Promises (11 page)

Bill Jenks poked his head in at the door and, pointing to his watch, mouthed, “Lunch.”

Adam nodded, speaking into the telephone at the same time. “Someone’s here for me. I’m late. I have to go. I’ll talk to you.”

I won’t talk to her, he said to himself. It’s trouble. I don’t need trouble. I don’t want it.

I would love to see you, Adam. Anytime.

Pleading a headache, he left the office early. He was tense all through; the cords in his neck were taut.

At the lunch meeting Jenks, who had taken a quick look at Adam’s report, had expressed some doubt that Ramsey would be satisfied with it. “I think he expects something more extensive,” Jenks had said. When pressed for a suggestion he had been elusive, and Adam had a fleeting impression that Jenks was enjoying his discomfiture, that he actually wanted Ramsey to be displeased.
On the other hand, this impression might be a total mistake; it worried him that he was often too suspicious; Margaret told him he was. But then, Margaret was not competing in this hard world, where a man’s reputation could be destroyed in a few minutes by a Saturday-morning cabal on a golf course.

In this gloomy mood he arrived home, let the dogs out, took a shower, and changed into shorts. Then he went outside and filled the birdbath, which had gone dry under the blazing sun. Hoping to relieve his tension through exercise, he got out the hand mower and cleared a few swaths on the front lawn. But the heat was intolerable, and he had to go back into the house. The dogs lay down on the bare floor in the dark rear hall, and Adam took another shower. For a few minutes he thought about getting a dinner out of the freezer and putting it into the microwave, but he was not hungry enough. So he made a sandwich instead and ate it in the living room in front of the television. The five o’clock news was on. There was nothing of any interest to him.

I would love to see you, Adam. Anytime.

He sat with his head in his hands. When he looked up, he found in the direct line of his vision the photograph made last year of Margaret and the children. He got up and went to the window, walked back, and stared at the piano keys. Running his fingers down the keyboard, he startled the silence. He lay down on the sofa, hoping to doze, but was unable to.

It’s all in the head
, they said. Without a doubt it began there, he thought, as long-forgotten pictures flashed their colors. But then it traveled, running and beating through the veins and arteries so that he could barely
contain the crazy explosion inside him. His heart seemed to plunge. He thought there must be something terribly wrong with him, that he was losing control of his decent common sense.

And suddenly a surge of the wildest sexual desire shook him through and through.…

It was twenty minutes past five. Traffic going north on the river road was never very heavy. He could be there in minutes.…

If she should not be home, he would have lost nothing by going and might even have gained something, might have found out that he did not, after all, want her.

At six o’clock he stopped in front of the apartment. A wave of fear swept over him: He should not have come. He should listen to reason, turn the car about, and go back. Yet he knew he would not.… And getting out of the car, he walked up the brick path between petunia beds and rang the bell.

“Who is it?” Randi called.

“Adam. You said I might come anytime.”

“I’m in my robe, but if you don’t mind, come on in.”

Suddenly and inexplicably embarrassed, he looked not at her but at the room. A banal comment was the first remark to come to mind.

“Believe it or not, I still remember that picture.”

A landscape in oil hung over the sofa; garish flowers surrounded a white Italianate villa lying under an impossibly blue sky.

“Yes, I love it. I took it with me to California and I brought it back. That and some dishes that belonged to my mother, along with my bed, are things I’ll never part with.”

The door into the bedroom was half open. He seemed to recall that it always used to be so. In the small apartment where he had grown up with his mother, the bedrooms had never been exposed in that way. Margaret, too, would certainly keep the doors closed if the bedrooms were in the line of vision. But Randi—Randi just
lived.
He wasn’t sure whether he approved or not.

She sat down in the corner of the sofa close to his chair. Her white robe, of some heavy, shining silk, fell open on one side, revealing a firm thigh. He stared at it, wondering what had happened to the fierce desire that had brought him to this place. And he was suddenly engulfed by a wave of fear.

