Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence (9 page)

For a moment, she looked around for Henry and Antonia, then recalled that they were dining together, without her. She even looked for Linwood Lively, oddly excited at the idea of seeing him again. She wasn't confrontational, but something in her wanted to challenge him, the same way she wanted to confront Henry. Silly men, she thought, sipping her wine, the taste of it far too sweet. Yet she drank on, the wine like an anesthetic, numbing her against the dread of Henry and his essays, against Antonia and what she'd told Catherine this afternoon. She was buoyant when she took her first bite of the pad thai, the delicious taste of noodles and peanuts, of bean sprouts, spices, and shrimp, exploding in her mouth.

“It's delicious,” she said.

“Mine's fantastic,” Jane said.

Louise remained unconvinced. “Dog food,” she said, setting down her fork. “I suppose we can stop guessing what happened to all the animals.”

“Louise,” Catherine said, a little tipsy, “negativity isn't good for the digestion.”

“Maybe not, but a healthy dose of realism is,” she said. “You should try it, Catherine.”

“Um, please,” Jane said. “I'm leaving if you're going to bicker.”

“We aren't bickering,” Catherine and Louise said, in unison, which caused them to smile.

“I still don't understand why you haven't gotten rid of Henry yet,” Louise said, “especially when I have someone far more suitable in mind.”

“Who is that?” Catherine asked.

“My son, Chase, of course,” she said. “Now, before you say no, just let me—”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “Besides, you just want him out of the house.”

“Well, I think it's a marvelous idea,” Jane said.

“How much is Henry paying you?” Louise asked. “If you don't mind my prying, that is.”

“Fourteen hundred a month,” Catherine said with pride.

“I'll double it,” she said. “Every young man my son's age needs his own place. You can believe me when I tell you that no one will paint words on the cottage as long as Chase is there.”

“No, he'll just ransack the inside,” she said. “No offense, Louise, but I'd just as soon leave it empty than hand it over to a twenty-one-year-old boy.”

“Twenty-two-year-old man,” Louise corrected. “Let me tell you something about my son: he's more of a man than that Henry Swallow will ever hope to be.” And with that, she fell silent.

“Ready or not, I'm changing the subject,” Jane said. “Let's talk about the man over there who keeps staring at Catherine.” She motioned with her head to a table against the wall, where a handsome man in a blue suit sipped his water. “He's been eyeing Catherine since we got here,” she said. “I think she should go talk to him.”

“She will do no such thing,” Louise said, without looking at the man. “This is a restaurant—yes, a bad one—but it's still a restaurant, not a singles bar.”

While Louise spoke, Catherine stood, getting up on the pretense of using the bathroom. As she did, she eyed the gentleman—to her that's what he looked—who was neither old nor young, but ageless, his eyes blue, his face broad and open, carved with smile lines. To her he looked like a traveling salesman straight out of the 1940s, and she imagined he had a deep, resonating voice and that this voice would try to sell her a Bible, a magazine, or a vacuum cleaner. And she knew she'd buy or at least think about buying anything he was peddling.

As she passed him, she slowed her step and he nodded his head at her, said good evening. She nearly swooned at the sound of his voice, which was even deeper than she'd expected. “Sit with me,” he said, but something else was in his voice, too, a sharp breathlessness and a hiss that caught her off guard, and then she was moving away from him, down the length of the restaurant, passing friends and acquaintances, his proposition still ringing in her ears. In the bathroom, she checked her face and hair, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, her fingers trembling. She'd never been much good at flirting and wasn't even sure she remembered how. Suddenly she wanted to flirt, and this admission sent further trembles through her. She understood that she wasn't beautiful, but she did have a compelling, unusual face, soft green eyes, and curly blond hair that fell to her shoulders. She tanned deeply in the summer. Most men found her interesting—that's what they always said—and she took this to mean that they didn't find her threatening. In addition, Wyatt was gone, and though she missed him, she reminded herself again that her grieving had to end and that what she was feeling now—excitement, anticipation—was okay. Sit with him, she thought, dropping the lipstick into her purse. She pushed out of the bathroom with newfound hope and purpose and headed for his table, but he wasn't there. Now slightly wilted, she joined her friends, who had already paid and were waiting for her at the door.

