“I am; a little bit.” She leaned her head on his shoulder as they finished climbing the stairs. “Relief, I think. It’s been a rough few days.”
“I know.” He squeezed her.
As they entered the bedroom, David noticed how vague her expression was becoming. “You sure you’re all right?” he asked.
“Sure.” She patted his cheek. “It’s just reaction. And that walk. I kept on going as if there was no tomorrow. I shouldn’t have gotten up so early.”
“Poor baby.” David led her to the bed. “Here; sit. I’ll do the packing.”
She made no objection, sinking to the mattress with a groan. “Oh,” she murmured. She smiled at him. “I feel a little weak, old boy.”
“What did you eat this morning?”
“An oatmeal cookie.”
“Ellen Audrey.” Bending, he kissed the top of her head. “As soon as we’re out of here, we’re going to stop at a restaurant and get you a nice, big, heavily caloric meal.”
“I’m not really hungry.” Ellen sighed. “Just a little tired.” She started to rise but David held her back. “I’ll pack,” he said.
“I don’t want you to have to do it all.”
“There’s not that much to do. Here.” Kneeling, he removed her shoes, then, standing again, lifted her legs and swung them toward the bed. She fell on the pillow with a tired grunt. “Feels good,” she said. She reached out and took his hand. “I’ll just rest a little. Then I’ll pack.”
“Don’t worry about it”
“Don’t you do it,” Ellen said. “Here, lie beside me. We’ll pack together in a little while.”
David sat beside her and stroked her hair. “I want to get home with you,” he told her. “We have a passel of years to catch up on.”
“I love you, David.”
He leaned over and kissed her gently. “And I love you,” he said. “Some day I’ll tell you just how much.”
“Tell me now!”
“No, no. It would turn your head.”
Ellen’s smile was drowsy. “I could use a little head turning.”
He ran a finger down the bridge of her nose. “Let’s just say I couldn’t cut the ice without you.”
“Sure you could.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t. Really.” He kissed her again. “Take a little rest now,” he said. “I’ll pack and then we’ll go.”
“All right” She stroked his cheek. “It’ll be nice to get home.” She yawned. “We’d better call Mark.”
“We’ll phone him from the airport.” He grinned. “Give him a chance to get his women out of the house.”
She smiled. “That’s awful,” she murmured.
“You rest now.” He patted her cheek.
Ellen reached across her shoulder to touch one of the five X’s on the headboard. “Wonder who made them,” she murmured.
“Don’t know, love.” Standing, David crossed to the closet and opened the door. He pulled both suitcases off the shelf and turned back. “I imagine there’s a flight about six or seven we can—”
He stopped and, putting the two suitcases on top of the bureau, moved back to the bed. Ellen was already asleep. He smiled at her. An angel, he thought. She really was. He shuddered at the thought that he’d almost left her. How could he have been so blind?
With care, he drew the comforter across her. She didn’t stir. Poor kid, he thought. She must have been physically and mentally exhausted by all this. He’d make it up to her.
Smiling, he turned and walked to the bureau. Setting one of the suitcases on the floor, he opened the other on top of the bureau and began to pack in Ellen’s belongings. Little Ellen Audrey, he thought. He patted her clothes as he put them in the suitcase. She was good for him. It was appalling to consider that he might have left her for Marianna. What a nightmare that would have been.
“Amen,” he muttered.
The room was silent except for the rustling of clothes being packed; even the pounding of the surf seemed distant and muffled. David began to think about his flash of “exaltation” and what bizarre chemistry might have brought it about. Now that it was past, it was simpler to discredit. Not that it hadn’t been electrifying; moments he would not have missed for anything. But that it had occurred within the realm of inspiration was more than improbable. He was David Cooper, TV hack, not some heaven-bent mystic.
