Separate Beds (18 page)

When Clay came to pick up Catherine and take her to meet Steve's plane, she was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted her. She stopped stupidly, dead in her tracks!

Clay was dressed in faded denims and a faded blue flannel shirt beneath a disreputable-looking old letter jacket that would have been shaped like Clay even had his body not been inside it. It was the kind of possession taken for granted. The jacket hung open haphazardly, limp from age, its pocket edges worn bare, its zipper long since grown useless. The rough clothes gave Clay a rugged look, flattering in its unexpectedness, disarming because it brought back memories of the first time Catherine had ever seen him. Oh, he was neater that night, but he'd been dressed in faded Levi's jeans and a tennis shirt.

Catherine stood transfixed while Clay, oblivious to her reaction, only greeted her with, “Hi, I brought the Bronco. I thought we'd be more comfortable in it.” He'd already turned toward the door before realizing she wasn't following, so turned back to her. “What's the matter? Oh, should I have dressed up more? I was waxing the Corvette in the garage and forgot about the time . . . sorry.”

“No—no, it's okay . . . You look . . .” But she didn't finish, just gaped at him.

“What?”

“I don't know—different.”

“You've seen me in jeans before.”

Yes, she certainly had, but she didn't think he remembered.

She moved, at last, out the door with him.

At the curb was the vehicle she remembered from last July, some kind of man's toy with high bench seats and plenty of windows all around, and room for hunting equipment in the rear. She stopped walking as if she'd run up against a barbed wire fence.

“I thought we'd be a little crowded in the Corvette with your brother's gear and the three of us.” Clay caught her elbow, propelling her forward. She began shivering; it was bitter for November—easy to blame her shakes on the weather. Clay moved ahead to open the door of the Bronco, but looked back again impatiently to find her eyeing him in a curious manner.

Catherine stood there, swallowing, fighting the overwhelming surge of familiarity—those jeans, and the old jacket, his hair that—for once—wasn't quite tidy. His collar was turned up, and as he stood waiting, his breath formed a white cloud. His nose was a little bit red, and he shivered, then hunched his shoulders.

“Hurry up,” he said with a small smile. “Get in or you'll be scolding me for being late.”

“Is this your father's?”

“Yeah.”

He took his hand off the icy handle and buried it in his other pocket. Without thinking, she dropped her eyes to the zipper of his jeans, staring at the way the old, faded spots undulated between patches of deeper blue. Her eyes darted to his face, discovering that he'd been watching her. And suddenly the color of his cheeks matched his nose.

Appalled at herself, she climbed hurriedly into the seat and let him slam the door shut.

Neither of them said a word all the way out to the Air Force Reserve Base in Bloomington. Catherine stared out the side window, damning herself for letting memory play upon her this way. Clay drove, seeing over and over again the way her eyes had dropped to his zipper, recalling now the reason why. Women, he realized, placed greater importance on memories than men do. Until that happened back there he hadn't given a thought to the Bronco or his blue jeans, or the fact that he'd used them both last Fourth of July.

Clay did not touch her as they walked to the correct building. The stab of self-consciousness was again too concentrated.

A tall, strapping blond man, dressed in civvies, turned from his conversation with a uniformed desk clerk at the sound of their approach. He glanced up and hesitated. Then his mouth fell open, he smiled, and he started running toward the tall blond girl who, also, had broken into a run. They met like thwarted lovers and it came as something of a surprise to Clay, seeing for the first time a genuine display of affection from Catherine. There was a near greediness in the way her fingers dug into the back of her brother's jacket, a hungry desperation as their eyes closed while they clasped each other tightly and swallowed tears. Clay stood back uneasily, not wanting to watch them, unable not to. Steve swung Catherine off her feet, whirled her around, repeating an endearment which struck Clay as ill-suited, yet touched him all the same.

“Babe . . . oh, God, babe, is it really you?”

Her lips quivered and she clung. She could say little more than his name, backing away, spanning his tan cheeks with her palms, looking into his changed face, then at the breadth of his shoulders, then lunging into his arms again, burying herself, unable to restrain her tears now that she'd seen his.

To Clay it was a revelation. He watched Catherine's face, recalling this same expression on it that night after the long-distance call.

Finally Steve pulled back and said, “If that's Clay over there, I think we're making him uncomfortable.” He tucked Catherine securely beneath his armpit, and she circled his torso with both arms while the two men shook hands.

Catherine's smile was unreserved. Her hold upon Steve was possessive. For Clay, it created an odd momentary twinge of jealousy, soon lost in the inanities of introductions, the first assessment of man to man.

