The Last Time They Met (4 page)
Read The Last Time They Met Online
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Adult
—
I stopped years ago,
she said, not adding,
When my husband, who knew its meaning, asked me to take it off.
She lifted her glass and drank, too late realizing that the wine would stain her teeth.
One is always a Catholic. Even when one has lapsed.
I stopped years ago,
she said, not adding,
When my husband, who knew its meaning, asked me to take it off.
She lifted her glass and drank, too late realizing that the wine would stain her teeth.
One is always a Catholic. Even when one has lapsed.
—
There was so much harm then.
He looked inward, possibly reminded of Catholic sins.
Are you religious now?
There was so much harm then.
He looked inward, possibly reminded of Catholic sins.
Are you religious now?
—
Only on airplanes,
she said quickly, and he laughed. He tried to eat another bite.
Only on airplanes,
she said quickly, and he laughed. He tried to eat another bite.
—
I am, a bit,
he confessed, startling her, and he seemed almost bashful in the confession.
My mother’s minister stayed with me for days after Billie died, though I hardly knew his presence. Very good in the clinches. Well, they are, aren’t they? We often play tennis together now, and I sometimes go to services. So as not to hurt his feelings, I think.
I am, a bit,
he confessed, startling her, and he seemed almost bashful in the confession.
My mother’s minister stayed with me for days after Billie died, though I hardly knew his presence. Very good in the clinches. Well, they are, aren’t they? We often play tennis together now, and I sometimes go to services. So as not to hurt his feelings, I think.
Her breath was tight and seared her chest. This mention of private disaster had come too soon. She heard the phrase again:
After Billie died. . . .
After Billie died. . . .
He went on.
I suppose I feel I ought to show some gratitude. Though they must know that in the end it doesn’t help. In the end, nothing helps. Drugs, possibly.
I suppose I feel I ought to show some gratitude. Though they must know that in the end it doesn’t help. In the end, nothing helps. Drugs, possibly.
—
Yes.
Yes.
He leaned forward.
Does this happen to you? I think of what we did, and I cannot believe we were ever so cruel.
Does this happen to you? I think of what we did, and I cannot believe we were ever so cruel.
She couldn’t answer him. He had paid more dearly than any man deserved. And she? What payment had she made? She had had love, and her children were alive. Against all the odds, she had been rewarded. What justice was in that?
She put her fork down, unable even to pretend to eat. There had never been a rehearsal for such a conversation. She folded her fingers under her chin. She could not go forward, for she didn’t know how much he could bear. She would take her cues from Thomas, not ask any questions.
The massive plates were replaced with smaller ones. The waiter filled their glasses.
—
Do you still have the letters?
he asked.
Do you still have the letters?
he asked.
—
I lost them,
she said, relieved to have moved to safer conversational ground.
They spilled out of a carton. I watched from a second-story window of a house my husband and I were moving into. He had been carrying it, the carton. I held my breath when he picked it up. They would have hurt him, even though . . .
I lost them,
she said, relieved to have moved to safer conversational ground.
They spilled out of a carton. I watched from a second-story window of a house my husband and I were moving into. He had been carrying it, the carton. I held my breath when he picked it up. They would have hurt him, even though . . .
(Even though I hadn’t seen you in years,
she had been about to say.)
she had been about to say.)
—
No man likes to think there was another who mattered,
Thomas said reasonably.
No man likes to think there was another who mattered,
Thomas said reasonably.
—
And then, weeks later, when I thought to look for them, they were gone. Nowhere to be found. I tried to ask obliquely, but he seemed not to know what I was talking about. It’s a mystery. To this day, I don’t know what happened to them.
And then, weeks later, when I thought to look for them, they were gone. Nowhere to be found. I tried to ask obliquely, but he seemed not to know what I was talking about. It’s a mystery. To this day, I don’t know what happened to them.
—
He destroyed them,
Thomas said simply.
He destroyed them,
Thomas said simply.
Linda could not imagine that outcome, that act of subterfuge. Vincent had lacked the desire, and therefore the skill, for duplicity. Whereas she and Thomas had been acrobats.
Arms were laid upon the backs of chairs. Food was devoured or ignored. Mirrors against the walls doubled the diners, showing faces where faces had been hidden. A cohort of small men in soiled aprons threaded themselves around the narrow table like dancers. A lack of windows, reminders of the rain, made the room seem intimate. Those who had no gift for conversation suffered.
—
When did you marry?
Thomas asked lightly.
When did you marry?
Thomas asked lightly.
Discussion of the past invited pain, she thought, though it was foolish to imagine they could continue any conversation without mentioning the worst between them.
—
Nineteen seventy-six,
she said.
Nineteen seventy-six,
she said.
—
Twenty-four years ago.
Twenty-four years ago.
She nodded, and there was a moment when she knew what he was thinking: of herself preparing for a wedding. Of herself in the throes of the strongest physical love for another.
—
And you have children?
he asked.
I think I might have read that.
And you have children?
he asked.
I think I might have read that.
—
I have a daughter who is twenty-three, a son who is twenty-two.
I have a daughter who is twenty-three, a son who is twenty-two.
