The Life Room (28 page)

It wasn’t one of the fashionable bars for tourists and ski bums. It was a hangout for townies and guys who worked the oil rigs. The back room smelled of stale beer. They drifted toward two empty stools near the pool table. A man at the bar was drunk. He talked loudly to another guy playing pool. Said he had wasted the whole day waiting for work at the rigs. Said his wife was going to beat the crap out of him. His face was leathery.

“I don’t like having you here.” Stephen was loose from drinking. His mood had shifted. “This isn’t a place for you, Eleanor. You’re too good for this place.” He had that uneasy look she knew so well.

“What are you talking about? Colorado is amazing. The mountains. The fresh air. I love it here. Relax.”

“You’re too sophisticated for this place. This town is filled with a bunch of losers. I work all day with these guys. They’re younger than me. They talk about girls, getting drunk, who they did it with the night before. This isn’t a place for you.”

“It’s fine.” She rubbed his thigh. “I like it here. I’m glad to be here with you.”

“I wake up and think I have to do something substantial with my life. I have to get out of here. But the next day I get up and do the same thing. I haven’t figured out yet how to support myself as a journalist. The work isn’t steady.”

“But you’re writing. It takes time.”

“Yeah. Time,” he said, philosophically. His face relaxed. “Speaking of time, it’s about time I did this.” He leaned across the bar stool to kiss her.

Stephen lit the fish tank in his room. They sat on the edge of his mattress watching the blue Chinese fighting fish darting acrobatically through the pink coral. He seemed nervous. She touched his leg. “What’s wrong?” She saw that same wanting-to-run look in his eye she noticed at the bar.

“I don’t want to do this, Eleanor. It shouldn’t be like this. I want to be sober when you and I make love. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

“I can wait.”

They slid underneath the sheets still half dressed. The fish swam luminescent, transparent in its tank. Its mouth closed and opened against the glass.

“You’re the only girl I’ve let into this house, you know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. I keep it locked up pretty tight.”

His lips were rough and cracked, the skin broken through. She tasted blood when they kissed. He rubbed his hands over the curves of her body. But he suddenly stopped. “Crap,” he said.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s not you. I can’t do this, Eleanor.”

“It’s okay,” she said, so as not to further his shame or hers.

He quickly got up and went to the bathroom. When he returned she pretended she was asleep.

In the morning the light pressed through the plastic blinds. What is intimacy, she thought, feeling the warmth of Stephen’s body, except for the feeling of not being alone? She didn’t care that they hadn’t made love. She was glad to be close to him. She thought about his writing and his commitment to it: his desire to articulate his personal vision into a fully imagined world. She knew the risk he was taking. She pictured the unfinished house near the field of wildflowers. “I want to live in that house with you,” she said. “Maybe I’ve had enough of New York.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“Stay in bed, Eleanor. I wish I didn’t have to leave you, but I can’t afford to lose the work. I’ll make it a half day.” He leaned over to kiss her and then found he couldn’t leave. “See what you’re doing to me.” He reached for her again. “My mother came into my bed and slept with me when they fought.” He turned over and pushed his body into her back, struggling against her. “She curled herself around me like this and cried into my pajama top. She thought I was sleeping. It made me never want to get close.”

“You can be close now.”

After he aroused her, he pulled away again. “It can’t be like this,” he said.

“Like what?”

“I have to go to work.”

When she got up later she attempted to study. She looked out the window at the icy mountains, with their impenetrable dips and slopes. She thought about the night before, about the unfinished house and the dreams it inspired, and then she analyzed Stephen’s odd behavior more carefully He claimed he did not want to make love to her until he was sober. Did that mean he wasn’t attracted to her? But it seemed as if he was. He said he was unsure of his future and whether the years he had put into his writing would actually amount to something. How could he make a commitment to her, when he was unsure of his own future? She told herself she needed to be patient. She was moved by his thoughtfulness and hesitation. It spoke to a certain integrity of character she admired. But why did he make that comment about her not belonging in Colorado? She rationalized. Like most men, he was afraid of getting close. It was up to her to make him feel secure and loved. It exhausted her to think about it, but she had grown used to the proposition, as if it were a duty she’d inherited.

