Separate Beds (26 page)

“In the middle of it all, my muscles suddenly lost motion and I only clung to Clay and let him finish without me. I wanted to cry out loud, 'Why didn't you love me? Why didn't you hug me? Why did you make me do this? You see, it's not so hard to touch, to be tender. Look, a total stranger can show me all this, why couldn't you? I didn't want much, just a smile, a hug, a kiss sometime to know you approved of me.' I wanted to cry then but made myself not. And maybe I hung onto Clay too tight, but that's all. I'll show them! I'll show them all!”

The room was a circle of dark around the lightblot shining over the cluttered tabletop. The words on the page became hazy and Clay's hand shook as he replaced the diary where he'd found it. He propped his elbows on the typewriter and pressed his lips against his folded hands. His eyes closed. He tried to gulp down the lump in his throat but it stubbornly remained. He dropped his face into his palms, picturing a father reading that from his daughter. Further, he tried to conceive of a father so devoid of emotion as to fail to respond to such a cry for love. His mind wandered back to the evening he'd first learned that Catherine expected his child. Vividly he recalled her stubborn refusal to ask anything of him, and for the first time he thought he understood. He thought he understood, too, why she had done such a convincing job during the wedding and reception.
I'll show them! I'll show them all!
He felt a new and oppressive weight of responsibility that he'd not known until now. He recalled her aversion to being touched, her defensiveness, and realized why it was so necessary for her to build such a barrier around herself. He pictured her face the few times he'd seen it genuinely happy, knowing now the reasons for her quicksilver changes and why she had been striving so hard to remain independent of him.

His elbows hurt. He realized he'd been sitting for a long time with them digging into the sharp edges of the typewriter. He opened his eyes and the light hurt them. Listlessly he rose and turned off the lamp, wandered into the bedroom and fell on the bed. He lay there with his mind reeling and groping, waiting for her return.

Clay heard her come in, sat up, wondering how to treat her, an odd sensation, for now his concern was with her, not with himself. When he came downstairs, she was sitting with her coat still on, her head laid back against the davenport, eyelids closed but quivering.

“Hi,” he said, stopping way across the room from her.

“Hi,” she said, without opening her eyes.

“Something wrong?” The lamplight shone on her wind-strewn hair. She hugged her coat very tightly around herself and turned the collar up around her jaw.

“The baby died.”

Without another word he crossed the room, sat down on the arm of the davenport and put a hand on top of her hair. She allowed it but said nothing, showed no signs of the heartbreak and fear that bubbled inside her. He moved his hand, rubbing in warm circles upon her hair, then smoothing it down in wordless communion with her. She swallowed convulsively. He wanted desperately to kneel down before her and bury his head in her lap and press his face to her stomach. Instead, he only whispered, “I'm sorry.”

“They said its l-lungs were underdeveloped, that wh-when a baby comes early there's always a ch-chance of . . .” But her sentence went unfinished. Her eyes opened wider than normal, focused on the ceiling and he waited for only a single sob, but it never came. He tightened his fingers gently on the back of her neck—an invitation to avail herself of him in whatever way she needed. He could tell how she needed to be held and comforted but she overcame it and sprang up, away from his touch, jerking her coat off almost angrily.

He stopped the coat while it drooped yet over her shoulder blades, grasping her upper arms from behind, expecting her to yank free of his touch. But she didn't. Her head sagged forward as if her neck had suddenly gone limp.

“It doesn't mean ours is in danger,” he assured her. “Don't let it upset you, Catherine.”

Now she yanked free and spun. “Don't let it upset me! What do you think I am? How can I not let it upset me when I've just seen Grover crying for a baby she never wanted! Do you know how she got pregnant? Well, let me tell you. She was suckered into a date with a high school jock who did it on a dare because she was such a troll! That's how! And she thought she hated the thing growing inside her and now it's dead and she cried like she wished she had died too. And you say 'don't let it upset you?' I don't understand h-how this w-world got s-so . . . screwed up . . .”

He moved suddenly before he could change his mind, before she could run from him again or hide her need behind more of her anger. He wrapped both arms around her and gripped her fiercely. He cradled the back of her head and forced it into the hollow of his neck and made her stay that way, their muscles quivering, straining until at last she gave in and he felt her arms cling to his back. More like combatants than lovers, they clung. Her nails dug into his sweater as she gripped it. Then he felt her fists thumping against the small of his back in desperation, although she wasn't trying to escape him anymore. Just those pitiful thumps, growing weaker and weaker while he waited.