And there, it was done: the mention of her children.
She watched Thomas struggle to compose his features. How bottomless the grief that could show itself in fresh tears years later.
—
What are their names?
What are their names?
—
Maria and Marcus.
Maria and Marcus.
—
Maria and Marcus . . . ?
Maria and Marcus . . . ?
—
Bertollini.
Bertollini.
—
Your husband’s name.
Your husband’s name.
—
Vincent,
she said, not adding that he had died.
Vincent,
she said, not adding that he had died.
—
It’s so I can imagine it.
It’s so I can imagine it.
She nodded.
—
You dress beautifully now.
Thomas kept his eyes on her face as he said this, though she knew that he had already assessed her.
You dress beautifully now.
Thomas kept his eyes on her face as he said this, though she knew that he had already assessed her.
—
Thank you,
she said simply.
Thank you,
she said simply.
—
Billie would have been twelve this spring,
Thomas said.
Billie would have been twelve this spring,
Thomas said.
The name, spoken aloud, was too sad, too harsh. She could see, in the tightness of his mouth, the cost of this.
—
The boat was waterlogged and rotten. The head smelled. You could hear Rich fucking in the forward cabin . . .
The boat was waterlogged and rotten. The head smelled. You could hear Rich fucking in the forward cabin . . .
For a moment, he could not go on.
—
We were on our way to Maine,
he said, the tremor in his voice momentarily under better control.
Rich and his girlfriend were on the boat. And Jean, my wife.
He glanced up at Linda.
And our daughter, Billie.
We were on our way to Maine,
he said, the tremor in his voice momentarily under better control.
Rich and his girlfriend were on the boat. And Jean, my wife.
He glanced up at Linda.
And our daughter, Billie.
—
Thomas, stop,
she said quietly.
You don’t have to do this. I read about the accident when it happened.
Indeed, she could remember only too well the way she’d been turning the pages of the
Boston Globe
as she did every morning (Vincent with the
Times
at the other end of the table; her hand was sticky with jelly, she remembered), and the way the words
THOMAS JANES
and
DAUGHTER
and
DROWNED
had been, with what seemed like impossible and screaming capitals, all contained within the same headline. The way Vincent had instantly put down his paper, saying:
Linda, what’s the matter?
Thomas, stop,
she said quietly.
You don’t have to do this. I read about the accident when it happened.
Indeed, she could remember only too well the way she’d been turning the pages of the
Boston Globe
as she did every morning (Vincent with the
Times
at the other end of the table; her hand was sticky with jelly, she remembered), and the way the words
THOMAS JANES
and
DAUGHTER
and
DROWNED
had been, with what seemed like impossible and screaming capitals, all contained within the same headline. The way Vincent had instantly put down his paper, saying:
Linda, what’s the matter?
A waiter, balancing plates, created an artificial pause.
—
It wasn’t Jean’s fault, though I blamed her.
It wasn’t Jean’s fault, though I blamed her.
Linda watched Thomas’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass. She could not dictate how he would tell this story.
—
God, how I blamed her. I would have killed her on the boat if I’d had the strength or courage for it.
God, how I blamed her. I would have killed her on the boat if I’d had the strength or courage for it.
Linda pressed her folded hands against her mouth. How we struggle to hold in what we would say, she thought.
She looked around the room, at all the faces
—
avid and intensely curious
—
turned in their direction. This was awful. They could not do this here.
—
avid and intensely curious
—
turned in their direction. This was awful. They could not do this here.
—
Thomas,
she said, standing.
Come with me.
Thomas,
she said, standing.
Come with me.
They moved along a quay that jutted into the lake. The drizzle made a net around her hair, her face. Thomas walked with his shoulders slightly stooped, his hands tucked into the long pockets of his trench coat. He had knotted the belt loosely, one of the ties longer than the other. His shoes had not been polished in some time. It wasn’t poverty that made him so unkempt, she knew; it was merely lack of care. Another’s care or his own.
—
You live in Hull still,
she said.
You live in Hull still,
she said.
—
Yes.
Yes.
—
And how is Rich?
And how is Rich?
—
He’s fine. He’s married now, with two boys. He married a doctor, as it happened. The boys are great.
He’s fine. He’s married now, with two boys. He married a doctor, as it happened. The boys are great.
She could not imagine how Thomas managed to play with other people’s children, or even to talk to them. Would the ache be constant? Would there be an hour, five hours together, when one simply
—
and blessedly
—
forgot?
—
and blessedly
—
forgot?
—
I see your aunt occasionally,
Thomas said.
She always tries to pretend she doesn’t know me.
I see your aunt occasionally,
Thomas said.
She always tries to pretend she doesn’t know me.
—
Can you blame her?
Can you blame her?
—
No, of course not. I hardly blame anyone now except myself. I suppose this is progress.
No, of course not. I hardly blame anyone now except myself. I suppose this is progress.
The wind was raw against the open neck of her blouse. She clutched the lapels of her raincoat.
I won’t ask about your wife,
she said.
Though I would like to.
I won’t ask about your wife,
she said.
Though I would like to.
—
You mean Jean?
