After the Fall (14 page)

LUKE
•

Soon it was all I could think about: Kate, and when I could see her next. Or talk to her, spend a minute with her voice in my ear and the phone cradled damply against my skin. We both had direct lines, though only I had my own office. At first we’d talk once a week, then every few days, until it got to the point that I couldn’t let the morning go past without speaking to her. My work suffered and I started to bargain with myself, to use those phone calls as rewards: once I got through that budget I could call her; if I finished the presentation I would let myself phone again. Of course, she wasn’t always there and then I’d have to set some other goal before dialing once more, hanging up if the shrilling wasn’t answered in the first three rings. If she was there, she always picked up.

Kate rarely called me. But then, she couldn’t, not with those other three desks lurking so close, those colleagues who would be sure to wonder at so much time spent talking to a man not her husband. When I called she would have to act as if it were business, restricting herself to yes-or-no answers, throwing in the occasional reference to relics or techniques I’d never heard of. Somehow she maintained this throughout even our raunchiest conversations. Or monologues rather, me at one end describing how I’d touch her the next time we met or the way she’d tasted when I kissed her, she at the other primly saying, “Yes,” or, “Maybe,” or, “Sorry, could you repeat that?” It drove me wild—her covert encouragement, the chance to verbalize everything I felt and wanted, being met with nothing but the faintest intake of breath and a cautiously officious, “Go on.”

I’d never tried talking dirty with Cress. It just hadn’t seemed right—not because she was my wife, but because she was a doctor. I wondered if maybe the words would sound crude to her anatomically correct ears or, worse still, silly. Of course, her being a virgin when we met had meant that I’d initially avoided the blue language for fear of shocking her. Then after a while it was just habit, I guess—most couples stick within the same sort of sexual routine, give or take the odd anniversary experiment. That was certainly true of me and Cress, and I don’t mind admitting it. It wasn’t broken, so why fix it? I’d tried pretty much everything before I’d gotten married. It was fun at the time, but after the frantic maneuverings of unattached sex, with all its posturing and trying to impress, there was something to be said for the comfort and tranquillity of the marital bed.

Or so I’d thought. Why, then, was I grappling with Kate on her office floor at every opportunity we had? Or making love to her in the backseat of my car, or the shadow of a Moreton Bay fig in the Royal Botanic Gardens, or against the wall in Tim’s apartment once when he was away on vacation and I was meant to be watering the plants? I began to long for a bed, to feel that there would be nothing more erotic than to lie with Kate between white sheets, all our clothes removed rather than hastily pulled up, down or aside. We never used our houses. Cary’s hours were unpredictable, and I couldn’t relax at my place. Tim was always dropping in, or the hospital would ring looking for Cress, and I worried she’d notice anyway. I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t detect marks on the sheets, a strand of Kate’s dark hair in the bathroom.

There is nothing better than sex: anyone who says otherwise simply isn’t doing it right. In college one time some guys I had gotten friendly with invited me on a surfing trip. I’d never tried the sport, but their enthusiasm was infectious. “You’ll love it,” said one. “It’s better than sex!” Surfing was fun, but better than sex? Since then I’ve heard the expression used in many contexts, describing chocolate, football, even in one of our own advertising campaigns—for beer, if I remember correctly. Yet I’m still not sure if people actually mean it. How could they? There are lots of things that are enjoyable, but sex is a world apart. Sex, in fact, is the key. What else distinguishes, defines the relationship between a man and a woman? Isn’t that what marriage is all about? Legalized sex, recognizing that it is the carnal act that binds the two of you together, identifies you as husband and wife. For better or worse, sleeping with someone shifts the relationship from mere friendship or desire into a whole other dimension.