“Catherine,” he whispered, “you don't have to be so strong all the time.”

“Oh, God, Clay, it was a boy. I saw him in the incubator. He was so beautiful and fragile.”

“I know, I know.”

“Her mom and dad wouldn't come. Clay, they wouldn't come!” A fist hit his back again.

Let her cry, he thought. If only she'd cry at last. “But your mom's going to come and so is mine.”

“What are you trying to do to me?” She suddenly started pushing, palms against his chest, almost thrashing.

“Catherine, trust me.”

“No, no! Let me go! This is hard enough without you mixing me all up even worse.”

Then she ran up the stairs, taking with her all her years of bottled-up hurt. But now he knew that gentleness would work. It would take time, but eventually, it would work.

It began snowing shortly after noon on Christmas Eve day. It came down like diamond dust, in light, puffy featherflakes. By evening the earth looked clean-white. The sky bore a soft luminescence, lit from below by the lights of the city reflecting off the snow.

Catherine wore a new homemade jumper of mellow rust wool, with a tie that cinched it loosely beneath her breasts. She had decided to meet Elizabeth Forrester head-on this time. Yet, approaching the front door, some of Catherine's aplomb quavered at the thought of the grand dame eyeing her popping stomach for the first time.

“Do you think she's here yet?” she asked Clay timorously, while he paused with his hand on the door latch.

“I'm sure she is. Just do like I said, face her squarely. She admires that.”

The smile she managed nearly faded as they entered, for Elizabeth Forrester was advancing upon them from the height of the open stairway. Her cane led the way, but it had a surprising tuft of Christmas greenery tied about its handle with a red ribbon.

“Well, it's about time, children!” she scolded imperiously.

“Merry Christmas, Grandmother,” Clay greeted, taking her arm as she approached the lowest step.

“Yes, I'm given to understand that it certainly is. I can help myself down the steps, if you please. If you want to pamper someone, I understand that your wife is in the way of a woman who needs pampering. Is that so, my dear?” She turned her hawk-eyes on Catherine.

“Hardly. I'm as healthy as a horse,” replied the girl, removing her coat into Clay's hands, revealing the maternity dress.

About Elizabeth Forrester's lips a thin smile threatened, and the eyes that pointedly refrained from dropping to Catherine's abdomen glittered like the jewels upon her fingers. Then she cocked a brow at her grandson.

“You know, I like this young woman's style. Not unlike my own, I might add.” The ivory-headed cane pecked twice at Catherine's stomach while the matriarch passed on her decree. “As I've said once before, I shall most assuredly expect him to be beautiful, not to mention bright. Merry Christmas, my dear.” She bestowed a cheek to Catherine's, miming a kiss which did not quite land, then exited to the living room in her usual grand style to leave Catherine gaping at Clay.

“That's all?” she whispered, wide-eyed.

“All?” he smiled. “Beautiful
and
bright? That's a pretty big order.”

A smile began about the corners of Catherine's eyes. “But what if
she
is only
cute
and of
average intelligence?”

Clay looked shocked. “You wouldn't dare!”

“No, I don't suppose I would, would I?”

Their smiles lingered for a long moment, the encounter with Elizabeth Forrester somehow already forgotten. Gazing up at Clay, at the smile upon his firm cheeks, his charmingly handsome mouth, and that brow that curled provocatively over his left eye, Catherine found her self-restraint slipping. She realized she'd been standing there with her eyes in his for some time, and thought, It's this house. What is it that happens to me when I'm in this house with him? Breaking the spell, Catherine swept her glance around the magnificent foyer, searching for something to say.

“I think this place deserves to have its gentlemen arrive in capes tonight, and its ladies with fur muffs, with sleighs outside and nickering horses.”

“Yes, Mother's been having fun, as usual.”

Then they turned to join the others.

