The Longest Night (28 page)

“I
f there's any trinket you've had your eye on, you should ask for it as soon as Paul gets home,” Patrice said, sipping coffee in Nat's kitchen as the occasional hard flake of snow spiraled past the window. “New shoes, a purse?”

“I don't need anything.”

“Oh, Nat, have some fun! What would you ask him for?” Patrice's blue eyes twinkled.

Nat paused. A few months ago she would have thought a car. Now, she didn't really need anything. She felt surprisingly content: But, of course, when Paul came back, everything would truly be in place.

“Oh, never mind. I give up on you. I can tell you what
I'd
ask for: a Chanel handbag, one of those quilted ones with the little chain straps.” She pointed: “Ha! I saw your baby kick.”

“I felt it,” Nat said. Her belly was huge now and still growing, the button flipped inside out so that it poked from her rotunda like an impertinent tongue.

“This will be your boy,” Patrice said, lighting a cigarette. “I just know it. He'll be sweet as can be and adore his mama. Just like my husband,” she added, rolling her eyes. Patrice's mother-in-law lived with them for half the year.

“I never met my in-laws,” Nat said. “They passed away. Isn't that strange?”

“Why? How did they pass away?”

“No, I mean it's strange that I never met them. Hasn't everyone met at least one of their in-laws?”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Patrice said. “You could have a mother-in-law who lives with you. She could fill your refrigerator with prune juice and leave her teeth on your bathroom sink and feed your children hard candies twenty-four hours a day.” She turned toward the hallway. “What are you doing, girls?”

“Dressing up Liddie,” Sam hollered back.

Patrice turned back to Nat. “Did your mother decide when she's coming out to visit?”

Nat nodded, feeling a scrunch of anxiety in her chest. “Right after Thanksgiving,” she said. “She'll stay till the baby arrives.”

“Why doesn't she just come out for Thanksgiving?”

“She always celebrates at George and Marva's. No changing it.”

“Oh.
Hm
.” Patrice raised her eyebrows.

Nat smiled and rolled her eyes, grateful for this quiet, discreet taking of sides. She got up to refill Patrice's coffee. As she turned back to the kitchen table, she spied the pickup truck parked along the curb and Esrom ambling toward the house. Her heart leapt: She loved catching sight of him, but this was poor timing. He removed his hat as he neared the door.

“One moment,” she said to Patrice, setting down the filled coffee cup. “Help yourself to a Danish.”

“I will. After all, I brought them,” Patrice said. She turned in her chair to see where Nat was going.

“Esrom, hi,” Nat said, opening the door before he could knock.

“Just thought I'd drop by.” He peered back toward the kitchen. “Why are you whispering? You got a fugitive back there?”

“No, I just have a friend over.” She studied his face, enjoying it, and looked away.

“Hey!” Esrom said. “That's great.”

Nat was slightly embarrassed—why did she always feel like everybody's favorite village idiot?
Look, hooray, Nat Collier has a friend!
But she knew he was genuinely pleased for her.

“Mommy, is that Mr. Esrom?” Sam asked.

How did she even hear us?
Nat wondered. It was uncanny.

Mary-Janed footsteps thundered down the hall, and all three little girls appeared. Esrom knelt to greet Sam and Liddie. They squealed his name and sprang into his arms. He hugged them both at the same time and then, seeing Patrice's curious face peeking around the corner, released them and stood. Carol Ann darted for her mother's hand.

“We have Danish! Come in and have a Danish,” Sam said. “Miss Patrice brought them.”

“Oh, hello. This must be Miss Patrice,” Esrom said, lifting his hat from waist level and setting it back again. Patrice gave him a close-lipped, cautious smile, still holding her coffee cup.

“Come on in!” Sam said again.

“Well, I wouldn't want to interrupt.”

“You won't,” she insisted. “I'm not having
that
much fun with Carol Ann.”

“Sam,” cried Nat. “Yes, you are. Look at how you dressed up Liddie.”

They all turned to Liddie, who was suffering a swimsuit over a poofy dress that squeezed from the swimsuit's leg openings in tulle cascades, as if her little hips were twin waterfalls.

“Is Liddie having fun?” Esrom asked. His eyes caught Patrice staring. “I was just checking on Nat here. That car still working all right for you?” he asked, his voice a little stiff and self-conscious.

“Yes, it's been a godsend. Thank you.”

“Great.” He smiled shyly and bent to address the girls. “I'm sorry I interrupted your dress-up party.” He winked at Liddie, who beamed.

“Awww—” said Sam, looking almost teary.

“Hush, dear,” said Nat. “Thank you, Esrom. Take care now.”

He gave her belly, with its newly protuberant navel, the smallest glance. She caught it and laughed, placing her hands against it. “I know, I got bigger overnight!” she said. “And my belly button's sticking out now. Sam tries to ding it like a doorbell.” She knew she was being too loud, and a little rustic, but with Patrice and Esrom in the same place she couldn't quite seem to normalize.

Esrom blushed on her behalf. “You take care, too.”

