Lisa Unger - Fragile

Does Jones ever talk about it? Melody had asked. It was such a strange question, staying with her, tugging at her pant leg for attention. And then there were Elizabeth’s words to Ricky: She was already dead when he found her . God, what did that mean?

But worse than even those things was the image she had of Jones last night-his frantic search of their son’s room, the things he’d said. Anyone is capable of anything, given the right circumstances, the right motivations .

The water couldn’t be hot enough; she was light-headed in the steam, her skin was red and raw. But in the solitude, she could weep. She’d barely held herself together in the car, but now she let it all out, knowing she couldn’t be heard.

She found herself remembering what it was like to be in love with Jones. Not the kind of love they shared now. But the kind of breathless, helpless, anxious, ravenous in love with him she’d been after her father’s funeral. Her passion was a burning city, a five-alarmer that raged out of control beside the cavern of her grief for her father. It was a distraction that kept her psyche busy, that kept her from wallowing in the sorrow of loss.

She knew by their second date-he came into the city and took her to dinner at Joe Allen and they saw Cats , even though she’d already seen it-that she was going to marry him. He seemed uncomfortable, the way out-of-towners always do in the city-looking around at people who seem more glamorous than they can ever hope to be, overwhelmed by the sound, the lights, the masses of people. She liked that about him, that he was humble, that he was willing to be out of his element to be with her. She was so used to the arrogance of the men she met here; they all seemed imbued with a sense of self-importance just because they were New Yorkers. She already loved the earthy smell, the salty taste of him, the thickness of his powerful body. It was more than lust; it was hunger.

“Why didn’t you leave The Hollows?” she said.

It was loud in the restaurant. A big party of tourists beside them was celebrating something-lots of raucous laughter and clinking glasses.

He shook his head, took a sip of the red wine he was drinking. Even then, he knew a lot about wines. He’d chosen a bottle of Chianti Riserva from Montepulciano. And she knew to be impressed, even as she wondered how much it cost.

“I couldn’t really,” he said. A chorus of laughter erupted beside them.

“Your mother. She was ill.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at his glass. “That was part of it.”

That’s when she saw it, the shadow. It flashed over his face and was gone in a heartbeat. But she saw it, how he went dark at the mention of his mother. She knew a little bit about Abigail from things Elizabeth had told her, how she’d kick up a fuss every time Jones needed to be in an away game, how she’d keep him home when she was feeling low and then write him a sick note, how she’d harass his teachers if she thought he was being treated unfairly. That woman is a piece of work , Elizabeth would complain.

“But it was more that I just couldn’t imagine myself living outside The Hollows.”

“You feel like you belong there.”

“More like I don’t belong anyplace else.”

After the play, they stood on the sidewalk as throngs of people pushed around them and started hunting for taxis. There was an awkward moment, when he looked up at the buildings and she stared at the folded Playbill in her hand.

“I parked in a lot a few blocks from here,” he said. He turned to point uptown. During the performance, they’d held hands. And then he’d started doing this lovely thing after intermission. He’d reached over with his other hand and stroked her arm, in soft, slow circles. Something about it built a heat inside her; there were moments when she could barely focus on anything else. “Do you want to get a drink?”

“Take me home, Jones.”

Did they take a cab, a subway? Did they go to his car? Now she couldn’t remember. All she remembered was taking him back to her tiny one-bedroom apartment. She remembered him kissing her neck as she unlocked the door. Once inside, her bag and their coats were shed to the floor. An ambulance wailed past her window, filling the apartment with light and sound.

“I haven’t felt this way about anyone,” he said. “Not like this… in so long. Maybe never, Maggie.”

She’d imagined him with a parade of women-the prom queens of the world, all throwing themselves at him, as they always did in high school. But those girls with so much apparent promise were just housewives and mothers now, married to other men who commuted to the city to work at banks and firms. She’d seen them all at her father’s funeral. There was nothing wrong with them; they all seemed lovely, normal, satisfied in their lives. But that luminosity that had been afforded by their youthful prettiness, their palpable coolness , was gone. It surprised her to discover that Jones was lonely. It surprised her more to discover that she was lonely, too. She realized that her passion was always spent on her studies and her work.

“I haven’t, either,” she said.

She didn’t remember the details of their lovemaking, but what she did remember about that night was an overwhelming feeling of happiness and relief, a soul-deep sense of satisfaction, of homecoming.

It seemed like so long ago. It was. And the years, the lifetime, between then and now were a patchwork of good and bad days, failures and successes, joys and disappointments-like every life that isn’t derailed by catastrophe or tragedy, however gigantic or mundane. Somehow the things she’d found in the attic-even though she didn’t know how they’d come to be there or who had put them there-made her feel as if it all lay upon a rotting foundation. She felt as if she might be about to step through the floorboards of her life.

As she turned off the water, she thought about something Jones had said on their wedding night. It was something that came back to her often, filling her with a sense of deep warmth for her husband. She remembered it when she was angry at him, during times when she felt like they couldn’t be further apart, and it never failed to fill her with the same pleasure, the same thrill it had given her the first time he uttered it.

He said, “Maggie. You saved me.”

Only now, nearly two decades later, did she wonder what he’d meant.

He mostly talked. He talked about his mother, about his father, about how he’d always felt like a loser, an outcast.

Without the usual mask of black makeup, Charlene looked about twelve. She sat curled up on Maggie’s couch, wearing sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, clutching a pillow against her center. Her hair was freshly washed, pulled back with a barrette in a girlish way. Maggie had the urge to hold her.

“Once he asked me to sing while he masturbated.”

She looked up at Maggie with a flat stare, as if daring her to be shocked.

“And how did that make you feel?”

She blew a breath out of her nose. Charlene was going for jaded, unaffected, but Maggie could see her hands shaking.

“It made me sick.” She spat the last word. “But you know what’s weird? Part of me was, like, flattered. Does that make me a freak? I mean, I was tied up in a boat. Tied up , you know, singing, while this asshole spanks the monkey, and I was thinking, Wow, he really likes my songs.”

Maggie nodded her head, holding back a smile. Charlene was tough; she had a strong inner spirit. And this was a good thing for someone who’d endured what she had.

She told the girl as much. “You’re not a freak, Charlene.”