“So you're the one she told me about.” Steve's grip was solid, winning.

“So you're the one she told
me
about.”

Clay reached for the duffel bag, and the three walked down the corridor and across the parking lot, Catherine and Steve catching up with bits of news about each other and the family. He squeezed her extra hard once and laughed. “Will you look at my baby sister. What happened to your cowlicks and pimples?” There followed another impulsive hug, then they clambered into the Bronco.

“Where to?”

“I made reservations downtown.”

“But, Steve, we won't even get a chance to talk!” wailed Catherine.

“Listen, you two, why don't I drive out past the house and you can drop me off and Steve can take the Bronco?”

“Oh, Clay, really?” Catherine's blue eyes radiated appreciation.

“We've got more cars at home than we need.”

Steve leaned around Catherine. “That's damn nice of you, man.”

“Think nothing of it. I can't leave my future brother-in-law stranded in a downtown hotel, can I?”

Steve smiled.

“Then it's settled.”

Catherine and Steve talked all the way out to the Forrester's. When they arrived, Steve took in the sprawling house, cobbled drive, extensive lawns, and said, “Well, well.”

Catherine couldn't help the tiny thrill of pride, realizing how the house must appear to Steve for the first time. “This is where the wedding's going to be.”

“Babe, I'm happy for you.”

Clay pulled up, shifted into neutral, but he'd only dropped one leg out when Catherine laid a hand on his arm.

“Clay?”

He looked back over his shoulder at the touch on his sleeve.

“I don't know what to say.”

Neither did he just then. He only looked at her, at the pleasant, warm expression she had willingly displayed toward him. She was so different today; he'd never seen her like this before. This, he thought, is how I've always wondered if she could be.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

“It's okay. Like I said, we've got more cars around here than we know what to do with.”

“Just the same—thanks.” She moved impulsively toward him and brushed her cheek briefly against his, not quite kissing it, not quite missing, while he hung half in the seat, half out.

“You two have a good talk. But make sure you get some sleep, huh?”

“Promise.”

“I'll see you tomorrow night then.”

She nodded.

He lowered his voice and pleased her immeasurably by saying, “I think I like him.”

Her only answer was the same genuine smile that he was already enjoying. Then Clay swung out, found Steve standing there waiting, and said, “Time enough for you to meet my folks tomorrow. I know you and Catherine are anxious to be alone.”

“Listen, man . . .” Steve extended a hand. There followed a prolonged grip, then, “Thanks a lot.” Steve then glanced up at the house and back once again at Clay. His tone changed, then he added quietly, “. . . for both of us.”

There was an instantaneous sense of rapport between Clay and Steve, the inexplicable thing that happens only rarely when strangers meet. It had nothing to do with Catherine or her relationship to either of them. Neither had it anything to do with gratitude. It was simply there: some compelling invitation coursing between the clasped hands. “Here,” it seemed to say, “is a man I feel good with.”

Odd, thought Clay, but of all Catherine's family, this is the first person I've felt drawn to, and that includes Catherine herself.

He'd been expecting someone like Catherine's father, some harsh, forbidding younger version of Herb Anderson. Instead, he found a genuine smile, intelligent eyes, and a face much like Catherine's, only warmer. He thought perhaps the years away from home had given Steve Anderson the ability to smile at life again, which Catherine could not yet readily do. In her brother's face, Clay found the possibility of what Catherine could be, should she ever stop carrying that chip on her shoulder and that shield of armor over her emotions. Perhaps, after all, Clay liked Steve because he alone seemed able to move Catherine, to make her feel, and make it show.

When the noon break came and Ada Anderson left her machine, there was a sparkle of life in her eyes that had been missing for years. The skin about them was as corrugated as ever, but the eyes themselves were alive with expectancy. Her usual lifeless shuffle was replaced by a brisk step. Ada had even put a touch of lipstick on.

“Ada?”

She turned at the sound of her supervisor's voice, impatient to be out the door.

“I'm kind of in a hurry, Gladys. My boy is home, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I checked on your output and the week's been good. The whole line had a good week, as a matter of fact. Why don't you just take the rest of the afternoon off, Ada?”

Ada stopped fussing with her coat collar. “Why, Gladys, do you mean it?”

“Of course I do. It's not every day a boy comes home from the Air Force.”

Ada smiled, slid the handle of her vinyl purse onto her arm, casting one eye at the door, then back at Gladys Merkins.

“That's awful nice of you, and if you ever get in a bind when the girls get behind on their quotas, I'll put in extra.”

“Get going, Ada. The quotas we'll worry about some other time.”

