The Last Time They Met (22 page)
Read The Last Time They Met Online
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Adult
—
You’ve come from Nairobi,
she said.
You’ve come from Nairobi,
she said.
—
I was in Limuru.
I was in Limuru.
She was silent.
—
I needed to see you.
I needed to see you.
No man in evidence, despite the two of everything.
—
Your presence in the market was a shock,
he said.
I felt as if I were seeing a ghost.
Your presence in the market was a shock,
he said.
I felt as if I were seeing a ghost.
—
You don’t believe in ghosts.
You don’t believe in ghosts.
—
Having been in this country a year, I think I’d believe in almost anything.
Having been in this country a year, I think I’d believe in almost anything.
They stood facing each other, not a foot apart. He could smell her soap or her shampoo.
—
Your hands shook,
he said boldly, and he could see that she was taken aback by this assertion. She moved a step away from him.
Your hands shook,
he said boldly, and he could see that she was taken aback by this assertion. She moved a step away from him.
—
Simple shock doesn’t mean much in itself,
she said, not willing to credit the trembling hands.
Our time together ended so abruptly, there will always be a certain amount of shock associated with you, no matter what the circumstances.
Simple shock doesn’t mean much in itself,
she said, not willing to credit the trembling hands.
Our time together ended so abruptly, there will always be a certain amount of shock associated with you, no matter what the circumstances.
An adequate defense. They moved further into the room. On the bookcase was a photograph, and he squinted in its direction. He recognized the cousins with whom Linda had grown up: Eileen and Michael and Tommy and Jack and the rest. A family grouping. There was another photograph, of Linda and a man. Who would be Peter, he thought. Not academic and anemic after all, but rather tall and dark and boyishly handsome. Smiling. A proprietary arm snaking around Linda’s slender waist. Her smile slightly less exuberant. Insanely, he took heart from this.
—
Can I get you something to drink?
Can I get you something to drink?
—
Water would be good,
he said.
Water would be good,
he said.
The birds outside were a frantic wind ensemble on a Sunday afternoon. They, too, signaled the approaching storm that blackened the kitchen window, even as sun poured in at the front of the house. A cool breeze, gusty, snapped blue-checked curtains. He watched her take a pitcher of water from the half fridge and pour him a glass.
—
It’s been purified,
she said, handing it to him.
It’s been purified,
she said, handing it to him.
He drank the ice-cold water and realized only then the terrible thirst his nerves had produced.
How are you?
he asked.
How are you?
he asked.
—
How am I?
How am I?
Having come
—
having, against all the odds, found her again
—
he could not now speak. He sought desperately for a reference point.
—
having, against all the odds, found her again
—
he could not now speak. He sought desperately for a reference point.
—
Do you remember anything from the accident?
he asked.
Do you remember anything from the accident?
he asked.
She was silent, perhaps surprised by the question so soon.
—
I have a blank,
he said.
It begins with seeing the little girl on the tricycle and ends with my nose filling with water. When I couldn’t see you, I felt a sense of panic so terrifying that even now it can make me sweat.
I have a blank,
he said.
It begins with seeing the little girl on the tricycle and ends with my nose filling with water. When I couldn’t see you, I felt a sense of panic so terrifying that even now it can make me sweat.
She smiled and shook her head.
You were never any good at small talk.
You were never any good at small talk.
She sat at the table, an invitation to join her. He shed his jacket, the sweat drenching him.
—
What happened to your jacket?
she asked.
What happened to your jacket?
she asked.
—
It got washed by mistake in the bathtub.
It got washed by mistake in the bathtub.
She gave a small laugh. And for a moment, lit the room with sound. But then the light went out as abruptly as it had come.
Is the scar from then?
she asked.
Is the scar from then?
she asked.
He nodded.
—
It must have been bad,
she said.
It must have been bad,
she said.
—
I hardly noticed at the time. I didn’t feel a thing. Didn’t even realize the extent of it until my mother started screaming.
I hardly noticed at the time. I didn’t feel a thing. Didn’t even realize the extent of it until my mother started screaming.
—
I remember the car tumbling,
she said, offering him a memory after all.
And I thought, This can’t be happening. The window brace, or whatever that piece between the windows is, buckled, and we rolled. I never lost consciousness. I swam out the other side and started shouting. Some boys were ice-fishing nearby. Well, you must know that. They got you out. It can’t have been a minute that you were unconscious. Though you were groggy, and the police put you on a stretcher.
I remember the car tumbling,
she said, offering him a memory after all.
And I thought, This can’t be happening. The window brace, or whatever that piece between the windows is, buckled, and we rolled. I never lost consciousness. I swam out the other side and started shouting. Some boys were ice-fishing nearby. Well, you must know that. They got you out. It can’t have been a minute that you were unconscious. Though you were groggy, and the police put you on a stretcher.
—
I was calling your name.
I was calling your name.
—
They wrapped me in a blanket and took me away. I had burns on my side. They had to cut my clothes off me at the hospital.
They wrapped me in a blanket and took me away. I had burns on my side. They had to cut my clothes off me at the hospital.
—
Burns?
