The Black Room: The Deleted Door Page 6

  “If only I could have found you first,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “If I’d met you first, back in ’46? God, how different would things be?”

  I shake my head, shrug my shoulders; I don’t know. I don’t know.

  I wish I did.

  **

  He sleeps.

  I do not, I cannot.

  When his hands fall away, slack, and his breathing becomes slow and even, I carefully crawl off him. I consider the shower but opt, instead, for the ocean. I don’t bother with clothing or a towel, walking naked to the water’s edge, stepping from faded, smooth-worn board to board, then onto the sand. Dune grass tickles my thigh as I skirt between the dunes, and then hot sand squinches between my toes. Cool water laps at my arches, at my heels, up to my ankles, then recedes.

  A gull caws, wheeling overhead.

  A sandpiper flutters to the damp sand, darting and fluttering.

  Wind soughs, tossing my hair out behind me in a long stream.

  I wade into the water up to my knees, and then leap forward, diving in. I splash beneath the curling, white-foaming waves, kick hard and pull with my hands and arms against the current. Surfacing a few feet away, I stand up, water streaming down my face and between my breasts.

  For a long, blessed time, I am alone. I swim far out to sea, tiring myself, and then swim back slowly, deliciously tired, wonderfully sore.

  The sun is setting, but darkness has not yet fallen entirely. The world is stained blue deepening into purple.

  I return to shore, wringing out my hair. Stars, the brightest of them, have begun to prick the sky. I traipse naked and wet back up between the dunes, back up the old, makeshift steps.

  And then my heart clenches and begins to pound.

  The porch of the cabin is deep, painted a chipped, fading white. Suspended from the roof of the porch by a pair of chains is a bench swing, also faded and chipped white, the seat worn smooth. Sitting on that swing is a person. A woman. It is too dark to see much, now, but I know her hair is red. True red, a deep, vibrant ginger, offset by pale, freckled skin, flawless in complexion. The freckles only make her more beautiful, somehow.

  I climb warily up the steps; my instinct is to cross my arm over my breasts, and pivot to face away from her, hiding my nakedness. I do not. I pretend a confidence in my nudity that I do not entirely feel.

  The front door is still open wide, and I can see through the house into the bedroom; he is still asleep, turned on his side, still naked, the flat sheet now bunched around his calves. On the floor near the door, where he tossed them, are our clothes. I find my dress, damp from the other wet things, but I shrug into it anyway.

  There is a railing running the perimeter of the porch, and I lean against it, facing her. Waiting for her to speak.

  “I always knew he had this place,” she begins, after a thick pause. “But he never brought me here. He’d come down here on weekends. He needed space to think, to be alone, he would tell me.”

  Another silence. She’s not looking at me, but out to sea.

  “That’s how it started, for me.” Now a glance at me, quick, then back at the rippling waves and shushing surf. “He worked a lot, always has. I could deal with that, as long as he came to me at night, and I had him on the weekends. But then he’d come down here by himself, and…I was lonely. He never brought me down here with him. He needed the time alone. Time alone? I’m—I was his wife, why would he need time alone? I thought it was me. Something I…some failing I had. So I…I found someone who made me feel like…”

  “Like you were important.” I think of my husband, the way he treated me, and I feel a burst of commiseration.

  She nods, running a fingertip along her lower lip. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know.” A glance at him, then at me, then at the cobalt moonlit sea. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “You said you were going to your parents’ in Connecticut.”

  A shrug. “That’s a last resort.”

  Now the silence between us is awkward. How could it not be?

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. Once I calmed down and took a moment to think, I—everything seems different, now.”

  “Are you trying to get him back?”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible, even if you weren’t involved.”

  “But I am.”

  A nod. “You are, yes. Which complicates things all the more.” She pushes at the floor of the porch with her feet, setting the swing into creaking motion. “I just don’t understand how we got here. He and I, I mean. Where he had you, and I had—well, Tony, of course, whom you met, but all the others.”

  “There were more?”

  “My goodness, yes.” She points at her husband, my lover. “You’ve had him—experienced him. You think anyone else will ever measure up?”

  I can’t quite look at her as I answer. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Exactly. I’ve taken several lovers, but it wasn’t ever the same. There have been a few incredibly handsome men, well endowed, attentive to what I wanted, even…but it’s never the same. There’s just something about him. I don’t know what it is. He can be a bastard sometimes—maybe you haven’t encountered that side of him yet—but even when he’s being a bastard, he’s…” she trails off, shrugging, at a loss for words.

  “All-consuming?” I supply.

  She nods. “Exactly. That is it exactly.”

  “It wasn’t easy for him, you know.”

  She frowns at me. “What wasn’t?”

  “With me. He didn’t do it lightly, or easily. I don’t claim to know his motivations, but…he resisted it.”

  “I imagine he would. Out of principle, if nothing else.” A small, bitter laugh. “It really doesn’t make it better, knowing he resisted it, or that it wasn’t easy for him. It makes it worse, if anything.”

  “How so?” I sit on the floor, cross my legs, drape the fabric between my knees.

