"Did I ever tell you that I wanted to be a nurse?"
"No."
"When I was in high school."
"Oh."
"I suppose you can't imagine that, can you?"
"It's not that."
"It's all right. I know how you think of me."
"How do I think of you?"
"You know."
"No. How?"
"A stereotype yuppie. A lot of cunning and greed but no scruples."
"That isn't how I think of you."
"It really isn't?"
"No."
"Then, how do you think of me?"
"As confused about what you want."
A pause. "Maybe I am. But I don't want to start talking about us again. I'm tired of it, Frank. I can't help it. I'm just tired of it."
"Believe it or not, so am I."
For a time neither of them said anything. They were in the master bedroom upstairs. In keeping with the Victorian motif of the house, the room was filled with such things as a canopy bed, a George III kingwood inlaid Pembroke table, and a nineteenth century mahogany display cabinet in Chinese Chippendale style. Not a graceful man, Brolan was always warned by Kathleen to be careful in the house.
Wind rattled the windows; a faint silver light from the street painted one wall, cross-hatched by the intricate shadows of tree limbs.
"I really did want to be a nurse, Frank."
Whenever they argued, whenever he implied that she couldn't be faithful to anybody, that she wanted too many material things and not enough spiritual things (though who was he to talk?), she found a way to work into the conversation proof of what a good person she was. That was always her justification for herself for whatever she did-something she'd learned in six struggling months of analysis shortly after she left college. That no matter what she did, however many men she might fuck over, she was basically a "good person."
Kathleen was the fourth daughter of a dumpy little man who'd owned his own dry-cleaning business, one that was never quite successful. He managed to put his girls through college, Kathleen being the last-and shortly after that dropped dead of a heart attack while pressing trousers for some impatient customer who stood waiting in the shabby fitting room.
Whenever Kathleen spoke of her father, it was with great anger and bitterness. Not directed at him but rather at the world that had treated him so badly. She often said "They never gave him a chance." Well, it was obvious she was going to get her chance from the world. She wanted to be the best-looking, most successful woman anywhere she went. And she was well on her way.
Most of the time Brolan felt sorry for Kathleen. Hers had been a harsh and unloving background. Her mother had pushed and pushed her father constantly, almost never being gentle or tender with the man. Kathleen often recalled how, when her father had suffered an early heart attack, she had run alongside the stretcher that the ambulance attendants carried her father on. As she ran along, her mother said, "Well, he'll miss two weeks of work over this. I'll have to go in and run the place." About all Kathleen's mother ever did was watch soaps, smoke Kools, drink Cokes, and talk on the phone with her girlfriends about how pretty she used to be back when she was young ("Before I met Chester") and what a limp-dick Chester was in the sack ("He doesn't even know how to fondle my breasts; it's like he's kneading dough").
It was no wonder that such a marriage had produced such a sad, confused, and angry little girl. One who had a great deal to prove to the world at large. One who had a great deal to prove to herself.
But what Kathleen couldn't seem to understand was that she was crushing Brolan, just as her mother had crushed her father.
Kathleen rolled over and kissed him. "I really like you, Frank."
"But you don't love me."
"I-I've tried."
"You really think we should be friends instead of lovers?"
"I really do."
He was tired of supplication, of hearing his whining. She owed him nothing. If she chose not to have a relationship, that was her choice alone to make. He had no right to ruin her life.
He lay next to her, his eyes open.
"Need to pee," she said. "Be right back."
He saw her naked backside in the faint light from the window. She was a beautiful, beautiful woman.
He wanted a cigarette, had in fact bought a pack earlier. Given the situation he was in, worrying about his health did not seem like much of a consideration.
He reached through the gauzy curtain hanging down from the canopy top and got his cigarettes. He found a package of matches next to them. The matches must have been there all along. He'd forgotten his in his sport coat. As he lighted his cigarette, he idly noted The Paramount Motel signature on the red, fancily embossed match cover.
Then he realized what he was looking at.
Kathleen, a jogging fanatic, didn't smoke.
