The House on Olive Street (17 page)
Read The House on Olive Street Online
Authors: Robyn Carr
“Mom…” Joe tried.
“Don’t even insult me with excuses. I’ve put up with so much from you animals that it makes me wonder if I’m insane or just stupid.” Mike wandered into the kitchen and took his place behind Barbara Ann, shoring her up. He was good at this. It was following through where he fell apart. He didn’t realize that this time he was going to get it, too.
“I’ve given you everything I have—every ounce of energy, even when I thought I’d drop, every penny, even though I can never come up with enough, and every emotion, even when you crush me with cruel disregard for my feelings. I’ve begged you to help out, to just keep your
rooms
clean, but you can’t even do that. You’re all smart enough to rebuild engines, but not one of you knows how to operate a washing machine. My charge cards are maxed out and I don’t have a single dime saved toward my own retirement, but you’ve all got enough money for new parts for your cars, trips you have to take to play with your friends and hot nights with your girlfriends. I have to get out the goddamned whip and chair to get you to wash the very plates you eat off of, and even that’s a disaster. I have to hose down the kitchen when you’re done anyway.
“Each one of you has so much talent and brains, you excel in what you love, but you can’t be bothered to study in school. I’ve got a musician who can convince the whole neighborhood we’re having an earthquake, but gets D’s in English. I’ve got a mechanic so skilled that people come from miles to get help on their cars, but would never consider getting a
degree
in something so that he can get off my payroll and have a life. I’ve got a prize-winning athlete, a gifted radio-operated airplane pilot, a marksman and a champion diver…but not one of you will pick up your goddamned Coke cans or carry your cereal bowls to the kitchen. I don’t know how long I would have continued to be your maid, but I’ll tell you this right now, I am through catering to a bunch of ingrates who store enough pot to open a storefront operation. This tears it. I’m through with you. I’m through giving you my time, my hard work, my money and my life. You want to live in a pigsty? Fry your brains on this shit? Have it. It’s all yours.”
“Mom, this stuff isn’t ours,” Bobby said. “It’s—”
“Bobby, have you ever used this shit?” she demanded.
“Mom…”
“Have you? Ever?”
“Well, yeah, I’ve tried it a few times, but I—”
“All of you have, right? Well, this shit is
drugs.
I know, we’re supposed to be
modern
about all this, it’s a new generation, after all. Well, there isn’t anything new as far as I’m concerned! I’ve still got the same irresponsible slobs who could care less about their living conditions, never ask if they can help out, never offer to do anything to make the house your dad and I pay for a decent place to live, never go out of their way…and now all I’ve added to it is a bunch of lowlifes who think a little joint now and then is okay! Maybe that’s why you were so unmotivated you couldn’t remember to buy me a damn Mother’s Day card, Joe. Or maybe that’s why you got so many traffic tickets, Bobby. Or maybe that’s why you forgot registration one semester, Matt. Or maybe that’s what got you D’s in English and history, Billy. All I can say is I know there are some things you care about and some things you don’t. And I’m one of the things you don’t care about!”
“Okay, you’re all going to do some time for this here,” Mike said, stepping in at what he thought was his moment to play father. He was going to clip their wings, ground them.
Barbara Ann whirled on him. “I don’t think you get it, Mike. I’m leaving. You seem to be content to live in a frat house—have at it. I’m through. I’m leaving you all. Forage for your own food. Wear dirty clothes. Pay your own car insurance. Eat off paper plates…if you can find anything to eat without me going to the store every damn day. There’s just one thing I’d like you to under
stand about me leaving.” This was where the tears began. “It isn’t as though I haven’t loved you. It isn’t as though I haven’t tried. I had this stupid idea that if I could
show
you how to live in a clean house, you’d learn to
be
clean, that if I
demanded
that you be decent, it would be automatic for you. But you’ve thrown it back in my face. My house is a hovel, no matter how hard I work. There are at least four cars being worked on in my driveway and half-done projects all over my house and yard, not to mention the dirty dishes, dirty clothes, trash heaps, overgrown lawn, algae-infested pool and chipped paint everywhere. There’s a goddamned lawn mower motor in my bedroom and I deserve better for all my hard work! If you’re still not catching on, all I’ve ever asked for from any of you was
respect!
