Losing It (12 page)

“Is there any prime rib left, Oscar?”

“For you, Mrs. Carmichael, I will go kill the cow right now!”

Somebody was staring at her. Julia turned and saw Stephanie, Bob’s first wife, only a few feet away. Julia’s stomach knotted in alarm. Stephanie was stocky now and had done something awful with her hair – it looked as if she’d tried to dye it red but had ended up with near-purple. Her face was chalky white and she was wearing dark glasses in the middle of the store and thick, red, garish lipstick. Julia wouldn’t have known her except for the malevolence.

Donny was in another aisle checking out old ladies. Matthew was holding Julia’s hand and reaching for a feminine product in a silvery package. Julia said, “Hello, Stephanie.” The other woman’s expression didn’t change. Again Julia said, “Hello.” Then she noticed that Stephanie wasn’t staring at her at all, she
was staring at Matthew. She looked so miserable. Julia said, gently, “How are you?” and Stephanie hissed, “
He didn’t want children with me!
” Then she turned and rattled down the aisle, her heels going
clack! clack!
Every footfall driven into the floor. At the corner her sunglasses fell off her face and clattered in front her. She didn’t pause but kicked at them furiously, just the once. Half missed, and kept going.

“Who was that?” Donny asked, coming up from behind.

Julia picked up Matthew and hugged him ferociously. When she put him down again he tore away from her grip and went after the sunglasses. There was a near-collision with a store clerk pushing a convoy of the massive shopping carts too fast. He wouldn’t have been able to stop in time, but Matthew had surprisingly good timing and balance. He reached down for the glasses and spun out of the way in one athletic movement. Julia’s heart trampolined. “Matthew!” she said. “
Matthew!
” as he turned to smile at her.

One of the lenses had slipped out and was scratched, but Donny was able to fit it back in and Matthew looked like royalty with them on. People turned in the store to smile at him perched in Donny’s arms.

“Oh, take me home,” Julia said, a bad headache that instant coming on.

8

T
hey made you walk and walk even when your feet were wet and dirty. And it was so hot. Where was the camp? Miles away! She was sure they were lost. She and Capt. Buzbie. He was completely out of uniform and was making her carry all the bags. They should have stayed with the horses.

“It’s not too much farther,” he said, but not the way he was before. One spot of trouble and he got discouraged. Bad-tempered. All walk-walk. It wasn’t her fault.

She asked him, “Who’s going to look after the horses?”

He replied, “It’s not too much farther. Do you like toast?”

“I would have stayed with the horses,” she said. It was easier to look at the ground, hard and black. He was so high up.

“Do you know any of these streets?” he asked.

“All my life,” Lenore said. Jesper Street, she meant to say. All her life on Jesper Street, until that next one. When Daddy lost the business that one time. And William whatsit, the tall one, lost his finger. What was he doing? Snowing.

“Where do you normally stay?” Capt. Buzbie asked. He’d shaved off his moustache, looked quite different.

“You should know,” Lenore said.

“Is it in this neighbourhood?” he asked.

Hard, black ground. Lenore’s feet were so tired. “Where are the horses?” she asked. Her bags were so heavy, and it was hot. Why did she have to do all the work?

“Were there horses here?” Capt. Buzbie asked. Such an idiot. “When you were young?”

“We
had
horses,” Lenore said, stamping her foot, “just a few minutes ago! For God’s sake!”

“Horses?” Buzbie asked, inanely.

Walking and walking. One foot and then the other. At least there’d be a swim at the lake. Trevor would make the martinis. He was such a good-looking man. Nice hands. He’d say, “Where the hell have you been? Next you’re going to ask me to make my own dinner!” He’d say, “It’s Cleopatra, risen from her sleep!” Drunk with it.

“This is it,” Capt. Buzbie said.

At last! Lenore was shivery from the heat and bother of it all. She wanted a swim badly. Then a martini, then she’d get to dinner.

“My mom’s not home, so we’re going to have to wait for her,” Capt. Buzbie said. “Careful on the steps. Do you want a hand?”

Lenore didn’t need a hand with anything, thank you! Just show me to the lake, she thought.

“I’ll get the door,” the captain said.

“I really think I need a swimsuit,” Lenore said.

“A what?”

“Well, you don’t want me winter-dipping, do you?”

“No,” said the captain uncertainly. The poor man was shocked! Well, what do they teach you in the army?

They went in the cottage. It was substantial, lots of stairs.
That’s too bad. Not really on the lake at all, Lenore realized. What a silly place to build.

“Would you like some toast?” Buzbie asked.

“You must have a hard time with the docks,” she said. It wasn’t the black ground any more. It was wood and carpet. Darker though, and it smelled of something. So hard to keep clean.

“The what?”

“Docks!” she said. It was the right word. She hadn’t made a mistake in a long time.

“What docks?”

“I would like a martini,” she said proudly. It was the proper thing to offer. “Before my swim.”

The captain was nervous. He couldn’t seem to settle down. He’d probably never been with a woman before. Even though she was married. They were very secluded in the military. Made a lot of mistakes. His uniform was sloppy. The cuffs of his trousers dragged on the ground.

“How about some juice?” he asked. “Or do you drink milk?”

“I think I made myself perfectly clear!” Lenore said, snappishly then. Probably too much yelling in the military. Softened the brain. Or perhaps –

“Were you overseas?” Lenore asked.

“Overseas?”

