Indiscretion Page 11

  “I don’t know. It’s not that easy. Maddy . . .” It is the first time he has mentioned her name. “She’s expecting me.”

  She sighs. “I know.”

  Neither of them says anything.

  “When can you come back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if you said you had to check on something out at the house?”

  “We have a caretaker. He’d call if there was a problem.”

  She turns away from him. “So, you’re leaving. And I can’t do anything to get you to stay?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He puts his hand on her back.

  “What are we going to do?” Her voice wavers. “Is this it? I get you for a few days, and then everything goes back to the way it had been?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She turns back to him. “I know you don’t know,” she says. “Neither of us does. But things are different now. You know it, and I know it. I am not trying to ruin your marriage. I want you to understand that. I love Maddy. But I love you more. And I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you, of not holding you.”

  “What reason would I give? I need a reason.”

  “You need more of a reason than a girl who wants to fuck your brains out?” she says, laughing.

  “That’s a pretty good reason.” He smiles, kissing her gently on the shoulder.

  “Will you do it?”

  “I’ll see. I’ll check with the travel people.”

  “I’ll tell my office I’m sick.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “I’d like to go to the beach. I’ve never been out there this time of year.”

  “It’s beautiful. Much quieter. No one’s around. Especially during the week.”

  “We can have a picnic.”

  “We can’t stay at the house, though. The water’s off. It’s all shut up.”

  “We don’t have to. We can stay at an inn. Or just drive back to the city. It would be an adventure.”

  The next morning he calls Maddy from his hotel room. “Something’s come up,” he says. “I need to stay another day. Is that okay?”

  She sounds disappointed. “No, of course. Johnny was so looking forward to you coming back. He made a sign for you at school. It’s in Italian.”

  “He can still give it to me. I’ll be back Saturday. It’s not such a long time.”

  After he hangs up, he sits by the phone, staring at it. For a moment he thinks about calling back to say he will be coming after all. That he won’t be staying. That he misses them and can’t wait to see them. That it’s all a big mistake. A big joke. But then the phone rings instead, and, startled, he answers it.

  “Mister Winslow,” the voice says, “it’s the front desk. Your assistant asked me to tell you she is out front. She’s waiting in the car.”

  “Oh, yes,” he says. “Thank you. I’ll be right down.” He closes the door behind him. If there was ever a chance to turn back, it is past.

  5

  There is no traffic. The exits zip by. Claire is wearing an oatmeal-colored sweater with a high, ribbed neck that she keeps playing with. She sits forward in the passenger seat of the rental car, alert, not wanting to miss a thing, a child on a school outing. As he drives he tells funny stories, and she laughs the laugh that was one of the first things I noticed about her. Silver bells. A laugh you never want to end.

  It is well before lunchtime when they drive through town, shorn now of its summer plumage. It is like visiting a dress rehearsal, with the cast in their street clothes and the seats in the theater empty. Once again the town is home to locals. Pickup trucks idle on Main Street. Signs advertise a spaghetti dinner at the firehouse. The high school football team practices under a sky the color of clay.

  “This is my favorite time of year out here,” he says. “It’s so peaceful. It’s easy to see why so many artists and writers have been attracted to it. But a lot of the old places have closed down. Rents get more expensive, locals can’t afford it. Most artists can’t afford it anymore either. See that place?” He points to a storefront that sells expensive bath fixtures. “That used to be a bar. Big Al’s. Jackson Pollock drank there.”

  A few doors down he turns and parks across from the train station. “I hope this place never goes out of business,” he says. “Food’s too good.”

  They walk in. On the right is a refrigerated display case containing links of sausage, cheeses, hot peppers, hams, olives. The opposite wall rows of pasta, homemade sauces, soups, drinks, and gelati. The smell of olive oil and fresh bread. In the middle is a queue of men, most of them general contractors, manual laborers, some white, others Hispanic, ordering sandwiches. On the walls are photographs, postcards sent by loyal customers.

  “This place is almost as good as Rome,” he whispers in Claire’s ear.

  “Hey, Harry!” says one of the men behind the counter. “How you doing? Where you been? Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  They shake hands. “Hey, Rudy. Been away. Working on a new book.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. Good.”

  “How’s Mrs. Winslow?” He is looking at Claire.

  “She’s fine, Rudy. Thanks for asking. This is Claire. She’s a friend. I told her that you sell the best prosciutto this side of Parma.”

  Rudy holds up his hands deferentially, accepting the compliment. “So what can I get you?” he asks.

  They order. Bread, cheese, meat. The food of workmen, of Italian peasants. Food to be eaten with the hands.

  “I don’t think Rudy approves,” says Claire when they are outside. She is trying to make light of it.

  He deposits the bag in the backseat. “It was a little awkward,” he admits.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have come out.”

  “Nonsense,” he says with a smile. “Now get in. We still have to buy wine.”

  The beach is deserted. The gray waves crash roughly on the sand. It is too cold to go barefoot. He carries a blanket and the food.