If the house exuded cordiality at other times of the year, it had a special spell at Christmas. Pine swags looped their way up the banister, their pungent aroma a heady greeting to all, while red candles sprang from freshly cut holly branches on tables everywhere. The pine scent mingled with that of smoke from the blazing fireplaces and cooking aromas from the kitchen. Within the study, hurricane lanterns couched blazing candles on the mantel, while a childish rendition of “Deck the Halls” came from the piano in the living room. There, within the bay window, stood a tree of enormous size, a proud old balsam with traditional multicolored lights that cast their rainbows across the walls and faces there and were redoubled in gilded swags of tinsel garland that threaded the balsam's limbs. It bore so many dazzling ornaments that its green arms fairly drooped. A mountain of gifts—foiled, beribboned, sprigged with greens—cascaded around the foot of the tree. Upon the longest living room wall was an outsized wreath of nuts, garnished with a red velvet bow whose streamers were caught within the beaks of gilded partridges which hung on either side of the wreath. Everywhere there was the buzz and babble of happy voices, and above them came the laugh of Angela, who'd been ladling eggnog in the dining room, looking like some delicate little Christmas ornament herself in a pale lavender lounging outfit of soft velour, her tiny silver slippers matching the thin belt at her waist and the fine chains around her neck.

“Catherine, darling,” she greeted, immediately leaving her task and crossing to them, “and Clay!” Her melodious voice carried its usual note of welcome, but Clay affected an injured expression.

“You know, it used to be 'Clay-darling' first and then 'Catherine-darling,' but I seem to have been upstaged.”

Angela gave him a scolding pout, but nevertheless kissed Catherine first, then him, flush on the mouth.

“There. Is that what you were waiting for, standing there so innocently?”

She quirked an eyebrow at the archway above his head, which held a kissing ball of mistletoe. “As if you didn't know,” teased Angela, “it's there every year.”

Clay quickly ducked aside, playing the beleaguered male while Angela only laughed and bore Catherine away toward the eggnog where Claiborne now turned with a warm greeting.

The doorbell kept ringing until the laughter and voices were doubled. Left momentarily alone, Catherine scanned the ceiling to find the place peppered with mistletoe. Someone approached to congratulate her on her pregnancy, and she tried to forget about mistletoe. But everybody else was using it to great advantage, and it made for a gay mood. Catherine assiduously avoided it.

The food was served buffet style, crowned by real English plum pudding that arrived steaming from the kitchen. That was when Granddad Elgin caught Inella under the mistletoe in the kitchen doorway as she fussily gave orders not to touch the pudding until she returned with the warmed dessert plates. Catherine laughed to herself, standing nearby with a cup of coffee in her hand. It was delightful and so unexpected to see little birdlike Granddad Elgin kissing the maid in the kitchen doorway. Catherine felt someone behind her and glanced over her shoulder to find Clay there. He raised his eyebrows, then his eyes, to a spot over her head.

“Better watch out. Granddad Elgin will get you next,” he said.

She quickly scuttled from beneath the mistletoe. “I wouldn't have suspected it of your Granddad,” she said smilingly.

“Things get a little crazy around here at Christmastime. It's always this way.”

“They certainly do,” Clay's father said, approaching just then. “Do you mind, Young Mister Forrester, if Old Mister Forrester kisses your wife while she's standing in that advantageous spot?”

Catherine wasn't under the greens anymore; still, she looked up and backed up a step. “I wasn't—”

“Not at all, Mr. Forrester.”

Claiborne captured her for a hearty kiss, then stepped back, squeezing her biceps, looking into her face.

“You're lovelier than usual tonight, my dear.” He put one arm around her shoulders, his other around Clay's. He looked first into one face, then into the other. “I don't think I remember a happier Christmas.”

“I think a little of the glow might be from you spiking the eggnog,” Clay teased his father.

“A little, not all though.”

Catherine and Clay found a corner to sit in and eat their plum pudding, but she only dabbled at hers. It seemed they had little to say to each other, although time and again she felt Clay's eyes on her.

Soon Angela rounded everyone up and took her place at the piano to accompany the younger children who piped carols offkey until the entire group ended with “Silent Night.” Claiborne stood behind Angela as she played, with his hands on her shoulders, singing robustly. When the last note finished, she kissed one of his hands.

“You weren't singing,” Clay said behind Catherine.

“I'm a little inhibited, I guess.”

He was close enough to smell her hair. He thought of what he'd read in her diary. He'd been wanting her ever since. “People will be leaving now. I'll help them find their coats.”

“And I'll start picking up glasses. I'm sure Inella is tired.”

It was after midnight. Clay and Catherine had ushered the last straggler out the door, for somehow Angela and Claiborne had disappeared. The entry was dim, pine-scented and private. With slow steps, Catherine wandered toward the living room and the soft glow of tree lights. Clay was just behind her, where it seemed he'd hovered more and more as the night moved on. His hands were in his pockets. She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it behind an ear as they ambled thoughtlessly toward the archway.