She stretched and sighed. “It’s good to be home. I had a long day, but I think I made a sale. And you? How’ve you been since I talked to you at noon?”

He surprised himself with his own reply. “Restless.”

She gave him a long, thoughtful look, starting at his feet and rising up to where the look made contact with his eyes.

“You’re all buttoned up,” she said. “You’re so tight, you’re ready to burst. You need to get loose.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Let me massage your neck and shoulders. Bend over.”

Her fingers were strong and hard. As they pressed and prodded, they soothed. Her murmuring voice soothed along with them.

“Here we go, here we go. You’re all in knots.”

She began to hum. The sound was tuneless, monotonous, and curiously sweet. He closed his eyes, letting a soft relief pour through his blood. After a while he said, “You must be tired.”

“No, it’s good exercise for me.”

She was pushing so hard, leaning so close, that he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck.

“How did you learn to do this?”

“It came naturally. Like this.” And she kissed the back of his neck.

He jumped up, turned around, and stared at her, at the dare in her eyes and the crooked smile at the corners of her lips.

“Well,” she said, “you do remember what you came for, don’t you?”

He could barely speak. “Yes. Yes.”

“Well?” she said.

“Come here. Take that thing—”

But the white silk had already slithered to the floor and lay in a heap around her feet. Still curved and light, unmarked and white as the silk, she was unchanged. It might have been yesterday, he thought, as he lifted and carried her to the bed. Yesterday.

It was not yet six o’clock when he awoke. She lay with her back against him. They were as close as nested spoons. For an instant he felt a startling sense of unreality; the window was in the wrong place, the wallpaper, Margaret’s butterflies and birds were missing. Then reality took hold, and his heart pounded. He was in panic. Before any words could be spoken, he must escape from there.…

Carefully, he slid out of the bed, threw on his clothes, and tiptoed out of the house. At seven he reached home. People were already about, attaching lawn sprinklers and taking in the paper from the front steps. A neighbor
waved. The man would be wondering why Adam was arriving home at that hour rather than departing from it.

He went into the house, let the dogs out, made a cup of instant coffee, and went upstairs to shower and dress. As he stood in the bedroom taking a suit from the closet next to Margaret’s, as he looked at the pillow on her side of the bed, he felt as if he were sinking into deep water.

How the hell did this happen?

Last night had been an aberration, or to put it less elegantly, a one-night stand. Quite simply, he would refuse to see her again, not even in a public place. There would be no lunches, no drinks after work, nothing.

With that determination he went back downstairs again and was in the car when he remembered the bird-feeder and got out. He had promised to keep it filled. It meant a lot to Margaret. She always said that “Once you start feeding birds, it is cruel to stop because they depend on you.”

At the office he told his secretary to screen his calls carefully. “I especially do not want to talk to a Mrs. Bunting,” he explained. “She sells real estate, and she’s been a pest.”

At the end of the day, after learning that Mrs. Bunting had called three times, he started home. And catching a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, he saw that he was frowning. Clearly, Randi had no intention of forgetting him. It didn’t make sense to think that any woman would, after a night like the last one; that she would just let it pass as if it had never occurred. A hot flush of shame crept over him; he had sneaked away as if he were afraid to face the light of day.

Yet he knew that he was very afraid. He knew that what had happened might well happen again, knew that he would argue against it and that he would lose the argument.

He was also aware that he must keep his head. And with this resolution he arrived home and set about his usual routines as if they were some sort of therapy: finished mowing the grass, ate a good dinner of Margaret’s curried chicken, fed the dogs, and read the mail.

There were the usual advertisements and bills. From the children there were picture postcards of dramatic mountain scenery, and from Margaret, a moving letter.

The telephone rang. “So you’re hiding from me,” Randi said gaily.

He had not thought she would dare to call him at home. “Where did you get this number?” he demanded.

“From the phone book, stupid,” she replied, still gaily.