Kate and I rarely spoke when we were together. Sentences, that is—logical phrases with a beginning and end, the time for a reply. As soon as I saw her I was erect, aroused, the clock already ticking at my back. Who can converse in such circumstances? Instead our conversations were limited to moans and sighs, her whispered
yes
as my tongue probed between her thighs, my own half sob as I spent myself inside her. Afterward, we’d be too dazed to chat, communicating with smiles and kisses until forced to part or the passion rose again, muting us. That’s not to say we never talked. Between those one-sided exchanges during work hours and the wordless trysts outside them we found a way. Every few days Kate would work late, ostensibly sweating over a grant or categorizing the museum’s latest acquisitions. Her colleagues, government employees every one, would be out of the building on the dot of five, leaving us thirty, forty minutes to laugh and chat on the phone before Cary called to pick her up. After a while, and to my surprise, I came to enjoy the talking as much as the touching, stopped regarding one as a poor substitute for the other. I’d been infatuated before and had assumed that this was just another instance of it. But I had never really wanted to talk to those girls, never wanted to know what they thought or tease a smile out of their voice. Now, with Kate, I did. And I realized it was getting serious.

KATE
•

And then it was Christmas. For five weeks I’d been sleeping with Luke, going to work, dating artifacts, yet somehow completely missing the decorations that had sprouted like a tropical fungus across the museum’s foyer and the carols spilling out of every store in town. Distracted, I guess. Intoxicated, overwhelmed by Luke, caught up in something that I didn’t understand, but had no desire to get out of. Sex, sure, but more than that. Just being with him made me happy, as banal and trite as a teenage crush. I didn’t know what to make of it. Cary had won my love steadily and sweetly. This, though, was an abduction, a takeover, the violence of my emotions both thrilling and fearsome. I shook when Luke made love to me.

Sarah brought me back to reality by calling me at work to ask if I could fit in drinks and dinner before Christmas.

“Christmas?” I’d asked stupidly, flicking through my diary, looking for the date. To my surprise it was December 15.

“Yeah—ho, ho, ho and all that,” she replied while her brood shrieked in the background. “You’ll know all about Christmas soon enough, when you have kids.”

“Um, yeah,” I mumbled. “How about next week, the twenty-first? After work? We could go to that pub you used to like.”

“The Lemon Tree? Too noisy. I want somewhere we can talk. I feel like we haven’t caught up properly in months. And you didn’t rise to my bait.”

I heard the chime of an e-mail arriving. “What?” I asked, nonplussed. Everything was confusing me.

“Kids. Anything happening there? You told me Cary was keen.”

“God, no. Who’d be pregnant at Christmas, with so much drinking to be done?”

“Hmmm,” she responded. “I don’t think I’m getting the whole story. But I will next week.
In vino veritas
, or whatever it is.”

I hung up the phone feeling vaguely uneasy, then opened the e-mail. It was from Cary.

Kate, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Christmas
, it read.
Mom and Dad have asked us up to their place for a few days. We didn’t go last year, so I thought maybe we should. Is that okay with you? How about we leave after work on Christmas Eve and come back on the thirtieth—we don’t have any other plans, do we? Love you, Cary
.

Six days, almost a week. My immediate reaction was to e-mail him straight back and say no. Or that he could go, but I wouldn’t. The thought of being away from Luke for so long alarmed me. We’d been seeing each other every three days, two when we could manage it, and talking at least twice in each twenty-four-hour period. But six whole days? Yet I had no excuse. Cary knew that the museum offices closed between Christmas and New Year, that I always had leave at that time. I hadn’t suggested alternative plans, and his parents were owed a visit. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Damn. Why was I even hesitating? Luke would no doubt be spending the time with Cressida anyway. For some reason, the thought almost made me weep.

•

Sarah was already waiting at the restaurant when I got there, a bottle of champagne chilling on the table.

“What are we celebrating?” I asked, sliding into my seat.

“Nothing in particular. I just thought that seeing as it was the festive season … Why—is there anything we should be celebrating?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned. Maybe making it through another year.”

“Don’t be like that. There must be something you want to toast. Your job? Cary? Having children? Not having children?”

I smiled, feeling my defenses wane. “Why are you so upbeat?” I asked.

