Homecoming Read online

  She saw that Andrew was filled with pity for her. But then, her heart was broken over him too. He didn’t pace the floor for relief of tension as she did. He did not because no doubt he felt he must not. He was a man; men did not give way to grief. So they had been taught, poor souls.

  At night they lay close with their arms around each other. When they needed to turn, they lay back to back, feeling the comfort of simple contact, and wanting, in their despair, nothing more than to be one.

  Then, after a while, Andrew began to feel the rise of desire, but she felt nothing. “I can’t,” she said. “Not yet.” And he complied. It was incomprehensible to her that he could feel the need for pleasure. What pleasure could there be ever again? Inside of her there was a poison, corrosive as acid, a savage hatred for the man who had killed her children and was still alive to breathe the good air; a terrible rage at unjust suffering; rage at the world.

  There came a time when Andrew did not willingly comply.

  “How can you feel pleasure?” she cried.

  “It’s not just pleasure, as you put it. It is an act of love between you and me. We are still alive, you and I.”

  “How soon you have forgotten!” she exclaimed.

  “ ‘Forgotten’?” he repeated. “How can you even think that about me?”

  Then she apologized. “I didn’t mean it as it sounds.”

  “It was pretty clear to me. A simple word.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, and sighed. “It’s just that I can’t think of anything else. I see them in the stroller, their pink faces, their little hands in mittens, so precious, and in one second—”

  “Don’t, don’t, Cindy. You have to stop this sometime,” he pleaded.

  He was not always so patient. “That doctor you’re seeing doesn’t seem to be doing you much good.”

  “No? He has only saved my sanity, that’s all.”

  There was a pause before Andrew said, “Soon it will be six months.”

  Six months since we last made love, he meant. And that night, when he approached her, she did not turn away, but gave herself, lying like a stone, feeling nothing.

  She did not fool him, and he told her so without reproach, only with sadness.

  “I can’t help it,” she answered.

  She intended her answer to be true, and although in a measure it was true, there was another measure by which it was not true, by which she actually could have helped it but did not want to. How could they, how could Andrew, think that they would ever resume the life that had been before the tragedy destroyed it? Perhaps after all, men were different.…

  They began to drift. When he came upon her sitting one day at the window with her hands in her lap and her red eyes swollen, he upbraided her.

  “Sooner or later you will have to stop crying. I don’t know how to help you anymore. We can’t go on like this. I can’t.”

  His words and his tone offended her. “And you will have to stop thrashing around all night,” she cried. “I don’t ever get a night’s sleep. Speaking of wearing on somebody’s nerves, do you realize that you’re constantly cracking your knuckles? Every night we sit in front of the television, and I have to hear the sound of your cracking bones.”

  They went to bed and lay far apart. An emotional storm was sweeping through Cynthia. For months she had been lethargic and numb; now instead there came these storms, panic and fear of confronting love or life; panic and fear of being shut out of life. She felt a terrible, inexpressible loneliness.

  She knew she must get hold of herself. She knew that they had been living like hermits, and that it was terribly wrong. So one day when a friendly couple, Ken and Jane Pierce, invited them to dinner at their country club, she accepted.

  “I’m so glad,” Jane said. “Frankly, I didn’t think you would say yes, but I thought I’d try.”

  The two couples rode out of the city together, which was agreeable because conversation had to be impersonal. At the club there would be many people they knew, people from whom Cynthia had long retreated, and so, for this first appearance, she had considered her dress with special care. Is this the return of pride? she asked herself ironically. Or is it the slow return of mental health? The doctor said it was.

  In the mirrored hall at the club, she saw the reflection of a dreadfully thin young woman, with tired eyes, wearing a flowered silk dress. She had bought the dress for a vacation they had never taken; they were to have gone to Florida with the babies.

  “You look wonderful,” someone told her, speaking with the kindness that is reserved for people who have been dreadfully ill and who do not look wonderful.

  The tables were set outdoors on a broad terrace. Without interest she ate the food that was placed before her, as without interest she heard the chatter that passed over her head. Vaguely she knew that the women were discussing a hotly fought school-board election. The men, talking business as usual, were mostly grouped at the other end of her table, while Andrew was between, with Ken on one side and a rather animated young woman wearing a rather deep décolleté on the other.

  It amused her a little to see how skillfully Andrew was managing to divide his attention. He always behaved so well and had such presence. And in spite of being wan and weary he was the best-looking man here tonight. She felt sad for him. He didn’t deserve what had happened to them. They must, she must, somehow turn their minds away from it.…

  In front of Cynthia the golf course swept into the creeping dark, while to the left a wooded tract sloped gradually downhill. The day’s heat still lay upon the grass and rose into the air, while overriding the hum of human voices was the clear, unending chirp of crickets.

  We should have gotten out of the city long before now, she thought. It would have helped to go up to Gran’s place and walk in the woods together. We must do that soon. There, we might heal. We could be what we have always been.

