James Salter - Last Night

— He died. Five or six years ago.

— That’s too bad.

— They gave him a big dinner before that. He was all smiles.

— You know, I’ve wanted to talk to you so much. I wanted to call you, but I was involved in all this tedious divorce stuff. Anyway, I’m finally free. I should have taken your advice.

— What was that?

— Not to marry him, she said.

— I said that?

— No, but I could see you didn’t like him.

— I was jealous of him.

— Truly?

— Sure. I mean, let’s face it.

She smiled at him.

— Isn’t it funny, she said, five minutes with you and it’s as if none of it ever happened.

Her clothes, he noticed, even her clothes were hiding who she had been.

— Love never dies, he said.

— Do you mean that?

— You know that.

— Listen, can you have dinner?

— Ah, sweetheart, he said, I’d love to, but I can’t. I don’t know if you knew this, but I’m engaged.

— Well, congratulations, she said. I didn’t know.

He had no idea what had made him say it. It was a word he had never used before in his life.

— That’s wonderful, she said straightforwardly, smiling at him with such understanding that he was sure she had seen through him, but he could not imagine them walking into Clarke’s, like an old couple, a couple from time past.

— I figured it’s time to settle down, he said.

— Of course.

She was not looking at him. She was studying her hands. Then she smiled again. She was forgiving him, he felt. That was it. She always understood.

They talked on, but not about much.

He left through the same foyer with its worn mosaic tile and people coming in. It was still light outside, the pure full light before evening, the sun in a thousand windows facing the park. Walking along the street in their heels, alone or together, were girls such as Noreen had been, many of them. They were not really going to meet for lunch sometime. He thought of the love that had filled the great central chamber of his life and how he would not meet anyone like that again. He did not know what came over him, but on the street he broke into tears.

HOLLIS WAS IN THE BACK at a table piled with books and a space among them where he was writing when Carol came in.

— Hello, she said.

— Well, look who’s here, he said coolly. Hello.

She was wearing a gray jersey sweater and a narrow skirt; as always, dressed well.

— Didn’t you get my message? she asked.

— Yes.

— You didn’t call back.

— No.

— Weren’t you going to?

— Of course not, he said.

He looked wider than the last time and his hair, halfway to the shoulder, needed to be cut.

— I went by your apartment but you’d gone. I talked to Pam, that’s her name, isn’t it? Pam.

— Yes.

— We talked. Not that long. She didn’t seem interested in talking. Is she shy?

— No, she’s not shy.

— I asked her a question. Want to know what it was?

— Not especially, he said.

He leaned back. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair and his sleeves rolled partway up. She noticed a round wristwatch with a brown leather strap.

— I asked her if you still liked to have your cock sucked.

— Get out of here, he ordered. Go on, get out.

— She didn’t answer, Carol said.

He had a moment of fear, of guilt almost, about consequences. On the other hand, he didn’t believe her.

— So, do you? she said.

— Leave, will you? Please, he said in a civilized tone. He made a dispersing motion with his hand. I mean it.

— I’m not going to stay long, just a few minutes. I wanted to see you, that’s all. Why didn’t you call back?

She was tall with a long, elegant nose like a thoroughbred’s. What people look like isn’t the same as what you remember. She had been coming out of a restaurant one time, down some steps long after lunch in a silk dress that clung around the hips and the wind pulled against her legs. The afternoons, he thought for a moment.

She sat down in the leather chair opposite and gave a slight, uncertain smile.

— You have a nice place.

It had the makings of one, two rooms on the garden floor with a little grass and the backs of discrete houses behind, though there was just one window and the floorboards were worn. He sold fine books and manuscripts, letters for the most part, and had too big an inventory for a dealer his size. After ten years in retail clothing he had found his true life. The rooms had high ceilings, the bookcases were filled and against them, on the floor, a few framed photographs leaned.

— Chris, she said, tell me something. Whatever happened to that picture of us taken at that lunch Diana Wald gave at her mother’s house that day? Up there on that fake hill made from all the old cars? Do you still have that?

— It must have gotten lost.

— I’d really like to have it. It was a wonderful picture. Those were the days, she said. Do you remember the boat house we had?

— Of course.

— I wonder if you remember it the way I remember it.

— That would be hard to say. He had a low, persuasive voice. There was confidence in it, perhaps a little too much.

— The pool table, do you remember that? And the bed by the windows.

He didn’t answer. She picked up one of the books from the table and was looking through it; e.e. cummings, The Enormous Room, dust jacket with some small chips at bottom, minor soil on title page, otherwise very good. First edition. The price was marked in pencil on the corner of the flyleaf at the top. She turned the pages idly.

— This has that part in it you like so much. What is it, again?

— Jean Le Nègre.

— That’s it.

— Still unrivaled, he said.

— Makes me think of Alan Baron for some reason. Are you still in touch with him? Did he ever publish anything? Always telling me about Tantric yoga and how I should try it. He wanted to show it to me.

— So, did he?

— You’re kidding.

She was leafing through the pages with her long thumbs.

— They’re always talking about Tantric yoga, she said, or telling you about their big dicks. Not you, though. So, how is Pam, incidentally? I couldn’t really tell. Is she happy?

— She’s very happy.

— That’s nice. And you have a little girl now, how old is she again?

— Her name is Chloe. She’s six.

— Oh, she’s big. They know a lot at that age, don’t they? They know and they don’t know, she said. She closed the book and put it down. Their bodies are so pure. Does Chloe have a nice body?

— You’d kill for it, he said casually.

— A perfect little body. I can picture it. Do you give her baths? I bet you do. You’re a model father, the father every little girl ought to have. How will you be when she’s bigger, I wonder? When the boys start coming around.

— There’re not going to be a lot of boys coming around.

— Oh, for God’s sake. Of course, there will. They’ll be coming around just quivering. You know that. She’ll have breasts and that first, soft pubic hair.

— You know, Carol, you’re disgusting.

— You don’t like to think of it, that’s all. But she’s going to be a woman, you know, a young woman. You remember how you felt about young women at that age. Well, it didn’t all stop with you. It continues, and she’ll be part of it, perfect body and all. How is Pam’s, by the way?

— How’s yours?

— Can’t you tell?

— I wasn’t paying attention.

— Do you still have sex? she asked unconcernedly.

— There are times.

— I don’t. Rarely.