“Nothing as lively as that,” Oliver said. “I just managed to sneak some time off.”
“It’s been awful in the city, hasn’t it?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, not so bad.”
Lucy patted his hand. “We missed you so. Tony asked when you could come. You’re going to stay now, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “That depends.”
“Oh,” said Lucy. “Depends.” She wandered back toward the little hall that led to the bedrooms and called, “Tony! Tony!”
“Leave him alone, please,” Oliver said. “I’d like to talk to you, Lucy.”
Jeff, still standing near the door, coughed, a little awkwardly. “In that case,” he said, “I’d better …”
“And to you too, Jeff, if you don’t mind,” Oliver said pleasantly. “Would you think I was rude if I asked you to wait down by the lake for a few minutes? I see it’s stopped raining. I’d like to speak to my wife alone and then—if it’s all right with you—I’ll call you.”
“Of course,” said Jeff easily. “Take as long as you want.”
“Thanks,” Oliver said, as Jeff went out the door.
Lucy felt her mouth get dry and she wanted to call to Jeff, “Stay! Stay! Give me time!”
But she watched him go out, and then, trying to swallow, to restore the moisture in her mouth and throat, she made herself go over to Oliver. She was almost sure she was smiling, as she put her arms around him. The important thing, at this moment, she thought, is to be normal. What would be normal, though? She had a flicker of panic, at the impossibility of knowing what normal was.
“It’s so good to see you again,” she said. “It’s been such a long time.”
Normal.
To give herself something to do, to prolong time, she made herself examine Oliver’s face closely. The long, hard, familiar face, the pale, clever, knowing eyes, the set, pale mouth, so surprisingly soft when he kissed her, the hard, smooth texture of the skin. She touched, with the tips of her fingers, the marks of fatigue under his eyes. “You look so tired.”
“Stop saying I look tired,” Oliver said with a first little flash of anger.
Lucy moved away from him. Everything I am going to do, she thought, is going to be wrong. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “You said your staying here depends—On what?”
“On you.”
“Oh.” Lucy clenched her hands, unconsciously, squeezing her fingers. “On me?”
Suddenly the light was too bright in the room and everything stood out too clearly, the sharp, ugly lines of the table, the hideous yellow of the drapes, the worn drab spots on the arms of the easy chair. Everything was angular and hurtful and time was moving too fast, like a train going downhill into a tunnel. How wonderful it would be if she could faint, if she could make time for herself in darkness, prepare in a warm, protective haze for the hard thing that was ahead of her. It’s unfair, she thought confusedly, the most important act of my life, and nobody gives me time to get ready for it.
“You know what I would like,” she said lightly, still almost sure she was smiling, “I would like a drink and …”
Oliver reached over and took her wrist. “Come here, Lucy.” He led her to the couch. “Sit down.”
They sat down next to each other. This is the millionth time, she thought, we have sat next to each other.
Lucy laughed, letting things happen, not trying to guide them. “My, you’re serious,” she said.
“Very serious,” Oliver said.
“Oh.” Lucy’s voice was small, domestic, apologetic. “Have I spent too much money? Did I overdraw at the bank again?”
There, that wasn’t a bad thing to say, she thought. Just let it happen.
“Lucy,” Oliver said, “have you been having an affair?”
Let it happen. Say the normal thing. He was sitting there like a teacher in school, asking her questions, grading her. Suddenly she realized that she had been afraid of him for fifteen years, every minute for fifteen years.
“What?” she asked, proud of the tone of amusement and incredulity in her voice. This is only temporary, she thought. Later on, when we have more time, we will talk seriously. Later on, we will lead up to the permanent truth.
“An affair,” Oliver was saying.
Lucy wrinkled her forehead, looking puzzled, as if Oliver had presented her with a riddle, but a riddle she was prepared to enjoy, once she understood its intent. “With whom?” she asked.
“Bunner,” Oliver said.
For a moment Lucy seemed stupefied. Then she began to laugh. Somewhere inside me, she thought, there is the perfect model of an innocent wife, who makes the correct noise and gives the correct answer to all questions. All I have to do is mimic her automatically. “Oh, my,” Lucy said. “With that child?”
Oliver watched her closely, already almost convinced because he was so ready to be convinced. “You must get over your habit of thinking men are children until they reach the age of fifty,” he said mildly.
“Poor Jeff.” Lucy was still laughing. “He’d be so proud if he could hear you. Why,” she said, feeling her face frozen in the difficult lines of laughter and inventing spontaneously and without plan, “why, all last winter he was going to dances with a girl who’s still in high school in Boston. She’s a cheer leader. She wears those short skirts and does somersaults at the high-school football games every Saturday afternoon and they can’t go to bars when they have dates because none of the bartenders will serve them.” Listening carefully to herself with her inner ear she sought and found the proper tone of incredulous amusement. It’s like a dive, she thought. Once you start, there’s no turning back, no matter how high it suddenly seems, or how deep the water below, or how frightened you are or how much you regret having started. “Is that why you came up here like this?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Oliver.
“That long, long ride all alone,” said Lucy pityingly. The middle of the dive, going through the air, balancing. “Poor Oliver. Still, if that’s the only way I can get you up here, I’m satisfied.” Then she spoke more seriously. “Now how did you happen to get an idea like that? What happened? Did you get an anonymous poison-pen letter from one of those old hens up in the hotel? I have nothing to do with them and I suppose that annoys them. They see me and Tony and Jeff together all the time and they love to have a scandal to munch on and …”
“I didn’t get any anonymous letters,” Oliver said.
“No?” Lucy challenged him. “Then what?”
“It’s Tony,” said Oliver. “He called me last night. He asked me to come up here.”
“Oh,” said Lucy. “And you didn’t call me back?”
“He asked me not to,” said Oliver.
“So that’s why he rushed away from dinner. So that’s why you came at this odd hour,” she said sardonically. “For the secret rendezvous of the males of the family.”
“Well, the truth is,” Oliver said, on the defensive, “I did try to call from Waterbury, but the line was out this afternoon. He didn’t tell me anything on the phone. He was almost hysterical. He kept saying he had to see me alone.”
“I … I’m ashamed,” Lucy said, quoting the impeccable model within her. “Of you. Of Tony. Myself. Our marriage.”
“What would you have done?” Oliver said miserably. “If Tony had called you and said that I …”
“What have I always done?” Lucy said quickly.
“There’s never been anything with me,” Oliver said. “You know that.”
“No? Maybe not,” Lucy said. “Who’s to know? I haven’t asked. Still—is that the only thing in the world? Is that the only problem that people who’ve been married for fifteen years have to face? Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever hidden anything from you?”