Scott Spencer - A Ship Made of Paper

“They were in our house,”says Kate, her voice rising.“How did I know what they were going to do?They could have easily killed me, or raped me, or both.I was alone, I was completely alone.”She is standing now.She walks toward Daniel, stops.They are facing each other, less than a foot apart.“While you were all cozy and warm at Iris Davenport’s house.”

“I know, I know,”says Daniel softly.“It must have been frightening.

I’m sorry.”

“What was really going on at that house, Daniel?”Kate says.She reaches for him, but he moves away.

“Let’s not do this, Kate.”

“It’s too late for that, Daniel.I want to know what was really going on in that house.”

“We were snowed in, just like everybody else.”

“I know you were snowed in.That’s not what I’m asking.”

Daniel shrugs, as ifunable to imagine what more she could want.

”What I’m asking is did you sleep with her?”As soon as the words are out, she regrets them.And in the ensuing silence she casts frantically about for some way to turn this conversation around, or off.Is it pos-sible to simply throw her arms around him and say, Never mind, I don’t wanttoknow ? It seems she could go for decades not knowing, but ifthe knowledge is there it will pierce her, it will shoot its poison into her, and then she will have to save herselffrom it.

“Well?”she says.“You’re very quiet.”

He backs up a little, he seems to be shaking.He seems to have an appetite but no talent for treachery.“What do you want me to say, Kate? I don’t know what to do here.”

“What kind ofquestion is that?You want my fucking guidance, for Christ’s sake? Just tell me, get it over with.Did you sleep with her?”

“Yes.I’m sorry.I did.”

For a moment, she doesn’t believe him.He’s just throwing it in her face, giving her a taste ofwhat it would be like, trying to shock her into shutting up.And then the moment passes, and she still does not believe him, yet at the same time, she knew it all along.

“Did you really?”she says, sitting on the bed again.

”I’m sorry, Kate.It kills me to think ofhurting you.”

Kate laughs, but she can see by his expression that laughter, or any other sign ofinstability, will be playing right into his hand.He would like nothing more than to withdraw into the relative safety ofdeciding she’s a little crazy right now.

“I think we should leave,”he says.

”Really?Any place in particular? Do you have a hot date or something?”

“No,”he says quietly.

”Do you mind ifI ask you a question?”she asks.“Would that be all right?”

He shrugs.His eyes are suddenly bright red, as ifthe sight ofher is like knives going into them.

“Are you in love with her?”

He is trying to say something, but his lips are trembling, he will not allow himself to cry, he will not try to elicit her sympathy.He nods his head.

“Is that a yes I see?” The handle toward my hand.Come let me clutch thee.

He covers his face.It seems suddenly important to Kate, a matter of life and death, that he not do that.She springs from the bed, grabs his hands, and pulls them down.His face is soaked with self-pity.

“Get out ofhere!”she screams.“Just get out ofhere!”

He backs away, gives her a wary look, somehow implying that the problem between them is her mental health.He seems to like the idea of just getting out ofthere.His hand is on the door, but he keeps his eyes on her, as ifshe might attack him.Is he going to take the car? Drive back to Leyden, go right to Iris’s house? I told her, she knows, he’ll say.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.You said…”

“No, don’t go.We’re going to work this out, okay?”

“Kate.”

“Get another room, but you’re not leaving me here.You can sleep in another room, you can dream ofyour little sweetheart in peace.But you’re not taking the car and abandoning me.We’re going to work this out in the morning, or whenever.But I’m not letting you do this, you understand me?You’re not doing this to Ruby, or to yourself, or me.”

“Kate, I think we just have to move on.”

“Move on?What kind oftalk is that? Move on.What are we? Cowboys?You get another room and we’ll talk in the morning.”

He stands there.He is silent.He closes his eyes.Is this an act ofcontrition, or is he weighing his options?

“All right,”he says.

Her heart floods with relief.His agreeing to get another room gives her a sense ofdirection and triumph.She has come up with a plan and he has agreed to it.She stands there as he goes to their overnight bag and takes out what he needs.

And then he does something intolerable.He flips his toiletries kit up in the air—a light-brown leather bag that she gave him a couple ofbirth-days ago—and catches it.She feels the blood in her face.Her muscles tighten so swiftly it feels like she’s growing taller.

“Call Ruby,”she says, as he is about to let himself out.“Let her know what you think is important.”

Their eyes meet, and she feels what she believes to be the miracle of her own strength, her own survival.Thoughts come to her like the drip ofanesthetic.He has not destroyed her, and he has not destroyed them .

The bomb has exploded but the hole is not big enough for him to crawl through.And just look at him, he knows it, too, he’s not going anywhere.

Let him have this night, let him weep and tear out his hair.Tomorrow in the cool morning she will appear freshly bathed and combed, she will be wearing faded jeans and a black cashmere sweater, a little bit ofmakeup, theArts and Leisure and the Book Review sections ofthe Sunday paper tucked under her arm, the car keys in her hand, and a bag full ofbreak-fast goodies for the road.Then, once they are rolling, she will say the words that will end this insanity:she will forgive him.

Carol Davenport has spent the past two hours reading to her nephew, who lay in his little bed, staring up at her with his dark obdurate eyes—even as he yawned, he refused to close them.After going through a dozen ofNelson’s books, Carol was feeling frantic with boredom and exhaus-tion.Ifshe had to keep reading to put the kid to sleep, she could not bear to read any more about headstrong bunnies and brave little toasters, so she read to him from the novel she herselfwas reading—a Barbara King-solver book chosen by her reading group back home in Baltimore—and that, in fact, did the trick.Now, she stands in the darkened second-story hall ofher sister’s house, listening anxiously for any signs ofwakefulness from Nelson’s room.

Hearing none, she goes downstairs, wondering ifshe is tired enough herselfto go to bed.She has forgotten her book back in Nelson’s room, but she doesn’t dare risk waking him by going back to retrieve it.She sits on the sofa, picks theTV remote control up offthe coffee table.Sud-denly, the phone rings and she lunges for it, afraid that the high elec-tronic twitter ofit will awaken Nelson, who has been so stubborn and confrontational and whom she fears she will throttle ifhe says another word to her before morning.

“Hello?”she whispers into the phone.

”Oh, thank God it’s you,”a man’s voice says on the other end.“I know you can’t talk.Can you?Are you alone?”

Carol is so startled by the urgency—and the whiteness—ofthis voice that she is momentarily speechless.She feels exposed, out there in the middle ofnowhere, with only white people, whites in cars, whites in their houses, whites in the police station and the hospital, she feels fan-tastically and perilously alone.

“I told Kate, she knows,”the man says.“I just wanted you to know.

And this too, this too.I love you.When can I see you?”