”
“Mom…we…”
“Joe, you’re too late to say you respect me. You have time to spend hours tinkering with your computer for your own entertainment, but my lawn needs to be tended. Bobby can play rock music till four in the morning, but is too tired to pick up his dirty clothes. Matt’s got a full schedule, sure, but there’s time left over to work on cars for friends. Where’s the time left over for family responsibilities? The house has needed to be painted for years now! Billy, all that’s ever asked of you is that you get decent grades in school, but you’re too busy with planes and sports and music to study for a test. And God forbid you should pick up after yourself to save me one-tenth of the work I do every single day.
“This is my fault,” she went on. “I tried, but I somehow failed to teach you that you show respect by lending a hand, by treating the property of others with care, by keeping shipshape the surroundings that you live in and someone else pays for. I’ve tried to reason with you, I’ve
threatened you, I’ve begged you. And you all blew me off. That,” she said, pointing to the collection on the table, “was the ultimate fuck-off. You not only don’t care about me, you don’t even care enough about yourselves to steer clear of that dangerous, mind-altering, cell-damaging crap. You’ve really done it now. You’ve pissed off the help.”
“Okay, boys, we’re going to make a few resolutions around—”
“You’re too late too,” she said, turning on Mike. “You can’t back me up now because by tomorrow, when I’m insane again because no one around here gives a damn, you’ll be telling me they’re just boys. You blow me off, too! How does a grown man expect to set an example by leaving his own clothes in a pile on the floor? I’m sleeping with a lawn mower motor, for God’s sake, and it’s not as though I haven’t asked you to get it out of my bedroom. The fact is,” she said, turning back to the boys, “I’m the only member of this household who works two full-time jobs. I have a job as a writer—a stressful, difficult, time-consuming job—and I come off that job only to clean, cook, shop and do laundry for the rest of you. I don’t come off my job to lounge around the house that
you
made clean, or eat the food that
you
bought and prepared, or wear the clothes that
you
laundered for me. And on top of this, I find drugs in my house. Enough drugs, if I’m not mistaken, to qualify for a felony!”
They all had the good sense to hang their heads in shame. But Barbara Ann was too far gone to be tricked into giving them another chance. She was done living on cupcakes and Snickers bars to dull the frustration.
“You’re abusers, all of you,” she said, taking Mike into their fold. “You abuse me every day that you neglect
my constant pleas for help, for consideration. You aren’t going to have me to kick around anymore.”
She swept the collection off the table and into her arms. “Your supper’s on the stove. After this, you’re on your own.” She stormed off to her bedroom. By now the tears were stinging her eyes and running down her cheeks. She almost screamed in agony when she recognized a familiar sensation—she was
hungry!
She could numb a lot of what was hurting her by eating a cheese-cake!
She closed her bedroom door and got out the suitcases. She’d been thinking about what she would pack all afternoon while she was constructing her speech to them, but now that she had an opened suitcase on the bed, she couldn’t remember. All she could think about were her babies, her little boys.
Sometimes when the house was sort of quiet and Barbara Ann was watching a television movie, Matt would lie on the couch and put his head on her lap. Twenty-one, six foot two, one-eighty, drop-dead handsome, and still her little boy. She’d gently caress his floppy blond hair and he’d turn those incredibly blue eyes up at her and say, “If I don’t find a woman like you, I’ll never be able to get married.”
When Bobby, her most difficult and stubborn child, would find himself ecstatically happy about something, he would pick her up off her feet and whirl her around like she was just a girl. He’d squeeze her so hard she couldn’t breathe, kiss her on the cheek and tell her how much he loved her. Even though he was a real jerk twice a week at least, he would
always
say he was sorry and that he loved her more than he was able to show.
Joe was Bobby’s opposite; his emotions were hidden far beneath the surface. He was the tall, handsome, silent
type. But when his girl had dumped him, he’d gotten Barbara Ann out of bed at eleven-thirty to say he had to talk. He’d leaned his head against her breast and wept because he’d lost love and his pain was too intense to suppress. She’d stroked his head, her grown boy, and told him he would find love again because he was so lovable.