  “Because for him to compromise himself, to go against his principles, it means it must’ve felt worth it. That you’re worth it. It wasn’t just the allure of…I don’t know, something new, or someone new. He’s not like that. There’s something about you specifically that was worth the guilt. That, or his and my relationship had dissolved more completely than I’d imagined.” A long pause, then a searching look at me. “You said he resisted it. What does that mean?”

  I shift uncomfortably. “It was obvious we wanted each other, but…we didn’t actually have sex. It was…other things. Before he stopped it.”

  “And that’s not true anymore, I assume. You and he have had sex.”

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable—”

  “Oh, come off it. There’s no point being shy, is there? We’ve both had sex with the same man. I’ve cheated on him, you’ve cheated on your husband, and now the two of us are sitting here talking like a pair of girlfriends. What is there to be reticent about, at this point?”

  I sigh; she has a point. “Yes. We have. We have had sex.”

  “What changed him? What finally made him give in?”

  “I think it was seeing you with that man. Knowing you’d…discovering you had been unfaithful first.”

  “Ah. So knowing I’d cheated first drove him over the edge far enough that he brought you, his mistress, to this place, his sacred haven, and fucked you. This place…you don’t understand, I don’t think. This cottage has been in his family for nearly a hundred years. This plot of land, at least. This particular structure was built by his grandfather, who came here himself as a boy.”

  “But you’ve never been here?”

  She shrugs. “It wasn’t a secret, just special. I’m more angry that he brought you here instead of me, than I am about his infidelity. I can’t in good conscious be angry or jealous about that, since I cheated first. But bringing you here? Fucking you here? That hurts more than anything.” A sh
arp look at me. “Did he tell you about his scars? Did he talk about the war with you?”

  Loaded questions, both, I think. Spring-loaded. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t want to answer at all, but if I don’t, she’ll read the truth out of my silence.

  I nod. “Yes. He told me about Bastogne. Not much, but—”

  She shoots to her feet, leaving the swing rocking erratically, the chains rattling. “Jesus fucking Christ. He told you.” She whirls, and for the first time, I see true pain in her eyes, tears. “He fucking told you? God—what—what do you have that I don’t? What’s so fucking special about you?” She paces toward me, then turns abruptly and clomps down the steps in her pumps. Kicks them off, stalks toward the sea.

  I remain seated on the floor of the porch. The wood is still warm under my bottom. A long breeze blows, making the tall dune grass wave at the sea. I close my eyes; feel the breeze and the lingering warmth of the day.

  I hear a floorboard creak. Feel him in the doorway.

  “I heard yelling.” His voice is sleep-muzzy.

  “Your wife is here.” I open my eyes, glance at the doorway.

  He’s naked, erect, staring down at me.

  A groan. “Shit.” I hear the floorboards again, a moment of silence, and then he’s stomping down the steps, buttoning his slacks, not bothering with a shirt.

  I watch him make his way through the dunes down to the sea.

  Exhaustion sweeps over me. I stand up, cross into the bedroom, close the door behind me. Collapse into the bed.

  I’m asleep within seconds.

  __

  “It doesn’t matter.” This is him. I hear his voice beyond the door.

  I’m awake instantly, but don’t rise from the bed.

  “How can you say it doesn’t matter?” Her voice is much quieter than his, but still tense, sharp, angry. “Of course it matters! If we want to make this work—”

  “This doesn’t change anything,” he says, interrupting her. “There’s nothing to make work.”

  “But we just—”

  “And it doesn’t change anything. You can’t change the fact that you’ve slept with—how many did you say it was? Eleven?”

  “Twelve.” Her voice is tiny, insolent.

  “Twelve other men during the span of our marriage.” A cough of disgust. “Twelve. You can’t change that, and I can’t forget it, or forgive it.”

  “And what about her?”

  “Same thing. I can’t change that I’ve been with her. And, honestly, nor do I want to.”

  “Not even if it meant our marriage survived?”

  “Our marriage…god. Was it ever real?” A brief pause. “Don’t answer—that doesn’t matter either. We can’t change anything. And for the record, no. Not even then. Because there’s one other thing I can’t change.”

  “And what’s that?” Her voice is flat, now, uninterested. Sullen.

  “That I feel more for her than I ever did for you.”

  A choked cry, cut off. “You fucking bastard.”

  I stand up, now. Curious. My stomach roils, my heart falling away—either that, or rising up into my throat. The door never latched properly, apparently, because it’s cracked open. I peer through the crack. All I can see is her.

  Wiggling her toes in her shoes. Smoothing her palms down her stomach. Blinking hard against tears.

  “It was real.” She whispers this. “It was real.”

  “When? When was it real?”

  She shakes her head, shrugs. “At the beginning? I loved you. I still love you. I know things are confused right now, but I do. I always have. That never changed. I was lonely…you were always working.”

  “And why do you think that is?” His voice is sharp, cold. “Hmm? Why do you think I chose to stay at the office all day rather than come home to you? Why do you think I spent so much time alone here?”

  “I don’t know!” She stomps her foot in emphasis with the last word. “If I knew, we wouldn’t be doing this.”

  I can feel his silence. It is his silence, too. It belongs to him, somehow.