“You shouldn’t call me here at home,” he said.

“Why not? You’re alone. And you wouldn’t talk to me at your office.”

“I was busy. I’m sorry. It was a hectic day.”

“Adam, stop it. You poor soul, I really believe you’re filled with guilt. I was awake this morning. I heard you creeping away.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. I was being considerate.”

Randi laughed. “You amuse me, you really do. But never mind that. What I want to know is, did you have fun?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said.

“I know I did. It was exactly like old times. I’m not too proud to admit that I haven’t had anything as good in all the years since. How about you? Never mind. I know you won’t answer. Of course you won’t. You’re a married man, a married gentleman, although, of course, not all married men are gentlemen. But you are.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he repeated.

“Can’t you say anything else? Listen, I’m phoning only to tell you not to worry. I’m not going to complicate your life, because that’s the last thing I want to do to my own life. I’ve had complications enough to last me a long time. What I’m looking for is a nice single man with no strings attached. I’ll marry him and settle down in my house and we’ll watch the stars together from the bed. We can lie there naked in the moonlight, and no one will be able to see unless he climbs a tree.”

He was quite aware that she was taunting him, yet he could not refrain from asking, “Why? Have you got any special single man in mind?”

“There are a few around. I haven’t really made up my mind.”

“You said you never had anything as good since—”

She interrupted. “Sometimes, darling boy, one has to settle for second best in life.”

He was confused, angry at her and at himself for having a conversation like this one, here in the heart of his home. It was as if he were defiling it. At the same time
he felt a strange exhilaration, the vivid thrill of illicit risk.

“So, good night, Adam. You’ve had a long day, and so have I. No more talk. Sleep well.”

Now what was he to make of that? Did she mean no more talk just at present, or no more ever? In the gathering dark he stood uncertainly for a time, then sat outdoors in the full darkness, watching fireflies dart across the lawn. Without doubt, if that is what she really wanted, she would find someone to marry, and he would be rid of her for good. But the image of her, that heat and that pneumatic flesh, giving to another man what she had given him last night, roused within Adam a furious jealousy and a recall of desire that were almost unbearable.

All the next day that image kept recurring. At lunch, alone with Jenks, he broached in gingerly fashion the subject of marital infidelity. It was a delicate subject; you never knew whether another man would frown in distaste, as if you were prying into his head, or would perhaps laugh at what he might take as your naïveté. Having no reason to do so, he had never discussed it before.

Jenk’s evasion was adroit. “Depends on a couple of thousand factors, wouldn’t you say?”

Adam moved to another topic. “Nothing about Ramsey lately? Is anybody going to Europe in place of him?”

If anything important were going on, Jenks would know it. Curious and gregarious, he had found his place with the popular “in” group.

“Ramsey, for all we know, may lose his job,” Jenks said, relishing his ability to inform. “Or else, he may be
moved in glory to the main office. It can go either way if we link up with CBW. But nobody knows anything for sure about that, and may not know for months.”

“So we’re all really hanging by a thread.”

“Pretty much. If the merger goes through, some of us will go higher, some will go lower, and some will go out. That’s the way it is for us wage slaves.”

Jenks shrugged. He could afford to be casual. If anyone were to stay on, he would. Intellectually, he’s notches below me, and he knows it, Adam thought, yet I’m ten times more likely to be “out.”

This awful possibility was chilling. What if he were dismissed and unable to find another job? Thousands of competent men were being displaced as corporations restructured themselves. And they couldn’t possibly get along on Margaret’s salary.

That evening, as he turned the key in the front door, he was both terrified and angry. What was it about men like Jenks or Fred Davis or Margaret’s dull cousin Gilbert that enabled them to be, at least relatively, secure in their places? Davis, to be sure, had inherited a choice piece of land in the heart of Elmsford, but Gilbert had had nothing except a hale-fellow-well-met personality. As to his probable IQ, the less said, the better.