“Thanks a lot, Gladys.”

Gladys Merkins watched Ada hurry out the door, wondering how a person becomes so downtrodden, so stolid and unassuming that she doesn't even ask for a day off when she hasn't seen her son for six years. If word hadn't been passed around the shop, Gladys herself wouldn't have known. It did her heart good to see the pitiful woman with a smile on her face for once.

Outside, Ada scanned the street, clutching her coat at her throat where her heart beat in wild expectancy. The wind caught at the hem of the garment, lifting it, tugging at Ada's gray-streaked hair. She scanned the ugly street uncertainly. It sported only cold brick structures of commerce, and noisy truck traffic that never seemed to cease. Chain link fences were decorated with weathered paper scraps. There was the ever-present smell of exhaust fumes. Huddled against the wind, Ada looked like a deserted scrap of refuse herself.

But then a vehicle careened past and swerved to an abrupt halt beside the curb. A young man burst from it, forgetting to shut the door, waving, smiling, running, calling, “Mom! . . . Mom!” And the little scrap of refuse was transformed into vibrant life. Ada ran, her arms outstretched, her face tear-streaked. As her arms clung at last to her son's neck she wondered how it could possibly be him, so big, so broad, so real at last.

“Oh, Mom . . . Jesus . . . Mom.”

“Steve, Steve, let me go so I can look at you.”

He did, but then he saw her better too.

She appeared infinitely older, sadder. He could only hug her again, guilty because he knew some of that age, some of that sadness had been caused by his leaving. She was crying, but he saw past the tears to a much more profound sorrow, hopeful that somehow he could help erase it before he had to leave her once more.

“Come on, Mom, Cathy's in the car and we're all going out for lunch.”

It was Catherine's wedding day, the last day she would share with the girls at Horizons. So she allowed their suffocating attentions, feeling at times like she was smothering in their overcaring midst. The expressions on their faces—those doe-eyed looks—were etched on her conscience; she thought they would be her penance forever, long after she gave up her place as Mrs. Clay Forrester. The saga she had brought to Horizons would remain legend within its walls, rivaling any Hans Christian Andersen tale. But its ending, which none of them yet knew, would be her own private hair shirt.

She swallowed the knowledge of it while the girls played “wedding day” with her, dressing her up as they had their dolls as children, humming
Lohengrin
as they had for their dolls, pretending that the doll was themselves.

For Catherine it was an ordeal. Keeping the smile on her lips, the lilt in her voice, the eagerness in her pose became a task of sheer love. She realized it as the last hour neared—that she loved, genuinely loved, so many of these girls.

She sat before a mirror, her face flushed, and framed by an appealing aureole of soft blond curls, slung high and held by a winter gardenia set in baby's breath, trailing a thin white ribbon down the back. They had bought her a garter and were putting it on her calf, laughing, making silly jokes. Catherine was dressed in the sexiest undergarments she'd ever owned. Her mother had bought them from the employees' store at Munsingwear, surprising everyone at the shower. The bra was an incidental thing, plunging low in front, molding Catherine's lower breasts in lotus-shaped satin fingers that curved up to the crests of her nipples, barely covering them. Exquisite satin briefs, trimmed in peekaboo lace, left a strip of skin nearly exposed up each hip. The slip was beautiful enough to be an evening gown. It followed closely the low décolletage of the bra, flowing and clinging to her thighs and the perceptible bulge of her tummy. She placed her hands on it now, looking at the garter, at all the faces around her. Her eyes filled. She took a deep breath, fluttered a fingertip beneath her lashes, knowing the girls' eyes followed the twinkle of the diamond.

“Come on, you guys, don't!” she said, laughing shakily, quite close to breaking down completely. “Don't look so happy for me. It should be every single one of you, not me!” She widened her eyes to make room for the tears.

“Don't you dare cry, Catherine Anderson!” Marie scolded. “Not after all the work that's gone into that makeup. If you get one single tear on it, we're all going to disown you.”

Another fragile, borderline laugh, and Catherine sputtered, “Oh, no, you won't. You can't disown me any more than I can disown you. Not anymore. We're all in this together.”

But Catherine compressed her lips. A tear had its own way, hovered, then splashed over the edge of her lashes, and she laughed shakily, flapped her hands and demanded a tissue.

Somebody quipped, “Hey, Anderson, dry up, or else!”

It relieved the tension. The makeup passed inspection, and somebody brought the plain dress Catherine would wear in the car, her gown, carefully sheathed in plastic, her purse and the small bag she'd packed.

“Have you got your perfume in there?”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me, Francie.”

