”

“Haven’t a clue. Soon enough, I should think.”

I excuse myself to drop off the hamburger patties. When I look around, I notice that Claire has moved. She is talking to three young men. They are about her age, tanned, slim-hipped as soccer players. The sons of rich men. I should know. I was one of them once, lifetimes ago. She is laughing. I can tell she is mesmerizing them.

Harry, Maddy, and Johnny arrive with Wouter and Magda. “Sorry we’re late,” Harry says when I see him. “We’re still packing up. A year’s a long time to be gone.”

I am already planning on spending Christmas with them in Rome.

By nine o’clock the first stage of the party is winding down. It gets dark quickly this time of year. Parents carry sleepy children to their cars. Tables are folded. Empty wine bottles clink in recycling bins. The fire remains high, still being stoked by those who aren’t ready to go yet. For the young the night is just getting started. Flames shoot up into the night. Faces flicker in the firelight. The sand begins to feel cool underfoot. I am about to put on my sweater, but I look around for Claire, worrying that she might be cold.

She is still talking with one of the young men, holding a drink in one hand, rubbing a bare arm with her hand. I go up to her. “Sorry for interrupting. Claire, are you cold? Would you like my sweater?”

Claire looks at me, her face luminous, eyes glazed. She is drunk.

“Walt,” she says. “That’s so sweet. I’d like you to meet Andrew. His parents have a house out here. He’s going to business school.”

We shake hands. Andrew is wondering about me and where I fit in. I am possibly too old to be a boyfriend but too young to be a father.

“I’m staying with Walt. His parents have a house out here too, but they’re both dead and now Walt lives there all alone.”

Ignoring her, I repeat, “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine. Feel great.”

“So you don’t need my sweater?”

“I have a sweater if she gets cold,” Andrew says pointedly.

She ignores him and asks me, “Have Harry and Maddy arrived?”

“Yes. They’ve been here awhile.”

She looks around and sees them. She frowns. “Oh yes, there they are.” She turns to Andrew. “I have to go say hi to some people. I’ll be right back.”

She walks over and gives Maddy a hug. “I didn’t know you were going away. Harry told me this morning. I know I should be happy for you both, but it makes me sad.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be back before you know it. The summer’s over anyway.”

“Well, that’s just it. I don’t want the summer to end. Just knowing that you won’t be here makes it so much more final.”

Maddy squeezes her hand. “I know. I never want summer to end either.”

“It was just such a surprise.”

“I am sorry we didn’t tell you. It had all been settled last winter, and it just never occurred to us that you didn’t know too.”

“You don’t need to apologize. You have both been amazing to me. I love you both so much.” She gives Maddy another hug.

“We’ll miss you too.”

Claire turns away and walks back to Andrew, who gets her another glass of wine. I am not sure this is such a good idea, but it’s not my place to say anything.

“Everything okay?” Harry asks, munching a hamburger. He and I had stood aside while the two women talked, and now we rejoin Maddy. “You worried about something?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “Claire seems to be drinking rather a lot.”

Harry laughs softly. “Yeah, well, she won’t be the only one at this party.”

Maddy looks at him. “I think she’s taking the news of our trip hard. Why else would she be getting drunk? We’ve spent plenty of nights with her, and she’s never been like this. What was she like when you told her this morning?”

“Well, I could tell it was a surprise. I felt like an ass because obviously she had no idea what I was talking about.”

“I saw her down by the pond before tennis,” I add. “She looked pretty glum.”

“Well, I can understand that,” says Maddy. “We sort of adopted her and now we’re dropping her.”

“Oh, she’d have gotten tired of us before too long anyway,” says Harry. “I mean, she needs to spend more time with people her own age. We’re just a gang of middle-aged old farts with receding hairlines and expanding waistlines.”

“Speak for yourself, fatso,” says Maddy, punching him playfully in the arm. Actually, both of them look great for their age. I, on the other hand, look every one of my forty-two years.

We see Claire on the other side of the bonfire and watch as she stumbles and nearly falls. Andrew helps her, and she hangs on his arm, laughing. Have I said she has beautiful teeth?

“She does look pretty sozzled,” says Harry. “Do you think we should do something?”

“I’ll go over and talk to her,” says Maddy. “You two stay here.”

Across the fire I can see Maddy speaking with her. The boy stands sheepishly off to the side. Maddy has a hand on Claire’s shoulder. Claire is shaking her head, attempting to back away. But it is very hard to say no to Maddy.

They come back. “Harry, do you mind driving Claire back to Walter’s?”

“Please,” protests Claire. “I’m fine. Please. I don’t want Harry to drive me back.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” It’s Andrew.

I step in and tell him in my most lawyerly voice that he should probably get the hell out of there.

“Don’t make me,” Claire shouts. “Maddy, can you drive me instead?”

“It’s okay,” says Maddy. “We need to help clean up.” Maddy hates driving at night. Her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, and she dislikes wearing glasses.

“Come on, Claire,” says Harry gently. He puts his hand on her arm.

She pulls it away. “Leave me alone.”

She starts walking unsteadily to the parking lot, Harry following. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

By the car she is sick.

“Oh god,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

He tells her not to worry. We’ve all been there. He offers her his handkerchief, and then insists she wear his sweater when he sees she is shivering. “Are you all right, or do you think you’ll be sick again?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine,” she answers, her voice faint.

On the way back, she is weeping softly, embarrassed and anxious. Harry asks if she’s all right. Why is she so upset? Claire says she doesn’t want to talk about it. He says that it’s all right, they’re friends. If it’s something he can help with, he’d be happy to.

“I’m in love with you,” she blurts. “There, I’ve said it. I’m sorry.”

He laughs and tells her that it’s only the liquor talking.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she says.

He tries to reassure her. That he is not laughing at her.

“Stop the car,” she says calmly. “I think I have to throw up again.”

He pulls over, headlights illuminating the road ahead. The houses slumbering. She jumps out and instead of being sick starts running across a field in the dark. Harry curses under his breath, gets out and runs after her, yelling at her to stop. She is barefoot, and he catches her easily. Panicked like an animal, she tries to escape, twisting her body and swinging at him with her little fists. He grabs her wrists. She is gasping for breath and sobbing about how stupid she is, that he should go away. He tries to soothe her, telling her to calm down, saying what a wonderful, beautiful girl she is. She embraces him fiercely, still sobbing. He strokes her hair. She looks up at him, and he looks down at her.

Her face rises to his, her lips on his, her tongue in his mouth. “Make love to me,” she pleads, placing his hand on her breast. Immediately she can feel him hardening. “I love you. I need you. Now. Here.”

But he does not. “I can’t,” he says. “I’m married. I love my wife. Don’t do this.”

“But what about me?” she asks. “Do you love me?”

“You’re a beautiful girl,” he says. “You shouldn’t be doing this. I’m married.”

“I can’t help myself,” she says. “I need you. Please.”

“Claire, for God’s sake. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is. We should go. Come with me. Please.” He holds out his hand, but she refuses it, walking past him to the car.

They drive in silence. There is nothing to say. He gets out of the car to open her door but she is already out and heading toward my house, the key under the mat. She says nothing.