  And thinking so, her shoulders eased; she had not realized before how rigid they were. She looked out into the distant space where twilight had turned now to full night, cobalt-blue except where Japanese paper lanterns drew their small gold circles on the darkness. How good it would be to stretch out and drowse beneath the trees! It was a long time since she had felt so sweet an urge. A curious peace had touched her, a country peace.

  Andrew was laughing. It was so long, too, since she had heard him laugh. It was so long since she herself had seen anything in the world to laugh at. Had her behavior helped to drag him farther down? Yes, probably, it had.

  The woman next to him must have told a joke because all the men were laughing. She was a pretty woman, but flashy, not Andrew’s type, with that heavy makeup and that dress. Not that she had ever worried about other women—for they were married, she and Andrew, really married.

  But I have been very ill, she thought. I have certainly given no care to how I look. I need to revive, to come back to life and open my arms to Andrew.

  Tonight I will break down the barrier. Tonight.

  A little wind rose now, swishing through the leaves, and she pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Pale yellow wool and softly fringed, it gave her a sense of femininity and grace that she had not felt for too long. The sudden warmth within her was more than a warmth of the body; it was a lifting, a release.

  And wanting to give him a look or a touch that would say, Darling, it’s going to be all right again, I’m sorry it’s been so long but really, really something’s just happened to me and—

  She was stopped by a long wail from Andrew’s neighbor.

  “My God, do you know what I’ve done? I’ve lost my best bracelet! And it wasn’t insured. Oh, I’m sick.”

  From all sides came advice and commiseration, while people searched in the grass and under the table.

  “Where did you last see it? Think.”

  “Are you sure you wore it tonight? Sometimes we think we had something on, and didn’t.”

  “How did you enter the clubhouse?”

  “I parked the
car myself in the far lot and walked up through the front door and the dining room.”

  “That’s easy enough. Start at the car and retrace the whole way.”

  “I’ll go with you,” offered Andrew. “We’ll begin right here in the dining room. It has to be somewhere.”

  “Oh, how sweet of you! Two pairs of eyes should surely find it.”

  The men returned to their conversations. The women talked about children, those learning to walk and those applying at colleges. And Cynthia, listening, was not devastated. It hurt, but not quite as deeply as such talk had been hurting. She was mending.…

  Twenty minutes went by. A few people were preparing to leave.

  “Baby-sitters, you know.”

  “Have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”

  “Where can your husband have gone?” Ken asked.

  “I’m wondering where myself,” she replied.

  “Well, they went in that way,” somebody said doubtfully.

  Cynthia went inside to look. There were only some youngsters dancing the macarena. From the front steps she had a clear view of the parking lots. That woman’s red dress would be visible.… She went back to the table. Fear, even as she knew how unreasonable it was, began to throb through her chest. He might have fallen somewhere or been suddenly taken ill. You never knew. The world was filled with unanticipated dangers. Who could be more aware of that than she was?

  More time went by. One of the men walked to the edge of the golf course, calling a long, drawn-out “Andrew …”

  Silly of him. What would anyone be doing out there?

  “It’s a puzzle,” Ken said.

  Jane moved restlessly. She had children at home, and there was an hour’s drive ahead.

  “It’s fine for the people who live around here, but for us poor folk who stay in the city all summer—” She broke off. “Well for Pete’s sake, we’ve all been looking for you.”

  Andrew, with the owner of the lost bracelet, was walking out of the woods, she flourishing the bracelet and laughing.

  “Guess what? It was on the seat of my car. I always take it off while I’m driving. The charms get in the way.”

  “But where on earth were you?” Cynthia heard Jane ask, and heard another woman adding under her breath, “Where do you think? It’s only Phyllis’s usual little disappearing act.”

  And Andrew, who had certainly heard, too, was standing like a bashful boy, startled by the sudden fall of silence.

  Ken said quietly, “Let’s go get the car. It’s late.”

  “I need the ladies’ room first,” said Cynthia.

  Jane followed her. “Don’t let him see any tears, don’t give him the satisfaction,” she counseled.

  Cynthia, replying with some defiance, for a soft response would surely have brought tears, said quietly, “You don’t see any, do you?”

  And she bent toward the mirror, running a comb through and through her hair, which did not need combing. A terrible shame flushed her face; she had been publicly humiliated.

  “That Phyllis person is really a bitch. She can’t keep her hands off a good-looking man. I don’t know why anyone would want to invite her here; she’s not a member.”

  “Oh, please—”

  “All right, I’ll say no more. Only, listen, Cynthia, you two have been through hell. Don’t let this throw you back down. It’s rotten, but it’s not the worst. You just have to close your eyes sometimes.”

  It was unbearable. “We’d better go. They’re waiting.”

  “If you’re ready. Otherwise let them wait.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Don’t worry, you look fine.”

  “Do you know what? I don’t care how I look.”

  “Men.” Jane sighed as they walked to the car. “Men. They’re all the same.”

  Andrew and Ken, together in the front seat, talked their way back to the city, while the two women were silent, Jane out of consideration and Cynthia in turmoil. She was a pitied woman whose value had been cheapened in front of strangers. The armor of marital dignity had been stripped away from her.