“How much do I owe?” she asked, digging through her purse for her wallet, unable to meet their eyes, shame rising in her throat like bile. She could tell that her voice was shaking, that her friends were staring at her. When she looked up at them, she asked, “What?”

As she said this, she glanced out the window to see the man standing in the shadows across the street, just standing there, a book in his hand. Her heart soared, even as Louise said, “You don't owe us a penny,” and touched her hand. “You know, Catherine, that all of my fussing is merely a symptom.”

“Of what?” Catherine asked, as the man moved deeper into the shadows of the park. When she lost sight of him, her heartbeat slowed, yet the shame lingered. Then she was filled with sadness and a strong need to get away from the restaurant and her friends.

“Of how much I love you,” Louise said as they stood on the sidewalk.

A sultry night, the air was charged with rain, yet Catherine knew it wouldn't rain a drop. She wanted it to rain, wanted the skies to break open, to crackle with lightning and split with thunder, and she wanted the storm to ravage the town, uproot trees and tear shingles from homes—anything to upset the monotony that was her life, including her lovely but dead-end job, these dinners with her friends, the empty house. Another night alone with the radio—the dread of this was simply too much to bear. Bear it, though, she would.

After she got home, she turned on the radio, all the more frustrated with herself. It had been the first time in ages that she'd even considered flirting with a man, and then this man got up and left? Well, she thought, if it's meant to be, I'll run into him again. She curled up on the sofa and gazed absently at Henry's collection of essays lying on the credenza, surprised now that she felt no urge to read it. Why should she? Whatever I find in its pages won't bring Wyatt back, she thought.

“Here I am,” she said aloud to the radio, to Wyatt. “Another night.”

It wasn't just another night, however, because, like it or not, something had been set loose, and the storm wasn't outside but inside Catherine herself, and she sparked and tingled with longing. She jumped up and slipped back on her flats, not bothering to shut off the radio, not bothering to think about Henry and the lease, or Antonia and her strange invitation. After grabbing her purse, she fled the house and climbed into the car, heading for Tint, the bar at the Tweed & Twining Arms hotel. Halfway there, however, she lost momentum, picturing the place, the drunken, flirtatious college girls and the men who bought them pitchers of beer; the lonely, desperate women who gazed yearningly at these men, trying to catch their eyes; the college boys, who weren't at the bar to make meaningful connections, these inappropriate boys with just one thing on their minds, which wasn't love. Just like that, she turned the car around, the inner storm of lightning and thunder evaporating, leaving in its place a searing aridness.

At home, she paused in her yard while a group of drunken boys and girls paraded past her. She said hello, envying the girls and their voluptuous strides, the way they clung to the arms of the good-looking, muscular boys. It seemed to her that Antonia should have been among them, that one of these boys should have been at her side. Again, Catherine wondered what Antonia was doing with Henry, not because she couldn't imagine her with him but because it disturbed her to think that Henry was probably doing to Antonia what he'd done to so many other young women. Then, against her will, she was walking toward the green house down the block. It was a charming if shabby four-room house with a spacious wraparound veranda. The night air contained the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke, and the throb of music, all of which was suspended in the membranous heat. The house was lit up, and inside Catherine could see the twosome at the dining-room table, Antonia on Henry's lap. They were playing Monopoly, she realized as Antonia's overloud voice floated through the air: “St. James Place is mine!”

Well, this is a sight, Catherine thought, remembering her own failed attempts to interest Henry in a simple game of cards. As she neared the door and knocked, she saw herself again in his sumptuous office at NYU, the Scrabble set she'd bought him still on the shelf, untouched. He'd thanked her for it yet never asked her to play; only later did she learn how much he despised board games. Hearing the knock, Antonia got off his lap and Henry appeared at the door and greeted her distantly. Entering, she glanced at his face for signs of a black eye or bloodied nose, but there was nothing, just Henry and his thick, black-framed glasses, which, she conceded, still made him look like Trotsky.

