dissolved the casual laxity of fifteen minutes ago. Her mouth is tight and her lungs are pumping hard. On the edge of speech, she changes her mind and shoulders past me. Silently, and so vehemently I’m worried they’ll tear, she gets into her clothes.
“Heidi. We’ve been divorced for over three years.”
“And you still talk to her that way. ‘Ooo, Violet, it’s been such a long time.’” Her imitation is fruity, singsong.
“Am I obliged to hang up on her?”
Heidi curses the zipper on her dress, turns her back to me. “I don’t really care what you say or how. Forget that part. What hurts is you made her a secret.”
“Not like that, not like I was purposely keeping anything from you.” She jerks away from my hand as if it’s electrified. “So I was married for a while. That doesn’t amount to shit right now, right here.”
Heidi gains momentum as she untangles her hair, smears blusher on her pitted cheeks. “Right here. It’s like a coded message when I’m with you. We never talk. You never tell me things.”
“What is it you’d like to know?”
“Miss the point, go ahead.” She pops the p and a mist of saliva settles on my chin. “This thing or that thing, it’s not the facts I’m after. An even chance is all. You’re supposed to be so smart and I have to lead you by the nose. What does it come down to when people make secrets? What do you suppose it means when two lovers…We are supposed to be lovers, verdad? Or am I in the dark on that too? I’m not a pickup, goddammit.”
I know it’s a mistake, the contrition I give her. I know I should protect her from expectations. But I’m not a complete prick. Heidi’s entitled to some comfort. On any reasonable scale of operation, this comes under the heading of being polite.
I hold her, rock her. I promise not to hide things anymore. Running my hand up the back of her dress, I come upon a dot of crusted secretion, hers or mine. She says all I have to-do is trust her like a friend, and I say okay. We’re standing by the window, saturated by the yellowish light of the Golconda sign. WEEKLY & MONTHLY RATES. A trailer truck rolls past, air brakes snuffling. Dishes clank in the cafe and the jukebox comes on; someone’s pushed the buttons for a ranchero.
At last, Heidi peels herself away. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“I know.”
Her skin is cool, she’s smiling, and her eyes aren’t the least bit moist. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.” She hurries toward her car, then turns back, rotating one finger against her skull. “Thank God.”
“Thank God what?” I’m standing in the doorway holding a towel closed around my waist.
“Thank God my casserole only needs to be heated.”
16
W AKE UP THIS MORNING with pizzicato Lunchtime Movie music running in my head. It won’t stop. Implanted violins follow me in and out of the shower. I Q-tip my ears extra hard, but the plinking doesn’t leave with the wax. Turn on the radio to drown it out and a baritone reads to me:
“Puerto Rican terrorist Concepcion Buendia said today that he spared the life of Treasury Secretary Richard Goodyear when Secret Service agents made their dawn raid to rescue the kidnapped official because he couldn’t bring himself to hate him.
“‘I had all the time I needed to shoot,’ Buendia told investigators. ‘But I could not succeed in seeing him as an enemy, only a man who was sleeping.’”
I think that once or twice watching a woman sleep, overcome by her stillness, I have wept. Not something I am particularly proud of, but there it is. Every tub on its own bottom. Every lonely beast in its own separate bed.
No time for coffee, have to get moving right away. This Lunchtime Movie room is like something pressing on my throat. I’ll drive with all the windows open and the speedometer pinned. A couple aspirin for my stiff neck and then I wrestle clothes on over my wet skin. Boots in case I feel like hiking, a hat to shade my eyes. On
“Heidi. We’ve been divorced for over three years.”
“And you still talk to her that way. ‘Ooo, Violet, it’s been such a long time.’” Her imitation is fruity, singsong.
“Am I obliged to hang up on her?”
Heidi curses the zipper on her dress, turns her back to me. “I don’t really care what you say or how. Forget that part. What hurts is you made her a secret.”
“Not like that, not like I was purposely keeping anything from you.” She jerks away from my hand as if it’s electrified. “So I was married for a while. That doesn’t amount to shit right now, right here.”
Heidi gains momentum as she untangles her hair, smears blusher on her pitted cheeks. “Right here. It’s like a coded message when I’m with you. We never talk. You never tell me things.”
“What is it you’d like to know?”
“Miss the point, go ahead.” She pops the p and a mist of saliva settles on my chin. “This thing or that thing, it’s not the facts I’m after. An even chance is all. You’re supposed to be so smart and I have to lead you by the nose. What does it come down to when people make secrets? What do you suppose it means when two lovers…We are supposed to be lovers, verdad? Or am I in the dark on that too? I’m not a pickup, goddammit.”
I know it’s a mistake, the contrition I give her. I know I should protect her from expectations. But I’m not a complete prick. Heidi’s entitled to some comfort. On any reasonable scale of operation, this comes under the heading of being polite.
I hold her, rock her. I promise not to hide things anymore. Running my hand up the back of her dress, I come upon a dot of crusted secretion, hers or mine. She says all I have to-do is trust her like a friend, and I say okay. We’re standing by the window, saturated by the yellowish light of the Golconda sign. WEEKLY & MONTHLY RATES. A trailer truck rolls past, air brakes snuffling. Dishes clank in the cafe and the jukebox comes on; someone’s pushed the buttons for a ranchero.
At last, Heidi peels herself away. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“I know.”
Her skin is cool, she’s smiling, and her eyes aren’t the least bit moist. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.” She hurries toward her car, then turns back, rotating one finger against her skull. “Thank God.”
“Thank God what?” I’m standing in the doorway holding a towel closed around my waist.
“Thank God my casserole only needs to be heated.”
16
W AKE UP THIS MORNING with pizzicato Lunchtime Movie music running in my head. It won’t stop. Implanted violins follow me in and out of the shower. I Q-tip my ears extra hard, but the plinking doesn’t leave with the wax. Turn on the radio to drown it out and a baritone reads to me:
“Puerto Rican terrorist Concepcion Buendia said today that he spared the life of Treasury Secretary Richard Goodyear when Secret Service agents made their dawn raid to rescue the kidnapped official because he couldn’t bring himself to hate him.
“‘I had all the time I needed to shoot,’ Buendia told investigators. ‘But I could not succeed in seeing him as an enemy, only a man who was sleeping.’”
I think that once or twice watching a woman sleep, overcome by her stillness, I have wept. Not something I am particularly proud of, but there it is. Every tub on its own bottom. Every lonely beast in its own separate bed.
No time for coffee, have to get moving right away. This Lunchtime Movie room is like something pressing on my throat. I’ll drive with all the windows open and the speedometer pinned. A couple aspirin for my stiff neck and then I wrestle clothes on over my wet skin. Boots in case I feel like hiking, a hat to shade my eyes. On
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