Cuts (19 page)

FORTY

AFTERNOON DELIGHT

Parked at the curb across the street from Emily Jean’s house, Lester watched a car pull into her driveway. It stopped and
Emily Jean climbed out. She raised the garage door, then returned to her car and drove into the garage. After she pulled the
door shut, Lester waited for two minutes before climbing from his own car. He walked to the front door and rang the bell.

Quick footsteps. The door opened.

“Why, Mr. Bryant! How nice of you to drop by. You certainly arrived early.”

“I couldn’t think of a good excuse to leave work early, so I took the whole day off.”

She pressed her face against his chest. “I do wish I’d known. I would’ve phoned in sick, myself, and we might’ve spent the
entire day together. Wouldn’t that have been lovely?”

He felt the loss like a sharp pain. “It occurred to me,” he said, “but I thought you might have qualms about missing work.”

“Heavens, no. I make it a point, every year, to be absent several days whether I’m ill or not. I see it as a reward for my
hard labors and dedication. Besides, substitutes too must eat.”

“Why don’t we pick a day next week and both call in sick?”

“Do you dare?”

“Sure. I’ll say it’s a relapse. It’ll be fine. Today’s my first absence in six months.”

“Well, then, shall we p lan on n ext Tuesday?”

“What’s wrong with Monday?” Lester asked.

“Monday illnesses arouse too much suspicion.”

“Okay then, Tuesday it is.” He kissed the side of her neck. The mild scent of perfume excited him.

“Would you care for a drink?” she asked.

“Why not?”

“No reason. I’ll just whip up a batch of margaritas.”

“Great. Don’t you drink martinis, though?”

“I’ll be quite happy with margaritas, I’m sure.” With a lazy, contented smile, she hugged him and they kissed again. “I shall
return in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Okay. Oh, and don’t bother salting the rim of my glass, okay? It’s too much trouble and I don’t go much for all that salt.”

“As you like it. My, wouldn’t that make a clever title for something?”

“As you like it? It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Alas, it has probably been used. There is nothing new under the sun, Mr. Bryant.”

“Aren’t we?”

“New?” She frowned as if thinking very hard. “We’re certainly rather new to each other, aren’t we?”

“New and improved,” Lester said.

“Indeed we are,” she said, then went into the kitchen.

Lester wandered around the living room, waiting. He glanced into the fireplace. Three split logs were stacked on the grate
with kindling and paper wads underneath, waiting for a chilly night. On the mantle, a pewter ashtray held a single, mashed
cigarette. There was lipstick on the filter.

“I do hope you like Camembert,” Emily Jean said, coming from the kitchen with a tray of cheese and crackers. The margaritas
were balanced precariously.

“Once inside my mouth, it’s great. The trick is to get it there without smelling it.”

“Why, you
must
smell it or you’ll miss half the flavor.” She set the tray on the table in front of the couch. “Do sit down.”

He sat, and then Emily Jean was sitting beside him, against him, and he put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder.

“A toast would be appropriate, don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” Lester agreed.

“To all brave hearts an d lovers.”

They gently clinked their glasses and drank. “That was a nice toast,” Lester said.

Emily Jean smiled. “It did have a nice ring to it.”

“Like ‘as you like it,’ ” he said, and sipped the cloudy drink.

“Exactly.”

“Or ‘all’s well that ends well.’ ”

“I don’t care much for the ring of that one,” said Emily Jean. “It may sound a trifle pessimistic to you, but I suspect that
nothing ends well. Not a thing.”

Lester’s stomach tightened. He took a long drink and a deep breath. “That’s an awful way to look at things.”

“Awful, perhaps. But accurate, I’m afraid. Things always start out so dazzling bright and full of promise. Like the first
snowfall of the year. Have you ever lived where it snows?”

“I grew up in Chicago.”

“Then you know. It falls so lovely white and melts on your eyelashes and covers the lawns and roofs and the tops of cars and
it’s simply beautiful. Then young men have heart attacks shoveling it and cars skid into each other and trees. And after the
snow has been on the ground for a short time, it’s gray and ugly.”

“If you break the surface,” Lester said, “it’s still white underneath. As white as the day it came down.”

“Such a pleasant thought. And do you know something? You’re absolutely right!” She looked at him with solemn respect as if
he were a stranger with remarkable insight. “I’ve done that myself. Why, I recall a summer several years ago. I was hiking
in the Sierra. It was August, I believe. Late August or early September. At any rate, it was toward the end of summer and
the first snow hadn’t come yet, but I found a gray, crusty old patch of snow. It had lasted since winter because it was sheltered
from the sun all day long beneath an overhang. Well, the water in my canteen was lukewarm and cool refreshment sounded mighty
welcome. So I kicked through the dirty crust and the snow underneath was so white it nearly blinded me. I scooped it up and
ate it from my hand. Biting it. I still recall the way it tasted, and the way it squeaked against my teeth. Have you ever
eaten snow?”

“Many times,” he said. “But not since I was a kid.”

She shook her head sadly. “We did so many marvelous things when we were children. I used to lie in the grass and watch the
shapes the clouds made. Did you do that?”