“I knew you'd come,” Antonia said, giving her a quick squeeze. “Didn't I tell you she'd come, Henry?” She was drunk, on both whiskey and the glorious life she was living, it seemed to Catherine. “He's such a doubting Thomas,” she added, leading Catherine into the room.

Henry said nothing. He just stood there, cleaning off the lenses of his glasses with his shirt. Now it was Catherine's turn to feel like an intruder, and she regretted coming. Antonia went to the radio and flipped through songs, finally settling on “Addicted to Love.” She cranked up the volume and closed her eyes, mouthing the words with her full, dark lips. Catherine was at once taken back to her own college days, when love quickly soured with one boy or another, and she swore never again, even as she listened to familiar songs on the radio and wept.

“I'm addicted to you, Henry,” Antonia sang, opening her eyes wide and gazing at him from across the room. She motioned toward him with her fingers—“Come dance with me”—but Henry continued to lean stoically against the fireplace's mantel. The room was too close, the air ionized and hot, and Catherine couldn't help feeling as if she'd disturbed the balance of the evening. The storm is in here, with them, she thought as phantom jabs of lightning, in the shape of harsh words, a lingering argument, sizzled around them, and Antonia swayed and twirled, upsetting the molecules all the more, trying, it seemed to Catherine, to clear the room of discord.

Antonia reached for Catherine and drew her near, dancing her through the house as one song became another and the girl's scents—of whiskey, cigarettes, and sweat—mingled in Catherine's nose, enticing and repellent at once. The house was alive and hummed with their dancing, which echoed through the rooms. Catherine, who hadn't danced in ages, felt self-conscious, and she broke away from Antonia to join Henry, who had moved to the sofa. Then the song was over, and Antonia was back, saying, “Dancing's better than sex, right?” She laughed. “Well, maybe not better than sex, but it's definitely high on the list.” With that she collapsed on the sofa between them, pressing her cheek against Henry's face.

Henry didn't nuzzle her back, though, but got up and went into the kitchen. As he left the room, Catherine thought she had a better sense of the couple and, she supposed, of the nature of love—how hard it was to get right, how much harder to maintain. Though she rarely counted herself among the lucky, she did count herself lucky enough to have run across Wyatt. Yes, at times, he had been difficult and selfish, but Catherine had always known where she stood with him. At least, it seemed that way, she thought as Henry returned and handed her a glass of red wine.

“If memory serves, you always liked a zinfandel,” he said. She thanked him and took a sip, moving toward the window. She hoped for a breeze, but there was nothing, the air beyond the house thick and milky, like a cataract clouding the night's eyes.

Outside a car slowed down, stopping near the house, and in the faint dashboard light, Catherine thought she saw the outline of someone familiar, and she started to say, “Oh, look,” but cut herself off. The car was already pulling away, and she was already being pulled back into the spell of the evening, putting on a smile as she sipped her wine, tired of what wasn't being talked about. She found herself drawing on the very last reserves of good humor and patience, and it tired her. I'm here to talk about the cottage with you, Henry, she wanted to say, but when Antonia appeared with a cake—a Henry Wallbanger, she called it—the moment of possibility passed away.

“It's my mother's recipe,” Antonia said, her voice a little sad. She set the cake on the coffee table. “Henry, you do the honors.”

While Henry cut the cake and placed the slices on the pale pink china plates, Catherine drank her wine and thought about Antonia's declaration this afternoon, wondering why she'd insisted that Catherine come over. The air was still full of music, and Antonia continued to spin around the room, downing the last of her whiskey. While Henry watched Antonia, Catherine watched him, his stare becoming odd and dark, as if he were seeing her for the first time and was truly puzzled by what he saw. Aren't we all just the constant reminder of who we were and never will be again? Catherine thought.

She took a bite of the cake, which she found dry. Keeping that thought to herself, she said, “Delicious. Tell your mother I'd love to steal her recipe.”