Thank you for clicking onto this fic. Patricia Highsmith is one of my favorite writers and The Price of Salt is one of my favorite books. so I was both happy and surprised that they had a section where fiction for this novel could be posted. Seeing it, I wrote this short fic very quickly as a exercise and just to add to the selection here. I may write more for it in the future.
This is a short scene of Carol's thoughts before she and Therese are intimate together in Waterloo.
I hope you enjoy, and I apologize if it makes no sense or if there are too many errors. As I said, I wrote this quickly.
Obviously none of these characters belong to me.
This couldn't last.
Carol thought.
It wouldn't last.
Carol already knew that.
She had a life. A child and a husband, a house. Somewhere. These things were real. Tangible. Compulsory. She had created and chosen those things. They were the components of what composed a proper and dependable existence.
Carol didn't love her husband Harge and she hadn't for a long time.
But that didn't matter.
What did it matter.
Or that was what she had told herself for years. Before she met Therese.
Carol didn't love Harge .
But that was why Carol was not presently with him, lying in bed, awake, listening to their ticking bedside clock accompanied with his mechanical snoring.
However, love was irrelevant to a orderly life. There were plenty of people who didn't love their spouses or their families. Others still managed. It was not fundamental as having means or a car. Carol had doubted that her mother and father had loved eachother (or her), yet they had functioned well as a family and a household. Like a well-oiled machine. It was understood. One had to construct a life on a foundation of explicable things. Reliable things. Mechanical things.
Like the snoring man that had lain beside her for years.
Perhaps once Carol had loved Harge, but that had been so long ago, that experience scarely seemed real or memorable now. Perhaps she had deluded herself that she had felt more for her husband than she did , although she couldn't remember what that felt like. What it felt like to want and desire Harge in that way. She could not, for anything, return to that time.
And Harge didn't love Carol anymore, but still desired her.
Not her rather, but he wanted his wife . Like one might want their missing glass to complete an arranged set. Wanted what was due to him, whether he cared for her or not. Wanted her near by, to have her at his beck and call and at his convenience, wanted their semblance of a marriage, her presentable appearance, and to control her, what she did and who she saw- she supposed , not out of affection or out of concern for her well-being, but as a matter of principle.
Carol had once loved that about him- Harge, being a man of principle.
There may have been love for Abby too.
Friendly, dependable and down to earth Abby . With her loyalty. Her curly hair. Her wry affable smile and charming filigree buttons. Abby made her laugh. She was an attractive, kindly and appealing woman. Her good friend. Her once tennis and business partner. There was no reason for Carol not to have fallen out of her infatuation with her. And so quickly too.
But in the same way she had loved Harge, it had been so long ago, and her feelings for Abby had so swiftly dissipated, had come and passed like a song on the radio or a smoldering cigarette, that phenomena didn't seem real ethier. It seemed now like a somewhat amusing and untoward diversion, an fleeting and failed attempt to stir and to etch something authentic and spontaneous and wholly her own in her preordained and stultifying life. Now it was like whatever she and Abby had shared had never mattered, or had never been formed at all.
Was that cold of Carol? Selfish? Cruel of her?
Carol knew Abby still cared for her. Still loved her and possibly always would. Although that affected no difference in how Carol felt. Her husband and child were more important. Their reality trumphed Abby . Abby had simply not been genuinely real enough in her mind, not important enough, enough of a priority to Carol. There were many factors to why this was. Ultimately Carol did not care for Abby in the same fashion and could not reprociate her anymore. And yet, she had still continued her friendship .
It was still, and had always been a relationship on her terms.
Later Carol had told Harge about herself and Abby. Their brief 'affair'.
At that point, their marriage had already failed and her affair with Abby had ended. So why keep it a secret? But why had she disclosed it to Harge?( Carol did not need to tell him anything anymore. )To have the severe and reckless satisfaction of 'coming clean' ? Or out of frustrated exasperation of Harge's moods and his resentments? Or was it now because the marriage had ended, there was no need to perserve the lie, or their now petty notions of propriety and dignity? Or was that Harge knew already and had always known , so Carol finally seeing its absurdity, saw no point in denying what they both knew ? Just as Carol had always known that Harge , while wanting to marry and have children, had no wish to include Carol or any woman in his inner life, or involve them in matters of import to himself. Perhaps that's why Harge had been drawn to Carol, unwittingly attracted to her incapacity of hers, or her 'independence' from him, that so closely mirrored his own.