“Sure.”

“There was always a high percentage of bearded men and sheep.”

Lester laughed.

“I’m perfectly serious. I also used to walk through puddles in my galoshes, stamping down hard to make big splashes.”

“I did that, too.
I
was very big on throwing things.”

“Rocks?”

“Rocks, bricks.”

“Snowballs?”

“And spitballs and paper airplanes.”

“And chunks of dirt that exploded into a million bits!”

“And once, when I was very lucky, my older brother—over my shoulder with judo.”

Emily Jean laughed. “All for the sheer joy of throwing,” she said, and hurled her empty glass at the fireplace. As it struck
the grate and smashed, Lester threw his. It glanced off the bark of a log and exploded against the bricks.

They both were laughing and then they were in each other’s arms. The laughter stopped. They lay down on the couch and held
each other for a long time. They said nothing. They hardly moved. They simply held each other close.

Then they moved their faces apart. Lester’s cheek was hot from pressing against hers. She looked in his eyes and he smiled
and she kissed him. “Shall we move into the bedroom?” she suggested.

She led him upstairs and entered the room with the blue bedspread and the sweaty rock star writhing on the poster.

“Let’s go to your room,” Lester said.

She looked at him solemnly.

“If we’re going to make love, Emily Jean, I want to do it on your bed—not on your daughter’s. With you. No more pretending
you’re her.”

“We tried that before, darling. It didn’t work.”

“It’ll work now.”

She began to cry. Lester held her. He led her quietly through the hallway to a bedroom with blowing curtains and two swirling
landscapes of Van Gogh above the bed.

And it worked.

They were asleep when the telephone rang. Lester opened his eyes. The room was dark.

He felt a rush of alarm.

How late is it?

The phone rang again.

Must be at least six o’clock, he thought, or the sun wouldn’t be down.

What if that’s Helen on the phone?

It rang again.

She doesn’t know I’m here.

The hell with Helen, he thought, and smiled. So poetic: the hell with Helen.

Emily Jean reached an arm through the darkness and picked up the phone. Her voice sounded sleepy and pleasant as she said,
“Hello?” She listened for a moment. “Yes, this is she.” Seconds passed. Suddenly, she blurted, “No! How badly?”

Lester climbed out of bed.

“I see.”

He started putting on his clothes.

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

He tried not to listen. He felt out of place and wondered if he should leave the room.

“No, not that I know of.”

He stepped into the hallway, buttoning his shirt, and didn’t return until he heard Emily Jean hang up.

“It’s May Beth,” she said softly as if dazed. “Somehow…she’s been hurt. She was taken to the hospital…in Denver.
County General…all cut up…last night.”

“How bad is she?”

“Critical. The doctor said, ‘critical.’ She was unconscious until…half an hour ago.” Emily Jean shook her head. “I have
to go to her.”

“I’ll drive you to the airport,” Lester said.

She sat up in bed. “Oh, thank you. But you can’t do that, Lester. Helen…”

“The hell with Helen,” he said. “Let’s get going.” He sat beside Emily Jean and put his hand on her warm, fragile shoulder.

She was already dressed and dialing the phone in the living room when the doorbell rang.

“Could you get it for me?” she asked.

What if it’s Helen?

The idea made Lester feel squirmy and sick.

“Sure,” he said.

I hope it
is
Helen.

He hurried to the front door and swung it open.

“Trick or treat!” shouted a trio of little kids: a ghost, a vampire and a Yoda.

Isn’t Halloween tomorrow?

No, this is Thursday.
This
is Halloween.

Here are the trick-or-treaters to prove it.

Lester wondered if Emily Jean had candy stashed away somewhere.

She was still on the phone to the substitute office. He could hear her speaking slowly and clearly, the way people do when
talking to a tape recorder.

Lester reached into a pocket of his trousers. He felt some coins down there, and scooped them out.

“Here you go, kids.”

They held out their bags.

“Happy Halloween,” Lester said, and dropped a quarter into each bag.

FORTY-ONE

TRAVELER’S FRIEND

Butler Avenue. Butler would do fine.

Who done it? The Butler, of course.

If I had a Butler, he would tuck me into bed…

Albert shook his head sharply, trying to clear it. He flicked on the Volkswagen’s right-hand turn signal, moved over a lane,
and exited Interstate 40.

Welcome to Flagstaff, he thought.

Staff of life. Sleep. Or is it bread? Staff of life?

Who knows? Who cares?

He hadn’t slept since when? Pueblo, Arizona. That quiet dark street in Pueblo where he parked and slept until dawn broke through
his windshield. But that was…thirteen hours ago? No, fourteen. Something like that.

So much driving. Endless. Putting miles between…

This is it. End of the road. Till tomorrow.

He saw a big neon sign.

TRAVELER’S FRIEND

The small flashing green sign below it read VACANCY.

Albert pulled into the driveway of the motel and climbed out. The air was cold and helped to clear his head. The desk clerk
was a smiling, blond woman. Mrs. Friend or Mrs. Traveler?

He signed the registration card as Arnold Price.

He paid with a twenty-dollar bill. One of those he’d given the girl last night…the one that got away.