And Billy, her heart, who had been left out of the older boys’ games since the days he toddled, who had a dangerous case of mononucleosis when he was thirteen and had spent two weeks in the hospital, had brought her home trophy after trophy for football, basketball, baseball; team champions, most valuable player, player of the year, team captain in his junior year. And with his beautiful shining eyes had smiled and said, every single time, “I did it for you, Mom—my best girl.”
Which one had rat-holed enough dope to stay stoned for a year?
She hadn’t forgotten why she adored each one of them. Sometimes they really came through for her. They’d been wonderful about Gabby’s memorial—scrubbed, handsome, patient and sensitive. Too bad she’d come home that night to find her house a disaster and about five extra young men gathered around the big-screen TV for a basketball game.
Mike came into the bedroom. “You can’t be leaving me,” he said. When she turned to look at him she was struck first by his handsomeness. His once-blond hair had darkened over the years and was streaked by gray at the temples, but he still had a boyish, bearish look about him. The next thing that struck her was the weary, pained look he had around the eyes. It had always amazed her that a man so handsome, so strong and fit, could love her so thoroughly, even when she’d gained
thirty unwanted pounds and her body showed the rigors of so much childbirth. This was killing him; he loved her so much. It stunned her even now.
“I can’t do it alone anymore, Mike. You’re willing to have me put up with too much.”
“I’ll help you get them in line,” he said. “I’ll whip the shit outta them. You’ll see.”
“Great,” she said, turning back to her suitcases. “Call me when you’ve had them in line for a month or so. I’m not banking on any more promises. I’m not sure you’d recognize a dirty house if it bit you in the ass.”
“Barbara Ann, baby,” he said, hugging her from behind. “I know you’re all upset, but you didn’t give us any warning. You gotta give us a chance here.”
That made her cry harder. “I warned you all for twenty-three years! I begged and pleaded and threatened! The best I ever got was twenty-four hours of cooperation! I can’t do it anymore! I’m forty-three and I’m tired!”
“Honey, you’ve been through a bad time—”
“You’re goddamned right I’ve been through a bad time! My best friend is dead, my other best friend is going nuts before my very eyes, my other best friend is being beat up by her husband
and
I’m losing my job! Do any of you care? You say, ‘Oh, that’s too bad, honey,’ and then drop your dirty clothes on the floor and leave your dirty dishes in the family room! Jesus, Mike, no matter how much I love you all, even I have a limit!” She took a breath and pinched her eyes closed. “I want to live in a clean, well-repaired house. When I’m talking on the phone, I’d like respectful quiet rather than shouting and cursing in the background. I’d like my messages written down and rags used to wipe up spilled oil instead of my good towels. And I want to look at the
young men I’ve raised with pride instead of shame.
That’s
what I want.”
“Barbara Ann,” he asked sweetly, “are you getting your period, honey?”
The phone rang at Gabby’s house and the only person who could answer it was Eleanor. Beth was hiding from Jack, Sable was hiding from the press, and for once, the ladies were the only ones at home.
“Hello?” Elly said. “What? You can’t be serious? Where? How much? Oh Lord, I don’t believe this. Fine, fine. We’ll think of something. Call him and tell him what? Now, what’s that? Yes, I can do that. Oh, I’m sure we’ll come up with it somehow, don’t panic. Well, I guess we can put you somewhere. Okay. Goodbye.”
By the time Elly hung up the phone, Beth and Sable had been drawn to the kitchen, waiting for an explanation.
“Barbara Ann’s in jail. We have to go bail her out.”
“I
’ll pay you back somehow,” Barbara Ann said to Sable.
“There isn’t going to be anything to pay back,” Sable said. “You aren’t going to jump bail, are you?”
“Elly, what did Mike say?”
“He seemed thoroughly confused. I told him that the police picked you up for speeding and found a box full of drugs in your car that you found on the front lawn by the mailbox that you were just en route to delivering to the police because you didn’t know what else to do with it. The police arrested you because you had it, even though you swore you’d only found it and your family knew nothing about it. By the time we were hanging up, the police were at his door.”