  “The water looks so different this time of year,” she says. “Almost like it’s angry.”

  He kneels in the sand, spreading the blanket. From his pocket he takes out a corkscrew.

  “You’re such a Boy Scout,” she says, grinning.

  “Always be prepared, that’s my motto. Hope you don’t mind drinking from the bottle.”

  “Just try to stop me.”

  After lunch they lie on the blanket, her head on his stomach, staring up at the sky. It is less cold closer to the ground. A lone seagull stands nearby, waiting for an opportunity. “Beat it,” says Harry, throwing a piece of driftwood at the bird, which flaps its wings and lifts itself off to a short distance away.

  “Poor thing’s hungry,” she says.

  “Sure, he’s hungry. But if we feed him, all his friends will want to join the party—and so much for our peaceful picnic.”

  They walk down the beach, past the stone jetties and the empty houses of millionaires. “I had an ulterior motive in coming here.” She smiles. “This is where we first met.”

  She turns and faces him, burrowing into his coat, his arms around her, her hair ruffled by the wind. He is still not used to how short she is.

  “How can I forget?”

  “You’re my lifeguard,” she says in a soft voice, raising her mouth to his. “I could have drowned, and you would have saved me.”

  “But you didn’t need saving.”

  “I did. I still do.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I want to start the clock again. Go everywhere we went this summer, but this time, it will be us. I want to go to the same restaurants, the same stores, fly again in your plane.”

  “All right.”

  “And I want to go to the house.”

  “But it’s shut up. There’s nothing there.”

  “I don’t care. I want to see it. Please?”

  He assents. I have often wondered why he did. I know why Claire wanted t
o go there. But why would he take her? This was his home with Maddy, with Johnny. A special place for them. For us all. Why would he defile it? But I suppose a man in his position is already spending money he doesn’t have. What’s a little more?

  They drive down the familiar driveway and park. It is not as big as Claire remembers. From the outside the house looks inanimate, an empty shell. The leaves have fallen from the trees. Their feet crunch on the gravel. Harry removes the key from under the flowerpot. Inside it is gray, the air still. It is like entering a tomb. Claire is surprised by how neat it is. The shoes have been put away, the tennis racquets stacked out of sight. The doors and windows closed.

  “Brrrr, it’s cold,” he says.

  She stands in the middle of the living room. It is at once familiar and strange. The ghosts of summer fill the room. Half-remembered conversations, the thwock of croquet balls on the lawn, the hum of insects through the screen doors, the smell of steaks sizzling on the grill, laughter. “I wonder if it’s glad we’re here,” she says. “The house, I mean.”

  “Let me start a fire,” he says, moving past her.

  He opens the flue. The wood is dry, the newspapers from late August. In a few moments flames are crackling in the fireplace.

  “As long as we’re here, let’s look around,” he says. “A few years ago a raccoon chewed its way through the roof, and we found a whole family living in Johnny’s closet. You can’t imagine the mess.”

  They start in the attic, he scampering ahead boyishly. It’s stuffy, smelling of mothballs, crammed with dusty trunks, abandoned suitcases, garment bags, cast-off toys, broken fans and chairs, bedsteads, old magazines, boxes of old Christmas decorations, cracked riding boots that will never again be in a stirrup.

  “Looks critter-free to me,” he says.

  “There’s so much stuff. I could explore up here for days.”

  “Yeah, our stuff but also stuff from Maddy’s family. There’s a whole rack of her great-grandmother’s tea gowns somewhere around here. I have no idea why we keep them. Believe me, they’ll never come back into style.”

  “What’s this?”

  “My old footlocker.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Oh, a bunch of stuff from the Marines.”

  “Can I see?”

  He opens it. On the top his dress tunic. “Let’s see if it still fits.” He takes off his coat and slips it on. “A bit snug.” He grins.

  “Very handsome.”

  On the second floor, they inspect the bedrooms. Johnny’s room first, then the guest room. Finally his and Maddy’s. It is her first time in it. She wouldn’t have dared before. It is a simple room, comfortable. The walls and wooden floor are painted white. Through the window, she looks out at their private view, past the bare tree limbs to the fields beyond. On the bed a patchwork quilt. Slippers underneath. Books on the nightstand. On the bureau photographs, hairbrushes, perfumes, cuff links, loose change in a bowl. The secret life of families.

  Claire shivers. “I don’t feel right being here,” she says. “We should go downstairs.”

  He finds her on the couch before the fire, chin in her hands. “I don’t know if it was such a good idea for us to come here,” she says, staring at the burning logs.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because this is your place. Yours and Maddy’s. I thought I could make it mine, but I was wrong. I had thought we would make love on your bed. I know that sounds awful. I’m sorry. I wanted to prove something, but when I was actually in your room, I couldn’t go through with it. It’s the first time I really feel that we’ve been doing something wrong. Before, I felt like it was just us, you know? That the two of us being together would change everything, and that it would all be all right. But now I’m not so sure.”