“That Jones boy was,” she said. “It was terrible! They found out from the little paper. The whatsit.”

“The whatsit?”

“Yes,” she said. His brains had been softened. That’s why he couldn’t make a martini. “Well,” she said, straightening up. “Enough of this! Say hello to everybody!” She walked off, glad to be on her way. Enough chitchat, when our boys were off. She walked to the door and opened it. But it didn’t lead outside at all, it led into a bunch of clothes.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” she said.

“I think you should stay till my mom comes home,” the captain said. Nerves shot through.

“I have never been so stupidly -” she said. She became flustered and the words wouldn’t come right. Her brain went hiccup.

“My mom will be home pretty soon,” the captain said. “I hope. Sometimes she doesn’t get home till late, though. It depends on the buses and what’s happening at work.”

Lenore backed out of the fake door and turned around uncertainly. She was alone with a captain in the barracks after hours. How did that happen? The dance had gone on and on but she didn’t remember getting here. Sometimes they slipped things in your drink. Betty Jane told her that. They slipped things and then you got pregnant and it wasn’t your fault but who would believe you? Alone in the barracks after hours.

“I think I would like to go home,” she said. Men respected compost. If you lost it, they didn’t respect you at all. “Right away, please,” she said.

“But where do you live?” he asked. Silver-tongued devil. Those were the ones to look out for. In sloppy uniforms, who lured you.

“Home! Just take me home!” she said.

“If you could tell me -”

“I did tell you! For God’s sake, stop all this -”

“Maybe your address is written in your purse,” he said. He reached for her and she backed up, nearly spat at him.

“Don’t touch me!” she said, straightening her shoulders.

“Okay, okay!” He backed off.

“I believe,” Lenore said, pressing her advantage, “I asked for a martini!”

“Well,” he said. Carefully. He’d never been alone with a woman. No wonder he was so crinkled. “I’ll see what I can do!”

Indeed. Lenore watched him go into the other room. Then she walked quietly to the door, turned the handle, and slipped away, closing it behind her.

Into darkness. Night already? But a thick darkness, smelly, hard to turn and see anything. No moon, no stars. Just thickness. If only she wasn’t so hot. She could put down the bags. She’d carried them all so long. And her coat. It really was too hot. Dinner could wait, Trevor was fine as long as he had his drink. Lenore took off her coat and her blouse, laid them neatly on the shore. It was hard to move, it was so dark and thick. She took off her skirt and shoes and nylons. It would be better to swim by moonlight. But sometimes there just wasn’t any. She wriggled out of her underwear. That felt better. The only way to swim, really. So free. Not … 
held up
. Girdles especially. She kneeled to try to find her way but the rocks were lumpy and uncomfortable. She could hear the water but couldn’t find it.

The lights went on then, it was so sudden she screamed. “Trevor!” she shrieked. He did that just to embarrass her, shone the big flashlight when he knew she was skinny-dipping. You could see clear across the lake with that light.

“Jesus!” Trevor said. But it wasn’t Trevor, it was Capt. Buzbie. Then it went dark again. Lenore felt for her clothes but it was hopeless, nothing was where she’d left it.

“What are you doing
?” Capt. Buzbie asked. Terrified.

“Don’t turn on the light!” Lenore commanded. The stupid man. Drugging her like this back to the barracks. “Bring back my clothes!” she said.

“
I don’t have your clothes
!”

Too excitable. You come back with crust in your head.

“I will not stand for any more of this!” Lenore said. “Who is your commanding officer?”

“My what?”

“I am going to report you to the authorities!” Lenore said. “Now bring them back immediately!”

It’s compost. Either you have it or you don’t. If you don’t then they ride clodhop. Take your clothes and get you pregnant. But if you do they bring your clothes back. Hand you your dress while they turn their heads away in the light. Like a gentleman.

“It’s my mother’s,” Buzbie said. “She’ll be home soon. I promise!”

It’s what they tell themselves when they don’t know anything. They’ve come back crust-in-the-head so you have to be kind.

The dress fit badly. Lenore tugged it and tugged and it would have to do. Silly things. She was just trying for a skinny-dip. Before the stitches went all wrong.

“It’s not my fault,” she said.

9

T
he phone didn’t ring. Bob flipped through the evening television news, a forgettable blur of murders, fires, earthquakes, and football scores, and one oddball story of a man so upset about cockroaches that he started throwing furniture out the window of his twelfth-floor apartment onto the street below. Bob turned it off as the camera was panning the crowd on the sidewalk chanting, “Jump! Jump! Jump!” He skimmed the conference binder. Tonight he was missing the ritual reading of “The Cask of Amontillado” and the Alfred J. Kiddleton memorial lecture entitled “Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King: The Confluxes and Divergences of Cultural Sub-Texts.” Tomorrow morning Yamada was speaking on “The Doomed Writer: Poe’s Shadow in the Twenty-first Century,” and later there would be a panel discussion on Poe’s controversial place as critic and promoter of early American letters.

Bob opened his
Complete Tales and Poems
at random and read, “During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself,
as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.” How many times had he lectured on that particular opening sentence? The relentless repetition of tone in elegant, haunting variations:
dull, dark, dreary, oppressively low, alone, in the autumn, shades of evening
, finally leading to the culmination of despair, the
melancholy House of Usher
. Bob read the sentence again and again. The rest of the story was almost superfluous; it flowed entirely from the ache of that beginning.