“I’d better call him,” she said. Barbara Ann went to the phone and had a very brief conversation. She returned a few minutes later. “Well, for once they were smart,” she said. “They told the police they didn’t know anything about any drugs and nothing was found in the house or garage. So I’m the only one in trouble. The police did tell Mike that it looked like the place had already been searched. Mike assured them that it was
just the appearance of a house occupied by five sloppy men. When the police asked them if they knew where I was, Bobby told the police I left them because they’re worthless pigs. And the police officer in charge said it looked like I was the only one around there with any sense.”
“What were you going to do with the marijuana, Barbara Ann?” Beth asked her.
“Oh, I
was
taking it to the police. I sure wasn’t going to leave it there. The boys would either sell it, smoke it or dispose of it in some stupid way and get themselves put in prison. I was so pissed off, I was speeding.” She leaned back into the chair she occupied. “Well? Can I stay?”
“Barbara Ann, is this really what you want?” Sable asked. “After putting up with them for all these years?”
“It’s more than that. I just don’t have anything left. I’ve had one canceled contract and two rejections in a row. I feel like it’s only a matter of time before my editor calls me and tells me
another
finished book isn’t good enough….”
“You’re borrowing trouble,” Sable said. “The worst that’s going to happen is they ask for some rewriting. They’re not going to cancel another book on you before giving you a chance to revise it. Honestly, Barbara Ann.”
“That isn’t how it
feels.
It feels like I can’t do anything right, like I’ve lost it. And frankly, I’ve lost too goddamned much lately. That stash of pot put me over the edge. Much as it killed me, I could live with turning four selfish slobs loose on the world, but I couldn’t live with turning loose a bunch of dopers. If that’s how far they’re willing to go, they’re going to have to go without me. I’ve had it.”
“Poor Mike,” Beth said.
“Yes, poor Mike,” Barbara Ann mimicked with sarcasm. “You know, I love the man. In a lot of ways, Mike is a prince. He’s faithful and decent and hardworking—and a total chauvinist. I’d scream my brains out at those boys and he’d back me up all the way…but all they had to do was watch him to learn their behavior. And they were watching a guy that went to work every day and came home to a big man-size meal, after which he’d take to his chair. A couple of times a year I’d be able to shame him into cleaning up the yard or digging out the garage. But a couple of times a year isn’t enough. It takes more than that to run a household. What the hell kind of sty would we live in if I was motivated to take care of it twice a year? It’s time for poor Mike to figure out there’s a lot more to managing a family than yelling, ‘Do what your mother says.’”
“So you’re really just interested in teaching them a lesson,” Elly observed.
“Well, Elly, that depends entirely on whether they’re capable of learning one, which I seriously doubt. Wouldn’t it be nice if they figured this out real fast? I love taking care of my family. I love filling up the shopping carts, covering the table with good food and watching them appreciate it. I even love making the kitchen and bathrooms shine. What I don’t love is doing it over and over and over, only to have some inconsiderate baboon trash it right behind me. All I’ve ever wanted from any of them was a little help in
keeping
it nice.
“So, I figure they don’t do it because they can’t, because they’re domestically challenged. It’s hereditary, and it comes from the Vaughan side of the family. Mike’s mom and dad live in a cute little house that hasn’t been vacuumed or painted or picked up in twenty years.
Mike’s dad has been saving an old refrigerator motor on the front porch since we got married. I’ve been fighting it for twenty-three years, and I’ve been fighting a losing battle. They’re incapable.
“I’d like to stay here for a little while, finish going through Gabby’s things and make sure the rest of you are all right. Then I’m going to get a job and an apartment—a nice, little, white apartment. It won’t be much, given the kind of money I can earn, but it will be mine, it will be clean, the toilet seat will be down and there won’t be axle grease on everything but my underwear.”
“Don’t you have a book due in September?” Sable asked.
She shrugged. “Screw ’em. I’m going to call my editor tomorrow. I’m going to tell her I need an extension because my best friend died and I’m separated from my husband. I may never write the book. I won’t get any money for it anyway. Since they canceled my contract on the last book, I’m in the red. I now owe them five thousand dollars, which of course I don’t have. They’ll suck it out of my royalties, so I’ll earn even less. I can’t do it anymore. I work too hard to be treated like dog meat all the time.” She took a deep breath. “All I want right now is a box of peanut butter crispies and a good night’s sleep. I’m going over the edge with the rest of you lunatics.”