“How about your Dramamine pills?”

“Dramamine pills?”

“You'll need them for flying high.”

“Clay's the one that'll need them when he gets a load of that underwear!”

“Be careful of the gardenia when you get in the car now.”

“Your brother is here, he just pulled up!”

They thronged downstairs. Steve was at the door. He carried Catherine's things outside, came back for a second load and for her.

Then there was nothing left to do but go. It was so hard to do, suddenly, to turn away from all the warmth and love. Mrs. Tollefson was there, hovering near the colonnade, then coming forward to be the voice of the entire group.

“Catherine, we're all so happy for you. I think you've made every girl here into something more than she used to be. Right, girls?” Catherine was hugged against Mrs. Tollefson quite roughly. She pinched her eyes shut.

“Listen . . . I—I love you all.” As she said it, she experienced an explosive force of emotion. Those words, so unfamiliar to her tongue, created an expansiveness like she'd never felt before. She knew it twenty-five-fold, for at that moment it was true. She loved each woman crowded around her and suddenly wanted more than anything to stay among them, to let their hands pull her back into the security of their fold.

But that phase of her life was over. She was swept out into the November afternoon where a fine snow was falling, glittering onto her hair like stardust. The skies were pale, with smudges of gray clouds lying low, shedding their enchanting burden into Catherine's wedding day. With eyes now dry, Catherine watched their progress through the city, in a sort of enhanced state of clarity. Bare trees stood out in crisp distinction, blacker than black when wet by the snow. The snow had a pristine smell of newness, as each first snow does. It tantalized her, falling like petals strewn before the bride, touching everything with white. She stared out the window, sighed, closed her eyes, told her heart to beat right. But it beat all the more erratically as she envisioned the Forrester house, the guests who would soon be arriving, and Bobbi and Stu on their way, and somewhere, waiting . . . Clay.

Clay.

Oh, Clay, she thought, what have we done? How can all of this be happening? Me riding toward you with a velvet gown on the seat behind me and this diamond on my finger? And all those starry-eyed looks burning into my soul from the house I've just left? And your father and mother and grandparents all waiting to welcome me into your family? And guests coming, bringing gifts, and—

“Stop the car!”

“What?” Steve exclaimed, surprised.

“Stop the car. I can't go through with this.”

He pulled over, watching his sister drop her face into her hands. He slid across the seat and gathered her into his arms.

“What is it, babe?”

“Oh, Steve, what should I do?”

“Shh, come on now. Don't start crying, not today. It's just the last-minute jitters. But, really, babe, I don't think you should have the slightest qualms.” He lifted her chin, making her look at him. “Cathy, if I could handpick a brother-in-law, I'd probably pick Clay Forrester, from what I've seen so far. And if I could handpick a family to trust you to, it would probably be his. You're going to be loved and taken care of for the rest of your life, and I couldn't be happier with who's going to be doing it.”

“That's just it. It's not for the rest of my life.”

“But—”

“Clay and I are being married under duress. We've agreed to divorce as soon as the baby has a name and he's passed his bar exams and entered his father's business.”

Steve sat back, absorbing this news. His brows gathered into a scowl.

“Don't look at me that way! And don't ask me how this mess got started because right now I don't think I could even explain it to myself. I only know I feel like the biggest fraud on the face of the earth, and I don't think I can go through with it. I thought I could but I can't.”

Steve slid back behind the wheel and stared at the wipers that slapped disconsolately across the windshield. His eyes seemed focused on nothing. “You mean none of them know?”

“Oh, Steve, I shouldn't have told you, but I had to get it off my chest.”

“Well, now that you have, you're going to listen to what I have to say. You
should
feel like a swindler. It's a damn rotten trick you're playing on some damn fine people; at least I think they are. And since you obviously do, also, you haven't got any choice but to go through with it. If you back out now, you're going to embarrass them even further than our illustrious father already has. They've been more than fair to you, Catherine. They've been supportive and decent and, in case you've forgotten, quite lavish with their money. Frankly, the things I've learned about the Forrester family have boggled my mind. I find myself wondering how I'd have accepted the situation if I were in their position and faced with the bizarre set of circumstances they've been faced with. It takes some pretty big people to be as accepting as they've been. I think you owe it to them not only to go through with this marriage, but to make a helluva stab at making it work afterward.

“Furthermore, if I were faced with the opportunity, like you are, I think I'd do my damnedest not to let a man like Clay slip out of my fingers as easily as you intend to.”

“But, Steve, you don't understand. We don't love each other.”

“You're carrying something that says you'd better, by God, try to!”