In town she picked up groceries from the market with the thought that she would make dinner. She spent the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening cooking lasagna. She was happy, cutting up onions for the sauce, grating the flaky parmesan. She put on the radio, a soft country station. She straightened the kitchen, thinking about what it would be like to live with Stephen. Maybe she could get a teaching job in Colorado, work on her dissertation here. She’d encourage him to finish his novel. They could have a simple life in the mountains, days spent writing and teaching, long hikes along the hillside, nights making love. It was 7:30 in the evening. Strange that he did not come home or call. Suddenly, she realized that Stephen wasn’t coming back. It was obvious. She had been a fool to trust him. All afternoon she had made up excuses, telling herself that he must have gotten caught up at work, or gone out for a beer, or maybe his bike had broken down. By the time she had prepared dinner it was 9:00 at night. It was odd being alone in a house that was not her own. When she looked outside it was pitch black. She couldn’t see the mountains. She took the lasagna out of the oven and left it sitting on top of the stove. She was no longer hungry. She took one of the blankets off Stephen’s bed and brought it downstairs to the sofa. She poured herself a glass of scotch from the cupboard.

Headlights illuminated the house, but the car passed. After the harshness of the first few swallows, the scotch became more palatable. Her mind entered a murky, disconnected state. At one point she convinced herself that Stephen had been in a bike accident and was lying in a ditch somewhere, but eventually she came back to reality. Why had she thought he’d be any different? When she awoke it was to Stephen’s lips kissing her forehead. Dawn. He knelt on the floor in front of her. Slowly she came to full consciousness. She smelled the warmth of beer on his breath and then the overpowering odor of smoke—of someone who had been inside a burning thing. She pushed him away.

“Where were you?”

“There was a fire at the house we were building. The entire thing. It’s gone.”

“What happened?”

“They can’t pin it on me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We went for a beer and when we came back to get our stuff the whole thing was in flames.”

“You look scared.”

“You have to leave, Eleanor. You can’t stay. I can’t do this.”

“What have you done?”

She stood up and began to pack her things in her duffel bag. He watched her from a chair with relief in his eyes. It made her feel like slapping him, but she restrained herself. She thought about the house burning to the ground and felt a terrible loss.

She was unprotected on the back of his bike on the way to the airport, exposed to every danger, forced to trust him. She held on tightly to his, jacket. The smell of smoke was in his clothes and hair.
This can’t be happening
, she thought, still in a state of disbelief. She thought that at any moment he would stop the bike, explain to her what happened, take her back to his house. But he didn’t.

When they arrived at the terminal, the plane was boarding. “I’ll write to you. We’ll be in touch.” She said nothing. She stood in line to board the plane, trembling. He followed behind her and pulled her out of the line. “It’s not you,” he said, again. “Look at me, Eleanor.” Though the comment was meant to comfort, it had the opposite effect. It was like a verbal assault. How could it not have been her?

She looked at him, perplexed, and shook her head.

The airline clerk reached out to take her ticket. Once in her seat, she panicked. She undid the buttons of her coat. She wanted to undo her seat belt, too, to walk back out to the reception area, find him, and make him explain. She was desperate to do so. But the door of the plane had shut and sealed her inside it. Had he started the fire? She pushed the thought away. It was impossible. She looked out the tinted glass window of the airplane into the gate of the terminal. He stood by the window watching as the plane backed onto the runway. It took her a long time before she could move her palm from the window. She was in love with him; maybe she had been since they were children.

“He looks like you did at that age.” She pointed to a boy walking toward them along the walkway by the water.

“Except he has more hair on his head than I do.” Stephen laughed. “Can you believe we were ever that young, Eleanor?”