“It’s contagious,” Sable said. “Are you going to let your roots grow out?”
“These
are
my roots! And incidentally, this is my ass, too! All sixty pounds of it!”
“Poor Mike,” Beth said again. “He loves you so much.”
“You do love love, don’t you, Bethie? How is it you’re writing those bloodcurdling books? You should be writing all your cockeyed ideas about
love.
”
“I’m passive-aggressive,” she said. “That’s what they told me in my support group. It’s the only way I can express my anger. By murdering people in my books.”
Sable threw back her head and guffawed. Barb looked at her earnestly. “Seriously?”
“Uh-huh. The only problem is, what’s going to happen to my writing when I’m cured? Think I’ll be unable to write the ruthless killer?”
Elly had wandered out of the room and when she came back, she was holding a small stack of papers. She handed them to Sable. “Read this,” she instructed. Sable began to glance over the first page. “Read it to all of us,” Eleanor said.
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
“But it says ‘Chapter Twenty-One.’ What’s this from?”
“Just read it to us. Then if you have any questions, I’ll answer them.”
Sable began.
“Chapter Twenty-One
Clare pushed open the shutters to let the sun flood the second-story room of the little Donnelly inn. There came a groan of protest from behind her as the bright light scorched Brandt’s eyes. She ignored him and leaned out the window. Ireland was possessed of a vivid emerald green to be seen nowhere else on the planet. A scent of grass, flowers, ponds and reeds filled her breast. Also in the air was the faint acrid odor of gunpowder and death.
The little village of Donnelly had the appearance of a Renaissance resting place—the aura of peace, tranquillity and security. Yet thirty miles
away in Belfast four children and two women had perished in another terrorist bombing. It was rumored that Great Britain was sending more soldiers. The demonstrations would escalate, the shooting and bombing would tear through the city and rip open the flesh of innocents. Belfast was fast becoming a city of no windows. Brandt had taken a picture of a boy, no older than eight, aiming a rifle at him as he focused the lens. This sort of thing took her breath away.
‘Come with me to London,’ he said from the bed.
‘I can’t this time,’ she answered, not turning toward him. She drank in the green, perhaps never to see it again. The most beautiful land on the planet, torn asunder for years by political unrest, hate and prejudice, poverty and murder. Clare often wondered if it was that small dash of her own Irish blood that caused her such sentimentality toward this land, these people. She did not feel the same deeply personal pangs for the land and people of Bangladesh or Cambodia. In Ireland, it grabbed her heart and squeezed; her fear was palpable and her grief piercing. And of course Brandt was always at the center of it, in the midst of the violence, waiting for that special shot. The perfect light—that was his gift. It was not the way he aimed the camera, but the instinct he had for being there at the most opportune moment.
‘I’ve got to go to London, love. I can’t possibly avoid it. Go with me.’
She turned from the window. ‘Don’t you mean, Go as well?’
He shrugged. He seemed to fill the bed. His
head and shoulders rested against the pillows and he lay tangled in the brightly white, sun-dried sheets, one long leg bristling with blond hair sticking out. ‘However you term it, I must go to London and so I would like it if I could see you while I’m there. Because I want you madly. Because of how you look in one of my shirts. Because I’m dead in love with you, I want you in London.’ A fleece of golden hair covered his chest; the crop of curling blond hair on his head was growing thinner, but he still looked younger than forty-seven.
‘I read a piece about you in
Newsweek,’
she said. ‘Did you see it?’
‘Aye. It was a piece, all right.’
‘They call you something of a womanizer. I think it was meant as a compliment.’
‘I wonder how they get off. It’s not at all true. I’m a one-woman man.’
‘Now that’s pushing it, don’t you think?’
‘Oh love, come here. I can’t bear it when you’re out of my reach.’
‘Not until you explain the article…and the womanizing,’ she said playfully.
‘I’m an unconscionable flirt, that’s true. I do tend to take advantage of women who think I’m grand…but hell, I never lead them on. I don’t lead them far, and I
never
sleep with them. I like the attention is all.’ He reached a hand toward her. In a second, she knew, she would let him draw her back to the bed.