  “You were shut off. Distant. Whatever love we had, whatever connection we had…it disappeared. Dried up.” He says this reluctantly, as if admitting it, stating it outright makes it more real, or causes him to feel it all over again.

  A cry of frustration. “Because you were always gone. You were the distant one.”

  “So where does it all go back to, then? Where did it start? Since you’re so determined to have this conversation…you tell me where we went wrong. Where we lost each other.”

  I can’t not listen, but I hate this. I hate hearing their pain. Hers, too. It’s no less real, no less excruciating to overhear.

  A long, long silence. This one shared equally.

  Then her voice, broken now. “The…when I lost the—when I miscarried.”

  An inhalation, from him. Shuddering, gutted, let out slowly, shakily. “You changed.” This sounds very much like an accusation.

  “So did you.”

  He doesn’t deny it. More silence. “So we didn’t just lose the baby, we lost each other.”

  “And now here we are.”

  “And now here we are,” he agrees.

  A sniff. “I hate this.”

  Slowly, his voice impossibly deep, rough, raw. “Yeah.”

  I can’t stand here anymore.

  “I don’t belong here,” I say, stepping out into the living room.

  He won’t look at me, neither will she.

  My throat constricts. Words rise up in my gorge, fade, and die. There’s nothing I can say. There’s nothing to say. He was never mine, and I knew it.

  She’s on one side of the room, he’s on the other, and so I have to pass between them to get to the rest of my things. I keep my eyes to myself, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. I all but run across the room to my little pile of undergarments. Tug on my panties, step into my shoes, slide my purse over my shoulder, and clutch my bra in my hands. The front door is still wide open; it’s dawn, just barely.

  No one speaks, but I can feel both of their gazes on me as I step across the threshold, onto the porch. Down the steps to the sand. The air is cool, now, but the day will warm up quickly. The sea is silver, rippling under the gray haze of dawn, with a sliver of orange just beginning to mark the eastern horizon. Dune grass waves, the surf crashes, a gull caws. Sounds of the seaside; sounds of peace.

  I close my eyes and listen. Feel the breeze on my face, ruffling my hair, curling over my skin. Tugging my dress between my knees.

  “Where are you going?” His voice calls from the porch.

  I sigh. Do not turn. If I look at him, I’ll waver. “I don’t know.”

  “Listen, I—”

  “Don’t.” I cut him off, sounding a little sharper, a little more brusque than I intended. “She was right, back at the hotel. I could never steal you from her. I never meant to. We just got carried away, I guess. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What happened with me and her just now was—”

  “None of my business. It was you and your wife. She’s your wife. And I’m—I was never even your mistress. Just…a distraction.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  I shake my head, and the wind flips a lock of my hair across my eyes. “No.”

  “You could be. Should have been.”

  “Stop, okay? Just…stop.”

  A long silence. Finally, I can’t help it. I turn and look at him. Tall, broad, a scarred, hard-muscled warrior. A man from a different time, it seems, standing there shirtless, hair loose and wild around his shoulders, thick and black and tangled, his beard wind-ruffled, his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. He’s carved out of marble, motionless, arms crossed over his chest.

  He uncrosses his arms. Reaches for me. “Don’t leave.”

  I back away from him. Shake my head. “I have to go.”

  Somehow, I just do it. I know it. I feel it. I’m pulled inexorably away.
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  Behind the cottage is a dirt track, the road leading away. The cottage is surrounded by a thick stand of huge, swaying palm trees and dense, flowering bushes, providing a living, natural fence between the road and the private beach beyond. The only access to the road is through a white wicker archway positioned between the trunks of two palms. Within the archway is a door, a white door. Simple slats of white wood with cross-braces at top and bottom, and a simple latch; grass and trees and the tan dust of the road are visible between the slats.

  I take another step toward the archway.

  And a second.

  And then, with an act of will, I close my eyes, grasp the latch in my hand. It’s cold, so cold. So cold.

  I see him, feel him. His his hands on me. Stripping me. Caressing me. Laying me in the bed, kissing my skin. Moving in me, showing me with his body what he cannot seem to express with his words.

  I shudder. I want that back. Those few, brief, fragile moments of belonging. Of mattering. Of being cherished, treasured, wanted. Those few moments of hope.

  I dare not turn, dare not look into his molten brown gaze, dare not allow myself to subsume to his tidal pull upon me.

  I let out a shaky breath, and depress the latch.

  I want to lean back against the solid wall of his chest, feel him breathing. His palms finding mine, and then laying his hands on my belly. I want to feel his breath on my shoulder. My neck. My jaw.

  My heart pounds like tympani.

  I want to feel his breath on my cheek, taste it on my tongue.

  I open my eyes, and turn to look into his. Turmoil. Conflict. Pain. Resignation. Knowledge of farewell.

  Even so, my lips touch his. Graze, brush, slide like a whisper in the darkness.

  I push the door open, tearing myself away from him.

  The threshold is before me, and he is behind me. There is no in between, no waiting, no putting it off. My feet obey some unheard command, a pulling, a pushing.

  I step through, and his hands fall away, his heat diminishes, his presence is occluded by darkness and cold and then