Alison Lurie - Last Resort

“Well, hello there,” she called as Jenny climbed the steps. “How’s everything?”

“It’s—it’s awful.” To her embarrassment, Jenny’s voice began to shake. “I have to talk to you,” she said in a rush. “I’ve been wanting to for days, but then your friend died, and I couldn’t—There were so many people here yesterday, it didn’t seem right.” She swallowed.

“Oh, Jenny. I’m sorry, I didn’t know—What is it?” Lee rose and came close, putting one warm hand on Jenny’s bare shoulder.

“It’s, uh, Wilkie. Sunday afternoon—He was late coming home from the beach, and then I looked out the window and saw him, by the gate—” She sobbed and swallowed. “He was just standing there, where anybody could see him, kissing Barbie Mumpson.”

“Sunday afternoon? You mean, when Tommy drowned? But your husband was there, he was one of the people who tried to save Tommy.”

“I guess so. Yes.” You’re missing the point, she thought. But maybe that was part of the point, too, that Wilkie should do such a horrible thing right after he’d seen someone die.

“Jesus, what a creep,” Lee exclaimed. “I’m sorry,” she added in a different voice. “I didn’t mean—Hey, don’t cry.” She sat beside Jenny and put one arm around her. “I mean, what the hell, go ahead and cry if you feel like it.” Pulling Jenny strongly against her, she kissed her wet cheek.

“I don’t—I can’t—” Jenny began to weep in earnest. It was a relief to sob openly, a relief and a pleasure to lie close against Lee’s warmth and strength. “The thing is,” she said finally, still clinging to her friend, “I never thought Wilkie could be like all those men who get tired of their wives after a while and just throw them away. I thought he was different.”

“Has he said he’s going to throw you away?”

“No,” Jenny said, raising her head. “Not yet.”

“Maybe this thing with Barbie is just a kind of temporary insanity,” Lee suggested.

“Maybe.” Jenny smiled weakly.

“It could be. Hell, she’s going back to Tulsa in a couple of days anyhow. Besides, anybody’d have to be crazy to even look at an airhead like her if they had you.” Lee clasped Jenny gently but closely now, stroking her back through her thin cotton dress.

“But it’s not just Barbie. Like I told you before, Wilkie’s been so strange for months, and when I try to ask him about it he won’t listen, he gets all cold and angry and frightening, and then he goes into the study or the bathroom and shuts the door. I think he hasn’t liked me for a long time really.”

“That’s hateful. There must be something wrong with him.”

“I thought it was me,” Jenny sobbed.

“Of course not.” Lee laughed. “There’s nothing in the world wrong with you.”

“So what do you think is wrong with Wilkie?”

Lee shrugged. “Who knows? Men get like that sometimes. They see time running out, and something in their hormones starts telling them to chase after younger women, and they get kind of mean and crazy and boring for a while.”

“So you think he’ll get over it?”

“I don’t know,” Lee said. “Sure, he might.”

“But what if I don’t get over it?” Jenny wailed. “I mean, right now, I’m not sure I love Wilkie either. I think I might sort of hate him, actually.” She gulped tears.

“Well, that sounds natural.” Lee smiled. “Anybody might feel that way.” She pushed a long, slightly damp strand of Jenny’s pale hair back from her face.

“But it’s me too. I’m so confused; I don’t know what I’m doing at all. And Gerry Grass, you know, that poet I told you was living over the garage?”

“Uh-huh,” Lee agreed.

“I agreed to read the proofs of his new book, and now he keeps coming around and telling me I should leave Wilkie and go to Los Angeles with him and help him with his work. He says Wilkie doesn’t appreciate me, and he’s in love with me and we’ll be very happy together.”

“Really?” Lee scowled and sat back, gazing at Jenny. “And are you in love with him?”

“No, of course not.” Jenny laughed shakily. “But I was thinking at first, maybe that’s what I should do, because that way I would be of some use in the world. But then I decided that was silly, because Gerry’s book won’t make any difference to the world anyhow, it’s just all about him and what he thinks of other poets.”

“I see.” Lee smiled slightly. “Well, that makes sense,” she said, gathering Jenny back to her again. “I wouldn’t want you to go to Los Angeles with somebody you didn’t love. Especially since I know you hated the place when you lived there.”

“Oh, Lee.” Jenny gave a final gulp, drew away a little, and looked up at her friend. “It’s such a relief to talk to someone. I’m so happy I know you—”

“I’m happy I know you, too.” Lee kissed Jenny again, but this time, as if by accident, the kiss fell on her mouth. It was a soft, gentle kiss, and Jenny met it equally and gratefully.

“You’re so kind,” she said, smiling. “Listening to me go on this way.”

“And you’re so lovely.” Lee kissed Jenny again, but this time it was deeper and longer than the kiss of a friend.

“Oh!” Jenny murmured, when she could speak. She felt dizzy, as if she were inside of a snowball globe that had suddenly been turned upside down, showering her with sparkling flakes. She blinked and put one hand to her head, trying to focus.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” Lee said.

“N-oh,” Jenny admitted.

“Ever since I met you on the beach, practically.”

“Really? I didn’t think—” Jenny smiled unevenly. “I mean, I only thought—” The air still seemed full of sequined snowflakes, whirling in some substance thicker than air: fine, transparent oil, or a heady, gold-tinged solution of perfume. “I wanted to too,” she admitted. “But I never thought—”

“I love you, you know,” Lee said, taking a step back to look into her face. Jenny, still faint, could only stare and smile.

“Oh, hell,” Lee added in a very different voice, looking past Jenny toward the street, where a pink Key West taxi had just pulled up. “That’s got to be the woman who’s rented the tower room; she was supposed to be here at five.”

“Oh.” Slowly, dizzily, Jenny moved away. “I should go home anyhow,” she said. “There’s all these people coming for dinner, and I haven’t even started to cook. I wish I’d never asked them.”

“But you’ll be back tomorrow,” Lee reminded her.

“Oh, yes.”

Lee moved closer and kissed her again; and Jenny, out of love and gratitude and desire, kissed her back.

“Call me when you get home, all right?” Lee said. “All right,” Jenny whispered. “I’ll try.”

12

IN THE HOUSE ON Hibiscus Street, the following day, Wilkie Walker was killing time until the time came to kill himself. The act, he had realized by now, would be relatively easy; what would be hard was making it seem accidental. Already he had been balked three times: by Gerry Grass, by the weather, and by the death of the man in the wheelchair. Fate, he was beginning to believe, wanted to thwart him. But the imaginary goddess (whom he pictured as an elderly, ugly version of classical statues of Justice, in a bunchy chiton) would not succeed. He would die today; all he had to do now was live through the next six hours.

He had already made what preparations he could without betraying his purpose, and taken all possible actions that would tend to conceal it. He had opened today’s mail and set the bills aside for Jenny to pay as usual. He had scribbled notes of acceptance for her to type up and send to two publishers who wanted him to read and recommend books. He had even agreed to speak without remuneration on “Life Below the Surface” at a Key West Conference on The Writer and Nature—an event that under normal circumstances he might have declined to attend, let alone participate in. Now, however, he could agree, with no consequences except an enhanced posthumous reputation for generosity and goodwill.