But there Catherine stopped, warned by a movement in the shadows at the far end of the dining room. Claiborne and Angela stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing in an impassioned way in which Catherine did not think people of their age kissed. Claiborne had a dishtowel slung over his shoulder and Angela was shoeless. His hand moved over Angela's back, then stroked her side and moved to her breast. Quickly Catherine turned away, feeling like an intruder, for the two were certainly unaware of her presence across the wide, dimly lit rooms. But as she turned discreetly to withdraw, she bumped into Clay, who, instead of retreating, only placed a single finger over his lips, then raised it to point at the mistletoe above their heads. His hair and face and shirt were illuminated in the muted hues of Christmas, all red, blue, green and yellow, and he looked as inviting as the gifts beneath the tree. His eyes, too, reflected the glow of the tree lights as with a single finger he traced the line of Catherine's jaw, burning its path to the hollow beneath her lower lip. Her startled eyes widened and the breath clawed its way into her throat. She laid a hand against his light-dappled shirt, meaning to hold him off, but he captured it, along with her other, and carried them around his neck.

“My turn,” he whispered.

Then he lowered his lips to hers, caught them opened in surprise, expecting the struggle to begin. But it didn't. He knew he did not play fair, catching her while his parents were right there doing the same thing. But it had been on his mind all night, and playing fair was the farthest thing from his mind as he delved into the silken depths of her mouth. Their warm tongues touched. He plied her with singular lack of insistence, remembering what she had written about such things, inviting rather than plundering, with a luxuriant slowness. He felt fingers curve around the back of his collar and stilled his tongue—waiting, waiting, with his hold still merely a suggestion upon her body. Then a single fingertip found the skin of his neck and gently he tightened the arm about her waist.

Her body had grown since their wedding. It had blossomed into a captivating fullness that now held their hips apart. But he ran a hand possessively up and down her back, wishing that now the baby would kick—just once—so he could know the feel of it against his loins.

Reluctantly he ended the kiss.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, near her face.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered back, her lips so close he felt the whisper of breath from her words. The room was utterly still. A needle dropped from the Christmas tree, making an audible ping as they gazed into each other's eyes. Then their lips were willing and warm and seeking again and her stomach was pressed lightly against him. She wished this could go on forever, but the very wish reminded her that it couldn't, wouldn't, and she withdrew. But when she would have been turned loose he instead entwined his fingers loosely behind her back, leaning away, swiveling lazily back and forth with her, smiling down at her hair, her lips and her breasts, which were undeniably growing.

She knew she should insist on being turned loose, but he was tempting, tender this way, handsome with his face limned by the low lights, his hair colored like fire. They turned their faces to look at the Christmas tree. Contented for the moment, she let him pull her lightly near him until her temple rested on his jaw. And from the shadows, the pale faces of Angela and Claiborne—in a like embrace—watched the younger couple, and Claiborne wordlessly tightened his embrace.

“I have a marvelous idea,” Angela said softly.

Catherine started slightly, but when she would have pulled away, Clay prevented it.

“Why don't the two of you spend the night and that way we'll be able to creep down in the wee hours in our nighties and robes just like we've always done.”

Clay felt Catherine stiffen.

“Fine by me,” he said, rocking her as before, the picture of a satisfied spouse.

“But I don't have my nightie,” she said, alarmed.

“I'm sure I can find one for you, and we must have a spare toothbrush around here someplace. You could stay in the pink room.”

Catherine groped for excuses, came up with one. “But we have to pick up Mother on our way over tomorrow morning anyway.”

“Oh, that's right.”

Clay's heart fell.

“Well,” Angela mused, “it was a good idea anyway. But you two make sure you get here bright and early.”

At home, Clay took his sweet old time about dragging out his own bedding and using the bathroom. He hovered around the upstairs hall, leaning against her doorway, watching while she slipped off her earrings and shoes, “Want a glass of soda or something?” he asked.

“No, I'm stuffed.”

“I'm not very tired, are you?”

“I'm beat.”

He unbuttoned his shirt. “I guess that's to be expected, huh?”

“Yes, the heavier I get the less zip I have.”

“How much longer are you planning to stay in school? Shouldn't you be quitting pretty soon?” He finally decided to come into the bedroom, passing close behind her to stand beside the chest of drawers and empty his pockets.