Chapter 53
I wake up groggy and disoriented. The past few days are all tangled together, but I'm pretty sure this one is Wednesday.
His voice, faint, floats in from the other room.
The last time I checked, it was 6:30. We hadn't slept at all yet. I'm feeling it now in places I'd forgotten existed.
The fog has returned, and it's not messing around. It's pressed up against the window, peering in through the gaps in the curtains. I pull the comforter up to my chin. Everything smells like him, including me.
I drift off again.
My next awareness is of the mattress dipping, and of his warm body behind me, spooning me. When I stir, he says, "That was Omar."
He trails his fingers down my neck to my shoulder then rolls onto his back.
"He delayed his trip to Denver."
I turn onto my stomach and rest my chin on his bicep. "Why did he call you?"
I can't help wondering if he admitted I was here, asleep in his bed, but I also can't deal with yet another two-dimensional people-will-find-out-soon-enough conversation, so I leave it, for now at least.
"He tried your cell a few times."
"My phone's probably dead. Wherever it is. What did he say?"
He doesn't look at me.
"The fog's expected to clear late tonight. He's making a flight down in the early morning."
"It's Thanksgiving," I say.
"He plans to be back in time for the family dinner."
"So I could still make my flight."
"Looks like it," he says, and he kisses my forehead but still doesn't meet my eyes.
"I need to call Bloomfield," I say.
"I talked to him, too."
"How long have you been up?"
"Forty-five minutes."
"What time is it?"
"Eleven."
He turns on his side, props his head on his hand.
"He can't get any results until Monday or Tuesday. You can get tested in a week. Wouldn't do any good before that. He said it's very unlikely."
"Are you just repeating what you told me earlier, or did he say it again?"
"He said it again."
He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, and freezes there for a moment.
"You know you didn't kill him," he says. "Right?"
I sit up and lean against the headboard, pull my knees into my chest and the comforter over my knees.
"I know there's a chance I didn't. But what difference does it make?"
He sits up, too, takes my hand, interlacing our fingers.
"Some," he says.
"I did what I had to do."
"You did your job."
The house is hauntingly still and quiet.
"It was different this time," I say. "We knew where this one was going. Last time we weren't expecting violence."
"But we should have been."
That day weighs on him. He doesn't say it, but I know. There was too much background noise, too much input. Our own perceptions got muddled up in there somewhere.
I think about telling him we won't make that mistake again, but even in my head it sounds patronizing, or dismissive, or like I think we're equals at work.
Instead, I hug him, and he pulls me onto his lap.
"Spend the day with me," he says. "You're all packed. I'll drop you at Omar's tonight."
"Don't you have to go in?"
"Ruby'll call if anything comes up."
It's not until early afternoon that we make it into the living room with a few more hours of sleep under our belts and one remaining condom.
The day is easy and comfortable, and in a way I'm sorry I'm leaving so soon. It seems to have taken forever for us to get to this place. We eat and we talk and we read and we venture out into the fog, and towards evening it all starts heating up again because really, we have a couple of years of pressure built up, and it's going to take some time to release it.
We're making our way to the bedroom again when the phone rings, and I groan.
He kisses me and says, "I'll be right there."
I peel off my shirt and sweats and lie down in my bra and underwear on the bed we never bothered to make. It doesn't occur to me to eavesdrop. I assume it's Ruby, and I expect the call to be minor and brief.
But when he says, "Hey, Punk," my whole body tenses and almost instantly, the anger starts smoldering again.
"Is that right?" he says then he's quiet for a while.
I put my sweats back on.
"I'd like to, Punk, but I'm caught up in something this afternoon."
It's a slap, a slight, but I'm not sure if it should be, if it's reasonable or rational or fair to experience it that way.
"I don't think—," he starts, but he's interrupted again.
I put my shirt back on.
"Yeah," he says, and I can't see him, but I imagine his head is bowed and he's got his fingers pressed to his forehead. "Yeah. I know. How about tomorrow?"
I don't have to be able to hear her side of the conversation to know it's not a life-threatening situation. More frustrating than anything, though, is that I have no idea how I'm supposed to feel about this.
"I understand," he says. "Yup. Okay. I'll see you then."
I start making the bed.
He doesn't come in right away. When he does, he stops in the doorway, leans on the jamb. It's gloomy. Five minutes ago, leaving the lights off made complete sense. I can feel him looking at me, watching me, but in the dimness I can't read where he's coming from emotionally.
"We'll have to cut this short," he says, and he's tentative. It's not like him.
"No problem," I say and it couldn't be a bigger lie. I'm putting all I've got into keeping the hurt out of my voice, but I don't know how successful I am. "It happens."
I unplug my phone from next to the nightstand and toss it in my bag with the clothes that were strewn around this side of the bed.
"Vic," he says, but I can tell by the way he says it that he doesn't have any follow-up material.
"Don't worry about it, Walt. Stuff comes up."
Some stuff takes precedence, as some stuff should, but I don't have a gauge for identifying which stuff qualifies. This is how I pay for taking so long to develop, for moving from fragile relationship to fragile relationship.
He doesn't volunteer anything further until we're already on the other side of town, half a mile from my house, and it might look like I'm giving him the silent treatment, which isn't really what's happening. I just don't know what to say, and I'm afraid if I open my mouth, things will come pouring out.
"Those dinner plans you mentioned, back in September," he says finally, glancing at me then quickly away, out onto the foggy road.
Oh, fuck.
"After Martha," he says, and he clears his throat. I just keep staring straight ahead. "After Denver, I avoided her folks. Cady saw them, but I made excuses. Even when I couldn't avoid it, a time or two, I was distant."
"You?" I say, and the second it escapes my lips, I regret it.
He just nods.
"They lost their daughter."
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean for my glib response, but it doesn't matter much what it's for specifically.
"They're snowbirds. Spend the winter in Arizona. They leave at the end of summer. This time I couldn't let it go on."
"You made it right."
"They're good people. They forgave me."
"Of course they did, Walt. People do all kinds of isolating, crazy shit when they're grieving."
He turns onto my street.
"I made a commitment to protect their daughter."
I don't know how much it would help to point out that he did just that, for years, so I choose to say nothing.
"They're up for the holiday with Martha's sister's family. There's a new great-grandchild."
"They must be thrilled," I say.
"Cady made plans with them for tonight."
"I understand," I say, and I think I do at least on one level: I get guilt. "You have to do what's right for you and for your family."
He pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine and the lights so we're sitting there, a dark nucleus surrounded by fog.
"I'm sorry, Vic," he says.
"About what?"
"This was our time."
"It was."
I could let him off the hook, tell him of course this family obligation should come first, but I'm not sure I think it should.
"I want you to come back," he says, and part of me, the part that's still trapped in the primitive belief system that says there are always winners and losers wants to tell him he has a great way of showing it.
"I am coming back," I say. "I told you that."
I almost tell him that between now and then, he needs to figure out what he wants. Fortunately, I have no question as to how incredibly hypocritical that would be.