Richard Bausch - Before, During, After

He walked up the street, full of sudden foreboding, feeling precarious, susceptible, even frail, resolving to face his anxiety and tolerate everything, determined to be kind, and not ask for more than his wife, his beloved wife, for whatever reason or reasons, could give. Probably she had done something in Jamaica that she herself considered a betrayal of him. In any case, it would have come from her belief that he, Faulk, had died in New York. So he would find a way to forgive whatever it was and go on. He faltered, nearly fell at the corner, and continued walking, overcorrecting, but then setting himself straight, being cautious with each stride, considering his own magnanimousness. Then, through the fog of what he had drunk, he saw it for what it was and felt foolish and penitent.

Lord, send my roots rain .

No. It seemed that this was all gone from him, now. The sky was only a limitless emptiness. He shook himself, stopped, and raised his fists, and then simply let his hands come back to his chest, as if praying and waiting for someone to come to him. Far off, the sound of a speeding car rose, the tires squealing.

I have believed my whole life. Help thou my unbelief .

At the house, all the lights were still on. He entered quietly and stepped into the kitchen. There was almost half of the big bottle of Pinot Grigio left, sitting in the middle of the counter. He had a glass of water from the tap, then poured the wine into the water glass and drank it down, standing wavering in the light — bereft, marooned. All these weeks he had been wanting to know . And now, apparently and at last, when he wanted so desperately not to, he would know. The wine had increased the haze of his thoughts. He took more of it, then stumbled into the bedroom, where he found her sitting up, asleep, with the book open on her upraised knees. Gingerly he removed the book. She woke, raising one hand to her face.

She was unaware of having been asleep.

“Just me,” he said.

“Oh.” She reached to embrace him, and he sat down and took her into his arms. For a little while, they simply sat there clinging to each other. The smell of the wine on him made her uneasy, and even so she kept her arms tight around him.

“Iris says you’ve got something to tell me. You don’t have to tell me.”

“We’ll talk — let’s talk tomorrow. You’ve had too much to drink.” She was fighting the shaking in her voice, feeling the muscles of his back, his shoulder blades, the solidness of him.

He said, “You don’t have to say anything. I don’t care what happened in Jamaica.”

“What?”

“I don’t. I forgive you.”

She paused, only a little. “You what ?”

“I do. Forgive you. Whatever you did in Jamaica.”

“Oh, God,” she said. “This again. Jamaica again.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it. In fact, I don’t want you to. I forgive you.”

She sighed sadly. “Forgive me for what?”

“I don’t even want to know who it was.”

“Who it was.” Now she pushed at his shoulders, and when he sat back, she stared, frowning.

He said, “You had something to tell me. If it’s about Jamaica, I don’t care about it. I forgive you for it — whatever it was. Okay? The whole world was coming down on you, and I don’t care about it anymore.”

She said nothing. There was no change at all in her countenance.

For her, something had moved at her heart, a grabbing sensation. She thought she might lose consciousness.

“You thought I was dead,” he told her. “It could’ve been that you were drunk. You got into things with somebody or ran into someone — someone you knew from before—”

She interrupted him. “What are you saying?”

He said, “Listen to me.”

“No,” she said. “What are you saying .”

“I’m saying if someone you knew before—”

“Someone I—”

“I’m saying I don’t care. We weren’t married yet. You’re human.”

“I’m—”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Please.”

“But what’s all right. What’re you talking about. Say it to me, Michael.”

Now he spoke in an overly patient, almost-preening voice: “I’m saying — and I think you know quite well what I’m referring to, and I want you to be honest with me about it at last — that if you ran into someone, you know? Someone you used to be with, one of the others, an old lover, or someone completely new ”—and with this, his voice took on the tone of an inquisitor, a lawyer prosecuting a case before a judge—“I want you to know that you don’t have to tell me anything about it, because I do, I forgive you. All right? I understand and I forgive you. Whatever it was.”

“You …” she began. But then she was silent. Glaring at him.

“I mean we’re adults. We can work all this out.”

“Work what out,” she sobbed. “No. You tell me.”

“Aren’t you listening ? I don’t care who you ran into in Jamaica. I don’t care who you had sex with in Jamaica. There. Is that clear enough? Do you get it now?”

“Oh.” She pushed away from him, and as he stood she was out of the bed and around him, heading to the bathroom. She closed and locked the door. It was as if she were back there on the island, with a door between her and a stranger.

“Natasha?” he said on the other side. “I don’t understand. I’m telling you it’s all right. I’m letting go of it. It was the situation. We’ll go on.”

She took a breath, pressed the flats of her hands against the cool wood surface. “I want you to leave me alone now. Please. Just — leave me alone.” And she was crying, sobbing. “We can talk in the morning. Please?”

Silence.

“Please go.”

Fury rose in him, a hot needle traveling up his spine. So this was how he would be treated now. After the weeks of trying to look past all the signs of her failing love, and after reaching this decision to forgive her and go on, this was what he got for it, this — for his understanding and his care— this was what she repaid him with. He couldn’t speak, standing there shivering with rage.

“Leave me alone,” she moaned from the other side. “Please.”

He slammed himself against the door, hurting his shoulder. Standing back, he raised one leg and kicked at it, and something cracked in the frame. She screamed.

“Stop it,” he said. “Who do you think I am?” He hit the door with the side of his fist.

On the other side, she retreated to the bathtub and shower, pulling the curtain up as if to shield herself. “Please!” she shrieked, but she couldn’t hear her own voice.

“You know what happiness is?” he said. “Does it ever cross your mind to think about that anymore? Happiness? Happiness! Think about it! Nobody’s hurting you. Somebody’s being good to you! Somebody loves you and provides for you and delights in how you laugh and how you talk. Somebody listens to you and thinks about you. You understand? Isn’t that happiness?” He kicked the door again. And then again. “Well? Answer me! Isn’t that happiness? Is n’t it?”

“Oh, God.”

“Who do you think I am?” he shouted. “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m your husband , who doesn’t deserve this! Who has done nothing wrong. you’ve shut him out ! You’ve kept things from him and lied to him and let others know about it and made him feel small and nothing and weak! That’s me. That’s who I am. That’s your husband . And you want me to leave !” He kicked the door still again with this last, and it blew open. Pieces of the frame flew everywhere, and it was as though her scream were part of the sound of the splintering wood.