The irony was which only when they were finished as husband and wife, could Carol finally admit herself and be truthful with her husband.
Or maybe Carol had admitted it to Harge, not to assuage her sudden grim appetite 'to be truthful', but because her and Abby's affair had meant so little to her? She had felt bored and dissatisfied, increasingly uneasy and claustrophobic in her own home and in her relationship with her husband. Harge had played an unwitting role in her and Abby's coupling in not caring for her unhappiness and indifference, unhappy with her and indifferent himself , yet frequently wary and watchful of her behavior , exacerbating Carol's growing tension and paranoia. Carol sought Abby's invitation to a business venture and companionship as a kind of distraction and as a balm and temporary lift for her problems (like the taking of a hard drink or a game of tennis, although she did not mean to be trivial ), a need to have something outside Harge, outside of everything. So their affair had felt, been near accidental and felt convenient, like a lapse . Had she merely temporarily tried to use Abby to escape the stifling confinement of her marriage and obligations ? Did the recognition of that use had spurred her need to separate further from Abby and diminish what they had, by allowing Harge's purview into it, like an informant on herself ? Had her confession to Harge been selfishly made as the event itself that she confessed ? Or had it been another way to create distance between her and Harge ,when they were already more than apart?
Had they ever been together? Had Carol ever loved, or been capable of loving ethier of them?
At least -Carol thought- she loved her daughter.
And how tall Rindy was becoming. Her fair haired child. Her growing child. Who soon wouldn't be a child at all.
And she thought of the bittersweet pleasure of bringing Rindy boiled milk. Gently placing her hand on her forehead to check for fever. Buying her probably last doll for her at Frankenburg's that Christmas.
Rindy loved Carol too.
Nonethelesss, Rindy had always been a daddy's girl. Harge's girl. Harge had named her. Rindy being short for Nerinda. Harge had often called her 'Daddy's angel." There was no particular reason for Rindy's preference. Carol had been a good , caring and affectionate mother. Even Harge had to admit it.
Yet Rindy had always naturally gravitated towards her father.
Why this was the case, Carol did not know. Carol did not know why someone was more instinctually inclined to love and to prefer another person over someone else. She knew she would never know why .
And Harge was partially responsible for it. He had always encouraged and bolstered Rindy's already innate favoritism. Her husband had handsomely rewarded their daughter's love and preference towards him , doting and spoiling her, even neglecting his business for her- always giving Rindy embarassingly extravagant gifts and making a point to say it were from him and not from her mother. Even after Carol had tucked Rindy in for bed, Harge made a point to come in afterwards ,to do it again himself, seperately, as if to undo her just completed action, as if Carol's goodnight to her daughter wasn't sufficent, or good enough. And Harge would come in and say soft words to Rindy, gently kiss her cheeks and kiss her -their- daughter's eyelids closed.
Meaning Rindy's eyes were open after Carol left the room. Or Harge re-opened them.
Sometimes Carol had seen the two of them- Rindy and Harge, her husband and child, - as if in they were in collusion together and their distinct bond separated her from them and excluded her.
Carol had spied Rindy ( not knowing she were there), embrace Harge's heavy set form more voraciously then she did when she knew Carol was watching , seen her leap onto Harge's lap, kiss him as he smoked and read his newspaper, or him reading aloud to her, helping her with her schoolwork, the both of them laughing and watching television and eating sweets and chocolates together. Harge had looked tender, much more human around Rindy. A tenderness Carol would have never known existed in Harge, if not for Rindy's existence.
Say what one wished about Harge- Harge was a good father. He did love their daughter. Maybe that was- besides being a good provider- Harge's one other redeeming quality. Why their marriage had lasted as it had.
It could have been possible , as it was with many people, Harge had only enough capacity to love one person and let one person into his life only. That one person was their daughter.
But better Rindy than her, Carol thought, or someone else.
Rindy had been what kept them together. Rindy was the only subject they could discuss without it being excruciating .
Althought, on those various occasions, when Rindy had spotted Carol watching her and Harge , Rindy had looked apologetic, anxious, guiltily back at her mother as if she were caught - because in a sense she been caught. In those times, Carol conceded Rindy had her father's nervous blue eyes.
These secretive exchanges were a confession of a truth that was already quite apparent.
As much as Rindy loved Carol, she loved her father more. If the choice was set between the two of them, Rindy would inevitably pick Harge.
Every time.
Carol had always known that.