“You left me alone in your house. You disappeared. You never tried to make me understand what got you spooked. What happened at that fire?”

He looked uncomfortable. His cheeks turned pink. “I don’t remember it that way.”

“You made me leave.”

“For your own good. But I’ve never left you.”

“You disappear. That’s what you do.”

“I don’t disappear. I’m right here.” He squeezed her upper arm as if to prove it. “Don’t you see I’ve changed?” He moved closer to her on the bench.

“I’m not sure.”

“Why did you have to get married?”

“Before I met Michael, why didn’t you call? You could have called.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.” He paused. “After what I did.”

The tension between them was something visceral. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here next to you,” he said. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. “Our connection. I still feel it, Eleanor. Are you glad to see me? You look a little strange.”

She smiled. She
was
glad to see him.

“I wish you could come with me.”

She looked at him, stricken.

“I have to catch a plane.”

She walked home slowly. Her mind kept going back to Stephen. She didn’t want to judge him, but she had done so nonetheless. He was selfish. And then she rationalized his behavior, remembering the scars of his youth. She crossed the park and was walking up Fifth Avenue.
I’ve never left you
, she heard him say. She saw a sign.
THIS IS GOD’S HOUSE, ALL ARE WELCOME
.

She went inside the church. The tension of having been with him left her restless. She felt the erotic pull in her body. She sat down on the bench. The darkness of the church, the votive candles, and the smell of incense provided refuge from the world. She told herself none of it was really relevant. She was married with two sons. Stephen was on his way to the airport to fly away again. It was dark and cold in the austere church and she was uncomfortable sitting on the hard pew. She fought against the jumble of emotions until she was exhausted. She heard a voice inside her.
You don’t have to save him. But is it
him I’m trying to save, or is he saving me
? There was no answer.

She was twenty-eight. Her mother hosted an engagement party for her and Michael. A few minutes before the party was to begin her mother announced that Stephen was in town and was coming to the party. This was going to be the first time she saw him since her visit to Colorado. She felt excited and nervous.
Why should I care that Stephen Mason is in my living room? He means nothing
. She realized she was still furious with him.

She walked down the stairs confidently in a skirt, lace top, and black heels and into the living room where the guests were mingling, thinking now she’d have her revenge, though she didn’t like to think of herself as vengeful. She noticed Stephen, who was dressed in a leather sports jacket and cowboy boots. He needed a haircut. They drifted into their own separate conversations, but his eyes followed her around the room. She knew the way his mind worked and could already hear what he was telling himself—that she had sold out and was marrying the enemy.

She had thought she had the edge, but when she saw how animated Stephen looked describing an article that he was writing to one of his mother’s friends, she felt herself weakening. She wanted to speak to him but instead sat down next to Michael, who was dressed elegantly in a tweed jacket.

Stephen still lived in Colorado. He was home for a short weekend. He was uncomfortable: Everything about his body language said he didn’t want to be there. He sat down on the chair opposite her and made small talk with Michael over the fondue tray. His hands flickered with the knob on the flame. He skewered a square of bread and dipped it into the cheese and popped it into his mouth. He took the empty skewer and thrust it into the flame. Michael explained he was doing his residency at Lenox Hill Hospital. Stephen said he’d once spent a month inside an ER at a hospital in Denver doing some research for an investigative piece. The hot skewer was in his hand. He thrust it out at Michael as he spoke.

Eleanor never told Michael that there had ever been anything significant between them. There didn’t seem to be anything to tell, though she had the feeling Michael sensed their attraction. He stepped away to refill their drinks. She glanced at Stephen. He was looking at the flame underneath the fondue tray. He took a cocktail napkin and let the fire burn the fringe, then blew it out before the napkin caught fire.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay for dinner,” Stephen explained to her mother. “You must be psyched that Eleanor is marrying an upstanding individual. A doctor. Doesn’t everyone want that for her daughter?”