Richard Bausch - Before, During, After

Grace, the tall waitress with the dreads, approached. “Hello, young miss.”

“Hello, just coffee, please. Strong.”

“I remember how you like it.” There was the faintest trace of a smile on her face and then heavy concentration as she moved away.

Ratzi came in from the lobby and looked around. When he saw Natasha, he walked over and took the chair opposite her. Feeling his proximity as obscurely invasive, she made an attempt not to show her aversion, holding herself erect, hands clasped in her lap. For a moment he sat there, pushing the hair back from his forehead, adjusting his shirtfront. “My brother was with an old girlfriend,” he said. “All day and all night.”

“I’m glad you found him.” It was autonomic speech. She did not even hear herself.

“He didn’t know about the disaster. The whole time. Ficken .”

She said nothing.

“Sex crazy. Sorry for the vulgarity.”

“I don’t care about it.”

“My mother is lying down in a terrible state from worrying.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“That man, Mr. Skinner, he almost died. His wife is with him.”

“Sorry to hear that, too.” She felt the impulse to ask him what he wanted from her.

“Mr. Duego checked out of his room this morning and went into Kingston.”

She felt something give way in her chest.

“He left a letter for you.”

“Why would he write a letter to me,” she managed.

Ratzi sat back and reached into the front pocket of his shorts and brought it out. It was in an envelope that was folded tightly in thirds. “I don’t ask questions. I have to say that he did seem upset, though. Worried about something. I don’t know — do you want it or not?”

She took it and put it in her purse. “Did you read it?” she asked.

“Of course not. And in case you don’t believe me, you’ll see that it’s sealed.” He stood. “Good day.”

“I didn’t mean anything by that,” she told him. “I might’ve asked you to tell me what’s in it. I don’t want to look at it.”

“It has nothing to do with me. If you don’t want to read it, simply throw it away.” He bowed, smiled emptily, and moved off.

Dear Lady ,

You will have to believe me that I am a gentleman. I have decided to remove myself from your vicinity as it is clear that something is between us now that you are very conflicted and still enraging about. I must not allow us further contact for this reason. As you know, I have just ended my relationship with my wife. I am not ready for the society of others and I have a great anger in me that you saw last night, and for which I am deeply apologizing now. I am sorry if in any way I made you uncomfortable and I do admit that I had more to drink after our first pleasant moments on the beach smoking and I did some other things and I was so mixed up I must say that there is much that I do not remember. It was very good for me to spend our time together, and I am sorry if I blacked out, as I must have done. I do wish you well. Podría haber amado .

Nicholas Duego

Podría haber amado . She wrote it down on a corner of the envelope and then with shaking hands tore the rest of the envelope and the note into many pieces and dropped them into her purse. Grace brought her coffee.

“Do you speak Spanish?” she asked Grace.

“Yes.”

“What does this mean?” She held the piece of the envelope toward her.

Grace stared at it for a few seconds and then looked at her. “Who wrote this? It looks like a note in school.”

“Tell me what it says,” Natasha demanded.

“It says, ‘I could have loved you.’ ”

She crumpled the piece of paper and dropped it in her purse, then picked up her coffee and blew across the surface of it, feeling the tremor under her heart of the wrath that had seized her. I do not take what has not been given . “Thank you,” she said to Grace, who gave a little shrug and walked away.

Outside, Constance had stood and was stretching her arms into the sun. Constance. The reason for being here at all. Natasha finished the coffee quickly and went out, across the lobby, heading back up to her room. She saw as she passed that the television was on, playing to no one. Talking heads. She stopped, absorbed in spite of herself. The details of the attack were being discussed and analyzed and argued over. There was a scroll now at the bottom of the screen with further information. One of the hijackers had evidently lost heart and gotten on a train to the Midwest, no doubt meaning to lose himself in the vastness of the country. The discussion went on. The airlines losing tremendous amounts of money. The economic damage. Still many people missing, the search going on in the rubble. She couldn’t watch it anymore.

In her room, she took the pieces of the letter and envelope out of her purse and put them in the trash can. Then she went out into the hall to the ice-and-vending space and emptied the trash can into a larger bin there. She returned the can with its sand-filled ashtray to its place, next to the elevator. Back in the room, she lay down with her hands folded over her chest and waited in vain for sleep. She heard Constance in the next room, and then saw the other woman’s shadow out on the balcony.

“You asleep?” Constance called to her.

“No.”

“Want to talk?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“What would we talk about?”

Constance sighed. “Anything.”

Natasha sat around on the edge of the bed facing the window.

“Maybe go down to the beach,” Constance said.

“I don’t want to.”

“We could swim and cool off.”

“You go.”

She came to the opening and looked in. “I’m sorry about before.”

Natasha waited a little. “Forget it.”

“It’s none of my business what you do.”

“Nothing happened, Constance.”

The older woman came into the room and sat at the dressing table opposite the bed. Her gaze trailed down the wall, to the spatter of sand on the rug near the door, where the ashtray trash can had been. “Is that from the beach?”

Natasha hadn’t seen it. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Well,” said her friend. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing is right.”

“But you can’t blame me for thinking it. I mean you were lying there on the sand together and he was on his back and you were leaning over him with your mouth on his. You were going at it like a couple of teenagers.”

She could barely find the breath to speak. “I kissed him, and then he passed out. You should’ve stayed and spied a little more.”

“I wasn’t spying.”

“And what exactly were you doing on the beach all day drunk ?”

“Okay, let’s just drop it.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s your business entirely, of course. But you were out there with the notorious Mr. Skinner. The cheater with all the health problems. Did you cheat with Mr. Skinner? You said you’d been down to the beach with several men. What went on, Constance? Or is it that you’re the grown-up and don’t have to explain yourself?”

“Stop this. Right now. Before we say things we can’t take back. And you know nothing happened with that poor browbeaten toad. Or anyone else, either.”

“Well, you say that, but what about those others? The way you told us about going down to the beach with several men was pretty suggestive. So, really, what happened with them?”

“Now you cut this out. Nothing happened.”

“Okay,” Natasha said. “Right. Are we really going to do this?”

“Look. I wasn’t — I wasn’t spying.”

“What was it, then? What do you call it?”