What had, likely, hit him was a rush of gratified response at making up with Ellen. After all, they’d been in serious marital trouble for a long time. Add Julia to that. Add, to that, his liaison with Marianna in this very house, his consequent guilt and depression. Small wonder that, in making peace with Ellen so unexpectedly, he felt illumined by a burst of inner light, uplifted by the purging of that heavy guilt, the overbearing depression.
Not that he felt white-washed. Still, he definitely did feel as if a burden had been taken from him. So much so that perceptions of every kind seemed to be occurring to him where, before, there had been nothing but indifference.
Why was it, for instance, that, except on rare occasions in the past few years, he’d been unable to express, in physical terms, his love for Ellen? In their early years, there had existed, in their lovemaking, an atmosphere of romantic tenderness. True, it may have been delusive but both of them had believed in it.
Then it had faded. It had faded for other couples too, of course; reality was always cruel to dreamlike sentiment. In their case, though, the fading had resulted, not in usual boredom, but in a division of rapport. Their mental relationship had continued soundly, he liked Ellen, enjoyed her company, was proud to be her husband.
On the other hand, their physical relationship had begun to drift, separating from the basic substance of their marriage until it was virtually a relationship in itself. An unregenerative relationship, however, not viable enough to grow or ripen. A relationship in which—to keep it artificially alive—he had created constant, re-kindling stimulations. In time, that relationship had become, for him, rather than an overall fulfillment, a search for erotic variations.
He had sensed this many times but, fighting back, had managed to convince himself that this was sexual emancipation, adult and unconstrained. That the search had grown more intemperate by the year had only made him more defensive, more stubbornly determined that the search was justified.
No wonder, then, that Marianna had attracted him, being nothing less than the ultimate objective of this search: an exotic wanton who expected no emotional responsibility, who wanted and encouraged only self-indulgence. David shook his head. And he had been her instant and compliant partner.
Why?
Perhaps, because he hadn’t lost the ability to express love in physical terms, but, rather, had never possessed it at all. Was that surprising really? His parents had separated when he was ten. An only child, he had been raised with intense protectiveness by his mother. She’d been devoted to him, yes, but, because his father had repelled her and because she was timid and withdrawn, she’d seen fit to make of sex, a shunned topic: shunned, he had sensed as a boy, because it was too vulgar and distasteful for her to examine—therefore, because he identified with her, too vulgar and distasteful for him to examine either. A secret a taboo. She’d been affectionate and loving, but never with the slightest hint they were male and female. The schism was complete. On one side there was love, direct and clean. On the other side there was sex, devious and, by implication, dirty. He had grown to manhood never appreciating that the two should be one. Now, after all this time, he had to form connective tissue between them, for he knew that one without the other was inadequate and empty. Sex had to be more than the coupling of unrelated animals. It had to be the ultimate exchange of love between a man and a woman.
He blinked to find himself staring at his reflection in the bureau mirror. Now which way? he asked the somber visaged man before him.
“Forward, I hope,” he murmured.
Hurriedly, he finished packing. The suitcases filled and shut
he set them by the door and returned to the bed. Ellen was sound asleep, her breathing deep and regular. He wanted to wake her and start for home but didn’t have the heart. She looked so peaceful. He’d let her rest a while; she needed it.
He sat on the rocking chair and checked his watch. Almost four-thirty. He blew out fretful breath. Already, the light was fading. Maybe he should wake her after all. Allowing an hour to an hour and a half for the drive to the airport plus time for a restaurant stop didn’t give them much leeway. As he recalled, there was a flight for Los Angeles around seven. It was unlikely they could make it unless he woke her now.
Oh, well. He shrugged. What were a few hours more or less? There was probably a late flight. The main thing was that they were going home. He relaxed and looked at Ellen’s face. I love you very much, he thought. How marvelous that he should feel this way after all these years. It made his first infatuation for her seem childish and incognizant. This was based on knowledge, that on self-gratifying reverie.
