John Domini - Talking Heads - 77

Bette had a lot of color. Out here her hair — she’d forgotten her hat — was less hay, more frizz.

“I’ve gotten too close,” Kit said. “It’s what this time away was about. It’s integrity, it’s real life.”

“Kit,” Bette said, “won’t you let me have this?”

“Integrity and real life.” Kit shook his head. “Hoo boy. Believe me, Betts, I know what those words sound like.”

“This moment Kit, just this one moment. Please. Won’t you let me have it?”

“I’m not a bad guy, Betts. I’m a good guy.”

“My moment, Kit. Mine. Let me have it.”

Aw, Viddich. As Kit got to his feet he resisted the impulse to put his arms around her. He resisted the impulse to apologize, to tell her he loved her, to blurt out more examples of what a hero he was.

“Let me, Kit,” she said. “Me. I mean, I haven’t even had a decent opportunity to scream about Thursday night yet.”

She was his type, the bony ticking type, the kind of woman that had always put him in big hurry to prove himself. Upright, he kept his posture slope-shouldered and acquiescent. But for a long moment there was only the ragged surf, the tangled winds. Bette’s look softened just perceptibly.

“Are you actually closing the paper?” she asked.

Kit didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wished he still had his stones. Stones, a scrolled newspaper, something.

“You’re actually going to go in Monday morning,” she asked, “and tell people they’re out of a job?”

Patience, husband. “I haven’t thought about what I’m going to tell people, Betts.” He repeated that the shutdown might be only temporary. He’d see what things looked like in a month or so, after he’d worked through the ramifications of what had happened in Monsod. “I might need new money, too. There’s a conflict of interest with Mirinex.”

Bette said she wasn’t surprised — and none too hopeful about the money, either.

“I guess,” Kit went on, “there’s one woman I’d like to keep on salary if I can.”

“Oh? A woman? Would that be Zia ?”

That was more like it, the kind of slam Kit had been expecting. And his usual response was to start sounding all lofty and professional, Mr. Top-of-the-Masthead. Not this time. Plain and simple, Kit explained that he’d meant his Administrative Assistant. Corinna Nummold, Betts. “She’s got a kid.”

Bette shook her head. “Kit, I must say. I still find it hard to believe.”

“If I don’t close,” he said, “I’ll never figure out why this happened.”

Her hair was frizz, a ratted frizz, a punk-rock cut. “Why what happened? Monsod, you mean?”

“I don’t know why it happened, Bette. Something went wrong, I mean I did something wrong. Me, I did it. And I don’t know why.”

Her eyes glittered. “You don’t know why you had to hit him a second time.”

Ow, there’s a slam. And that was Bette’s way, sure, getting in a shot when you least expected it. Kit resisted various new impulses. He folded his arms and nodded.

“Well, Kit, I would have thought that was what you were trying to find out Thursday night. That’s what you were looking for when you didn’t come home. ”

Plain and simple, he apologized. “Like I say,” he went on, “I have to figure this out.”

“Oh. You do realize, Kit, this isn’t necessarily all about you. This ugly business.”

“Bette. I realize there’s other guys involved. Bad guys, good guys, and they’ve all got their story. Sure. But besides them, there’s me. I’m sorry, like I say. I’m half-crazed and I’m having nightmares and I’m very sorry about what I did. But just coming out to the beach and saying that — it’s not enough. Not nearly. Also I need to know why.”

“Well, why . The way you described the incident yesterday, it sounded like self-defense.”

Kind words, but Bette didn’t look any less like a punk. “Yeah, I could call it self-defense.” He made a face. “Aw Betts, those are just words. Words, words, words. I’d like to think I can do better than that.”

“Well, Kit. All things considered, I’d say you can see why I need some time alone.”

Her hair exploding in the wind, her face battered by crying — who was this person?

“I need some time alone, Kit. I need to be alone, and I need, oh. To be free to move. I need the car, Kit.”

“Betts, please. You need—”

“Kit, let me have this. Let me say this. I need to be alone and I need the car. I might do some traveling.”

Kit cast around for help. Up behind Bette the lights in the Cottage had gone on, a buttery blur in this cold.

“There’s public transportation from Woods Hole, Kit.”

Also Bette’s hair and face was in stark contrast to the rest of her, the undertaker’s coat and the square-toed boots. The first time he’d seen her, in the lobby of the Globe building, he’d gone under before this kind of impact. There too she’d overwhelmed the landscape. She’d made the turnstiles and switchboard disappear simply by flashing her ID.

“I need you now,” he said. “I’m scared.”

Did her look soften? Did her shoulders relax?

“Please, Betts.”

“Kit,” she asked more quietly, “do you believe in history?”

What? Kit touched his neck.

“Do you, Kit? Do you believe in history?”

“Bette, come on. I want you with me, back in the city. I want you up in the bed beside me—”

“Kit. Kit. I believe in history. I’m one of those for whom it’s real. History, the weight of history, do you understand? For those like myself, well. History’s nothing less than the person in the mirror. It’s our families and ourselves and it’s whatever we make of ourselves.”

He reached for her but she checked him. Her sharper angles re-emerged.

“We live in history, those like myself. When we move we’re moving through history, we can feel it.”

In her look, her miserable smile, Kit thought he detected a glass of wine too many. Could that be all there was to this? Wine and a bad night?

“Oh Kit,” she said.

Could he still win her back? “Darling, tell me.”

“You’re not the only one who’s seen something this weekend, Kit. You’re not the only one, and as for me, well.

“I’ve been forced to see the two of us as moving through history,” Bette said. “Both of us, Kit, moving through it.” Her looks came together now, the exploding yellow top and the black wrap beneath it. She became something far older and more powerful: a witch, a seeress. A siren on the rocks.

“History appears to me now as this awesome light getting brighter and brighter behind our backs. It keeps getting brighter, and it keeps making our shadows stiffer and stranger. Oh, it is certainly getting brighter, Kit. I hope you can understand. Because that light behind us, you see, it’s particularly bright for women. Just now it’s particularly hot and bright on your back if you happen to be a woman. You must’ve noticed, Kit. It’s really quite something for women, this our own 1970’s. Most of it’s sheer silliness, to be sure, utter silliness. Still there they are, the lights of history. Hot and bright if you happen to be a woman. Kit, you must’ve seen all the new women’s papers, at least. There’s Ms ., there’s Sojourner . There’s Seven Days —that one even looks like Sea Level . You must’ve noticed.”

She was incredible, a new newspaper all by herself. Kit had the thought that he might be watching some kind of nervous breakdown. But he recalled as well the magical displacement he felt sometimes when they were in bed together, the way he could tumble upwards into the balloon fabric of their marriage. Tumble out beyond apartment walls, city limits, the date on the calendar.