The War of the Roses

6

Oliver barely remembered the cab journey over Memorial Bridge, the swing around Lincoln Memorial, past the State department, around Washington Circle. All these landmarks passed in front of him like indistinct photographs. Ann had apparently been watching from a front window and had opened the door before he inserted his key. The mahogany clock in the hallway read two minutes to six, he noted as he dropped his briefcase on the marble floor. Even in his semiconscious drugged state in the hospital, he remembered he had heard the chimes in his mind like ancient echoes.

‘Josh is at basketball practice. Eve is at her ballet class. Barbara is delivering an order of pate.’ There was a note of apology in her tone and her face searched his, betraying anxiety.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I look a little pale.’

‘A little.’

He walked back to the sun-room to see his orchids, which, like him, had miraculously survived. He felt the soil around the root, which was still damp.

‘Not to worry. Daddy’s home,’ he whispered to the flowers.

He went up to his bedroom, undressed, debated whether or not to use the sauna, then opted for a long hot shower instead. For some reason he felt the need to shock himself, hoping it might chase the depression. He turned off the hot water and turned on the cold. His skin tingled and for a moment he had to catch his breath, but the pain did not return, and he wondered if he missed it, like an old friend.

Barbara burst into the bathroom as he toweled himself, and kissed him on the lips. He drew her to him and enclosed her against his damp body.

‘It scared the shit out of me,’ he whispered into her chestnut hair, stifling a sob. The warmth of her was reassuring.

‘It must have been awful,’ she said, insinuating herself out of his embrace. His body was damp and it had wet her blouse, which she unbuttoned now. Watching her, he noted that she studied her face in the bathroom mirror, throwing back an errant strand of hair.

‘I’m fine now,’ he said to her image in the mirror. Running the gold-plated taps, she dipped her face into scoops of lukewarm water. He studied the ridgeline of her spine, wanting to trace his fingers over its peaks and loops. Slipping into his velour robe, he moved back into the bedroom and sank into a bergere chaise, lifting his bare feet to caress the curled wood. From there he could not see her, but he could hear her moving about, then came the rush of water and the cascaded flush. She walked out, wrapped in a terry-cloth robe.

He wasn’t he realized, simply observing her as he did frequently. He was inspecting her, noting that the years had been kind to her willowy body. Her legs and thighs were still tight and youthful, and her large breasts still high, although their weight had begun to bring them lower then when he had first seen them. He felt the urge to touch her, and there was a brief hardening in his crotch, but she seemed self-absorbed, her mind elsewhere.

‘You’d be proud of me, Oliver. I sold the Ecuadorans a weekly package. Next week my chicken galantine. After that my cassoulet. And, of course, my pate de campagne.’

He was always supportive, and he was surprised that he could not concentrate on what she was telling him.

She had moved to her Queen Anne dressing table and began brushing her hair. Still, she seemed elusive, like a stranger.

‘I thought I was checking out,’ he said, turning his eyes to their lacy bedspread with its battery of high pillows against the carved headboard. Dominating one wall was a high chest of drawers with an elaborately carved bonnet in the rococo manner, which they had both stripped and finished. The drapes were not drawn and through the floor-to-ceiling sixteen-light windows, he could see the moving lights of the rush-hour cars crossing the Calvert Street Bridge. Between the windows was a Capucius secretaire, with its top open. Barbara used it as a working desk. On its surface was a picture of the four of them at the Grand Canyon, a color print with a blaze of orange painting the rear clifls. On the walls were prints of slender Art Deco ladies, languorous and sensual. He looked at them, but they gave him no pleasure. Watching them, he felt the sense of emptiness begin again.

‘I can’t understand why you didn’t come,’ he said, swallowing hard, talking to the pictures. So this was the elusive chess move, he discovered suddenly. He had cut to the heart of the matter. Although he did not see her, he knew she had turned toward him.

‘I was in constant telephone touch,’ she said testily, with a hard edge to her voice.

They had no definite diagnosis until this morning.’ He spat the words at her, still not looking at her face.

They said your condition was stable.’

‘I was in pain. I thought I was dying.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘You could not have known that.’

‘Don’t get prosecutorial, Oliver.’

He allowed himself a long pause, surprised that his chest was free of pain, although his stomach seemed to have tightened. He burped and his breath tasted sour.

He looked at her now. This time it was she who turned away.

‘If the situation were reversed, I’d be there as quick as I could.’ The display of his own vulnerability galled him.

‘But it wasn’t reversed,’ she said, getting up and going to their dressing room. She emerged quickly in a long robe. ‘I’ve got to see about dinner. The kids should be home soon.’

‘It’s your attitude,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand it.’ He deliberately moved so that he could see her face. It was composed. Her hazel eyes scrutinized him calmly. He detected no outward signs of insecurity or lack of self-confidence. There was no tension or anxiety. To him now, her persona seemed reconstructed, different.

‘Maybe I’m suffering from the escape-in-the-nick-of-time blues.’ He sighed, acknowledging to himself this gesture of surrender, certain that it was a lie. ‘It’s just that…’ He began to grope for words, uncommon for him. ‘When you’re on the edge of the abyss, you think everyone is writing you off. It’s a nasty feeling.’

‘I think you’re overreacting, Oliver.’ She started to move, but his voice recalled her.

‘I guess I just wanted reassurance.’ He sighed, deliberately posturing. He was surprised that he knew this. What he needed now was to be held, caressed. Perhaps like a baby at his mother’s breast. God damn it, he screamed within himself. I need you to love me, Barbara.

‘Believe me, Oliver,’ she began. ‘If I’d thought it was something awful, I would have come. You know that.’ What disturbed him now was he felt she was trying to convince herself. He forced himself to obliterate the suggestion, stood up, and draw her toward him again. She didn’t glide, hesitating before she moved.

‘You’re fine,’ she whispered, embracing him without conviction. ‘That’s the bottom line.’

It was an expression she had picked up from somewhere. Perhaps from him. It signaled an unrecognizable inner voice, warning him. Something in his world was awry, misplaced, out of focus. He wasn’t sure.

‘I’m sorry, Barbara. I don’t understand.’

She watched him, shrugged, then smiled. That, too, seemed hollow. Perhaps, he thought, the drugs had interfered with his receiving apparatus and were working hell on the emotions as well. He was picking up indifference. Indifference. An invisible antenna seemed to crackle in his head, confirming reception.

‘You’ll feel better after dinner, Oliver. I’m sure of that.’

‘Why should you feel so sure? And me, so unsure?’

She shook her head and turned away, and he could hear her padding down the steps, going away. Was it for long? he wondered.