At four this morning she was pacing, beginning to sink into a familiar panicked, frantic thinking. What will I do if
this time
he is too close to
the action? This could be the time she’d have to find her own way out of some country he photographed, alone, terrified, grief-stricken. Jake Friedman of the Associated Press, or some other crony of theirs, would find her in the Donnelly inn, tap reluctantly on her door and say, ‘Clare, love, sorry, but it’s awful news…in some random cross fire…’
Then his face appeared at seven in the morning, his beard coarse and stubbly, his eyes dancing as though strung out on some caffeine high. She tried to pretend she hadn’t worried while he sat in some dangerous Belfast flat through the night, waiting for a good shot, hoping for perfect light. ‘It was dawn when the women and their children came onto the streets, some trying to go about their lives and some cautiously looking for dead. Their faces are blank, the children are armed! God, Clare, it’s a nightmare they’re living!’ His passion stored on the film in his camera, he grabbed her up in his arms and spent the rest on her, like a victorious warrior returning from battle to his woman.
She let him draw her to the bed. ‘Will you come?’ he asked.
‘If you touch me in the right places,’ she replied, smiling.
He pinched her butt. ‘To London!’
‘Not this time, Brandt. I’m going to go home.’
‘I don’t like the way you say that. It sounds suspicious to me. Is this because of some piece in that American rag of yours? About women?’
She laughed at him. ‘No, no. I know you don’t sleep with other women. Well, I
assume
you don’t…you spend too much time writing, calling
and seducing me. If you do sleep with them, you don’t give them much attention beyond that.’
‘Then why are you sad? You hide it not at all,’ he said, pronouncing it “at-tall” in his clipped, Aussie accent that had tidied up to near British over the years, nary a trace of his American roots left. ‘Is it just that you’re tired? I know something’s wrong.’
‘I did rather well, considering. If you had asked me three years ago how long I’d be content to follow this romantic figure around the worst places on the globe, I never would have guessed three years. David’s playing soccer now, did I tell you? He’s brilliant at it. He has a temper, though. It’s hormones—he’s eleven. His feet grow a size every month and he doesn’t know what to do with his arms and legs unless he’s on the soccer field. And Sarah, I noticed, is starting to blossom into a young woman. She’s too young for that, I think…but she’s becoming physically mature. She’s so graceful, so beautiful. She won’t need braces on her teeth.’
‘What are you saying?’ he asked, frowning.
‘I have to go home to my children, Brandt. I’m away from them too much.’
‘You won’t give us up. After all we’ve been to each other, I can’t believe you would.’
‘No, I won’t,’ she said. ‘But I think you will.’
He sat up in the bed, angry. ‘Damn it, Clare! If you’d just give me—’
‘Have you ever thought about what I’d do if something happened to you while we’re on the road like this? Can you see a picture of me slinking away…shamed…not even acknowledged as
the woman who’s loved you through every bloody war, famine and flood for the last three years? Who will they say I am when they study the pictures of the mourners? What about the day
Newsweek
prints my name in conjunction with yours? How many lives will be disrupted by that?’
‘I’ve told you, it wouldn’t disrupt much. It would be a very slight ripple in the steady lives of—’
‘Oh, crap! If Beatrice is so fucking understanding, why don’t you explain to her that you can’t keep up the pretense anymore. Make San Francisco your base. See your children when you’re in London, as you do now, but for God’s sake don’t ask me to leave my own children and hide out in little rooms all over the world just so we can be together. Brandt, it’s time for you to make up your mind. Six months ago you said—’
‘I explained the problem then. I wasn’t putting you off. Beatrice’s father passed on and there was a dither over it—an estate to settle and the children home. Marc goes to university in the fall and Diedre begins her final year at Cordell. The time will be better then. Bear with me, darling. Barring death or disease, I’ll have it done then. I swear!’
‘It’s so easy for you to consider her feelings, to go back to her again and again. I can’t imagine it’s only her wealth because you’re wealthy, too. Is she beautiful, Brandt? Kind? Sensitive?’
‘Yes, yes, she’s all those things and more, but that’s not what this is about. You’re the woman I love! Clare, haven’t you listened to me? She was a mere girl of twenty when I met her and married her and was reluctantly approved by her stricken
family. She was a rich, spoiled girl, accustomed to having her way and I was what she wanted then. The poor thing realized in less than two years that she’d made a dreadful mistake, but Marc was on the way by then and she’d already hurt and shocked her family enough. She’s had to become mighty wise and resilient to get through the years as well as she has. At long last we’ve at least become friends.
