After the Fall (10 page)

KATE
•

When I first got my engagement ring I couldn’t stop looking at it. It was so shiny, so vibrant, the colors rich and mesmerizing. The ring had moods, and I knew them all. Mostly it shone green and blue, peaceful, becalmed, a little planet on my finger. Sometimes, though, it darkened to violet, the color of a bruise, or red flecks appeared, flashing like beacons against the cerulean miasma. I liked to think that the changes reflected my own emotional state, as if conducted by blood to the skin beneath the band. But when I remarked on this to Cary he pointed out what I’d suspected all along: that it was probably just the light playing tricks, some alteration in the external environment, nothing more.

Yet after a while I stopped noticing the ring. I can’t remember when it was, but sometime after we married. One year? Two? It had lost its sparkle and no longer clamored for my attention. The second gold band beneath it seemed to draw away some of its shine; the rest was lost to dirt and sweat, shampoo or the dusting powders I used at work. Occasionally I thought I should clean it, but then I never took it off, so I never got around to it. When I did examine the ring, mostly in boring meetings for want of something better to do, it regarded me dully, through a film of neglect.

I work with artifacts, with relics. I know in my heart that there’s little that stays shiny forever, even with effort. Tarnish and rust are inevitable with age, and it’s unrealistic to expect otherwise. But I did; I couldn’t help it. And all of a sudden it seemed that nothing gleamed as brightly as it used to. I still loved Cary, but seven years had left a film on that too. I went for hours without thinking about him, no longer experienced the pit-of-the-stomach anticipation of going to bed together. Sex was comforting, successful, even passionate. But it wasn’t new, didn’t sweep across me in great waves of silver and gold light the way those fireworks had done years ago on Cup Day. How could it? I hated myself for being so shallow even as I mourned the loss. I’d insisted on that ring, picked it out and paid for it myself. Maybe it wasn’t so shiny anymore, but underneath I knew it was still the same. Didn’t I?

CARY
•

I didn’t want to go to the trivia night. Three weeks after the wedding I was still feeling fragile, and had no desire to attend another hospital function, surrounded by many of the same faces that had witnessed Luke and Kate’s clinch. Steve had started avoiding me at work, as if I’d want to cry on his shoulder or discuss the situation. The thought couldn’t have been further from my mind. For more than a fortnight we circled around each other, barely speaking, until the upcoming event forced him to talk to me.

“You’re still coming on Saturday, aren’t you?” he asked nervously.

“I suppose so,” I replied, not looking up from the DNA sequence I was examining. Each department had been allocated a table at the trivia night, which was one of the biggest fund-raising events of the year. Although our own department—genetics—consisted of only two full-time staff, we were still expected to field a team of twelve paying participants. At the time we’d agreed to split the duty, and I’d rashly promised that Kate would invite a single girlfriend to partner Steve.

“Both of you, I mean,” he persisted. “Will Kate be there too?” Whether he was worried about me or about missing out on a date I couldn’t tell, though I suspected the latter.

“Of course she will. Why wouldn’t she be?” I answered angrily. Did he think I might have left Kate, or vice versa, that one kiss could undo seven years of loving?

“No reason,” Steve almost stammered. “I’ll look forward to seeing her. She’s good value at these things.”

I looked up at him closely, but there was no malice in the words. Kate
was
usually good value in such a situation: funny, bright, enthusiastic. The last few weeks, though, she had been subdued, quieter than usual. She hadn’t gone out as much, and called every day just to chat. I guess it was her way of apologizing, of reassuring me, and I appreciated it.

“Don’t worry; she’s arranged a friend for you,” I said to Steve, relenting.

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that. What’s she like?” he asked, the rapidity of the second sentence belying the truth of the first.

“Okay.” I shrugged, not wanting to get his hopes up. The only one of her unattached friends Kate had been able to talk into coming was Joan, who was apparently attending on the proviso that there might be some single doctors present. Sarah and Rick would also be there, with the six that I’d promised rounded out by an old friend of mine from university.

“Well, thanks for that,” Steve said, looking pleased. “Should be a good night.”

I wasn’t quite so confident, though not because I was worried about Kate. We had an understanding: no drinking, no talking to Luke. He and Cressida would be at a different table anyhow, hopefully miles away on the other side of the room. Besides, I really didn’t think she would be so cruel or so stupid as to do something like that again.

LUKE
•

A hospital cafeteria looks like a hospital cafeteria, no matter how many streamers and balloons you festoon the place with. Plastic tables were covered with rented linen tablecloths, their white washed out to gray, faint wine stains still evident in places. On the bulletin board the usual advertisements for roommates and announcements of flu injections had been removed, replaced for the evening by a hand-lettered team score sheet. The blackboard listing specials of the day had been left in one corner, Friday’s menu still evident: corned beef, silver beet, creamed cauliflower. I lost my appetite just reading it.

“This place looks okay. They’ve done a good job,” said Tim.

“It was kind of you to come. I hope you enjoy yourself,” replied Cress distractedly, peering around the room in an attempt to identify our table.