  All these feelings came rushing into words the moment the apartment door was closed. On shaking legs she stood leaning against the wall.

  “You were gone for three quarters of an hour from the time you were missed, and God knows how long before that. With that—that cheap thing that even Jane said can’t keep her hands off a man—and you, you made a fool out of yourself.” She was maddened. She thumped her chest. “You did this to me? To me?”

  “I didn’t mean to make a fool out of you or myself. It’s—you’re exaggerating. It was harmless,” Andrew said, stumbling over the word. “I meant, I didn’t mean any harm. Foolish, I meant.”

  She stared at him. Never before had he, a man of confident pride, appeared so flustered, so inept.

  “Foolish,” he repeated, looking not at Cynthia’s face, but at her shoes.

  “What were you thinking of? What were you doing there?”

  “We—it was—a walk. We took a little walk.”

  “I’m sure. It wasn’t a little walk, it was a long one, unless—unless you spent a good part of it lying down.”

  “I admit I used poor judgment, but you’re making too much of this, Cynthia. You’re carrying it too far.”

  “Am I? I don’t think so.”

  Everything about his posture spoke to her and drew a picture in her head. She threw her words at him. “You had sex with her.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You have no grounds for thinking so.”

  “I simply feel it. There are times when you feel things. Anyway, what else would you have been doing, discussing philosophy with her?”

  “We were just talking. Talking, about nothing in particular.”

  “Out in the dark bushes for almost an hour talking about nothing in particular. Do you think I’m an idiot? What’s all this about, Andrew? I want to know. And don’t lie. I want the truth. I can take it.”

  There was a silence. There were voices in the corridor as people came out of the elevator. There was silence again.

  And then suddenly, Andrew raised his head. He looked straight back at Cynthia. “You said you wanted the truth. Well, what you feel—well, you’re right.”

  All her nerves jumped. One, at the corner of her temple, shot a single, dreadful pain, and she had to sit down.

  “It’s probably best that I admit it, that I tell you the worst. Then you’ll believe me when I say that I’ve never done it before.”

  She began to sob. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  He spoke humbly. “I never have done it, Cynthia, I promise. I must have been crazy tonight.”

  “Why? Why? Were you drunk? You’re never drunk.”

  “I had a few glasses of wine, but I won’t blame it on that. It simply happened. I’m so sorry, Cindy. I wish to God it hadn’t.”

  “ ‘Just did.’ You bastard. What would you say if I had done it?”

  “I would be furious. Frantic.”

  “No doubt. The mother of your children. Your dead children.”

  “It was crazy. I don’t know how else to say it, it was crazy. Because I love you, Cindy, and I always will.”

  She saw that his eyes were filled with tears. He moved to the chair as if to touch her hand or caress her head, asking pardon. She picked up her white evening purse and hurled it at him. It fell on the floor, breaking the fancy little frame. She was inflamed, burned alive with outrage, the image of him lying on the grass—with whom? A glittering dress and a raucous laugh.

  “I hate you,” she screamed. “After what we’ve been through, you can do this—after what we’ve been to each other—or so I thought.”

  “Cindy, please. Nothing’s changed. I’ve done an awful thing. But can’t you forgive an awful thing, an aberration, a crazy moment?”

  You never know about men. They all swear they don’t do it, even the best of them.

  “I admit it was inexcusable. But you have been s
o cold to me—”

  “Cold! When my heart’s been crushed! What sense are you making? Don’t you hear yourself? No, you don’t. You don’t have the faintest idea of anything that—”

  “And my heart? It’s you who haven’t the faintest idea of what it means to come together and comfort each other. I tried so, I tried all these months. I needed a little human warmth. That’s all I needed.” He stopped, and wiped his eyes. “I’ll keep trying if you will, Cindy. Please. I’m so damned sorry about everything.”

  An actor, he was. Walks back to the table nice as you please after he’s dusted the grass from his trousers.

  “I can’t look at you,” she said. “You sicken me. Go inside and get a pillow for yourself. You’ll sleep here on the sofa.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better tonight,” he began.

  “Tonight, you say? Don’t bother counting the time until I let you back in any bed with me.”

  Never. Oh, God, never. Period. I’m looking at someone I don’t recognize. I wish I were dead. God, let me die.

  He had wrecked everything. Just when they were starting to see light, he had turned the light off. How would she ever trust a human being again? The world that had once been decent and rational made no sense. Hatred solidified into a hard mass around her heart. She floundered among moods, among sobbing grief, fury, and despair.

  “But I’ve apologized over and over,” he kept saying all through those first awful days. “I tried to explain something that’s probably unexplainable. I beg you, Cynthia. I beg you now.”

  “A wife sitting at the other end of the table, and a man calmly walks off into the bushes. No. Beg all you want. I’m deaf to it. I don’t want to hear you or see you. In fact,” she said one morning after another bitter session, “the sooner you leave here, the better. Let me alone. Leave now.”

  “You can’t mean that, Cynthia.”

  “But I do. I’ll give you a day. I’ll give you till tomorrow. You can spend today packing your things. Then, as soon as the apartment can be disposed of, I will leave it too.”