Got away like Charlene.

Win a few, lose a few, he thought.

But I keep losing the best of the bunch.

“I can give you room fourteen,” said the woman.

“Good. Thank you.”

Key in hand, Albert returned to his car. He found a space in front of room fourteen. Got out. Opened the door of the room.
Shut it. Bolted it. Pulled off his clothes. Turned back the covers. Climbed naked between the cool smooth white sheets.

Sleep was at the bottom of a dark hole, waiting for him. He fell toward it, spinning.

FORTY-TWO

CONFESSION

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Helen said. She glanced at him from the couch, then returned her eyes to the ceiling as if
its pebbled surface were a far better companion that Lester.

“I had a fine time.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, I know what time it is. I don’t know why you should care, though. It’s no later than the time you usually get home from
your goddamn classes and board meetings and shit.”

“I didn’t
have
any classes or board meetings. This is Halloween. What I
had
were gangs of rug rats ringing the doorbell. I ran out of candy at about six o’clock and had to stop answering the door.”

“Sorry,” Lester said. “I thought Halloween was
tomorrow
night like the faculty party.”

“Where were you?”

He thought about the airport and the three-hour wait for Emily Jean’s flight to Denver. They had eaten supper there. She had
cut her sirloin steak into dainty bites, but couldn’t eat them because she was sick with worry about May Beth. Later, she’d
declined his offer to take her into the bar, so they had waited on plastic chairs at the departure gate.

She left holding out her boarding pass like a ticket to a violent game she was afraid to see. Lester watched her and found
himself crying.

“Well, where were you?” Helen asked again.

“I went to the airport.”

“You were at the airport until eleven o’clock?” Her voice was mocking. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did. I got a big thrill out of watching all those people fly away.”

“You probably wished you were one of them.”

“Sure did.”

“Well, why the fuck didn’t you go! You think I want you around here all the time acting like some kind of goddamn baby?” She
turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes and nose were red, just as Emily Jean’s had been red at the airport when she had
spoken quietly of May Beth. “I don’t need you. You’re nothing but a goddamn baby. What the hell happened to you, anyway? I
used to think you were a man.”

“You happened to me.”

“Sure, lay the blame on me. That’s just like you.”

“Of course it is. I’m going to bed.”

“Sure. Now you’re gonna run off to bed like a bad little boy.”

“Why should I stand here and take all this crap from you? You’re supposed to be my loving wife, but you’ve been treating me
like shit for years. What the hell is the matter with you, anyway?”

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter. Do you really want to know? Are you
sure
you want to know?” With the sleeve of her sweater, she wiped tears from her face. Then she glared at him, dared him with mocking
eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“After I ran out of candy for the little bastards and you
still
weren’t home, I went over to a friend’s house. And you know what we did?”

Lester seemed to shrink inside. “Bob for apples?” he suggested.

“We screwed our brains out.”

The strength drained from his legs. He dropped onto a chair.

“It wasn’t just tonight, either.” She sat up on the couch and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Her voice quickened. “I’ve
been seeing him for weeks. For
weeks
, Lester. All those nights when you thought I was in class or at a meeting, I was in his bed—
fucking!
Because he’s a real man and you’re nothing but a worthless loser!”

He held tightly to the arms of the chair. The lights of the room looked dim and hazy. Helen’s eyes, far away, were fierce as
she laughed.

“How does it feel?” she asked. The words had a hollow ringing echo. “How do you like the idea of your wife in another man’s
bed? Another
man?
” Her laugh washed over him like a breaker, engulfing him, drowning him. “You’re no man.
He’s
the man. You’re nothing. You’re a cipher. You’re a dickless wonder—that’s what
he
calls you. He laughs at you. We both do. You’re so fucking pathetic it’s sad.”

“Who is he?” Lester heard himself ask, and wondered why he’d asked.

Doesn’t matter who the bastard is.

Nothing seemed to matter except the warm darkness that was quickly overtaking him.

“Ian Collins, of course. Who do you think? He’s the only real man I…”

The floor slammed into Lester’s face, jarring him with a blast of pain, and he began to vomit. He thought he would never stop,
never cleanse his guts of the filth that seemed to be clotted there.

But finally he did stop. He pushed himself away from the mess and got to his knees. He wiped his mouth and runny nose. Blinking
tears from his eyes, he saw Helen’s contempt.

“You fucking whore,” he said.

Helen grinned. “Why don’t we go to the Halloween party tomorrow night as a pair? I’ll be the slut and you be the cuckold.”

“Fuck you.”

“Better still,” she said, “you’d better just stay home. Ian says he’s gonna kick your ass the next time he sees you.” With
a laugh, Helen got up from the couch. “Don’t forget to clean up your puke before you come to bed.”

“Who says I’m coming to bed?”

“Wouldn’t you like a chance to outperform Ian? I’ll let you give it a try…if you don’t mind putting it into some leftover
Ian.” Helen chuckled and walked away.

Lester heard the bedroom door shut.

“G’bye,” he muttered.

With a trembling hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. And a single key.

The key to Emily Jean’s house.

“G’bye, whore,” he muttered.