Nat shut the door and motioned the girls back down the hall. She busied herself rearranging the Danish on the plate at the kitchen table. Patrice leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

“Please don't tell me
that's
the friend who gave you the car,” Patrice finally said.

Nat stayed silent.

“Oh, Nat, what were you thinking?”

“He's a very nice person,” Nat said. “When the car broke down he came out to fix it.”

“And he still has it?”

“Well, yes. I was saving up the money to pay it off, and he's been fixing it in his spare time.” She pressed past Patrice's raised eyebrows. “He and the girls hit it off, so he checks in from time to time to see how they're doing.”

“He checks in to see how your daughters are doing.”

“Yes.”

“I don't think that's it.”

“It is.”

Patrice crossed her arms. “First of all, you let a grown man play with your daughters, and you didn't even know him? He could have been a creep.”

“He's not a creep.”

“Well, you're lucky for that. And he knew your husband was away!”

“He's good-hearted,” Nat said. She plucked a dish towel from where she'd draped it on a chair and dabbed it absently on the table.

“I'll say!” Patrice cried. “That's a beautiful car. What, he just gave it to you? No strings attached? And please don't just repeat that he's a nice person. Do you know how this looks?”

Nat froze.

Patrice's mouth pulled to the side and she shook her head. “It doesn't look good.”

“Patrice, I swear, there is nothing inappropriate going on.” Nat said this but she felt the clench of guilt in her heart and she could see her errors in stark relief, every one of them. The extra dash of makeup when she knew he was coming by. The dream, not just that once, but all the times she brought it back on purpose afterward.

“How often does he come to your house?”

“Maybe a couple of times a week.”

“And he comes inside the house.”

“Yes.”

“And he gave you a car.”

Nat nodded, squeezing the towel.

“He's been fixing your other car for, what, a couple of months? Nat, he
likes
that you're driving his car.”

This was both accusatory and insightful and Nat had to catch her breath. “You make that sound terrible—”

“How long does he stay when he comes by?”

Nat paused. “I don't know. An hour or two.”

“Have any of the neighbors seen him coming or going?”

Her throat burned and it was difficult to answer. “Probably.”

“And what do you think they're saying?” Patrice cried. “Do you mean to tell me it's never occurred to you that this might look bad, for people to see that man over here all the time in this tiny neighborhood?”

“It…occurred to me,” Nat said.

“But you didn't stop him from coming over.”

“No. I knew people might gossip, because they always do. But having him over seemed more…more important to me than what they might say about it.”

“And was that fair to Paul?”

It took Nat a moment to answer. “I don't know why it wouldn't be,” she said, though she was being willfully obtuse. When Patrice continued to look at her she cried, “Patrice! It's nothing like that. I would never cheat on Paul. I just wanted a friend.”

“You
are
cheating on Paul,” Patrice said.

Nat stared at her, horrified.

“Listen. I understand that you were lonely after Paul left. It's hard to make friends. It's hard to be changing duty stations all the time and moving all the time and being a stranger everywhere you go.”

Nat nodded, her eyes welling with tears, grateful for someone who understood.

“But you have me now, you have a friend. So you shouldn't need him anymore, right?”

“I guess so,” Nat said quietly.

“So?”

Nat looked toward the window. The green car sat at the curb. She remembered how spotless it had been when Esrom brought it over, imagined him burnishing every inch of it with a cloth, the incredible thoughtfulness of that.

“So?” Patrice said again. “Is there something you are getting from your friendship with him that you can't get from your friendship with me? Because if there is, then I think we know you're in dangerous territory here.”

Nat couldn't bring herself to say anything.

Patrice crossed her arms over her chest. “This really bothers me, Nat. It just really bothers me. I don't—I wish—I wish you well, but I don't know if I can…”

“Patrice, please,” Nat cried.

“People will think I'm keeping your secret, and I never intended that.”

“I don't
have
a secret,” Nat said. “That's the whole point! I obviously haven't tried to keep anything a secret.” She flapped her arms in frustration. “What is wrong with all of you people? Why do people take a good thing and try to make it bad? Good things don't take
away
from the world, they just add more good—”

Patrice stared at her. Her lovely face had gone nearly blank with anger. “What are you
talking
about?” She shook her head, speaking slowly as if Nat were dense. “I'm an army wife just like you,” she said, “and we do
not
do this. This is not how we act when our husbands are deployed. You're breaking the rules.”

Nat felt a flare of defiance. “Oh, screw the rules,” she said.

Patrice's voice shook. “The rules are here for a reason. When you flout them, you're saying you don't care about your own husband.”

“Stop talking down to me,” Nat cried.

“Well,” said Patrice, “maybe you deserve it!”

Nat's anger twisted into something else, a horrible, hollow feeling, and she burst into tears.

“I can't come over anymore,” Patrice said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't think you're sorry at all,” Nat wept through her hands, “because you're being cruel.”

Patrice watched her, softening for a moment from anger to sorrow. She took a deep breath, trying to meet Nat's eyes. “Why don't you stop seeing him right now?” she asked, quietly. “It would be so easy. Just don't let him in the house again. Can you do that?”

Nat looked at her. Her heart felt momentarily lighter; she was being offered a second chance.