‘Beatrice is more concerned with her social circle, her reputation and her family than she is with me. She’s happier when I’m away than when I’m in London or at her country estate, scratching my neck under the starch of those bloody tux collars. We haven’t slept in the same bedroom in fifteen years. She’s asked only two things of me. She wanted children that she might have company in her old age, knowing only too well, I suppose, that she wouldn’t have me. And she asked discretion, so she wouldn’t be publicly humiliated by my antics.
‘She’s done a fine job with Marc and Diedre, so fine that they hardly expect any more of me than she does. And I love them, the both of them. They adore me in return, though they shouldn’t—I’m more a visiting cousin than doting father to either of them. I admire the woman, Clare. I respect her. I don’t shrink from the talk of ending the marriage—I’m quite sure she’s expecting it. But I couldn’t do it while she was burying her father.’
She was quiet for a moment. Then, ‘The woman sounds like a fucking saint.’
‘You are evil and crass,’ he said, but a smile grew slowly on his lips.
‘Well, she does! I wouldn’t leave a wife like that! Why should you?’
His green eyes bore into her and grew dark. ‘Because I taste you in my sleep.’ His hand went under the shirt she wore—his shirt. She wore it while he was away shooting, so she could smell him the whole while. The coil inside of her began to tighten and her skin became hot. He set her flesh afire. Brandt had some chemical advantage with her that no other man had. It was not the danger, nor the long absences. Could not be. She’d had other dangerous, absent men. It was something not of this world, but definitely of the flesh. No man had ever kept her sexual attention for so long, through so much, only to leave her craving more of him.
In her heart she wondered whether she was that equal match for Brandt. He said she was. ‘No other woman, at no time in my life, can do for me, to me, what you can do….’ But she drew herself as worldly, a woman wise to the words and seductions of the sexual male. That meant, should she learn he had lied, she would be disappointed but not surprised.
Rolling with him against the soft, sweet, hay-filled mattress in the little Irish inn in the countryside of Donnelly, thinking
once more once more once more,
she felt the tears burn her eyes just as his thrusts caused her body to convulse and spasm in joy. Living without this in her life would be terrible. Giving this up, though her travels had become perilous and fraught with tension and fear, would be a great sacrifice.
‘Tell me you love me,’ he begged. ‘Please.’
‘I love you more than I thought possible,’ she said, kissing his lips. But he’d seen the glistening eyes. He could sense what was ahead. ‘But I’m going home to my children.’
‘Clare….’
‘It’s July,’ she said. ‘Hot as hell itself in California in July….’
‘Clare, don’t….’
‘In the fall, when the children go to school, you’ll speak to Beatrice. Call me then. Call to say the papers are filed and the legal ties soon to be severed. Tell me that if some biographer snaps a picture of me sucking your ear, it’s okay, that it won’t cause Marc to become suicidal or Diedre to run away out of pure hatred of her father. It will be a legitimate affair. Come and meet my children. I wouldn’t see you before September or October anyway.’
‘You’re talking of leaving me!’
‘I’m speaking of going home! Where I have a life, a family!’
‘What will change your mind and make you come with me to London?’
‘Nothing, Brandt! Go to London! Your family is there! They’re expecting you!’
‘I’ll tell her this week. I’ll tell them all. Come to London so that I can prove to you that I’m serious about this, about us. Please. We’ve hardly had any time together this trip. You can spare three or four more days for me…and I’ll prove to you that I’m not putting you last.’
She touched his cheek. ‘It’s
my
job to become hysterical. I’m the woman.’
‘Thoughts of not having you make me hysterical.’
‘Now listen to me, Brandt. Do whatever you please about your family…in your own good time for all I care. But know this. Someday, someone will notice that every time you’ve snapped a picture in some blighted spot, I’ve written an article about the women and children in that same troubled place. You can brush it off all you like, but it
will
be news. And Beatrice might be a real peach, but she would be good and pissed. Now go home to London. And do whatever you’re going to do, whenever you’re going to do it.’”