Via Dolorosa (29 page)

Entering the bathroom, he silently climbed out of his clothes, meeting his own eyes in the bathroom mirror as he did so. Then he stood, white and naked, vulnerable and unrighteous, just inches from the plastic shower curtain. On the other side, he could see Emma pause, too. He watched her not move. They faced each other, unable to make out any detail or feature for the distortion of the shower curtain, and neither of them moved. Their breathing alternated: following his exhale, he could see the curtain buckle slightly toward him as she breathed on his heels.

We have been disenfranchised from each other,
he thought, still not moving.
Our marriage has become a misalliance.

His hand hurt.

He could not stop thinking of his hand.

Her tiny form smeary behind the shower curtain…motionless, waiting, bated—and he could vaguely make out the hints of her body as he knew her body to be: the subtle swelling of white hips, of pink-capped breasts, a darkened, blurry V-patch at the intersection of her legs. He knew her body like a soldier knows his weapon or an artist knows his paints. He knew everything about her back, and was familiar with how it felt to be touching it and pushed up against it. How it hinted at what was around its corner, and down below and beneath and within. That wet-season-specific scent of her hair draped across her neck and shoulder (when it had been long enough to drape), and how the scents of both their bodies had commingled into one solid reality, one single human pheromone. The way she often looked so happy that she looked so sad. The way, too, that his tongue no longer tasted just as his tongue but, instead, as a mixture of his and hers, all together now, inseparable. These things. Great, amazing things. These things were his to know and to own, solely his to know and—

But no.

As if reading his mind, Emma said, “It’s all right, Nick. We will start fresh once we’re down by the water. The festival will make us fresh. I have faith. We don’t need to start fresh here, now, right now. We don’t need to start fresh like this.”

Because he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He said, “I’m going to get dressed and wait downstairs in the lobby.”

At the sink, he washed his face and matted down his cowlick as best he could. He slipped back into the room and dressed hastily in whatever articles of clothing seemed to jump out at him from the armoire. Back downstairs, his hands working over each other in frantic unease, he paced the hotel lobby. Soon, he found himself staring at the mural. It bled color along the wall. Had he drawn this, painted this? He thought and found he did not know what day it was. The days were slipping together. Slippage. Like the Claxton number from Isabella’s disc…

He saw Granger standing at the bell captain podium. Granger hadn’t seen him. Granger, Nick could tell, was not seeing much: he appeared to be staring out the bank of windows and at the hotel’s circular drive. The sun was setting behind a black web of trees. With the weather’s cooperation, the handsome Palauan had once again established his trinkets dais outside.

“Hello, Mr. Granger.”

“Nicholas!” Granger said, quickly turning to face him. Eyes bloodshot, his shirt incorrectly buttoned and the folds of his chin and neck unshaven, the old man looked as if he’d been living in some back alley for the past couple days, perhaps accompanied by a bottle of bourbon.

“How are you, son?”

“Well.”

“Your wonderful bride?”

“She’ll be down in a minute.”

“Wonderful.”

“Today is—what day is it?”

“Saturday,” said Granger. “It’s Saturday night. The two of you are heading out for the evening?”

“Emma wanted to go to some festival on the water,” Nick said, “down in
Harbour
Town.”

“Terrific.”

“I was wondering if—”

“Ah,” intoned Granger, looking past Nick, “there she is. A beauty!”

Nick turned and saw Emma come through the lobby. She looked amazing and fresh and clean and like nothing he had ever seen. It was a special thing, Nick suddenly understood (though with some melancholy), to see one’s wife again for the first time.

“Yes,” Nick heard himself say.

“Good evening, Mr. Granger,” Emma said as she approached the podium. She walked like someone very unconscious of her appraisers. Women are most beautiful when they are in ignorance of their own beauty, Nick understood.

“My lady,” Granger said, executed a slight but formal bow. “You look spectacular, dear.”

“Isn’t that sweet? How is little
Fitcher
?”

“
Fitcher
?” Granger said.

“The parrot…”

“Oh, yes!” Granger laughed. “So he has a name now, does he?”

“He had a name when I gave him to you,” she said. “I just didn’t want you to know it, for fear you two might become best friends.”

“You’ll be taking him when you leave, then, I suppose?” Granger asked, and Nick could not tell if the man was hopeful or anxious.

“Oh, yes,” Emma said.

“Then maybe I should never let you leave.” And Granger looked at Nick. Added, “The both of you.”

“It’s a wonderful island,” Nick heard himself utter. To his own ears he sounded like a complete fool.

“Nick and I are going to a festival on the water.”

