The only other light was under the huge oil painting on the wall, across from the bed. Nevada and Cali. Although they were dressed seventies style—Nevada in a plaid shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers, Cali barefoot in a long, flowered dress, her hair spilling past her shoulders—their side-by-side, face-front pose had a formal air. He had one arm around her, the other hand holding up a white rose. She wore no jewelry. Her hands were folded serenely, below her waist. Nevada looked solemn and proud, and she did too, except for the slight trickle of blood from one nostril.
There it was, without explanation. And there I was, with what had happened just as quirky and mystifying.
I lay there remembering how gentle we’d been, how unhurried and calm it had seemed, as though we were floating through some lazy dream that left only this sweet, peaceful feeling.
I smiled, realizing I’d done something I’d never expected I would do, something I’d always imagined I couldn’t do.
Then I felt her kick the sheet away.
“Plato, go!” Her voice was angry.
She sat up.
“You go too!” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter?” She got up, grabbed the silk coverlet, and flung it around her like a toga. “What do you think’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t. I sat up.
“You’re not gay! You call yourself that?” Her eyes were blazing. “You’re a lamp in wolf’s clothing!”
“A lamb, a sheep,” I murmured. “I’m not a light.”
“Go home, Lang!”
“It’s still the middle of the night. You said you didn’t want to be alone.”
“I do now!”
I was on my feet, reaching for my clothes.
She said, “I asked you to hold me for a little while!”
“I did.”
“You did more!”
“So did you. We both got carried away, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
“You didn’t let me, remember?”
I scrambled across the room to get my socks and found just one. I mumbled, “I didn’t force you.”
“No, you didn’t have to, did you?” Her eyes had fire in them. “The other one’s under the chair!”
I stuffed my socks into the pockets of my pants.
Socrates was asleep on the floor, my blazer under him.
Plato was back up on the bed, sitting on the pillow, one paw bandaged.
“This didn’t happen!” she said.
I stuck my feet into my loafers. “If it didn’t happen, why are you so mad?”
She pulled the coverlet around her and glared at me.
She said, “You’re like all of them! I thought you were different.”
“I thought I was too.” I jerked my blazer away from Socrates. I could see the eyes of Aristotle peering out from under the bed.
“I’ll never believe anything you say again!” she said. “Not ever!”
“I didn’t start it. You did.”
She shouted, “I was a wreck!”
“Some wreck,” I murmured. “What did you think you were doing? How do you think I felt? I felt—”
She cut me off. “Don’t start any sweet talk! Save it for Alex!”
I had my blazer on.
“I’m sorry you feel this way,” I said. “I don’t.”
She laughed scornfully. “Oh, you don’t? Of course you don’t! And you think that gets you off the hoof!”
I let that one go, but she had another one ready: “You’re this big operation, aren’t you?”
“Operator,” I said. “And that’s the last thing I am!”
I went out into the hall, Plato limping toward the stairs with me.
She came as far as the banister to shout: “You want to know the first thing you are, Lang? You’re a liar!”
I walked through the living room with the three sofas, two settees, ten chairs, six benches, and four potted trees.
From the wall Nevada scowled down at me.
I let myself out and stood a moment on the steps, brushing the dog hair off my jacket, glancing at the luminous hands of my Timex. Four A.M.
As I went down the zigzag path, in the fog, I thought of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ old song “Aeroplane.” Of Anthony Kiedis singing about having your pleasure spiked with pain. A few times I stumbled and fell, tears just behind my eyes, her words still burning in my ears.
When I got closer to the cottage, I saw that my mother had left the light on for me.
THIRTY-THREE
I FLEW TO THE Cape in one of those small planes that never go very high. From my window I could see Long Island disappear, and I wished I could also leave behind the memory of creeping down the path from Roundelay early that morning, like some thief caught red-handed, her angry voice accusing me.
I couldn’t forgive Huguette for blaming all of it on me, for not admitting that she’d started it and never tried to stop me. At the same time, my bitterness was mixed with amazement. I knew I would probably never make love that way again. In my mind’s eye I saw myself with her there in that moonlit room, both of us suddenly surprised by our own bodies.
It reminded me of dreams I had where I could fly just by waving my arms, how astonished I was that I could do it, how easy it was and strangely graceful.
If she’d only been able to accept what had happened without blame and accusations. If, for once, she’d not become that fiery fighter, forever defending her turf…. But then she wouldn’t have been Huguette. And I would probably have found myself forced to wonder where we would go from there, what would be next for us.
She knew there wasn’t any next.
Alex was waiting for me when I arrived at the small airport. He ran toward me, grinning and waving, hugging me hard.
“Am I glad to see you!” he said.
“Me too!”
I’d never been so glad to see anyone.
One thing I could always count on with Alex, after we’d been away from each other for a while, was that
