Richard Bausch - Before, During, After

Natasha saw out the window the little moving flickers of fireflies rising on the lawn, just past the light from the porch, as if the very light itself were breaking up and flying off. The grass was overgrown, and tall weeds stood in it. At the far end of the lawn, she knew, was a swing set, one swing dangling by a strand of rope; another, on chains, still intact. It had been there when they moved in. She remembered the Collierville house and thought of herself as a girl there, the calm of an afternoon in summer, sitting on the porch swing and looking at the empty field across the way. How strange that she never regarded herself, then, as having lost anything; and now, thinking of her long-dead parents, she felt their absence with an unexpected stab of heartache. She drank more of the wine.

“Slow down, babe,” Faulk said warmly to her. “We’ve got the whole rest of the evening.”

Iris set the plate of cut beef on the table and took another sip from her glass. She held it up. “To having everybody home safe and sound.”

Natasha drank her glass down, then poured more. She took some of the beef and potatoes, a few of the green beans. “I’m afraid I don’t have much appetite.”

“It’s all very good,” Faulk said, smiling at Iris.

“Oh, good, yes,” Natasha said. But she couldn’t eat much of it. She swallowed more of the wine, which had begun to taste thick and filmy.

Iris and Faulk went over the arrangements for tomorrow — the signing of the lease and the arrival of the truck. They could stay here a couple of days, if they needed to, Iris told them. To avoid having to drive back and forth to Faulk’s apartment in Midtown.

“We’ll have to put the stuff in storage for a few days,” Faulk said. “Until the place is ready for us. But we can stay at either place.”

“It’s not much stuff,” Natasha said. “Really. I didn’t keep much.”

Faulk noticed the moistness in her dark eyes and thought she might cry. But she had more of the wine and smiled at him and took another forkful of the potatoes.

“Think you’ll miss Washington, honey?” Iris asked.

“I’m so glad to be home.”

“Well, I’m not going to argue for you being anywhere else.”

“Southern France?” Faulk said as though he were offering it.

“Just now, I’m going upstairs to sleep,” Natasha said. “If that’s all right.”

“Why wouldn’t it be all right?” Faulk said.

She stood up, walked around to him, bent down, and kissed him on the mouth. He held her for a moment.

In the tone of a statement, he said, “Are you okay.”

“I’m just spent.” It was true. With the slight calming the wine had provided, she felt that this was what was really happening to her. The waves of fright and despair were all the product of being exhausted. “Do you mind if we just stay here tonight?”

“Not a bit,” he said. “Really, babe.”

She gave him another kiss, turned and hugged her grandmother, then went quietly upstairs. The dark of the hallway was inexplicably inviting. She went along it to the room, entered without turning the light on, and lay across the bed in her clothes. Closing her eyes, she saw an image of Iris standing in the yard with that welcoming smile.

3

Sleep came without dreams. She woke briefly three times and listened for their voices. The second time she realized that Faulk was at her side, snoring lightly, one hand resting on her hip. The third time she heard Iris moving around in the hall and then there was silence, and she settled back with the sense of being secure and warm in a sleeping house.

Faulk woke her, gently, kissing the side of her face. “Time to wake up.”

“I’m awake,” she said, stirring, sitting up, and putting her arms around him. Looking into his eyes, she said, “Good morning.”

“Iris’s making breakfast.”

“It smells wonderful.”

They went downstairs together. In the kitchen, the old woman had put bacon on and was tossing eggs in a bowl. The smell of the bacon mixed with the aroma of the coffee was wonderful. Natasha sat at the table and looked at the newspaper there, but did not pick it up.

Faulk stood at the counter buttering slices of toast.

“I have leftover beef, too,” Iris said.

“This will be fine,” said Natasha, watching them work.

She was surprised to find that this morning she did have an appetite. And she could look across the table and appreciate her future husband. Her grandmother appeared ruddy and healthy and glad of everything. Bright sun poured in at the window. They ate quietly for a little while.

“What did you have to eat in Jamaica,” Iris said, looking down, concentrating on her eggs.

“Ackee and salt fish.”

“Ackee.”

“It looks like scrambled eggs with fish in it.”

“What is in it? Can we make it here?”

“Salt fish — dried cod,” Natasha said. “Ackee is a fruit. And there’s onion and different peppers and butter. Actually I didn’t — I didn’t like it that much.” She remembered that she had liked it and knew in the same instant that she never wanted to taste it again.

Faulk saw that she was holding something back, and it came to him that he was a little tired of all the unspoken emotion. “Well,” he said. “It’s over. Let’s just enjoy what we have.”

Having finished the eggs, she looked down at her hands on either side of her plate. “We saw it on TV when we came in from the beach,” she said. “It was such a beautiful morning, too, and we came in and it was happening. The television in the lobby.” She shook her head.

“Okay, darling,” Faulk said to her, touching her shoulder. “Come on. It’s okay now. We’re okay. Look at us.”

“You must’ve felt so isolated,” Iris said. “Well, I know you did.”

“I haven’t been through anything like—” She gestured, as if to indicate something at the windows.

“No,” Faulk said. “Of course.”

After the meal, he and Natasha did the dishes together, and he tried to find joking things to say but couldn’t. They worked silently for a time, cooperating, she washing and he drying.

“I can’t believe my own good luck,” he told her, taking her by the upper arms when they had put away the last dish. “I’ve found someone I like drying dishes for.”

“That’s lucky, all right.”

He kissed her, a light touch on her lips, and then put the palm of his hand gently on the side of her face. “Beautiful kitchen help.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

She felt almost lighthearted, pushing all the bad thoughts back, shaking them from her as the hour passed, drinking more coffee and then sitting with Iris and Faulk on the porch, watching the light change, the day heating up.

They had so much to talk about, and yet they said little. Faulk described more of what happened on his way south, the crowded train station in New York with its scores of people simply trying to leave, the young Asian man on the station platform in Newark.

“What do you think you’ll do now?” Iris asked him.

He told her.

“I thought you made a good priest.”

“I was miserable.”

“No one could see that.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“Maybe we can spend spring in the south of France,” Natasha said.

He thought of the job he had just taken as if it were an appointment that had slipped his mind. Spring was months away. He reached over and patted her wrist. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

When, a little later, they got up to go, Natasha felt as if they were leaving for good. “Therapy on your knee?” she asked Iris, who smiled, shaking her head.

“Acclimate yourself a little, dear. There’s plenty of time.”