Burns?
—
Scrapes. From what, I don’t know. The embankment, I guess.
Scrapes. From what, I don’t know. The embankment, I guess.
—
I’m so sorry.
I’m so sorry.
She took a sip of water, reached back and squeezed her hair, then brought it forward of her shoulder.
We did this already,
she said.
We did this already,
she said.
—
Do you live alone?
he asked.
Do you live alone?
he asked.
She hesitated. She wiped her hands on her kanga. Her feet were bare. Callused on the heels.
More or less. Peter commutes.
More or less. Peter commutes.
—
Peter is?
Peter is?
—
My husband. He lives in Nairobi.
My husband. He lives in Nairobi.
Thomas tried to deflect the blow.
Is that Peter?
he asked. He pointed to the picture.
Is that Peter?
he asked. He pointed to the picture.
—
Yes.
Yes.
—
What’s he do?
What’s he do?
—
He’s with the World Bank. He’s here working on a pesticide scheme.
He’s with the World Bank. He’s here working on a pesticide scheme.
—
You knew him before?
You knew him before?
—
I met him here.
I met him here.
Thomas stood, the better able to process these unwelcome bits of information. He clenched and unclenched his hands. Restless, feeling jumpy.
—
Why the Peace Corps?
he asked.
Why the Peace Corps?
he asked.
She took another drink of water. She looked out the window at the incipient storm.
I had a friend,
she said ambiguously.
I had a friend,
she said ambiguously.
A great waft of scent blew in with a gust, like an announcement of a woman standing in a doorway.
—
It’s not so unusual, is it?
she added.
It seemed like the right thing to do.
It’s not so unusual, is it?
she added.
It seemed like the right thing to do.
Her shoulders brown and polished, her arms muscled. He wondered from what.
—
You’re reading Rilke,
he said, surveying the low bookcase. He examined the titles and the authors. Jerzy Kosinski. Dan Wakefield. Margaret Drabble. Sylvia Plath.
Looking for Mr. Goodbar.
You’re reading Rilke,
he said, surveying the low bookcase. He examined the titles and the authors. Jerzy Kosinski. Dan Wakefield. Margaret Drabble. Sylvia Plath.
Looking for Mr. Goodbar.
—
I read anything I can get my hands on.
I read anything I can get my hands on.
—
I guess so,
he said, fingering a copy of
Marathon Man.
I guess so,
he said, fingering a copy of
Marathon Man.
—
I beg people to send me books. There’s a pitiful library in Njia. In Nairobi, I go to the McMillan Library at the British Council. I’ve been on a Margaret Drabble kick.
I beg people to send me books. There’s a pitiful library in Njia. In Nairobi, I go to the McMillan Library at the British Council. I’ve been on a Margaret Drabble kick.
—
You teach.
You teach.
She nodded.
—
What?
What?
He picked up a copy of Anne Sexton and flipped through it. He distrusted confessional poetry.
—
A little bit of everything. The curriculum is based on the English system. There are exams the children have to pass. A levels and O levels and so forth. They have to memorize the counties of England. What good that will do them I’ve no idea.
A little bit of everything. The curriculum is based on the English system. There are exams the children have to pass. A levels and O levels and so forth. They have to memorize the counties of England. What good that will do them I’ve no idea.
Thomas laughed.
—
I teach thirty children in a cement room the size of a garage. I use books published in 1954 — giveaways from some village in Britain. They have peculiar English graffiti in them. “Arthur is a wanker,” and so on. What does your wife do?
I teach thirty children in a cement room the size of a garage. I use books published in 1954 — giveaways from some village in Britain. They have peculiar English graffiti in them. “Arthur is a wanker,” and so on. What does your wife do?
Thomas leaned against the wall and rolled his shirtsleeves. The humidity had saturated the room. A crack of thunder startled both of them, though they might have expected it.
—
The storm,
she said.
The storm,
she said.
She stood up and cranked the windows closed, even as the deluge began. The rain came straight down, at no angle, and created a dull roar on the tile roof so that they had to raise their voices. From somewhere outside the house, there was a wild riot of wind chimes.
—
My wife’s father was a missionary in Kenya shortly after World War II,
Thomas explained.
An Episcopal minister. He’s reverent about the time he spent here, says they were the best years of his life, et cetera, et cetera. Privately, I suspect there’s a woman somewhere in the story.
My wife’s father was a missionary in Kenya shortly after World War II,
Thomas explained.
An Episcopal minister. He’s reverent about the time he spent here, says they were the best years of his life, et cetera, et cetera. Privately, I suspect there’s a woman somewhere in the story.
—
It’s a challenge any daughter might have to take on,
Linda said.
It’s a challenge any daughter might have to take on,
Linda said.
—
Regina has a fellowship to study the psychological effects of sub-Saharan diseases on children. What she sees is pretty grim,
he said.
Regina has a fellowship to study the psychological effects of sub-Saharan diseases on children. What she sees is pretty grim,
he said.
—
Your wife must be very brave.
Your wife must be very brave.
He felt cautious, discussing Regina. He wished they didn’t have to.