You mean Jean?
She nodded, knowing they couldn’t speak yet of Regina. Possibly not ever.
—
Oh, I can talk about Jean.
He seemed to have recovered from his tremulousness in the restaurant. Linda imagined that grief might show itself in a random pattern: some moments would be unbearable; others would be merely bits and pieces of a bad story.
I don’t blame her,
he added.
I said that. She was a good woman. Well, still is, I suppose.
Oh, I can talk about Jean.
He seemed to have recovered from his tremulousness in the restaurant. Linda imagined that grief might show itself in a random pattern: some moments would be unbearable; others would be merely bits and pieces of a bad story.
I don’t blame her,
he added.
I said that. She was a good woman. Well, still is, I suppose.
—
You don’t see her?
You don’t see her?
—
Oh, God, no. I don’t think either one of us could bear it. After a year or so, she moved inland, to Indianapolis, where she was originally from. It’s safer there, I imagine. No possibility of ocean. I assume she’s still alone. Yes, I know she is. She writes occasionally to Rich.
Oh, God, no. I don’t think either one of us could bear it. After a year or so, she moved inland, to Indianapolis, where she was originally from. It’s safer there, I imagine. No possibility of ocean. I assume she’s still alone. Yes, I know she is. She writes occasionally to Rich.
And why did Thomas continue to torture himself with ocean? she might have asked.
They had walked to what appeared to be an industrial park. She remembered a Christmas Day, years ago, when she and Thomas had strolled empty streets in Boston, the only persons in a deserted universe. But then she had a troubling thought: though she could remember the day
—
the sense of endless time available to them, the promise of possibility around every corner, the clarity of the air
—
she could not feel it. And she found that she minded this inability to feel the past. It was disturbing, really, to be so removed from the texture of one’s life.
—
the sense of endless time available to them, the promise of possibility around every corner, the clarity of the air
—
she could not feel it. And she found that she minded this inability to feel the past. It was disturbing, really, to be so removed from the texture of one’s life.
Her skirt moved as they walked. She was ruining her shoes. Beside her, she could feel Thomas’s heat, even in the inhospitable chill. There was, about her shoulders, a contraction of self-consciousness. His physical presence was familiar to her, and yet foreign as well. All his cells were different now, overturned three times.
—
Do you teach?
he asked.
Do you teach?
he asked.
—
I do.
She named the college.
Part-time. My husband died two years ago and left insurance money.
I do.
She named the college.
Part-time. My husband died two years ago and left insurance money.
—
I didn’t know. I’m sorry.
He who would know better than any man how useless sorry was.
Was it a long illness?
I didn’t know. I’m sorry.
He who would know better than any man how useless sorry was.
Was it a long illness?
—
No. It was very sudden.
No. It was very sudden.
Beside her, Thomas seemed to lope rather than to walk.
—
I started touring more aggressively after he died,
she said.
I found I didn’t think about Vincent as much in hotel rooms.
I started touring more aggressively after he died,
she said.
I found I didn’t think about Vincent as much in hotel rooms.
They had reached a bench. He gestured for her to sit. She had her hands in the pockets of her coat and gathered them forward into her lap. The weekend lay before her, more defined than it had been just hours earlier. A year from now, she knew, she might be thinking, That was the weekend that I. . . . It was momentous after all, their having met after years apart. Momentous simply in this exchange of history, in the verification of one’s past. Thoughts of something larger were impossible; they ran against the grain these days, against the tide.
—
Was your marriage good?
he asked.
Was your marriage good?
he asked.
No one ever asked her these sorts of questions anymore. There was, undeniably, a kind of exhilaration in having to answer them.
—
I think it was a wonderful marriage.
She knew nothing of Thomas’s second marriage, to the woman named Jean, only of its unspeakable demise and aftermath.
We had a lot of joy together. I remember thinking that when Vincent died: ‘We had a lot of joy.’ And very little unhappiness.
I think it was a wonderful marriage.
She knew nothing of Thomas’s second marriage, to the woman named Jean, only of its unspeakable demise and aftermath.
We had a lot of joy together. I remember thinking that when Vincent died: ‘We had a lot of joy.’ And very little unhappiness.
—
I’m glad.
I’m glad.
—
But no one gets through life unscathed,
she said. And she wondered: was that true? Did anyone, at fifty-two, have an unscathed life?
Vincent never seemed to suffer, and I found that contagious. Life was more normal, less fraught than it had been.
But no one gets through life unscathed,
she said. And she wondered: was that true? Did anyone, at fifty-two, have an unscathed life?
Vincent never seemed to suffer, and I found that contagious. Life was more normal, less fraught than it had been.
Other books
The Vandemark Mummy by Cynthia Voigt
Lead the Way by Prince, K.L.
Act of Mercy by Peter Tremayne
Weekend by Christopher Pike
The Strange Attractor by Cory, Desmond
It Happened One Night by Marsden, Scarlet
Back From the Dead by Rolf Nelson
Fires of Delight by Vanessa Royall
Seductive Chaos (Bad Rep #3) by A. Meredith Walters
The Outcast by Jolina Petersheim