Read Online The Last Time They Met by Anita Shreve - Free Book Online
Authors: Anita Shreve
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finger-combed his hair.
— I won’t ask you in.
She meant it, actually, as a kind of joke, as if they had been on a date. But Thomas, as ever, took her seriously.
— What’s the harm?
— What’s the harm?
Linda asked, incredulous.
— Antecedents,
he said.
Does this exist on its own, or because of what went before?
— Because of what went before, I should think.
He studied her.
What large drama, do you suppose, will part us this time?
— There doesn’t have to be any drama, Thomas. We’re too old for drama.
He turned to leave, then stopped.
Magdalene,
he said.
The name, the old name. Nearly an endearment.
A gainst her better judgment, she looked for evidence of others before her and found it in a single hair, disturbingly pubic, on the white tile beneath the sink. She was farsighted now and could blur her reflection in the mirror, and sometimes she did that if she was in a hurry. But today, she wanted sight: dispassionate and objective.
She unbuttoned her blouse in the way that a woman who is not being watched will do, unzipped her jeans, and kicked them from her feet. The underwear, unmatched, could stay. She put her hands on her hips and looked into the mirror. She did not like what she saw.
She was what was never possible: a fifty-two-year-old woman with thinning blond hair; no, not even that, not blond, but rather no color, a gray if you will, closer to invisible. Invisible at the roots and spreading out to a dirty gold that did not exist in nature. She examined squarish hips and a thickening waist that just a year ago she’d been convinced was only temporary. She’d read about girls who thought they were too fat when in fact they were frighteningly thin (well, Maria’s friend Charlotte had been one); whereas she, Linda, thought she was in general a thin woman when in reality she was overweight. And of course there were her hands, the skin long roughened, announcing her age and then some.
She turned abruptly away from the mirror, a peevish physician annoyed by his patient. She took the terrycloth hotel robe from its hook and meant to put it on, but instead she froze with it in her arms.
Was she mad? What had she been thinking? No one would see her body. So why the lover’s examination?
She tried her daughter again, this time on Maria’s cell phone. Though Linda had offered to pay for the calls, Maria had refused, her independence, even in the face of impressive student loans, no surprise. Whereas Marcus. Marcus needed to be taken care of, had developed charm to compensate for common sense, a nascent charisma to attract someone who might watch out for him. Such as David, Marcus’s lover, who was, at times, excessively protective, monitoring Marcus’s eating habits and sleep in a way she herself hadn’t done in years. Marcus was brilliant and would never use it; indeed, would make a point of denying this advantage.
Linda lay back on the bed, holding the telephone, hoping her daughter would answer and smiling when she did.
Is this a bad time?
Linda asked.
— No, I’m finishing lab reports.
Maria was truly happiest when doing two things at once.
How are you?
— I’m at a writers’ festival,
Linda said. And quickly thought, One needn’t tell the truth. The truth being that she’d become unhinged by the unexpected.
The merits of the northern city were discussed.
— I was just thinking about your father,
Linda added. A partial truth, though it had not been thoughts of Vincent that had unhinged her. And for that she felt a disloyal pang.
— You’re missing him,
Maria said.
Linda could see herself in the mirror over the dresser. She looked better in the softer light of the bedroom — smaller, possibly even desirable in the plush hotel robe.
Will you get any time off this summer?
Linda asked.
— A week. Maybe ten days if I’m lucky.
— Could I talk you into coming up to Maine?
There was a second’s hesitation, long enough to forfeit plans already made or hoped for. Linda
— I won’t ask you in.
She meant it, actually, as a kind of joke, as if they had been on a date. But Thomas, as ever, took her seriously.
— What’s the harm?
— What’s the harm?
Linda asked, incredulous.
— Antecedents,
he said.
Does this exist on its own, or because of what went before?
— Because of what went before, I should think.
He studied her.
What large drama, do you suppose, will part us this time?
— There doesn’t have to be any drama, Thomas. We’re too old for drama.
He turned to leave, then stopped.
Magdalene,
he said.
The name, the old name. Nearly an endearment.
A gainst her better judgment, she looked for evidence of others before her and found it in a single hair, disturbingly pubic, on the white tile beneath the sink. She was farsighted now and could blur her reflection in the mirror, and sometimes she did that if she was in a hurry. But today, she wanted sight: dispassionate and objective.
She unbuttoned her blouse in the way that a woman who is not being watched will do, unzipped her jeans, and kicked them from her feet. The underwear, unmatched, could stay. She put her hands on her hips and looked into the mirror. She did not like what she saw.
She was what was never possible: a fifty-two-year-old woman with thinning blond hair; no, not even that, not blond, but rather no color, a gray if you will, closer to invisible. Invisible at the roots and spreading out to a dirty gold that did not exist in nature. She examined squarish hips and a thickening waist that just a year ago she’d been convinced was only temporary. She’d read about girls who thought they were too fat when in fact they were frighteningly thin (well, Maria’s friend Charlotte had been one); whereas she, Linda, thought she was in general a thin woman when in reality she was overweight. And of course there were her hands, the skin long roughened, announcing her age and then some.
She turned abruptly away from the mirror, a peevish physician annoyed by his patient. She took the terrycloth hotel robe from its hook and meant to put it on, but instead she froze with it in her arms.
Was she mad? What had she been thinking? No one would see her body. So why the lover’s examination?
She tried her daughter again, this time on Maria’s cell phone. Though Linda had offered to pay for the calls, Maria had refused, her independence, even in the face of impressive student loans, no surprise. Whereas Marcus. Marcus needed to be taken care of, had developed charm to compensate for common sense, a nascent charisma to attract someone who might watch out for him. Such as David, Marcus’s lover, who was, at times, excessively protective, monitoring Marcus’s eating habits and sleep in a way she herself hadn’t done in years. Marcus was brilliant and would never use it; indeed, would make a point of denying this advantage.
Linda lay back on the bed, holding the telephone, hoping her daughter would answer and smiling when she did.
Is this a bad time?
Linda asked.
— No, I’m finishing lab reports.
Maria was truly happiest when doing two things at once.
How are you?
— I’m at a writers’ festival,
Linda said. And quickly thought, One needn’t tell the truth. The truth being that she’d become unhinged by the unexpected.
The merits of the northern city were discussed.
— I was just thinking about your father,
Linda added. A partial truth, though it had not been thoughts of Vincent that had unhinged her. And for that she felt a disloyal pang.
— You’re missing him,
Maria said.
Linda could see herself in the mirror over the dresser. She looked better in the softer light of the bedroom — smaller, possibly even desirable in the plush hotel robe.
Will you get any time off this summer?
Linda asked.
— A week. Maybe ten days if I’m lucky.
— Could I talk you into coming up to Maine?
There was a second’s hesitation, long enough to forfeit plans already made or hoped for. Linda
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