“I don’t know why they couldn’t have just hired a function center like anyone else. Even that room at the Town Hall last year was better,” I grumbled.

“It’s meant to be a fund-raiser, Luke,” said Cressida, turning to address me. “Just imagine how much money has been saved by having it at the hospital. I think it’s a great idea.” Her tone was dismissive and agitated at the same time. She was wearing something tight and black, and above it her creamy shoulders bobbed in indignation as she spoke.

“Can I get you a drink?” asked Tim, intervening quickly. Conflict frightens him.

“No, I’ll go,” said Cress. “There’s some people over there I want to talk to.” She indicated vaguely and disappeared into the crowd, pale blond hair splashing around her.

“Everything okay?” asked Tim.

“Just fine.” I shrugged. Actually, things had been surprisingly fine in the last few weeks, the events of the wedding seemingly put behind us. It was only tonight that I’d noticed a shift in Cress: taking forever to get ready, snapping at me when I’d asked her who would be there. I scanned the gathering now as Tim and I made our way to the table.

The room was filling up. Their uniforms shed, brightly clad bodies dotted the hall like spilled confetti. The tired linoleum floor, unacquainted with stilettos, dimpled and puckered beneath the onslaught, while on the tiny stage someone was checking the sound equipment, repeating, “One, two,” over and over for little apparent result. A nurse I recognized flashed me a dazzling smile, her lips redder and larger than nature intended. I pointed her out to Tim.

“There’s one for you. I could give you an introduction.”

“Mate, if you already know her, then it’s too late for me.” He laughed.

I ignored the comment and returned my gaze to the floor. In the distance Cress’s fair head was nodding earnestly as she spoke with her boss. A part of my mind registered how beautiful she looked; then my eyes moved on. I guess I was searching for Kate, though not with intent. Even if she was there, what did it matter? I could hardly talk to her, wouldn’t know what to say anyway. A sudden burst of feedback from the sound system momentarily silenced the throng, leaving in its wake one pure moment of silence before the babble resumed.

KATE
•

I was introducing Joan to Steve when the shriek of static made me clap my hands to my ears. Neither of them was looking particularly impressed, and I was tempted to give up there and then, melting into the crowd before anyone could protest. I hadn’t wanted to come anyway, never mind broker this ridiculous blind date. Only loyalty to Cary had induced me to go through with both. That, and I owed him.

I’d spotted Luke as soon as we arrived. I hadn’t meant to look for him, but my eyes were drawn to the golden corona of his hair, blazing like the sun against a sea of dark suits. He was standing with his back to me, flanked by Tim and Cressida, her own pale locks sleek against formal black. As I watched he bent his head to hear what she was saying. I felt ill and invisible, and ached for a glass of champagne.

Fifteen minutes later it was obvious that the night wasn’t going well, at least at our table. I wasn’t drinking, out of deference to Cary, and he in turn seemed preoccupied and disinclined to chat with Sarah and Rick. After some desultory small talk Steve and Joan appeared to have arrived at a mutual dislike, and were openly scornful of each other. Cary’s school friend announced he was hungry and went off to look for some food. I was trying to concentrate on the quiz, but every time I thought of Luke I felt distracted and hot, prickles of nausea bubbling in my abdomen.

After four long rounds we were coming in second-to-last, and nobody cared. I caught Sarah looking at her watch and she smiled apologetically. On the stage a band was setting up to play a set at the halfway point of the competition. I twisted my rings, feeling trapped, and wondered how much the music would prolong the night. The overly jovial emcee whistled to signal the start of round five, his several chins wobbling with the effort. Though I hadn’t had one in years, I longed for a cigarette. Finally the questions began, then were abruptly suspended by another screech of feedback from the microphone. The emcee kept talking but could no longer be heard. Around the room, couples glanced at one another, then started to chat as the silence lengthened. I wondered hopefully if they’d call the whole thing off and we could just go home.

Ten minutes passed with no resolution, our table of strangers looking around at one another awkwardly. Then, through the still-seated crowd, I noticed a stooped man wearing an ID badge making his way toward us. Cary jumped up, obviously recognizing him, and they conferred for a moment before he returned to my side.

“That’s Bill, from marketing. He’s running this show but he doesn’t know the first thing about electronics. I’m going to see if I can give him a hand, okay?”

I nodded my assent as he hurried away.

“I won’t be long,” he called back over his shoulder, and then, as an afterthought, blew me a kiss. Suddenly useful, needed, he looked happier than he had all night.

LUKE
•

The pager went off at about the same time as the sound did. It was Cress’s, of course. I didn’t even know that she’d brought it, though I wasn’t surprised—she seemed to be eternally on call. She muttered, “Damn,” under her breath and reached beneath her chair for her handbag, cleavage spilling forward as she did so. An intern on the other side of the table was watching the pale flesh with interest and I leaned forward to block his view, feeling suddenly territorial.

“I’m sorry,” said Cress, studying the scratchy capitals intently. “I don’t think a phone call will suffice for this one. I’m going to have to pop up to the ward.”