“Rick’s home with the kids and I can stay out as long as I want. Plus I finished all the shopping today.”

“More Barbies?”

“More Barbies.” She nodded. “More designer outfits, more little shoes to get sucked up by the vacuum or caught between Tyson’s paws. But if that’s what she wants …”

We raised our glasses, briefly touching them together.

“To Barbie,” I said facetiously.

“To us,” Sarah responded firmly. “To friendships that last through everything. To you and me.”

So I told her. I hadn’t planned to, knew she wouldn’t approve, but after her toast I felt compelled to reveal all. Maybe I was testing her words. I knew how highly Sarah regarded Cary and valued fidelity. Would she still be my friend when she found out I’d betrayed both? Maybe, too, I just wanted to talk. To say my lover’s name, acknowledge his role in my life, make him as real to Sarah as her own children.

Predictably she was shocked, but surprisingly nonjudgmental.

“Oh,” she said after I’d finished, the champagne going flat on the table between us. “I guess it’s too late for warnings then?”

I nodded. She sighed.

“God, Kate, I just want you to be happy; you know that. And if he’s what makes you happy, well, I can live with that. But what are you going to do about Cary? Where’s it all heading?”

I shook my head. The future wasn’t something I’d even thought about, as unanticipated as ill health. Why should I, when the present was so delicious?

“I love Cary. I really do. I’ve told you that before, and I mean it. I’d never want to hurt him.”

“Well, you’re going to, whether you like it or not. Don’t you think he’ll find out? Or do you imagine you can just keep on switching between the two of them, flitting from one to the other with everyone being happy?”

Actually, the idea had some appeal. Already I couldn’t imagine giving Luke up, but the same was true for Cary. Luke was fireworks and flattery, desire, intrigue and elation. Cary was my past and my home and the warm body next to mine as I slept. I was having no difficulty moving between the two of them sexually, and saw no reason why I couldn’t do so emotionally either. They were poles apart, opposite but complementary.

I tried to explain this to Sarah, but she wasn’t convinced.

“Do you think about Luke when you’re with Cary?” she asked.

“Not in bed, if that’s what you mean. But sometimes, I suppose. When I’m cooking dinner or we’re watching TV.”

“Uh-huh. And do you think about Cary when you’re with Luke?”

I blushed, the color admitting the answer.

“There you go,” she said quietly. “And you think no one’s going to get hurt.”

“Cary won’t find out!” I protested. “He’s away a lot at conferences lately. We’re careful.”

“Is that the point?” she mused. “At first it was just flirting. Then it was just a kiss; now you’re just sleeping with him. Where’s it all going to end? Are you going to move in with Luke? Have
his
children?”

“You’re being ridiculous!” I almost shouted. “Nothing’s going to change! It’s just an affair.”

“Yeah, but you always said you’d never have one of those. Swore, in fact, before a church full of friends and relatives and God. And?”

I couldn’t answer. Something hot pushed at my eyelids.

“Look, Kate,” Sarah said, reaching across the table to take my hand. “Whatever you do is okay by me; it really is. I’ll always be your friend, and vice versa, I hope. I just want you to think about where it’s going. Can you do that?”

I nodded as a waiter set down our meals. Steam curled from a plate of pasta I’d ordered hungrily twenty minutes ago, but my appetite had fled. Where was this going? I couldn’t even begin to guess.

TIM
•

For the first time I understood why they called it the festive season. It wasn’t that I’d ever disliked Christmas, but I hadn’t experienced it like this. With a partner, that is: someone who made it personal, made it matter. I did my shopping well ahead of time, tapped my feet to carols in elevators, found the lunchtime crowds exciting and colorful rather than a nuisance. For weeks I deliberated over Joan’s present, trying to decide what would best provoke her sharp smile as she unwrapped it, imagining the scene and enjoying the indecision. Jewelry? We’d been going out for only a month, yet I wanted her to know I was serious. Or if that was too much, maybe perfume? Lingerie? I ventured into one such store, all lace and static cling, but the range overwhelmed me. Camisoles, teddies, basques. Who knew what was appropriate? Such things were Luke’s territory, and I hadn’t brought him with me.

