And then, if she could make him listen long enough to register that she meant what she said, he would refuse to leave. He couldn't imagine her living without him.
The house belonged to her. She could make him leave legally. She imagined calling the family lawyer, the scenes. Why, they might even call in psychologists, because she must be insane to think she could make it without this loyal, loving man.
And then there was the injury she would inflict on his heart… how could she find the words?
In their shared silence, they both remembered it all.
He plucked the empty glass out of her hand and headed out of the room. “Let me get you some water, darling, to wet down that whiskey. I don't think that was such a good idea. I've got halibut, artichoke, lemons. Sound good? Let's see what other goodies Lucy has stocked for us. Good food will get us back on track.”
She watched his back go and her glass bobbling away.
In the kitchen, rendered immaculate by Lucy, Claude rinsed his mouth, and then his face all the way up to the roots of his hair. That kiss… but, on the whole he felt things had gone rather smoothly. He had said the right words, communicated the heartfelt commitment he felt to her, maybe for the last time. Her tears proved she was with him, entirely with him, as she should be.
He carried a tall glass of ice water in to Clea, handing it to her without a word.
Rooting around in the refrigerator, he found a few things he could use, some fresh herbs that smelled of garden parties, fresh salmon, which smelled of the sea. That would go down even better than halibut. Humming to himself, he grated some bread crumbs, mixed them with dill, rosemary, and a number of other more obscure spices she loved, and set the salmon on to broil. Ordinarily, he would grill the fish, but it was very late. He could see from the bags under her eyes Clea was tired. She would not make it much longer. He wanted this dinner to wow her. He wanted the last image on her eyes to be its beautiful color, its smell to wrap her in all the enticing spices life had to offer. He wanted the last thoughts she had, the last tastes she savored on her tongue, to be his perfect creations.
While the food cooked, he set the table in the dining room very carefully, using the ironed white cloth, the hammered silver candlesticks, the best silver, her family silver. He lined the implements up neatly beside porcelain plates and studied the results. Something missing… out in the backyard, with the help of a flashlight, he discovered a few silver-colored roses drooping on a bush, at that perfect, ripe point in their existence, redolent with the heat and lazy summer days past. He stuck his face in the bouquet and drank their scent before arranging them neatly in a clear glass vase.
“Darling, it's ready,” he announced.
Clea rolled up to the table. “I'm not very hungry,” she said tentatively.
He understood, oh, he did. Overcome by the emotional weight of the moment, she felt unable to carry it. Ignoring her worries, he served up the dinner along with some good gossip, calling up his most entertaining self. She ate hungrily, like someone unable to resist, eyes on him, smiling here and there at his jokes.
He felt satisfied.
She would go to bed full. She would go to bed with all her recent, unsettling foolish notions put to rest, emotionally and psychically fulfilled.
Only one more thing to make a perfect happy ending.
She did as much as she could to prepare herself for bed without his help. She wheeled herself into the accessible shower, a concession to her disability she thought Claude would never accept but which her mother had insisted upon. She brushed her teeth ferociously, but retouched her makeup, remembering nights long ago when she never went to bed without renewing it.
Putting on her easiest nightie she waited for him to help her heave herself onto the left side of the bed.
He splayed an arm there, awaiting her head.
Hell.
Do I open the conversation, or not?
Do I allow the time to pass? Because many nights, in spite of her own obligations, the nurse stayed. Claude paid her enough to stay, stay, stay.
They were not alone so often.
The salmon balled in her stomach like sludge. The salad, made of the freshest ingredients, made her think she might need the bathroom.
She resisted. This fight she could wage. She needed to control things, her digestion, her wasting limbs. Why, lately, she had enjoyed a faint reminder of her old life, when her foot would jerk or a leg would feel tired. She knew the doctor called this “phantom,” and what an apt description that was.
“Claude, are you awake?” She thought she could detect the quiet of his non-sleeping.
“Mmm,” he said.
“Have you ever thought of living without me? How it would be?” Silence. “You could be free again.” No response. She assumed he was listening by the expectant hush of his breath. “You don't have to worry. I would give you money.” This crass reduction of her complicated feelings to words made her cringe with self-disgust. After speaking lines of grandeur and wisdom all her adult life, when it came to providing her own script, she bombed. “I don't mean it that way,” she said. “That's not what I mean. I mean, we've been happy, haven't we? And now, it's time to move on. This is not about me being depressed, or you leaving some feeble woman behind. This is about us moving on, making new lives and new happinesses. Claude?”
She hated him for his silence. Rigid as a plank on the floor she awaited his reaction. Now in the pureness of a dark room, without the distraction of color and light, he could hear her clearly. He could react honestly, without defensiveness.
Nothing.
His breathing was so soft, she must have missed it, the tide rolling in and out. He was asleep.
She reached over his chest and spread a hand over it. Usually, that was enough to wake him. But nothing changed. She couldn't remember. Did he drink more than usual tonight? Yes. Well, it had been a long day.
She felt very alone. She lay in the dark with her eyes open, drowning in the bottomless well of her unhappiness. How could she put herself through another day like today, waiting to speak? Then the delicious dinner wine worked on her, and the blackness of the room deepened. She dreamed about the waterfall, the one she didn't recall in real life. She dreamed of falling.
Claude drank orange juice, unsettled. His idea of the final act had been quite different from the reality. He remembered falling asleep to a murmuring, like a bedtime story being told, words slipping over him like a refreshing breeze from the window. About four in the morning, when no one was up to hear, and nobody did anything but dream dreams bad and good, he awakened, picked up one of her pillows, placed it gently over her face, and pushed down.
How she struggled.
How she fought.
She tried to scream, and he heard cries like a mewling baby's through the feathers.
Witch.
She had never, ever, been easy.
In the morning, after he awoke on the couch in the study from the stupor that had overtaken him, he peeked in on her.
Eyes closed but without tremor.
Skin, once translucent, a blue-white opaque.
Unmoving.
The smell-actually, he had feared that the most, that there would be something putrid happening by morning. How long did it take? He thanked his lucky stars that the night was chill, and her death seemed storybook and odorless.
He could not bring himself to touch her or to get too close. He thought he sensed just the tiniest bit of deterioration. Before bed, he had noticed she smelled of the perfume, Entracte, he had had specially formulated for her as a gift years ago, an aromatic citrus-herbal mix of jasmine, cardamom, tangerine, and cedar moss. He would never again sell that perfume in his store. What a perversion that would be, to sell the smell of her death.