He closed his eyes and listened to the muted booming of the surf. That I can do without for a long time, he thought. He considered, briefly, getting up to load the car, taking everything out of the house except Ellen and himself. He yawned. It could wait until she woke up. He smiled to himself. Mark would be surprised to see them; Linda too. Wonder if it’s going to be a boy or a girl, he thought. Grandpa Dave, that lovable old coot. He made an amused sound. Him a grandfather. How ridiculous. He felt too young. He was going home with his child bride. Start out fresh. Years ahead of them. Joy. Contentment. Ellen. Home. Tonight.
Jerking up his head, he stared into the darkness. What the hell—?
He looked around, appalled, then raised his left arm which had gone to sleep, pinned between his body and the chair arm. Blinking hard, he focused on the hands of his watch. It was nine twenty-one. He groaned. “Oh, Christ” Standing with a crackle of bones, he felt his way to the nearest bedside table and turned on the lamp.
Ellen was still asleep, lying in the same position. David reached down to wake her, then withdrew his hand. He’d load the car first, straighten up the house; let her sleep until the last possible moment. Turning, he walked to the suitcases. There he hesitated, wondering if they ought to leave in the morning instead. Surely, there would be no flight available by the time they reached the airport.
No damn it, they were leaving now. If there wasn’t a flight until morning, they’d rent a room near the airport. The way he felt, he was prepared to sit all night in the waiting room if he had to. Picking up the suitcases, he moved into the hall, set one of them down long enough to switch on the overhead light, then picked it up again and started downstairs.
Crossing the living room, he opened the front door and carried the luggage outside. The air was still and cold; well below freezing, he estimated. His breath steamed whitely as he unlocked the car trunk and loaded in the suitcases. The slam of the lid as he closed it sounded loud and sharp.
Shivering, he hurried back into the house and turned on one of the living room lamps. As he moved about the room in search of their belongings, he began to realize how hungry he was; not that it was strange, considering how little he’d eaten in the past few days. He picked up sweaters, jackets, some oatmeal cookies. Eating one of them, he carried everything to the door and dumped it on the floor. He’d make a pile and carry it all to the car later.
As quickly as he could, he moved around the room again, emptying ashtrays into the fireplace, straightening furniture and cushions, laying the bulk of the Times on the raised hearth; let some future tenant use it to ignite some future fire. It made him feel strange to realize that other men would probably stay here, encounter Marianna and become involved with her. He shook himself. So what? It wasn’t his concern anymore. He looked around. The room was in order now. That left the kitchen, the bathroom and bedroom.
Moving into the kitchen, he switched on the light and picked up the carton they’d been using for rubbish. He carried it into the living room, emptied the trash inside the fireplace and lit it. Returning to the kitchen, he set the carton on the table and began to load it with remaining groceries. We really should leave them, he thought. Certainly, they couldn’t take them on the plane. Still, there might not be another tenant for a long time; they couldn’t very well leave it to rot. He cleaned out the refrigerator and cupboard, his stomach growling at the sight of food. If only there was time to fry himself some eggs, make some toast and coffee.
He closed his mind to the thought. Ellen was hungry too; he’d wait until they reached a restaurant. The atmosphere there would be more conducive to dining anyway. He pulled out the refrigerator plug, removed the ice trays and put them in the sink.
“Oh, nuts.” There were dishes to be washed; he stared at them in aggravation. Sighing, then, he twisted the drain cup into place and began to run hot water, adding a capful of liquid soap. He stared at the foaming surface until it covered the dishes, then turning off the faucet washed and rinsed the dishes, propping them in the rack.
Drying his hands, he turned to the table and took a chocolate cookie from its bag inside the carton. He looked around the kitchen. Good enough, he thought. He grunted in somber amusement as a thought occured to him. All those arguments his mother and father had avoided when he’d entered all those kitchens in the past; all the arguments his mother had not permitted him to have with her. He’d hated those evasions bitterly and, yet, he’d done the very same thing to Ellen—avoided arguments in order to maintain an atmosphere of peace, however fraudulent He shook his head. Things rub off, he thought; even the things you despise.
