Richard Bausch - Before, During, After

“Well,” Constance said. “It was a strange moment, anyway.”

“But it — you know it — but it wasn’t him.”

She shrugged. “Not much chance of him being here unless you invited him to the wedding. No. Not him. He looked right at me because I guess I was staring, and I have to say it looked enough like him for me to stare. He must’ve thought I was somebody crazy, eyeing him like that. And I’m sure I looked as stupid as I felt.”

“But it wasn’t him?”

“No. I said. It wasn’t.”

A moment later, Constance went on: “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It reminded me how stupid I was in Jamaica, that’s all. And even if it had been him it would just be one of those weird coincidences you see in novels. Because I know nothing happened between you except a harmless kiss under the moon on a beach, being a little drunk. I know all that and I was so stupid to assume anything.”

“But it wasn’t him ,” Natasha said. She thought of him saying he had been to Memphis.

“Hey. Honey. Calm down. You’re white as the salt in that shaker.”

She stood and looked around her and then moved to the stairs and held on to the wooden railing. The ground before her, the gravel with the front of a car in it and the grass growing through the stones and the little fragment of a candy wrapper, all seemed to tumble away from her. She put one hand to her eyes, thumb and forefinger clamping the bridge of her nose. Constance breathed at her side. “Hey, I said it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him . God, I’m so stupid.”

Natasha turned and saw her and then for an instant couldn’t quite remember what she was doing there or where they both were. When she looked out over the tops of the cars, she saw the beach, and blinked, and then saw the street, the sun on it through the leafy trees.

“Honey, what is this?” Constance said.

“Nothing. Forget it. I don’t want to think about Jamaica. Can we please, please, please not talk or think about Jamaica.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted to get past my stupidity about it all.”

“I have to go,” Natasha said.

She went out to the car and got in, and Constance followed, muttering to herself all the way, and then apologizing. “I’m so sorry I mentioned it. Honey, I’ve messed up again, haven’t I.”

Natasha was crying, and only dimly aware of the fact. She put the car in gear and backed out into the street and pulled up to Cooper. There was a lot of traffic. Constance stared at her. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I was just making conversation. I wanted to reassure myself we were past it and could even talk about how stupid I was, and maybe even joke about it.”

“I have to go home,” Natasha said.

“Honey. You are home.”

She couldn’t speak.

“I’m so sorry. Can you please forgive me? I’m sure it wasn’t him.”

She shook her head and drove. And her friend sat there looking at the side of her face, and then out at the road, and then at the side of her face.

“Honey, it wasn’t him. I told you I only thought I saw him. I really am sorry I mentioned him. You’re not still thinking about him.”

“Oh, God. Please .”

At the Holiday Inn, she pulled under the canopy and waited for Constance to get out. “I’ll see you later today?” Constance said in a weak little voice, looking as if she might cry.

“Yes.”

“People make mistakes, honey. I wanted to think we could talk about it.”

Natasha said nothing.

The other got out of the car and looked in at the window. “I don’t know what this is for you, and I was only trying to say how stupid I was and I really — whatever pain I’ve caused, I am so, so sorry.”

Natasha may have nodded.

Constance went on quickly, as if wanting to get it said before Natasha could interrupt or protest, “And I don’t think you should go through with this wedding in the shape you’re in.”

“ Stop it.”

The other went on, hurrying, “If you’re in love with someone else you can’t—”

Natasha pressed on the gas, pulling away so fast that the tires squealed.

6

She drove to Iris’s, parked the car, and went into the house, through the living room to the kitchen. Leander and Trixie were there. She said good morning to them, and to Iris, who was making bacon and eggs, standing in her leg brace at the stove. The whole house smelled of bacon and coffee. The light coming in the windows was blinding and showed every blemish on the old man’s face. He looked grotesque.

Iris said, “Marsha Trunan called. She’s in town. She’ll be here for the party this evening.”

“Did she want me to call her?”

“You okay? You look pale.”

“She’s nervous about tomorrow,” said Leander, raising his cup.

“Want some coffee?” Iris asked her.

“I’m going upstairs and take a shower.”

“Tell your husband he shouldn’t sleep so late,” Leander said.

His wife playfully slapped the back of his hand. “ You just woke up yourself.”

“I’ll convey the message,” Natasha said. Her stomach hurt. Climbing the stairs, she thought of Nicholas Duego coming to Memphis and remembered writing the address of this house in the sand and then wiping it away. But Constance had said it was a mistake; she’d mistaken someone for him. It was a mistake. It might even have been some kind of ploy on the older woman’s part in order to gauge Natasha’s reaction to it. That would be like her. Yet the possibility had entered Natasha’s mind. She felt it like a weight on her chest.

She found Faulk sitting in the sunlight at the bedroom window. He had on a pair of brown slacks and a white T-shirt. He rose as she entered and put one hand to his eyes, as if to rub sleep out of them. “It’s bright out there.”

“You were looking right into it,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “Your father said to tell you you’re a lazy bum for sleeping late.”

“That’s me.” He moved to kiss her good morning, looking into her eyes and seeking to find the something he believed now was simply not there anymore. Her smile was strange. It was always strange now. There was something willed about it.

“I think he’s trying to be funny.”

“Yeah, well. His kind of being funny can drive you nuts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That man in Florida — Stevens — the one with inhalation anthrax. He died today. It’s the first case in twenty-five years.”

She said, “Hold me? Please?”

They stood in the light from the window for what seemed a long time. He removed himself finally and, taking her hand, started to lead her downstairs.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she told him.

“Okay.”

“It’s all so awful.” She held her hands clasped at her middle.

He thought she looked years older. Something petty in him wanted to feed her anxiety. “Anthrax. My God. Eerie. Twenty-five years — and now …” He reached to touch her hip, sorry for the little cruel impulse, and aghast at the level of his own discontent.

“How’s your headache?” she asked.

He looked down. “It’s better.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

“Nothing to be sorry about. You were talking to your father.”

“Well, that — but I meant—” He stopped, realizing that there were no words to express it short of standing there and accusing her. “Nothing. I had too much. And I shouldn’t have.”

“But you meant what?” She studied his face.

It was calm, the expression flat. “I don’t know. I’m hungover. I’m like you, honey. I want us again. Like the other night. I want all this to be just a bad memory.”