James Salter - Last Night

Marit stared out the window as they drove. She was tired. They were going home now. The wind was moving in the tops of the shadowy trees. In the night sky there were brilliant blue clouds, shining as if in daylight.

— It’s very beautiful tonight, isn’t it? Marit said. I’m struck by that. Am I mistaken?

— No. Walter cleared his throat. It is beautiful.

— Have you noticed it? she asked Susanna. I’m sure you have. How old are you? I forget.

— Twenty-nine.

— Twenty-nine, Marit said. She was silent for a few moments. We never had children, she said. Do you wish you had children?

— Oh, sometimes, I suppose. I haven’t thought about it too much. It’s one of those things you have to be married to really think about.

— You’ll be married.

— Yes, perhaps.

— You could be married in a minute, Marit said.

She was tired when they reached the house. They sat together in the living room as if they had come from a big party but were not quite ready for bed. Walter was thinking of what lay ahead, the light that would come on in the refrigerator when the door was opened. The needle of the syringe was sharp, the stainless-steel point cut at an angle and like a razor. He was going to have to insert it into her vein. He tried not to dwell on it. He would manage somehow. He was becoming more and more nervous.

— I remember my mother, Marit said. She wanted to tell me things at the end, things that had happened when I was young. Rae Mahin had gone to bed with Teddy Hudner. Anne Herring had, too. They were married women. Teddy Hudner wasn’t married. He worked in advertising and was always playing golf. My mother went on like that, who slept with whom. That’s what she wanted to tell me, finally. Of course, at the time, Rae Mahin was really something.

Then Marit said,

— I think I’ll go upstairs.

She stood up.

— I’m all right, she told her husband. Don’t come up just yet. Good night, Susanna.

When there were just the two of them, Susanna said,

— I have to go.

— No, don’t. Please don’t go. Stay here.

She shook her head.

— I can’t, she said.

— Please, you have to. I’m going to go upstairs in a little while, but when I come down I can’t be alone. Please.

There was silence.

— Susanna.

They sat without speaking.

— I know you’ve thought all this out, she said.

— Yes, absolutely.

After a few minutes, Walter looked at his watch; he began to say something but then did not. A little later, he looked at it again, then left the room.

The kitchen was in the shape of an L, old-fashioned and unplanned, with a white enamel sink and wooden cabinets painted many times. In the summers they had made preserves here when boxes of strawberries were sold at the stairway going down to the train platform in the city, unforgettable strawberries, their fragrance like perfume. There were still some jars. He went to the refrigerator and opened the door.

There it was, the small etched lines on the side. There were ten ccs. He tried to think of a way not to go on. If he dropped the syringe, broke it somehow, and said his hand had been shaking. .

He took the saucer and covered it with a dish towel. It was worse that way. He put it down and picked up the syringe, holding it in various ways — finally, almost concealed against his leg. He felt light as a sheet of paper, devoid of strength.

Marit had prepared herself. She had made up her eyes and put on an ivory satin nightgown, low in back. It was the gown she would be wearing in the next world. She had made an effort to believe in an afterworld. The crossing was by boat, something the ancients knew with certainty. Over her collar-bones lay strands of a silver necklace. She was weary. The wine had had an effect, but she was not calm.

In the doorway, Walter stood, as if waiting for permission. She looked at him without speaking. He had it in his hand, she saw. Her heart skidded nervously, but she was determined not to show it.

— Well, darling, she said.

He tried to reply. She had on fresh lipstick, he saw; her mouth looked dark. There were some photographs she had arranged around her on the bed.

— Come in.

— No, I’ll be back, he managed to say.

He hurried downstairs. He was going to fail; he had to have a drink. The living room was empty. Susanna had gone. He had never felt more completely alone. He went into the kitchen and poured some vodka, odorless and clear, into a glass and quickly drank it. He went slowly upstairs again and sat on the bed near his wife. The vodka was making him drunk. He felt unlike himself.

— Walter, she said.

— Yes?

— This is the right thing.

She reached to take his hand. Somehow it frightened him, as if it might mean an appeal to come with her.

— You know, she said evenly, I’ve loved you as much as I’ve ever loved anyone in the world — I’m sounding maudlin, I know.

— Ah, Marit! he cried.

— Did you love me?

His stomach was churning in despair.

— Yes, he said. Yes!

— Take care of yourself.

— Yes.

He was in good health, as it happened, a little heavier than he might have been, but nevertheless. . His roundish, scholarly stomach was covered with a layer of soft, dark hair, his hands and nails well cared for.

She leaned forward and embraced him. She kissed him. For a moment, she was not afraid. She would live again, be young again as she once had been. She held out her arm. On the inside, two veins the color of verdigris were visible. He began to press to make them rise. Her head was turned away.

— Do you remember, she said to him, when I was working at Bates and we met that first time? I knew right away.

The needle was wavering as he tried to position it.

— I was lucky, she said. I was very lucky.

He was barely breathing. He waited, but she did not say anything more. Hardly believing what he was doing he pushed the needle in — it was effortless — and slowly injected the contents. He heard her sigh. Her eyes were closed as she lay back. Her face was peaceful. She had embarked. My God, he thought, my God. He had known her when she was in her twenties, long-legged and innocent. Now he had slipped her, as in a burial at sea, beneath the flow of time. Her hand was still warm. He took it and held it to his lips. He pulled the bedspread up to cover her legs. The house was incredibly quiet. It had fallen into silence, the silence of a fatal act. He could not hear the wind.

He went slowly downstairs. A sense of relief came over him, enormous relief and sadness. Outside, the monumental blue clouds filled the night. He stood for a few minutes and then saw, sitting in her car, motionless, Susanna. She rolled down the window as he approached.

— You didn’t go, he said.

— I couldn’t stay in there.

— It’s over, he said. Come in. I’m going to get a drink.

She stood in the kitchen with him, her arms folded, a hand on each elbow.

— It wasn’t terrible, he said. It’s just that I feel. . I don’t know.

They drank standing there.

— Did she really want me to come? Susanna said.

— Darling, she suggested it. She didn’t know a thing.

— I wonder.

— Believe mc. Nothing.

She put down her drink.

— No, drink it, he said. It’ll help.

— I feel funny.

— Funny? You’re not feeling sick?

— I don’t know.

— Don’t be sick. Here, come with mc. Wait, I’ll get you some water.

She was concentrating on breathing evenly.

— You’d better lie down for a bit, he said.

— No, I’m all right.

— Come.

He led her, in her short skirt and blouse, to a room to one side of the front door and made her sit on the bed. She was taking slow breaths.