“Well! You should both have a wonderful time. I hope there is plenty of dancing. You look like you are ready for dancing.”

“I would love to dance,” she told Granger.

“Promise me, Nicholas, that you will dance at least one dance with this beautiful young woman.”

“I promise,” he said.

Emma turned to him. “Do you?”

“I promise,” he repeated.

Granger clapped his little red hands together. “Then we are set,” he said.

Nick nodded at the bell captain and, placing a hand against the small of Emma’s back, ushered his wife out into the turnabout driveway.

“He is a sweet man,” she nearly whispered. “I can tell he likes you very much.”

Nick did not say anything.

As they passed by the dais, the Palauan raised a single black hand. “Friends,” he said.

“Have a good evening,” Nick said back.

“Friends,” the Palauan went on. “Buy a conch for the lady?”

“They’re pretty,” Emma said.

“A conch for the lady…”

“No, thank you,” said Nick, hurrying Emma along the white flagstones.

“Perhaps something for you, sir?” the Palauan continued. “Perhaps some hope? Perhaps some luck, good luck? Or perhaps some prayers for the dead?” Nick did not turn to look. “Prayers for the dead, sir! Prayers for the dead!”

They kept walking.

—Chapter XVII—

They shuttled the Impala south toward
Harbour
Town. It was early enough to see the striped twist of the lighthouse on the water, the sky streaked bright and pastel, unbidden and illuminative. Even at dusk, the sea was an icy green, formidably glowing and crested with whitecaps. They ran along the shoulder of
Calibogue
Sound. Ensconced by a wave of curling wet palmettos, the roadway extended before them, frame after frame after frame, until it finally broke open, yawningly, then clung tight and fast to the edge of the water. They could see boats, sturdy and proud, grazing at the shore like cattle. Fishermen were in small johnboats hoisting crab-pots from the channel. More fishermen, darkly silhouetted, were coming through the pines, nets over shoulders, buckets in hand. It would be a strong, dark night: the sun was setting deep and far behind the clouds, already sinking down behind the other side of the island. Cold, resigned, Nick pushed the car down a swivel of narrow streets, steering them away from the water. The sound glistened with the setting sun; they watched it peel away and recede in the Impala’s rearview mirror. Land flat, the wide face of the beaches appeared over the salt flats and dunes, through the black swaying stalks of ocean reeds. A slanting wall of clapboard storefronts soldiered up on either side of the Impala. There were some people in the streets here, mostly collected beneath the awnings of the cafés and bistros, fly-like, congregating, moving together in swarms. They all seemed to be drinking. Emma took down her window. The air was breezy and cool, smelling strongly of the beach. It smelled strongly, too, of oysters wrapped in Smithfield ham and of the spicy smoked link sausage and shrimp used in the local bistros’ indigenous Frogmore stew. Driving, the wind blew Emma’s hair back from her face and Nick could make out the faint hint of a smile on her lips.

They parked beneath a forest of sodium lamps. Nick did not move at first, listening to the car’s engine tick down as it cooled. Through the Impala’s windshield, the narrow strip of sand that ran alongside the roadway was turning from pink to pale-bone blue as the moon crept across the sky. Ahead, a few men in tennis whites came through the pines.

“Will you teach me to drive?” Emma said.

He turned and watched the sun setting on her face. “You know how to drive,” he said.

“I’ve never driven before. Maybe you can teach me.”

“Emma—”

“I’ve never driven before,” she said. Determined. “Maybe you can teach me.”

“Oh. All right.” They were starting fresh. He’d forgotten. “All right. Later,” he said. “Tonight. After dinner.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” he lied.

A spacious outdoor Japanese restaurant, determinedly festive with its green and red crepe lanterns dangling from a wire above the courtyard, called to them. They claimed a table nestled in the hug of azalea bushes. Prerecorded
koto
music played on hidden speakers. When the waitress came, she collected their orders with the incisiveness and mastery of a skilled musician executing a well-rehearsed solo, though the child was maybe fifteen, sixteen at most. Plum wine was served, an aperitif, along with a ceramic bowl of
edamame
, heavily salted. This close to the sea, the air was pleasant and fresh, and they could only smell the sea and their own food and nothing else could interfere.

“I’m going to have the smoked salmon,” Emma said. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

“Do it, sweet,” he said. The name, sweet, registered with both of them. It was the first time he had used it since things went wrong between them. Since the storm.

When Emma’s meal arrived, it looked handsome and neat, garnished with rings of purple onions and brown sugar, the salmon smoked straight to lox. He had
miso
soup before his meal and, with his plastic spoon, played with the tofu cubes in the broth.