She'd never seen Steve so upset with her before. She, too, raised her voice. “I don't want to have to
try
to love my husband. I just
want
to!”

“Listen, you're talking to old Steve here.” He tapped his chest. “I know how stubborn you can be, and if you set your mind to something you'll stick with it, come hell or high water. And what you're telling me is that you aren't going to try to make this marriage work, right?”

“You make it sound like it's all my idea. It's not. We agreed to start the divorce in July.”

“Yeah, and you wait and see how far your agreement goes when he gets a load of his own kid in some hospital nursery.”

Catherine's heart flew to her throat. “He promised the baby will be mine. He won't fight for it.”

“Yeah, sure.” His hands hung on the wheel. He stared unseeingly. “The baby goes with you, you go your way, he goes his. What the hell kind of agreement is that to make?” He looked down at his thumbs.

“You're angry with me.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I don't blame you, I guess.”

He felt robbed, robbed of all the elation he'd held for her, angry that she'd stolen it from him. Frustrated, he slammed the butts of both hands against the steering wheel.

“I like him, goddammit!” he blustered. “I felt so damn happy for you, ending up with a guy like him.” Then he stared a long time out his side window.

“Steve.” She slid over and touched his shoulder. “Oh, Steve, I'm sorry. I've hurt so many people already, and hardly any of them know yet that they've been hurt. You're the only one, and look how you feel. And when Mom finds out, and his folks, well, you can see why I don't think we should go through with it.”

“You back out now and you'll break Mom's heart. She thinks you're set for life, and she'll never have to worry about you living like she's done, with that—that . . .”

“I know.”

“Well, Christ! She's waiting at home right now in her homemade dress, probably all nervous about it, and—Hell, you know how she gets. She's actually, honest-to-God happy, or as close to happy as I've ever seen her, with the old man gone and your future set. Don't do it to her, Cathy.”

“But what about me?”

“You started it, all those people heading for your wedding, all the preparations made, and you ask 'What about me?' I think you'd better think it over and consider what happens if you back out now. Count the number of people involved.”

“I have! Every day I have! Facing all those pregnant teenagers at Horizons while they treated me like I was Snow White and they were dwarves, stitching on my wedding dress all starry-eyed. Do you think that's been easy?”

He sat stiff and silent. She slid back to her own side. The snow fell in flat plops while she stared at it unseeingly. Finally she quoted, as if to herself, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

The silence was broken only by the sweep of the windshield wipers, which were still slapping away. Catherine spoke to the snow. “I had no idea at the beginning how many lives would be touched by this wedding. It seemed like a decision that would mainly affect Clay and I and the baby. But things got out of hand somehow. Angela said he's their only son and wanted to have at least a few of the family—an intimate little affair she called it. And then all the girls at Horizons got into it, helping me make the dress. Then Mom sees me heading for what she thinks is the good life. Clay's grandparents even gave me their approval, to say nothing of the family jewels.” She turned to Steve at last. “And you, my God, it even brought you home. Do you know what it means to me to have you here, and how I hated telling you the truth? I'm getting in deeper than I wanted though. Steve, please understand.”

“I understand what it would do to a lot of people if you say no at the eleventh hour.”

“And even after what I told you, you think I should go through with it?”

“I don't know . . . What a mess.” But then he turned to her with a look of appeal on his face. “Cathy, couldn't you try to give it a chance?”

“You mean, me and Clay?”

“Yes, you and Clay. What are your feelings for him?”

That was a tough one; she thought for a minute before answering. “I honestly don't know. He's . . . well, he's able to accept all of this far more easily than I can. And the funny thing is, once he got over the first shock, he never blamed me in any way. I mean, most men would be throwing it up to a woman all the time how their plans were ruined. But he's not that way. He says he's going to make the best of it, takes me out and introduces me to his family just as if I'm his real choice, gives me this huge old ring that's been in the family forever, and treats me like a lady. Yet, at the same time, I know it's all a hoax. He does very well at keeping his family from suspecting it though. They've accepted me surprisingly well. The trouble is, Steve, I think I'm accepting them too. Oh, Steve . . . it's awful . . . I . . . don't you think I realize all those things you felt about them? They're genuinely good and loving people, and I'm drawn to them; I like them. But it's dangerous for me, don't you see? I'm to be a part of them, yet I'm not. Giving them up in a few months will be tougher than leaving Horizons was today.”

“All this time you've talked about his family, but you still haven't answered my question about Clay.”

“How can I? The truth is I don't know him as well as you think I do.”

“Well, it's obvious you were attracted to him once.”