Late in the Season (15 page)

Seeing Stevie might have other consequences. Lord and Lady Bracknell might somehow or other discover it, and pull off some tacky number—from shotgun wedding to arrest for impairing the morals of a minor: was she still a minor at eighteeen? he wondered. Then too, she could get pregnant. She must be taking the pill, no? She did have a boyfriend. A boyfriend. That was another possible consequence: what if he found out? More important—and more possible than any of these—what if Stevie really developed a passion for him. That might end up being torture.

No, it wasn’t worth it. Not at all. No matter how horny he was. Too complicated, even for a flirtation. Not enough rewards in it for him. He’d go to the bar tonight or tomorrow night, and pick up someone there. Even a night passed flirting with one of the straight guys hanging around would be more satisfying. At least that would provide him with some fantasy material for when he next masturbated.

That accomplished, Jonathan finished off his drink, got up, ate a cold hamburger left in the refrigerator, looked over his score briefly, making notes about what he would be working on tomorrow, then went out onto the deck.

Stevie’s house was dark now. Gone to bed already? Or had she taken the last ferry back to the mainland? Perhaps it was better this way.

It was a clear night out, clear as the previous half dozen nights. The star-filled sky seemed divided by the thick band of the Milky Way, stretching north to south. Meteors streaked toward the horizon, bursting white and green and blue. Weren’t they the Perseids? A sliver of moon was descending to set. The surf softly crashed. He walked toward it, feeling the sand cool against his feet. He looked up, felt the enormous canopy of the heavens, then he relaxed, and began to hear a familiar melody inside him. Two bars, then another. It was Fiammetta’s song in the first act: “Why does nobody listen, when I speak of golden falcons?” A lovely arietta, that glistened and later glowed into coloratura, before ending again as a simple, moving quatrain.

He felt as though a great weight had been lifted off him. Somewhere, across the dark expanse of ocean, Daniel was sleeping, perhaps just awakening.

The next afternoon, they were walking together barefoot along the main boardwalk leading to the village where they would buy groceries, when Stevie felt a slight snag on her foot. She looked down to see blood pumping from under a deep cut on the underpad of her big toe.

“Oh, damn,” she said. Stopping, she leaned on Jonathan’s shoulder and angled the foot back and up. The cut flapped closed, but blood continued to seep out, defining its extent neatly.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, holding her lightly around the waist for support.

“A little.” It was beginning to throb, but she thought she could handle it.

“Hold on,” he said, then, reaching into the back pocket of his shorts, he brought out a handkerchief. He leaned over her and wrapped the toe tightly in the handkerchief.

“Ouch!” she said, feeling like a sissy.

“I want to keep it from bleeding too much,” he said. She leaned against his arm, and Jonathan looked around without saying a word. Then he reached around her again, and she felt herself suddenly lifted up by her bottom, and slung into his arms.

“Hey!” she said. She faced him, looking backward. “I can walk on it.”

“Maybe. But you shouldn’t walk on it. Not until we see how bad it is.”

“Jonathan! Put me down. I feel silly.”

“You’re light,” he said, striding ahead with her. “When I get tired, I’ll make you ride piggyback.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

She’d said she felt silly. The truth was she felt wonderful: as light as he said she was (though she couldn’t really believe that—she weighed over a hundred pounds) and somehow privileged. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had carried her like this. She supposed the last person was her father, Lord Bracknell, putting her to bed when she was a sleepy nine-year-old. Not since then. Bill certainly hadn’t ever done it. And, of course, it was somewhat bridelike too, wasn’t it? Being carried across a threshold by the man you loved.

They had arrived at the harbor village. She’d assumed they’d go into one of the stores there and ask for bandages, but Jonathan continued walking on past the harbor.

Holding him around the neck she could look at him closely for once without having him look back and question her. She liked looking at his profile. She found it terribly handsome, and somewhat exotic—those almost Semitically open nostrils of his, the swirling little tempests of hair where his sideburns melded into his beard. From this angle, his eyes, too, seemed slightly different: not large and round, but almost almond-shaped, long, hooded over, like snake’s eyes. She could stare at him and not wish to do anything else. Just by looking at him, she would be sent off into little mental side trips, speculating on anthropology, history, color physics, anatomy, and always be able to return to his features with fresh wonder. So this is what it means to be infatuated, she told herself. How rational and yet how completely mindless it seems.

“Got a present for you, Barbara,” Jonathan said to someone.

Stevie turned her head to see they were at the little post office: a tiny shacklike edifice with a small waiting area surrounded by brass drawers occupying one wall, notices tacked onto the other. A double dutch door was ajar on top, signifying that the post office was open—it was infrequently open this late in the summer.

Hefting Stevie up, he placed her on the ledge atop the double door.

Barbara was a young mother, possibly twenty-four or twenty-five years old, whose husband, Stevie knew, was an independent contractor-builder in Sea Mist. Barbara had returned to night school college, worked here a few days a week, and took care of two small girls. Already—this early in life—Barbara’s skin was sallow, her eyes sad, her brown hair without sheen or luster.

Barbara didn’t say hello to Stevie, she merely lifted the wrapped-up foot, took off the bloodstained handkerchief, and inspected the toe, which had begun to ooze again.

“Anything serious?” Jonathan asked. He was behind Stevie, holding her by the shoulders.

She tried not to flinch too much, as Barbara roughly handled the cut toe.

“Doesn’t look bad. Nothing major. Won’t even need stitches, if you keep it closed and stay off it awhile.”

Stevie couldn’t help notice that the woman spoke not to her, but to Jonathan. Meanwhile, the two little girls in the back of the office—who had been quietly playing in a corner—came up and stared, one of them with a thumb stuck in her candy-smeared mouth.