About this, very.
About this, very.
Linda turned her head away and gazed out at the storm. Nothing to see but sheets of rain. When it was over, he knew, white and cream petals would blanket the ground. There was a smell of ozone in the air that he particularly liked: it reminded him of summer afternoons as a boy.
—
You still wear the cross,
he said.
You still wear the cross,
he said.
Her fingers automatically touched it.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know why.
Thomas was momentarily stung. He had, after all, given it to her.
—
God is everywhere in this country,
she said.
And yet, I hate Him passionately.
God is everywhere in this country,
she said.
And yet, I hate Him passionately.
The comment was so startling, Thomas immediately forgot his hurt. The anger with which she’d spoken shocked him. He waited for her to explain.
—
You can’t even look at the rain, at its excess, and not think of God,
she said.
He’s everywhere you turn. And viciously cruel.
You can’t even look at the rain, at its excess, and not think of God,
she said.
He’s everywhere you turn. And viciously cruel.
Even Thomas, whose own belief amounted to nothing, worried for her blasphemy.
—
So much poverty,
she said.
So much death and disease and heartache. You can blame colonialism, which is what everyone does. Or tribalism, as good a cause as any. But in the end, it’s God who allows it.
So much poverty,
she said.
So much death and disease and heartache. You can blame colonialism, which is what everyone does. Or tribalism, as good a cause as any. But in the end, it’s God who allows it.
Thomas was impressed with the strength of her belief.
To hate so passionately is to value immensely,
he said.
To hate so passionately is to value immensely,
he said.
Her cheeks were pinkened with her sudden passion, a frown between her brows. She wasn’t actually beautiful, though he and others had called her so. It was more that she was
pretty.
Which meant, he supposed,
accessible
in some undefined way.
pretty.
Which meant, he supposed,
accessible
in some undefined way.
—
You see a lot of poverty?
he asked.
You see a lot of poverty?
he asked.
She turned to him.
They have no shoes, Thomas.
They have no shoes, Thomas.
—
The Kenyan elite. They, too, allow it,
he said.
The Kenyan elite. They, too, allow it,
he said.
—
You mean the Wabenzis?
she asked with evident distaste, using the common nickname for Kenyans who owned Mercedes-Benzes.
You mean the Africans who come in on foot and leave by jet?
You mean the Wabenzis?
she asked with evident distaste, using the common nickname for Kenyans who owned Mercedes-Benzes.
You mean the Africans who come in on foot and leave by jet?
She fingered her hair. It was drying, even in the humidity. She rose and went into a room he imagined to be the bedroom. She returned with a brush. She sat in an armchair and began to untangle her hair.
—
It’s not our struggle,
he said.
It’s not our struggle,
he said.
—
We borrow it while we’re here.
We borrow it while we’re here.
—
I didn’t want to come to Africa,
he said.
It was my wife’s idea. I’d just, believe it or not, learned the value of routine.
He paused, embarrassed.
I write,
he said.
I didn’t want to come to Africa,
he said.
It was my wife’s idea. I’d just, believe it or not, learned the value of routine.
He paused, embarrassed.
I write,
he said.
She smiled. Not surprised.
What do you write?
What do you write?
He turned away.
Poetry,
he said, trying to make it a throw-away line. As if his entire life did not depend on it.
I don’t feel I belong here,
he said.
Poetry,
he said, trying to make it a throw-away line. As if his entire life did not depend on it.
I don’t feel I belong here,
he said.
—
It can be a weird, dissonant life,
she said.
It can be a weird, dissonant life,
she said.
—
We live in Karen, in relative luxury, when all around us. . . . Well, you know as well as I do what’s all around us.
We live in Karen, in relative luxury, when all around us. . . . Well, you know as well as I do what’s all around us.
She nodded.
—
It’s not what I imagined,
he said.
All these paradoxes.
It’s not what I imagined,
he said.
All these paradoxes.
The neckline of her blouse revealed her collarbone. He was reminded of the sweater she had worn on the last day he had seen her. A pale blue sweater with an open collar. Her wool skirt had lain in soft folds around her shins in the car.
—
What did you do after Middlebury?
he asked.
What did you do after Middlebury?
he asked.
—
I went to graduate school in Boston. In between, I taught high school in Newburyport.
I went to graduate school in Boston. In between, I taught high school in Newburyport.
—
You were in Boston and Newburyport? All that time?
Thomas, incredulous, calculated the distance between Newburyport and Cambridge. An hour at best. Two from Hull.
You were in Boston and Newburyport? All that time?
Thomas, incredulous, calculated the distance between Newburyport and Cambridge. An hour at best. Two from Hull.
Other books
Every Time I Love You by Graham, Heather
In a Flash by Eric Walters
the Poacher's Son (2010) by Doiron, Paul - Mike Bowditch
The Shadow of Arms by Hwang Sok-Yong
The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) by Robert Sheckley
A Sense of Sin by Elizabeth Essex
Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 by Cayce Poponea
Rules of Betrayal by Christopher Reich
Another Chance by Beattie, Michelle
Peter Benchley's Creature by Peter Benchley