Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Yes, but this is the first time I’ve seen the McGregors in a year. I think I should—”

“We have plenty of time,” Arthur said. “In fact, Julia, I don’t even know why we’re going.”

“They’re our friends,” Julia said.

“Yes, I know that.”

“And I haven’t seen them since—”

“Yes, and you haven’t seen me since last Christmas.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve been home for a week, Julia.”

The hand holding the brush had begun trembling again. She did not answer him. She held out her painted hand and looked at the finger tips.

“Aren’t you glad to be home, Julia?”

“Why, Arthur, of course I am.”

“Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“I’m delighted to see you, Arthur.”

She turned her shoulders slightly, trying to dislodge his hands without seeming to. But his hands remained where they were, following the motion of her shoulders, and she said, “Please, Arthur.”

“What the hell is wrong, Julia?”

“I’m trying to do my nails.”

“I’m not talking about your nails. I want to know what’s wrong. I’m your husband, Julia. We’ve been apart since—”

“Arthur,” she said, and this time she shrugged his hands away with a very definite forceful shrug. “There are certain natural female functions over which I have no—”

“You’ve been home for a week, Julia. I may be a poor mathematician, but you’ve been home for a full week.”

“That’s right,” she said calmly.

“That’s right, Julia.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

She thought for an instant how stupid they both sounded, and she fought for control of the silence that had descended on the room, and she knew that the next words had to be hers, that the conversation had moved to an impasse, and she wondered suddenly why he was forcing the issue. She turned slowly on the dressing stool.

Slowly, her words evenly spaced, she said, “What is it you want, Arthur?” as if she were delivering a slap.

He did not answer, and she respected his silence. There was a strength in his silence and the set of his jaw. She respected him, but she would not let it go.

“Do you want me to take off my clothes, Arthur?”

He still would not answer.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said, and she turned back to the mirror and picked up an emery board.

“All right, tell me,” Arthur said.

“We’re going to be late. I hate walking into a—”

“The hell with the goddamn dinner party, Julia! Tell me.”

“Tell you what , Arthur? Just what do you want me to tell you?”

“What happened in Aquila?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what happened in Rome?”

“Nothing.”

“Then where did it happen, Julia?”

“Where did what happen?” She turned on the stool angrily, her eyes flashing, furious because he had guessed, and wanting him to know, yet enraged because he already knew, and refusing to tell him, and feeling hopelessly embroiled in a stupid situation that he alone had provoked. “Just what do you imagine happened?” She looked up into his face defiantly.

“I... I don’t know,” Arthur said hesitantly.

“Then stop accusing me!” She stood up suddenly and walked to the closet. Angrily, she pulled a dress from one of the hangers.

“I... I wasn’t accusing you, Julia. I simply felt—”

“You simply felt that because I didn’t want—”

“Julia, Julia...”

“I suppose that whenever you get the damn—”

“No, but, Julia...”

“Then let it go, damn it!” She turned on him, the dress in one hand, her eyes blazing, and she saw the sudden embarrassment on his face. He’s going to back down, she thought. He only wanted assurance. He only wanted to know I still love him. Tell him, she thought. Tell him you love him. Tell him you want him. Tell him.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” she said. “It happened in Rome.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. He looked at her, puzzled, and he shook his head slightly, not understanding, or not willing to understand.

“In Rome,” she repeated.

“What are you...?”

“With an Italian soldier.”

“Don’t, Julia.” He turned away.

“Whom I loved,” she said.

“Don’t.”

“Whom I still love.”

“Don’t.”

“Who’s waiting for me to—”

He turned swiftly and sharply, like a prisoner who has withstood the flailing of his torturer for too long, who regardless of consequence would proclaim his manhood, proclaim his humanity, state that there is still dignity here in this destroyed heap of flesh, he turned swiftly and sharply and said, “Don’t!” again, like a defiant whimper, and lashed out at her with his right hand, slapping her face.

She did not raise her hand to block the blow. She did not touch her stinging face after the blow was delivered. She stared at him in the silence of the room, and she said, “Yes.”

Arthur sighed. His hand dropped slowly.

“Yes, I deserved that,” she said.

The room was silent.

“But it doesn’t change anything,” she said. “It’s too late to change anything,” and she told it all then, told everything while he sat foolishly on her dressing-table stool with his head bent, and his hands clasped and hanging between his knees, almost touching the floor, told him all of it, while he sat listening and not listening, told him what had happened and what was yet to happen, while he listened soundlessly with his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m going back to Rome as soon as the war is over,” she said.

She paused.

“I’m taking David with me,” she said.

“Yes, leave nothing,” he answered. “Take everything, and leave nothing. Total up seventeen years of marriage with a zero.”

“I’m sorry. A woman needs her children.”

“Yes, certainly. And that does it. I’m sorry. That explains everything. I’m sorry. Forgive me for killing you. This is what separates men from animals. The two words ‘I’m sorry.’ This is what gives men the nobility our novelists are always trying to express, the wonderful nobility of man, I’m sorry. Yes, be very sorry, Julia. You should be.”

She said nothing.

“I wish I could curse you. I wish I could say...” He shook his head. “You don’t seem like a slut,” he said almost to himself. He wiped his hand over his eyes, and then passed the hand downward over his face, disguising the action. He was silent for a very long time. Then he lifted his head, and looked directly into her eyes, and very quietly said, “Stay.”

She did not answer.

“Stay, Julia. If not for me, then for—”

“No.”

“—your son.”

“My child,” she said.

“David,” he answered. “Your son.”

“I’m going back to Rome. I have to. You know I have to.”

“And me? What about me, Julia?”

“I... I can’t... I can’t think about that, Arthur.”

“No, don’t think about it. Do you know what will happen to me, Julia?” He paused. “I’ll die.”

“No.”

“Yes, Julia. I swear to you, Julia. I’ll die, or I’ll kill myself, I can’t—”

“Please,” she said. “Please don’t make this any harder than—”

“Please? Please? Who? Who is pleading? How can you look at a corpse and say, ‘Please, please, don’t let me realize I killed you’? What do you want, Julia? A clean conscience besides?”

He did not bother to wipe at his eyes again. The tears ran down his face. He sniffed and said, “No, don’t ask me for that, Julia. Not absolution. You’re taking my life, and that’s enough.”

“I won’t ask you for anything,” she said. “And you won’t do anything foolish, either.”