It was hurtful, excruciating to her. But Carol did not blame Rindy. Rindy was a child. She could not help herself. And Carol as her mother would love Rindy regardless of whatever amount Rindy loved her back in turn. That was what a parent did. Or should do. Love their child unconditionally.
At least Harge had given her Rindy. Given her that opportunity.
Or perhaps Rindy not loving Carol as much as she did Harge,was Carol's penance, for having been so ungenerous, unkind and unloving in the past. For never have been able to successfully or in any sustained way to love anyone else before her.
And Therese.
Carol thought.
And Therese-
She could not finish that thought. Didn't need to.
The younger woman defied any kind of reasonable thought.
Evaded any sensible conclusion.
Meanwhile, Therese laid asleep next to her. Extraordinairly and blissfully unaware of her.
Carol noted: Therese did not snore. Only occasionally, she made a soft whistle through her mouth and nose.
And Carol wondered, if she ever could simply be as one in that non-existence . As before she was born and had consciousness, when she was not here ,but a being of potential and about to be created.
Could Carol return to that , be dismantled and reformed , evaporating into nothingness unencumbered by her body- into Therese?
Into her sleep- that peace, that longed for destination.
Carol thought of herself-awake again.
In this darkened hotel room in Waterloo.
She had married when she was not much older than Therese. Around that time, she had made irrevocable, and conscious decisions- that had altered and would shape the rest of her life and the lives of others too, had created the person she was now.
And Therese seemed terribly , terrifyingly young to her. But she wasn't a child.
Could Therese make the same choices? Would she?
Therese had choices set before her. She could easily go and marry Richard, or some other man. It would be very easy for Therese, almost happening to her whether she decided it or not. She was of that age and she had that uncertain yet marriagable quality. Therese could be carried forth , and settle down with her husband . Create the family she did not have and had always coveted. Therese had even admitted, she had been drawn to Richard, mostly because he had a family and she did not.
Most likely that would be the best thing for her.
Therese. Carol thought.
The girl was quiet. Strange. Intelligent. Sensitive, thoughtful and shy. Delicately strong. Obviously she had been damaged- and wanted a mother or needed attachments- as her own had abandoned her, abandoned her to start a new family with another man after her father passed. Carol regarded this fact of Therese's background sadly, and acutely. Like an lost orphan. Her orphan. Someone so young could feel so lost and alone.
And despite her youth and her innocence, Therese was a little dark- like her dark contemplative hazel eyes. Solemn- too serious and troubled with larger concerns for being so young. Carol could percieve it in Therese's unsettled thoughts, in her compressed silences, in her odd humors and sudden bouts of faintness and fatigue, in how Therese regarded her- with a fatalistic intensity, with a tremulous obessiveness, with trepidation and glances of near pained and frightened awe . In her tentative longing to be close to her.
Therese had told her plainly that frist luncheon, with the pale sincere courage of having taken her second drink too quickly after the first. "I think you are magnificent."
She had meant it also.
And at the end of that luncheon Carol had replied. "What a strange girl you are."
She had not meant it as an insult. It was a statement of a fact. Therese was strange.
As she was beautiful.
Carol knew that from the moment she had seen her, across the counter, buying that valise for herself and a doll for her daughter.
The poets might have called it; love at frist sight.
"Carol, I love you." Therese had said to her earlier ,that night.
It had been the frist time either of them had said it.
It had felt redundant.
Carol had carefully taken her by the shoulders, kissed Therese once on the lips and had said in turn. "Don't you know I love you?"
But what did the poets know.
Still, there was no valid reason for Carol to love her.
Lest love be it's own validation.
But that was not acceptable enough reason for most people.
It was either far too complicated or it was much too simple.
As were most things and situations.
Unless- as a psychiatrist- might conjecture, Carol saw Therese as the daughter she had never had. Or a surrogate for her prior self. A means of capturing the possibility and freedom of her earlier youth.
Like their cross country drive, their escaping and losing oneself's in that constant movement, in those long flat endless spaces.
And never to be found again.
Nonetheless, Carol did not love Therese as a daughter. (Or as her mother. She did not feel like she created Therese. Therese had simply miraculously appeared. ) Although there were maternal tints and tones to her affection at times. She wished to care for and to indulge the younger woman. But she did not love Therese as a friend or a sister. Carol did not entertain any urge or envy of being 19 again, and did not want to remake those decisions again. Although she wanted Therese, as she was. She did not love Therese as a 'proper' woman should. Or perhaps any proper person should love another. But Carol could not love her ,any other way.
It was inexplicable.
And it wasn't worth the cost, or the risk.