The matches belonged to one of her recent guests. A man who'd obviously been staying at the Paramount Motel.
Jealousy struck him with the force of a seizure. He felt all sorts of irrational, self-pitying, violent things.
He was glad for both their sakes that she wasn't there at that moment. Nothing would be served by his blowing up once again. He'd humiliated and debased himself enough already.
He lay back once more and smoked his cigarette.
He was already re-addicted. At some point he'd have to go through the whole cold turkey process again.
The toilet flushed. In the quiet gloom it sounded like a car bomb exploding.
He heard her size 4AA feet against the floor. She had dear little feet. She really did. It was one of those helpless sentimental thoughts he always had about her. Dear little feet. God, he made himself sick sometimes.
When she slipped into bed with him again, her whole body felt cold. On her arms he could even feel goosebumps.
She said, "Foster said you were taking some time off." As usual, when she mentioned his partner, she sounded as if she were describing something filthy and deadly with germs.
He forced a laugh. "It would be nice if someday you two would get along together."
She returned his laugh. "Getting along with one of you is difficult enough. Getting along with two of you would be impossible." She hesitated, as if nervous about asking him her next question. "So, why the time off?"
He had an easy enough excuse at hand, and he used it. "I think I need some time away from you. It'll make it easier for us if I take some time off. Anyway, God knows I've built up enough vacation time."
"That's probably a good idea. I was thinking about taking a vacation myself. Maybe go to Jamaica for a week. Work on a tan."
He tried not to think of her on the yellow beaches of Jamaica, in the mauve string bikini she'd worn last summer. So many men…
He slipped out of bed and started the process of dressing. She said, "I'm sorry about the way things worked out."
"I know."
"Do you really believe I'm sorry?"
He thought a moment. "Yes."
"Come here a moment."
His trousers on but not buckled, one sock on, the other foot cold from the hardwood floor, he knelt on the edge of the bed and met her as she rose naked to kiss him.
Her mouth was cool and tasted of toothpaste. She'd brushed while in the john.
He tried to keep everything platonic. No sense of getting turned on again. He felt as if this house-and even her arms-had become a tomb. Anyway, his crotch felt as dead as his heart.
"After a while I hope we can be friends again," she said. He said nothing, withdrew from the wonderful tangle of their kiss.
As he was tugging on his other sock and reaching for his shirt, she said, "I appreciate how you're handling this."
"That's me, all right. Exemplary behaviour."
"I know it's not easy for you."
He hung his necktie under his collar, but he didn't tie the two ends. "Good night."
"Should I walk you downstairs?"
"No. That's fine."
"Take care of yourself."
"Thanks."
The shoes were the last to go on. Then he was ready. He wanted to leave very quickly, yet something made him linger, too.
He had to say it. "If you change your mind-"
He left the rest unsaid. She was a smart girl. She could figure that out. If she changed her mind, he'd be happy to take her back.
"Good night," he said again.
He went through the dark house, with its antiques and high ceilings and its Persian rugs.
He went out the same side door he'd come in. The cold air seemed to freeze his nostrils on contact.
He went out to the bottom of the drive, careful of how he was walking because it was so icy, and opened the door of his car and was just putting one leg in when he noticed it-a car across the street, a dark shape behind the wheel, clearly watching him.
He recognized the car right away.
A silver XKE was not the kind of car you should use if you were trying to keep yourself hidden.
He wondered what his ex-boss, Richard Cummings, was doing there anyway.
He closed the door on his own car without getting in and then started down the steep slope of the drive. Moonlight gave the ice and snow a silver surface.
He was about halfway to Cummings's car when the XKE's lights suddenly shone like awakening eyes, and the-car pulled jerkily from the kerb, heading in the opposite direction.
What the hell was going on-had Cummings been following him, or was he there to see Kathleen?
Brolan raised his head to look at the Gothic house outlined against the moon. It was dark, forbidding, unknowable. And inside was a beautiful young woman just as dark, just as forbidding, just as unknowable.
Shaking his head, he walked back to his car, got inside, and left.