James Salter - Last Night

— Here. Drink something, she said.

His gaze, somehow reproachful, drifted away. He was like a fugitive sleeping on his coat. His eyes were nearly closed.

My life has meant nothing, she thought. She wanted above all else not to confess that.

They ate dinner in silence. Her husband did not look at her. Her face annoyed him, he did not know why. She could be good-looking but there were times when she was not. Her face was like a series of photographs, some of which ought to have been thrown away. Tonight it was like that.

— The sea broke through into Sag Pond today, she said dully.

— Did it?

— They thought some little girl had drowned. The fire trucks were there. It turned out she had just strayed off. After a pause, We have to do something, she said.

— Whatever happens is going to happen, he told her.

— This is different, she said. She suddenly left the room. She felt close to tears.

Her husband’s business was essentially one of giving advice. He had a life that served other lives, helped them come to agreements, end marriages, defend themselves against former friends. He was accomplished at it. Its language and techniques were part of him. He lived amid disturbance and self-interest but always protected from it. In his files were letters, memorandums, secrets of careers. One thing he had seen: how near men could be to disaster no matter how secure they seemed. He had seen events turn, one ruinous thing following another. It could happen without warning. Sometimes they were able to save themselves, but there was a point at which they could not. He sometimes wondered about himself — when the blow came and the beams began to give and come apart, what would happen? She was calling Brennan’s house again. There was never an answer.

During the night the wind blew itself out. In the morning at first light, Warren could feel the stillness. He lay in bed without moving. His wife’s back was turned toward him. He could feel her denial.

He rose and went to the window. The dog was still there, he could see its shape. He knew little of animals and nothing of nature but he could tell what had happened. It was lying in a different way.

— What is it? she asked. She had come up beside him. It seemed she stood there for a long time. He’s dead.

She started for the door. He held her by the arm.

— Let me go, she said.

— Ardis. .

She began to weep,

— Let me go.

— Leave him alone! he called after her. Let him be!

She ran quickly across the grass in her nightgown. The ground was wet. As she came closer she paused to calm herself, to find courage. She regretted only one thing — she had not said good-bye.

She took a step or two forward. She could sense the heavy, limp weight of him, a weight that would disperse, become something else, the sinews fading, the bones becoming light. She longed to do what she had never done, embrace him. At that moment he raised his head.

— Warren! she cried, turning toward the house. Warren!

As if the shouts distressed him, the dog was rising to his feet. He moved wearily off. Hands pressed to her mouth, she stared at the place where he had been, where the grass was flattened slightly. All night again. Again all night. When she looked, he was some distance off.

She ran after him. Warren could see her. She seemed free. She seemed like another woman, a younger woman, the kind one saw in the dusty fields by the sea, in a bikini, stealing potatoes in bare feet.

SHE DID NOT see him again. She went many times past the house, occasionally seeing Brennan’s car there, but never a sign of the dog, or along the road or off in the fields.

One night in Cato’s at the end of August, she saw Brennan himself at the bar. His arm was in a sling, from what sort of accident she could not guess. He was talking intently to the bartender, the same fierce eloquence, and though the restaurant was crowded, the stools next to him were empty. He was alone. The dog was not outside, nor in his car, nor part of his life anymore — gone, lost, living elsewhere, his name perhaps to be written in a line someday though most probably he was forgotten, but not by her.

WHEN THEY LEFT the restaurant, Leslie wanted to go and have a drink at her place, it was only a few blocks away, a large old apartment building with leaded windows on the ground floor and a view over Washington Square. Kathrin said fine, but Jane claimed she was tired.

— Just one drink, Leslie said. Come on.

— It’s too early to go home, Kathrin added.

In the restaurant they had talked about movies, ones they’d seen and ones they hadn’t. They talked about movies and Rudy, the headwaiter.

— I always get one of the good tables, said Leslie.

— Is that right?

— Always.

— And what does he get?

— It’s what he hopes he’ll get, Leslie said.

— He’s really looking at Jane.

— No, he’s not, Jane protested.

— He’s got half your clothes off already.

— Don’t, please, Jane said.

Leslie and Kathrin had been roommates in college and friends ever since. They had hitchhiked through Europe together, getting as far as Turkey, sleeping in the same bed a lot of the nights and, except once, not fooling around with men or, as it happened that time, boys. Kathrin had long hair combed back dark from a handsome brow and a brilliant smile. She could easily have been a model. There was not much more to her than met the eye, but that had always been enough. Leslie had majored in music but hadn’t done anything with it. She had a wonderful way on the telephone, as if she’d known you for years.

In the elevator, Kathrin said,

— God, he’s cute.

— Who?

— Your doorman. What’s his name?

— Santos. He’s from Colombia someplace.

— What time does he get off is what I want to know.

— For God’s sake.

— That’s what they always asked. When I was tending.

— Here we are.

— No, really. Do you ever ask him to change a lightbulb or something?

Leslie was searching for the key to her door.

— That’s the super, Leslie said. He’s another story.

As they went in, she said,

— I don’t think there’s anything here but scotch. That’s OK, isn’t it? Bunning drank up everything else.

She went to the kitchen to get glasses and ice. Kathrin sat on the couch with Jane.

— Are you still seeing Andrew? she said.

— Off and on, Jane said.

— Off and on, that’s what I’m looking for. On and off is more like it.

Leslie came back with the glasses and ice. She began to make drinks.

— Well, here’s to you, she said. Here’s to me. It’s going to be hard moving out of here.

— You’re not going to get to keep the apartment? Kathrin said.

— Twenty-six hundred a month? I couldn’t afford it.

— Aren’t you going to get something from Bunning?

— I’m not going to ask for anything. Some of the furniture — I can probably use that — and maybe a little something to get me by the first three or four months. I can stay with my mother if I have to. I hope I don’t have to. Or I could stay with you, couldn’t I? she asked Kathrin.

Kathrin had a walk-up on Lexington, one room painted black with mirrors on one wall.

— Of course. Until one of us killed the other, Kathrin said.

— If I had a boyfriend, it would be no problem, Leslie said, but I was too busy taking care of Bunning to have a boyfriend.

— You’re lucky, she said to Jane, you’ve got Andy.

— Not really.

— What happened?

— Nothing, really. He wasn’t serious.

— About you.

— That was part of it.

— So, what happened? Leslie said.