Well, whatever she decided she had to phone Manny.
Her husband answered on the first ring. “Hello?” Manny said in the slightly hushed and cautious tone of a child calling into a dark room. When she answered he came to. There was an angry snap to his tone. “Where are you!”
“I’m with Max.”
“What!”
“Listen to me—”
“You listen to me! You come—”
“Shut up, Manny, or I’m going to hang up on you,” she said in a calm but rapid tone. “Either I’ll come home tomorrow morning and I’ll be your wife or I won’t and you won’t have to see me ever again. But I owe him my time tonight. You can like it or not. If you don’t want me to come home tomorrow no matter what, tell me now.”
In the silence that followed her demanding question she heard him breathe through his nose. The inhalations and exhalations were fast and getting quicker as if he were blowing up a balloon. “You’re crazy,” he said abruptly and said no more.
“Manny, I need an answer. Do you want me to bother to come back or not?”
She heard him breathing fast again and then he made a sound that could have been a groan of disgust or a moan of pain. After that the line went dead.
Carla hung up angrily. She tossed the receiver onto the cradle. It made a racket and fell off. She replaced it carefully this time and then tiptoed to the bedroom to check on Max. He had rolled onto his back. His head was turned in her direction, but the eyes were shut. His mouth hung open in a mute plea. His right arm stretched across the bed onto the empty side. The hand reached into the air for help. His position reminded her of something but she couldn’t identify it. She returned to the sitting room. The furniture was big and heavy. Even the drapes that hung beside the glittering city views weighed a ton. The carpet was so thick it swallowed the curved feet of the chairs and coffee table. She felt alone. Not lonely. But isolated.
She dropped to her knees. They sank into the thick rug. She hadn’t prayed outside of church since she was a girl. And she prayed for something new. She prayed for Him to explain Himself.
There was no answer or comfort this time. The calm she was used to feeling afterwards — even for only a few seconds — didn’t descend. Rising, she was as alone as when she knelt.
“When you don’t feel He is with you,” Monsignor O’Boyle had said to her months ago, while she was in the dense fog of her grief, “then He is in you, waiting for you to bring Him forth. He wants you to choose Him.”
She hadn’t understood that. It sounded sneaky if true and she didn’t believe it anyway. While stuck in despair she knew He was there every minute. During her madness she believed He had killed her baby. After all, she had neglected Him once Bubble was born. For the two years of her baby’s life, filled by the happiness of being a mother, she had even forgotten He lived. She believed He had punished her for that sin; and she had hated Him for it. She went to Old Saint Pat’s in those days, she now realized, hoping to forgive Him—not to be granted forgiveness.
He had been merciful. He had sent Max, with his bravery and his love, to save her from madness.
But to do what?
Now where was He?
What game was He playing with Max?
Max had done His bidding, saving those He wanted saved. Was Max being humbled because his pride wouldn’t allow him to acknowledge the Lord? Or was this another part of Max’s saintliness — his martyrdom?
No. Max’s unhappiness was aimed at her. The Monsignor was right. Christ was hiding in her, behind these choices, ready to greet her if she chose correctly. And do what if she chose wrong?
Was she afraid of Him? Yes.
Was that what He wanted? Fear? Was that the purpose of the crash? Did He want her to be afraid?
She thought if Max believed in his family again then he would be all right. Of course Carla would lose him; even as merely a friend she would inevitably lose him once he was truly back with his family. Was that the point? Was that her lesson? That she had to return her angel or He would destroy Max? Just as He had destroyed Bubble because she had loved her baby too much?
She held her head with her hands and pressed as if she could squeeze these ideas out of her skull. It didn’t help. She moved to the cool glass of the window and watched the black park. It was infiltrated by the snaking headlights of cars, moving up and down its length and across its middle toward a city that was dark and alien.
She was afraid.
Afraid of sin? Afraid of love? No.
Afraid of God. That was His lesson.
She was thrilled. Doubt left her. The fear was keen, but she wasn’t cowed.
All her life she had relied on others to teach her, to explain what was right and wrong. She could fight them or could obey — she had never solved a mystery for herself.
She undressed in front of the window, a slice of cold cutting her thighs, her head warmed by the radiator blowing hot air.
Once she was naked she felt strong. She went to the sleeping Max and lay beside him, curving into the curl of his body.
Still asleep he embraced her. His clothes were cool but his face was hot. His soft hands moved slowly and lightly down her back as if they were creating, not feeling, her shape. She kissed his cheek. The eye she could see opened. The pale blue circle focused on her; her legs tingled in response. His eye was smart and cold and wary. She kissed nearer to his mouth. His lips parted. They were dry. She dabbed them with her own moist lips. Max’s hands molded her arched back, skimming her skin, beginning to form her buttocks. The whisper of his touch brought each nerve alive.
“I’m thirsty,” he whispered.
She slid up onto the pillows and brought his head to her neck. She pushed him down. His mouth closed on her nipple. He was so gentle the touch could hardly be felt at first. A hot wet drop — his tongue — circled the nipple until it hardened. Then he sucked steadily and evenly with the patient greed of a baby.
She cupped the back of his head and gradually turned him onto his back, keeping her breast at his mouth. She peered down at him and saw he looked blissful. All of her came awake, her skin stretching into life. She moved his head to the crook of her arm, unbuttoned his shirt and then edged down to open his pants. Max broke off feeding and kissed her underarm, her shoulder, burrowed into her neck, insistent and loving. She reached below and took hold of his yearning penis.
I’ve fed this big baby, Carla said to God, and now I’m going to take the man into my womb.
22
Max woke alone. He heard the shower running in the bathroom. He yawned and dominated the bed, stretching his arms and legs until he nearly reached all four corners. Outside it was a bright sunny morning and his body had a conviction that he was young again.
They had made love twice, after their nap and then after their late dinner — a romantic meal served in their sitting room. Max drank more than half a bottle of wine and it didn’t make him draggy or gloomy. In fact, he felt more vigorous. When they went to bed again he explored Carla’s lean supple body thoroughly, wishing to memorize every detail, because she had told him, over coffee, that it would be their last time together.
She had an exciting body, and not only because of her figure; it had energy and tension even when she lay perfectly still. Her physical responses were the same as her emotional responses — direct and passionate.
She had been blunt about why this would be their final time together. “You have a family, Max. They need you. I have a husband. He needs me.”