“The kids are always going around and getting cuts like this,” Barbara was saying, rummaging through a worn oak chest of drawers for something. She pulled out an equally ravaged-looking tin first aid kit, and began to remove various objects from it: scissors, gauze, tape, and a tiny phial of some evil-looking green solution. “Damn nails on the boardwalks.” She shook the little phial, opened it, and spilled some onto a bit of wadded cotton. “This is going to hurt,” she said, prying the cut open with her strong fingers, and patting it with the burning solution.

The sudden shock of pain almost made Stevie fall back off the door ledge. Jonathan held her by the back. Her head rolled back against his chest. She thought she was going to faint.

“You all right?” Jonathan asked. All the pain was worth the concern in his voice.

“I think so,” she breathed out.

“Barbara?” he asked.

“She’ll be all right, Mr. Lash. I couldn’t put this on until it was cleaned out. Never know.”

She began spraying some fine mist from a little bottle onto Stevie’s foot, explaining it would help eliminate the pain. Then she carefully wrapped the toe with gauze and tape.

“There you are, young lady,” she said, looking at Stevie for the first time. What kind of look was that in her eyes? Certainly not compassion, Stevie thought.

“I’ve got some mail for you,” Barbara said to Jonathan, past Stevie again, as though she weren’t there.

“Don’t tell me, from Daniel?”

“A letter and four postcards. We’re only open once a week this late, sorry. So it does pile up. How does Dan like London?”

“Read for yourself,” Jonathan said. Then, “He’s working there. How’s school?”

“Lots of reading.” Barbara pointed to the stack of textbooks next to a crib.

“Well. You keep at it,” Jonathan said. “Walt told me how proud he was you decided to finish college.”

“He needs help in his business. That’s why I’m learning about it.”

“You ought to take one of your books and go read it outside, in the sun,” Jonathan suggested. “Get some color.”

“I’m looking dowdy, huh?” the woman said without a great deal of feeling.

“A little pale,” he answered gently.

The look she gave him then convinced Stevie that Barbara, too, was a little bit in love with Jonathan.

“You feeling well enough to be moved, invalid?” he asked.

She was. So he lifted her up, over the door ledge, and began carrying her again.

“Better wait here,” he said, pointing to a bench, “while I get the wagon and do the grocery shopping.”

“I can help,” she said.

“Face facts, Stevie. You’re out of action for the afternoon. You’re a total, instant invalid. Stay off your foot for a day or so. Let the wound close, okay? That way you won’t need to get stitches put in it.”

“All right,” she said. “But I don’t want to sit here.” It was too close to the post office, and to Barbara, who might come outside and begin talking to her.

“I’ll drop you on the bench near the harbor,” he said, shifting her to his other side. “There’s bound to be a bit more activity there. Who knows—maybe a ferry will come in, or a seaplane.”

He placed her carefully at the harbor, and she felt comfortable. She handed him her grocery list and watched him walk the hundred yards or so to the store.

That big sheepdog with the red bandanna tied around its neck was back. It had followed them from the post office. Now it nosed around under the bench, licking her outstretched hand and even—smelling the dried blood, Stevie supposed—licking the bandage on her toe until she shooed it away. The sheepdog padded over to the little wooden barrier that closed off the landing pier and sat down, its back to her, waiting as though it were expecting someone. Its master? A new master? She knew that cats searched for and went off with new masters. Buttons, her cat in the city, had once disappeared for weeks, and when it returned she discovered it had led three lives in their backyard, sleeping with and being fed by two tenants in adjoining buildings. Nevertheless, it was sad watching this dog so expectant, so patient. Feeling remorse over sending it away, she tried to get the dog’s attention by calling to it.

The sheepdog turned to look at her, it even seemed to smile the way dogs do, then turned its head away and continued waiting.

The sky over the harbor was strikingly blue, shaded darker toward the horizon, softer and brighter in the middle as though it were an enormous pale taffeta ribbon. A row of little streaks of strato-cumulus clouds in one spot looked like the runs in a nylon stocking. It would get chillier tonight, she supposed. Last night had been cooler than the night before; it was September.

Her foot still hummed with pain, and a bit of an itch. Barbara had wound the bandages so tightly. Still, it was better than having it bleeding and perhaps getting tetanus. What a stupid thing to have happened, especially now that she wanted to prove how independent she was.

“Face facts,” she said, repeating Jonathan’s words, “you’re an instant invalid.”

How chivalrous Jonathan was. How sensible too. Why did she have to be in love with him, of all people? Why now, out here, with so much in her life pending? And why did it have to be so physical? She’d had lovely relationships with boys before, without that ever coming into it; Michael in high school, Marty Strauss, several years ago.

Yet it
was
physical and to deny that was absurd. After she had left the two boys coloring in the living room, Stevie had gone home to her parents’ house and had tried to read the books she’d borrowed. Of course she’d failed. All she could think of was Jonathan, in the hot tub, his eyes dark and secretive, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip. She hadn’t really known what she was doing when she asked to wash him; all she knew was he was there, naked, and she had to touch him. Afterward, the Balzac thrown down on the floor of her bedroom, she’d pictured the scene differently from the way it had happened.

All was the same until he moved to take her hands, to move them away from him. At that point in her thoughts, he didn’t move away at all but leaned back against the edge of the hot tub as she leaned forward and softly began to scrub his back with the sponge she’d seen him use on the children. She moved up his shoulder, over his chest, in soft, deft swirling motions, finally down to his legs. His cigarette smoke curled up into her face, sweet and pungent. She inhaled it too, felt slightly light-headed from the tobacco and nicotine. When she looked at his face, Jonathan’s eyes were closed, his head thrown back. She stroked along the skin of his stretched out legs, up each one. Through the soapy water she felt his tension falling away.

“Feels good,” he murmured.