Without further warning, the woman fell to her knees on the dusty, threadbare carpet, held out her hands. Roger knelt in front of her, took her hands, ice-cold hands that seized his in a death grip.
“Dear Lord,” said Roger, “please hear this prayer for our beloved Whitey-”
“Donald, if you don’t mind,” the woman interrupted.
“-for our beloved Donald, and help guide him in useful ways. Amen.”
Dot toppled forward on him, sobbing. “Sweet, sweet Jesus, what a beautiful prayer.” Her tears wet the side of Roger’s face, ran down his neck; he cringed. “So perfect,” said Dot, her mouth moving against his shoulder. “‘ Guide him in useful ways. ’That’s all Donald needs, all he’s needed his whole goddamn life.” She clung to Roger. “You’re a preacher, you must be. Praise the Lord.” She raised her hands, felt his face with her fingertips. Roger flashed forward to a little scene of Dot Truax doing it again, only this time with him seated in a witness box and a jury watching. He glanced at her scrawny neck, doubtless easy to snap, but that wasn’t him, wasn’t smart.
“A preacher,” the old woman breathed, fingertips still on his face. At the same time, Harry rubbed up against the side of his leg. Roger’s skin crawled.
13
Francie, in her office, checked out slides of rain paintings submitted by a new artist. Not paintings of rain but paintings made by rain falling on fast-drying color fields of thick pigment. A gimmick perhaps, and making a statement that had been made many times, but the paintings themselves were strangely beautiful, especially the two deep, roiling blues, Madagascar and Untitled 4; they reminded her of the primeval soup that all earthly life was supposed to have come from. She was reaching for her loupe to take a better look when her phone rang.
“Hi.” It was Ned. “What are you doing this second?”
“Looking at rain paintings.” Her heart beat faster right away.
“I thought it would be something like that,” he said. There was a silence. “I really just wanted to hear your voice.”
The rain paintings, her office, her job, all shrank to insignificance.
“I’m at the studio, but I can’t work at all today,” Ned said. “Does that ever happen where you are?”
“Yes.”
Another silence, thick with tension like that of desire, at least in her mind, and then: “I keep thinking about you-something you did once, in particular.”
“What?”
He lowered his voice. “Something you did to me. We did together. At the cottage.”
In his mind, too. Francie’s heart beat faster still. “What was it?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Stop teasing me.”
He laughed. “Say you love me. Then I’ll tell.”
“You know I do.”
“But say it.”
“I love you,” Francie said.
The door opened and Roger walked in. Francie felt the blood draining from her face as though a plug had popped out the bottom of her heart. Had he heard? For a moment, he stood very still at the door, his eyes on her-a very brief moment. Then he was raising his hand and fluttering his fingers in a delicate little greeting that wasn’t him at all. At the same time, Ned was saying, “I dream about it sometimes. Don’t you remember the first time you ever-”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Francie said.
“Someone’s there?” said Ned.
“As soon as I see the report,” Francie said. Roger was walking around the office, examining things with interest. “Talk to you then.”
“I hope they didn’t-”
She hung up.
“Some big mover and shaker?” said Roger, sitting in one of the chairs opposite her desk.
“What?”
He nodded to the phone. “In the art world.”
“No,” said Francie. “What brings you here?”
“Can’t hubby pay a visit to wifey’s workplace?”
But why now? It had never happened before. She looked at him closely, trying and failing to penetrate the facetiousness, the big smile, to discover if he had indeed heard anything as he came in the door. All at once the lying, the subterfuge, and maybe most of all her talent for it, made her sick. She rose, almost stumbling, mumbled something about the bathroom, hurried out.
In the cubicle, Francie stood over the toilet for a few moments. Her nausea ebbed. She went to the sink, splashed cold water on her face. A pale face, she saw in the mirror, and the eyes troubled. Yes, she hated the lying, but she wanted love-was that too much to ask? And even if she didn’t, it was too late. She was in love, close to the kind of love the poets wrote of, love that took away hunger, that focused the mind, waking and sleeping, on the loved one; a kind of love that turned out to be not just a literary conceit but real, after all.
Francie returned to her office. Roger was standing by the desk, talking on the phone. “Oh, here she is,” he said. “Nice talking to you, too. I’m sure we will.” He handed Francie the phone.
“Hello?” she said.
“Francie? Anne here. They want to reschedule our match for tomorrow, same time.”
“No problem.”
“Great,” said Anne. “I think I just met your husband.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t catch his name.”
“Roger,” said Francie, looking at him. He smiled.
“He sounds so nice.”
“Remember Bob Fielding?” asked Roger, gazing out the window of Francie’s office. “And you’ve got a view.”
“No,” said Francie.
“Sure you do. Used to be with Means, Odden. Now he’s running his own place in Fort Lauderdale.”
Francie had a vague memory of whiskey breath and air kisses that always managed to land. “Maybe I do.”
“You must. Can’t forget a character like Bob Fielding. The fact is, he’s doing very well. And there just might be something appropriate for me down there.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Roger said. “My flight leaves in a couple hours, if you don’t mind giving me a ride to the airport.”
Francie drove him to the airport. He seemed happier these days, indeed almost happy; it had been years. She caught a glimpse of a civilized end: Roger working in Fort Lauderdale; she, in Boston-he would never expect her to leave her job; Em reaching the age where Ned would consider divorce.
Francie dropped Roger in front of the terminal. “Good luck,” she called through the open window as he walked away, garment bag over his shoulder, briefcase in hand. An affecting figure, she thought at that moment, even brave, and she felt a sick little stab beneath her heart.
Roger turned. “Luck is not a factor,” he said. A gust of wind caught the skirts of his open trench coat and raised them behind him like wings.
Roger’s first flight-discounting babe-in-arms vacations to the Caribbean, London, Paris-his first conscious flight had been from Logan to Palm Beach at the age of six. Some of the excitement of that day, long worn away by the tedium and annoyance of countless flights since, returned to him now as he sat in a window seat and watched the earth recede. He ordered a Scotch, but just one, and came very close to talking to his neighbor.