  He reaches out and holds her hand. “Do you want to drive back to New York?”

  She nods her head. “Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  For most of the drive back, they are silent. The radio substitutes for conversation. When they pass the old World’s Fair grounds, he says, “Do you want me to stay with you tonight?”

  “Yes. I mean, do you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  It is late afternoon when they park near her apartment. The rest of the world is still at work. They go upstairs, stopping to collect her mail.

  “About before,” she says. They are sitting on her couch. “It was too much, you know?”

  “I know. I’ve never done this either.”

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never had an affair?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever wanted to?”

  “Not until I met you.”

  Wordlessly, she stands up and takes him by the hand into the bedroom.

  Afterward, they lie in bed, their bodies empty, the sheets knotted at their feet. “How many lovers have you had?” she asks.

  “Not many. There were a few girls in high school. One or two in college, freshman year. But since Maddy, there has been no one else.”

  “Then why me? I can’t believe there weren’t other women who wanted you.”

  “There were a few.”

  “And?”

  “And I did nothing.”

  “Why?”

  “They weren’t important.”

  “So why am I important?”

  “Because you’re you. Because it’s us.”

  “You mean there’s an us?”

  “There is now.”

  “Are you happy about that?”

  “I don’t know if I am happy about it, but I know I would be unhappy if there wasn’t.”

  “Why?”

  He takes his time to answer.

  “That’s a good question,” he says. “I don’t know. It may be because I can’t stop thinking about you. Even when you first came into our lives, there was something special about you. When I met you on the beach, I thought you were beautiful, but I wasn’t thinking about that. It was only when you came to our house that night, to our party, that I found myself angry that you were dating that jerk Clive. I knew you deserved better. I wanted you to have better.”

  “And are you better?” she asks with a laugh.

  “I don’t know. I just know that you mattered to me. I knew it almost immediately.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “No, nor did I want you to. You were our guest. Our stray. Maddy’s summer project.”

  “That’s what you thought of me?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, that’s what I wanted to think. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d allowed myself to think otherwise.”

  “And when Clive said those things at the restaurant?”

  “Exactly. I guess I was so angry because somewhere I knew that part of what he said was true. But even I didn’t know it yet. At that time you were under our protection, if you know what I mean. The thought never entered my mind that this would happen.”

  She moves closer to him. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be.”

  “Have we made a terrible mistake?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not.”

  “But you’re married. You have a life with Maddy. And Johnny.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to hurt her. I wish there was a way we could just create a little parallel universe where you and I could be together, and where you could still be with her, and no one would get hurt.”

  He kisses the top of her head—the same way he would a child who wished a river could be made of chocolate or every day was Christmas. Yet part of him wants to believe it too.

  “All I know,” he says, “is that I spent a lot of time wandering through the streets of Rome thinking about you. Wondering what you were doing. What your day was like. Who your friends are. If there was anyone holding you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. But I had no idea I would ever see you again. It was a fantasy. I guess I’m at the age. Some men
buy sports cars. I dreamt of a beautiful girl thousands of miles away.”

  “And now it’s real,” she murmurs, playing with the hairs on his chest.

  “Yes, now it’s real.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that I am flying back to Rome tomorrow. I do know I have to work on my book.”

  “Your book. You haven’t talked about it, and I haven’t wanted to ask. How is it going?”

  “Ah.” He sighs. “Not as well as I would like.”

  “Why?”

  “I was telling Walter the other night that it was because I was distracted by the sights and sounds of Rome. That’s true up to a point, I guess. It’s easy to be distracted in Rome. But it’s easy to be distracted in New York too, and that hadn’t stopped me before.”

  “So what’s the matter?”

  “I had a friend in the Corps who was a great pilot. He was from Texas, a real good ol’ boy. Square-jawed, brave, great reflexes. One day he was in a crash. It wasn’t his fault. There was a technical malfunction. But it was the end of his flying career. He was given a chance to fly again, but he just couldn’t. Couldn’t bring himself to get back into the cockpit. So he just quit. I never saw him again.”

  “And?”

  “And now I know how he felt.”

  “But you didn’t crash a plane. Your book was a success. Thousands of people around the world have read it. You won a National Book Award, for God’s sake.”

  “What I mean is that I feel fear. I’m scared to get back into the cockpit because I’m not sure I can do it again. What if my next book is a dud?”

  “You can’t let yourself think like that.”

  “I know. But every time I sit down to write I feel an uncertainty I never felt before. I try to write, but before long I need to get out, and I start walking.”

  “How much have you written?”

  “Well, that’s just it. I’ve written hundreds of pages, but I’ve thrown most of them away.”

  “Why?”

  “The direction keeps changing. What I am working on now is almost completely different from what I started out to do. I wrestle with voices, characters. I’ll sit down and write something that I like, but when I go back and read it a few days later I hate it.”