“Does a phone call ever suffice?” I asked wearily.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, looking up and kissing me on the cheek as she rose from her chair. “You can do without me, can’t you?”

I had three or four glib responses on my tongue, but Tim intervened.

“Never. Though I suppose the ward’s need is greater. Just make sure you’re back for the ‘Movies’ round.”

“Yeah,” I added, “and if we’re to have any chance you have to be here for ‘Sports.’”

We were both joking, my wife’s general knowledge extending little beyond all things medical. She was a smart girl and loved her field, but it barely left her time for other interests. Cress pulled a face at us and hurried away, the sound of her heels clicking coolly after her for a second or two, then fading.

Tim, our team scribe, picked up his pen again and the quiz continued. The sound was back on, and the emcee was asking about celebrity couples.

“Number five,” he droned. “Who was Tom Cruise’s first wife?”

All around me heads leaned in to write or confer, but I didn’t know or care. Suddenly, across a press of bent backs, I spotted Kate, sitting erect with equal indifference on the other side of the room. I tried to catch her eye, but she was too far away.

“Number six. To whom was Brad Pitt engaged before he married Jennifer Aniston?”

Tim bit the pen, wrote something down, then passed it around for confirmation. He was enjoying himself, though I was surprised he knew the answers. Maybe he didn’t. I couldn’t be bothered checking.

“Number seven. Where did Michael Hutchence meet Paula Yates?”

I glanced over at Kate again. The seat next to her was empty.

“Number eight. To how many men has Elizabeth Taylor been married?”

A trick question. Beneath me I felt my legs push the chair away; then I was on my feet.

“I’m going to look for Cress,” I whispered to Tim. He nodded and went back to counting on his fingers as the intern reeled off names.

I left the cafeteria, crossed a small foyer and then entered it again on the far side of the room. I had been here before; I knew the layout. Kate’s table was about halfway along, abutting a shadowy alcove that ran the length of the room and was littered with coats and spare seats. I moved up the alcove as far as I dared, then waited for her to see me. It took only a second. She turned her head, caught my eye, and without any signal from me unfolded from her seat like a letter being opened. I stood back to let her pass, then pretended to reach into the pocket of a coat hanging nearby as if I had come for my glasses or cigarettes. The emcee asked the last question of the round, and then I was swallowed up in the crush of bodies making a dash for the toilet or the bar.

Outside, Kate was loitering in the foyer, feigning interest in a social club announcement advertising a bowling night. Her hair was up, and her bare neck, devoid of jewelry, was vulnerable and enticing. At the touch of my hand on her shoulder she jumped.

“God,” she said, spinning around. “I’m glad you came. I was starting to feel stupid.”

“Where’s Cary?” I asked.

“Keeping the sound system running. Shagging one of the nurses. Either/or.” Her green eyes were steady, as brave as her words. Inside, the band was warming up, stray notes rising like helium balloons above the conversation. The foyer was almost empty. I took Kate’s hand.

“Come on,” I said. It sounds untrue, but I had no plan, no formed intent. Just an urge to be somewhere dark and oblivious and close. I steered Kate around a corner, wondering vaguely about the parkland adjacent to the hospital. But then a better solution presented itself: the day-procedures unit, sitting still and unlit outside working hours.

“In here?” asked Kate, following me through the door. Her voice was suddenly loud in the empty ward, words bouncing off shiny walls smelling of bleach and rubber and bandages. In the dim light from the corridor I could make out perhaps ten hospital beds, all neatly made and awaiting the patients that Monday would bring. The sight of so much clean, crisp linen was oddly arousing. Without answering I pulled Kate to me and kissed her, our teeth knocking with the violence of the contact. She responded with equal ferocity, and for a moment I almost felt as if I were fighting her, grappling to hang on with my mouth and hands and teeth. Then with a sigh she dissolved against me like a river flowing into the sea. Her lips became pliant; her hands reached for my shoulders and nape. I couldn’t stop kissing her: mouth honey-sweet, moist and fresh as a garden at dawn. A tendril of her hair caught my lips, and I reached to release it, feeling our hips align as I did so. She was pushing herself against me, fingers agile at the buttons on my shirt, the night air cool where she’d gotten them undone. Her breasts were in my hands, round as fishbowls, small but filled to the brim. I started edging her toward one of the beds, drawing the cubicle’s curtain around us. But as my hands returned to her body there was a bang. Then another. Somebody cursed and we froze; Kate’s fingers stilled on the waistband of my pants.

“Bloody machine,” a male voice said. “Give me my money back!” There was another thump and Kate giggled, the sound liquid and close. Someone was attacking the vending machine just outside the clinic. Relaxing, I moved to kiss her again, but she squirmed in my grasp.

“This is too public. He might have been from the trivia night,” she said, her breath warm against my ear. Disappointment consumed me like a toothache, and I started tucking in my shirt. But Kate wasn’t finished.

“Let’s go up to the roof,” she said. “No one’s ever up there.”