Douglas Kennedy - Five Days

‘But, hang on, at least you have a creative talent. Whereas I have nothing like that. I can shoot pictures of people’s insides, and that’s about it.’

‘And now I really do think you are engaging in the worst form of self-deprecation. You have hinted how all the radiologists you work with so rate you. And how you can usually work out a diagnosis at first sight of a pattern or shadow on a scan or X-ray.’

‘That’s just a certain technical know-how.’

‘No, sorry, that’s a talent. And it’s a talent that very few people possess. And one which you should salute yourself for having.’

‘It’s hardly creative.’

‘Define “creative”.’

‘Inventive, imaginative, visionary, inspired, talented, accomplished, artistic. ’

‘And how about original, ingenious, resourceful, clever, adept, adroit, skilled? You don’t think yourself adept, adroit, skilled?’

I just shrugged.

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”,’ he said. ‘You are creative at your work.’

‘I’ve not always been adept, adroit, skilled.’

‘I’m also sure you’ve never been told enough just how extraordinary you are.’

‘There’s a reason I’m in this room with you. There’s a reason I did something tonight I never thought I could actually do — sleep with another man while still married. The fact that I have fallen in love with you. that is to do with you, not my husband. But had there been a marriage still there — a sense of shared destiny, of love and support, of proper intimacy, everything you mentioned before — I would not be here. But I am so happy to be here. Because I never thought this possible for me. Because you too are extraordinary.’

‘Extraordinary? Me?’ He shook his head. ‘I am vin ordinaire. All right, I know a thing or two about words. I have written two published works of very short fiction. And I still like to lose myself in the Republic of Letters. But beyond that. I am a fifty-five-year-old man who sells insurance.’

‘And you accuse me of self-abasement? You are an amazing conversationalist. You have a fantastic take on what can be broadly described as life and art. You have passion — which, trust me, is something you don’t bump into every day. And that passion. well, the biggest surprise was. ’

Restraint and modesty suddenly took charge of my vocal cords. But, to my surprise, I shook them off and said, in a near-whisper:

‘I have never made love like that before.’

Richard reached for my hand, entwining his fingers within mine.

‘Nor have I,’ he said. ‘Never.’

‘Pure love.’

‘Yes. Pure love.’

‘And making love when you are madly in love. ’

‘. is sublime.’

‘Kiss me.’

Moments later we were back in bed. This time the passion built so slowly, so acutely, that the final release had me blindsided by its intensity and its immense amorousness. Pure love. With a magnitude and a benevolence that was so intoxicating, so potent, so enabling. As we were clinging to each other afterward Richard whispered:

‘I’m never letting you go. Never.’

‘I’ll hold you to that. Because — and this is another first for me — I actually think everything is possible now.’

‘It is. Absolutely, totally possible.’

‘But when you’ve lived for years without that belief. ’

‘That’s behind us now.’

And we talked on about how we had both, in our own distinct ways, given up on the notion of change; how romantic hope was a concept we had both dismissed as outside the possibility of future experience; and how now.

Everything is possible. Everything.

We finally succumbed to sleep around two in the morning, his arm enfolded around me, the aura of security, of safety, of invulnerability so pronounced. When I woke before dawn and sat up and reached out and stroked the head of my beloved, all the miraculous discombobulation of the last twenty-four hours was overshadowed by one simple, overmastering observation: my life had irrevocably changed.

Richard stirred awake.

‘Hello, my love,’ he whispered.

‘Hello, my love,’ I whispered back.

And he was deep within me moments later.

Afterward we both nodded off again, waking sometime after nine. I stood up, fetched a bathrobe, found a coffee maker in the living room of this vast suite — and returned some minutes later to the bedroom with two cups of freshly brewed Java. Richard was up, having just opened the curtains.

‘I don’t know how you take your coffee,’ I said.

‘Black works.’

‘Great minds think alike. and prefer black coffee.’

We kissed. I handed Richard a cup and we both slid back under the covers. The coffee was surprisingly good. Sun was streaming through the window.

‘It looks to be another perfect day,’ I said.

‘And I’m not returning to Maine tonight.’

‘Nor am I,’ I said, immediately considering my work schedule tomorrow — and how there were, as of Thursday, only two scans scheduled for Monday morning. Which meant if I could call my colleague Gertie this afternoon she could probably cover for me in the morning. And as for having to explain to Dan why I wouldn’t be home tonight.

No, I didn’t want to consider all that just now. I wanted to think about something I never thought I would be considering two days ago: a future in which happiness played a central role. And Richard — again uncannily reading my thoughts — took my hand in his and said:

‘Let’s talk about how and when we’ll move to Boston.’

A future. The future. Our future.

Love. An actual concrete reality.

PLANS. WE NOW had plans.

Over breakfast, we could not stop talking about the project that was our life together. The more we discussed — throwing out ideas about how this huge change would be put into motion, the practical details, the larger overreaching personal concerns — I couldn’t help but marvel at the way we so easily bounced ideas off each other; the sheer inventive energy that existed between us; the way we were so much on the same emotional page.

Inventive energy. That was what was lacking within me for years. I was diligent at work, diligent at home, always engaged with my children, always trying to put a brave face on things with Dan, and using the world of books as my imaginative escape hatch from the humdrum. But there was never a sense of passionate engagement with life’s larger possibilities.

And now.

Plans. We now had definitive plans.

‘Say I call the realtor in around fifteen minutes?’ Richard asked me.

‘Ten o’clock on a Sunday morning? Won’t he mind?’

‘Like all salesmen, he always needs to be closing. The apartment is currently vacant. I know I can get my builder guy in Dorchester to do a structural survey on it this week. All going well we can close on the apartment in about three weeks. A new kitchen, bathroom, paint job, and the stripping and re-staining of the floors. that should take about two months tops. So we could probably move in sometime in January, or February at the outside.’

‘Well, I will get onto this medical employment service group I heard about here in Boston,’ I said. ‘They seem to be able to usually find placements for radiographic technicians in the area. Once I have secured something I’ll probably have to give at minimum one month’s notice at the hospital in Damariscotta. They won’t be happy — because there is actually a shortage of technologists in Maine. Still, they’ve had eighteen years of my life. I will be due around five months’ salary when I leave, as I haven’t taken enough vacation time over the years. Imagine that. I only allowed myself two of the three weeks’ vacation I was granted every year. What was I thinking?’