What Carol felt for the younger woman could be and was considered at large, a perversion. A abomination. A sin.
Then why was it that Carol could feel -at times- that Therese was a angel.
Her angel. Flung out of space.
Her hand flung out and extended to her, to take Carol in and all her longing. An angel that might save her from a life of increasing degeneration. Even now, drowning and stifled in her own silence, and her heart clamouring within her.
Her angel. Flung out of space.
Hurling and spiriting her onwards.
Where.
It did not matter where, as long as they were within proximity to each other.
One setting was as good as any other.
That had been the purpose and convergence of this journey , for somewhere and at some point for their bodies, their minds to come closer and and meet. To intersect.
Every mile Carol drove further away both strengthed and weakened the urge to turn back. Every road sign told her to keep going forward, or turn re-thether herself to who and where she was before. End it now. Before it started.
She and Therese hadn't made love yet.
Carol wanted it. Envisioned it. She had been mindful up until now, not to have insinuated or suggest it. But the desire had been there. Present from the beginning.
Therese appeared to share her desire.
The momentum of their intimacy, their continued closeness was leading up to it, to their union and to that moment.
Therese had once ,in passing, seen Carol naked. Carol had experienced the expression on Therese's face when she had seen her. Stunned. Shaken. Ardent. Glancing and fixating on her eyes, and her lips, her torso, her bare breasts...
Therese.
Carol could have came forward, taken the younger woman in her arms then.
She hadn't.
As she could have the first time she took her to her house. Carol had kissed the top of her hairline at the piano after the girl had stopped playing. Then, she remembered inviting Therese to take a lie down. Most people would have understood the possible intention. What they had been invited in for. The girl had obeyed her instructions, watched her smoke, let her put her head close to her neck. She had exuded willingness , a sacrificial quality, a beautiful and exhausted openness as she had lain in her guestroom bed.
Carol could have easily laid beside the young woman, and clasped her close to her and made the overture.
She hadn't then either.
Although a more selfish aspect of Carol contemplated that did not matter whether they went to bed or not. She still could do it ,and then go. It could be their parting note. The finishing of this non-affair, the end of this exursion.
And if they did it once, what might it be like?
Would Carol want to make love to her again?
Would Therese want the same?
Carol had not made love to anyone in a long time. Before, she hadn't the urge, the bodies of others seeming sometimes like self-calculating machines that needed occasional stimulus. As she said, the urge for sex moved slowly, more sluggishly than what most people believed. Carol found the desire for love making was more often than not just a kind of passing curiosity , or compelled by the need to feel something in that instant, or to expend an amount of time. The curiosity once satisfied, the ritual did not need to be re-enacted. The question did not need to be posed or rephrased again.
Or possibly it never answered what Carol had wanted to ask.
What had she wanted to ask.
It wasn't too late to turn back.
It wasn't too late. Carol reminded herself.
The older woman imagined quietly rising up, collecting her things , putting them neatly in her suitcase (with Harge's gun in it. Did Carol think she might actually need to shoot and kill someone, if only to protect the younger vulnerable woman beside her? If so, from who ? From herself? Was she putting Therese in danger? ), in the trunk of the car, driving back home.
Leaving Therese asleep in bed, none the wiser
Having conceded to something. Some upright (responsible or cowardly) aspect of herself. It would be easier.
It would even be correct.
For others, that alone was good enough.
And after long enough, whatever Carol might have felt, would gradually soften, and might seem like a unimportant dream in comparision to any life she potentially may of had. Life was long. All of the sadness , hollowness and regret would eventually recede. Life also could be short. Perhaps it never would. Perhaps it would only solidfy and develop into a more concrete burden with time, or metamorphize into something else, in all different guises.
Therese knew it too.
Knew Carol could abandon her at any instant. That she had more than good justifications to do so.
(And in not doing so, was Carol no better than Therese's mother towards Rindy, her own child?)
It was even a constant temptation.
One Carol might eventually have to heed.
Yet the thought of doing it right now, going back, leaving Therese, was like a bottomless pit opening in her stomach. Like the beginning of the end. Like holding the gun , that simple purposeful machine in her hands, fingers tracing its efficient weight and unyielding metal and it pointing towards herself.
Was that the source of Therese's fatalism? That there wasn't any future to be had between them.
That they both only possessed this night, this terrifying, quiet and perfect present.
It wasn't too late.
But it was already too late.
Like a final fling outwards, Carol turned back to Therese and pressed her lips to her's to wake her.