He lifted the carton and moved to the doorway, turned to run a final gaze around the room. It was tidy, clean. Goodbye, kitchen, he thought. He remembered the first moment they’d entered it; it had been like an icebox. By tomorrow afternoon, the heat turned off, it would be the same. Flicking down the light switch with his left elbow, he backed through the doorway, carried the carton to the front door and set it down.
As he headed for the stairs, he noticed the two coffee mugs on the dining alcove table and, groaning, changed direction, picked them up and carried them into the kitchen, setting them in the sink. Wash ‘em yourself, he thought.
Ellen didn’t stir as he sat beside her on the bed. “Honey?” He put his hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. She failed to respond and he shook her harder. “Ellen?”
She moaned a little, turning her head on the pillow.
“Come on, honey.” He shook her again. “Time to go home.”
She mumbled something that he couldn’t make out; then she was asleep again. David grimaced. “Ellen?” He patted her cheek. “Come on. It’s time to go.”
She rolled onto her side, her back to him. He waited a few seconds, then turned her onto her back again. “Wake up, my dear, my darling.”
Ellen’s eyelids fluttered, opening part-way. She peered at him groggily.
“It’s time to go.”
She grunted, stared. After several moments, her eyelids fell shut again.
“Ellen?”
She opened her eyes.
“Don’t you want to go?”
“Time’s’t?”
He checked his watch. “Almost ten.”
She grunted. “Late.”
“I know it’s late. That’s why we have—to”
He broke off, astonished. Her eyes were closed again.
“Ellen?”
“Tired.” She twisted onto her side again.
He stared at her in silence. For a moment, he had the uneasy feeling that they weren’t going to leave until Thursday after all; that he was going to see Marianna again, that every gain would be lost. Frightened, he reached out to shake her violently, then drew his hand back. Actually, it made no sense to leave now. She was, obviously, exhausted. He should let her get a good night’s sleep before they left.
He clucked. He’d let her sleep, wake her up at dawn. That way they’d be in Los Angeles by late tomorrow morning; early afterno
on at the most.
He watched her for a while, then decided that he may as well go down and fry himself some eggs. Standing, he turned out the lamp and moved into the hall. He took their toilet articles from the bathroom and trudged down the stairs. The edge was off their departure, that was certain. Leaving in the morning would be an anti-climax.
He put the toilet articles on the pile of clothes, carried the carton of food back into the kitchen, and turned on the light. He frowned at the thought of reusing the frying pan, a dish and mug, silverware, a spatula, the coffee pot. He’d make himself a sandwich.
Sitting at the table, he took two slices of wheat bread from their package and searched the carton for something to put between them. As he did, his hand closed over the neck of the martini-mix bottle. Good idea, he thought. He took it out, began standing to get a glass, then sat again. “Oh, no you don’t” He’d drink from the bottle. By God, he’d even spread the margarine with his finger so he wouldn’t have to wash a knife. He smiled as he unscrewed the top of the bottle and took a sip.
It hit his stomach with a jolt. “Yow!” He clenched his teeth and, hissing, set the bottle down. He looked in the carton again and found some cheese. Picking up the bottle he took another sip. That was better. Already, the warmth of the first sip was diffusing through his stomach and lower chest. “Stoke the furnace, man.” He took another sip, a longer one.
Blinking, he put a slice of cheese between the two pieces of bread; he wouldn’t even use margarine; save his finger. He took a bite of the sandwich. It tasted dry and made him cough; he took a drink of martini to wash it down. Here comes the numbness, hurrah, hurrah! His mind sang the words to the tune of a song he’d known in grade school: Here Comes the Milkman. He closed his eyes and felt the anaesthesia radiating through his body and head. By God, martinis were good, their language international. Gentlemen of the General Council, he addressed them, I hereby nominate the martini as United Nations Cocktail. Make it official and I guarantee you universal peace in twenty-four hours.