Actually, I hadn’t seen much of Luke lately. There’d been the night I met Joan at the hospital trivia competition, then dinner a few weeks later. I’d wanted to introduce her properly to Cressida and Luke, to revel in the novelty of a double date instead of always being the spare tire to their cozy twosome. But the evening wasn’t a success. Cressida appeared distracted, fatigued, her mind elsewhere. She later apologized, claiming worry over a patient with leukemia, but I wondered if it was something else. Joan was Kate’s friend, at least originally, though they didn’t seem close now. Was Cress made uncomfortable by this reminder of her husband’s indiscretion? I hoped not—that kiss was months ago, the incident surely blown over by now. Nonetheless, I never suggested to Joan that we go out with Kate and Cary. I missed their company, but I knew where my loyalties lay.

Afterward, I asked Joan if she’d enjoyed the evening.

“They’re a striking couple, aren’t they?” she said. “I’m amazed you’ve stayed friends with them.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired, gazing in the rearview mirror as I negotiated the ubiquitous pillars in the multistory parking deck.

“Well, it’s just that people who look like that are out of my experience. And league.”

“But they were nice enough, weren’t they?” I replied, nonplussed. Luke’s looks had ceased being an issue for me long ago.

“I guess,” she conceded, then was quiet. Experience told me that she was thinking, and not to interrupt.

“I suppose I’m surprised,” she confessed after a minute. “Quite frankly, we’re average, and they’re not. Didn’t that ever bother you? Didn’t you ever hate him for it at school?”

“Hate him?” I was surprised. It all seemed so long ago. “I don’t think so. Not once we were friends, anyway.”

“Once
you were friends?” she emphasized triumphantly. Before us a line of cars waited their turn to pay, brake lights tapping on and off impatiently as tickets were located, change was counted. “So before that you didn’t like him?”

“We met on our first day of school when we were made to sit together. There wasn’t really time to feel anything except hope that I wasn’t going to get beaten up.”

Joan persisted. “And even when he was your friend, did you think it would last? Didn’t you assume he’d just move on to someone else once he didn’t have to sit next to you anymore?”

I sighed. Maybe I had once thought that about Luke, but it felt like a betrayal to say that to Joan.

“What’s your point? Did you like them or not?” The words were sharper than I intended, though that seemed to work with her.

“I did. I thought they were nice. And they obviously care about you, which is the main thing.”

“But?” I prompted, knowing one was coming.

“I don’t know. I’m being silly. But I guess I just couldn’t trust a man who looked like him—so attractive to women that he’s bound to exploit it occasionally. I’m glad you’re not like that,” she finished without guile.

“Thanks a lot. But what about Cressida? You thought she was beautiful too. Does that mean she’s also under suspicion?”

“How would I know?” Joan smiled as we finally made our way out of the building, into the clean night air. “She’s a woman. What do I know about them?”

In the end I chose jewelry. A small gold cross on a necklace so fine it was almost invisible. Joan wasn’t religious as far as I knew, but still I was sure it would appeal to her: meaningful, discreet, tasteful without being trendy. In return she bought me a novel and appeared unconcerned by the discrepancy. That was fine by me—I had worried she’d chastise me for spending so much. Instead her keen eyes simply widened as she opened the gift, saw the sky-blue box, caught the glint of the object inside.

“Put it on me,” she instructed, sweeping aside her heavy hair and presenting me with her pale and freckled nape. The small dots seemed to blink in the unaccustomed sunlight. On a whim I bent to kiss the marbled skin, surprisingly warm beneath my lips. Joan giggled, an unfamiliar sound.

“Hey, do as you’re told!” she protested, yet didn’t move away. I drew her around to face me, then not for the first time kissed her self-sufficient mouth, feeling it relax into surrender, the gold cross still winking in its box. Joy to the world! Goodwill to all men!