She felt it now, returning down the path. Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, and her nose with her forearms, she slowly made her way to the entrance of the resort, muttering low under her breath.
Stop it. Stop it.
Lunch was being served. She took a sandwich and went to her room hoping for sleep. But sleep was fitful and tormented, so she simply lay in the bed, staring. And later she ate dinner in the restaurant, alone. She saw Constance out on the patio with Ratzi, a bottle of rum and a pitcher of orange juice on the table between them. A little later, near the end of the meal, the older woman came in and sat across from her, one hand fisted under her chin. Natasha had ordered a vermouth on ice and now held it, looking into the facets of color reflecting in the ice cubes.
“Mind if I join you?” Constance said.
Remembering once more, with a pang of guilt, that the other had paid for her stay here, she said, “No, I don’t mind.”
“I don’t seem to know anymore whether or not I’d be welcome.”
“You’re welcome. And stop it.”
Constance ordered a beer from the waiter, whom they hadn’t seen before. He was tall and olive hued, with small round black eyes. He brought her beer and walked away, saying nothing, and she held it up. “Well, here’s to our trip. Neither of us will ever forget where we were when all hell broke loose.”
Natasha raised her glass and drank.
“So you’re still going back to Memphis.”
“Still?”
“You’re going back. You haven’t changed your mind.”
“Why would I change my mind, Constance?”
“A lot of people are changing plans because of this, dear. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m still going to Memphis.”
They said nothing for a few seconds.
“It’s nobody’s business, anyway,” Constance said. “Where we’re going from here.”
Natasha decided to leave it alone. She nodded and drank.
“I think I’ve ruined our friendship.”
She could think of nothing to tell her.
“I know I got under your skin about that business — but I thought I’d apologized.”
“Forget it,” she said.
“But you’re different. Something’s changed.”
“I said forget it. So forget it. Please.”
“I’m going to California, though I’d rather go to Maine.”
She did not respond.
“I’m going to see my daughter. Who I’m pretty sure doesn’t want to see me.”
“I bet she does, actually. Given what’s happened.”
“She says she’s upset because I didn’t try harder to call her.”
Natasha nearly spoke the words aloud: Sounds like something you’d say. Instead, she drank the last of her vermouth.
“I don’t think anybody wants to go to New York,” Constance said. “And then, in a way, I think everybody does.”
“I just want to go home.”
“I don’t really know where home is.” This was the first time the older woman had ever made this kind of confession.
“You’ve got the house.”
Constance smirked. “Actually I’m not liking how it’s turning out. I feel selfish.” Swallowing the rest of the beer, she signaled the bartender. Before he reached the table, she called out, “Another one.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And could you bring me a shot of Mount Gay, too? Neat.”
He nodded and went off. Both women watched him go.
Natasha said, “I’m going upstairs.”
“Our last night, sweetie. You — you don’t want to sit and talk on our last night?”
“I want to sleep, Constance. That’s all I want to do right now. And I’m having trouble doing it.”
“You’re depressed.”
She gave no answer.
“Well, me too.”
“Can we not talk about it?”
“I think you’re depressed because things have changed for you, and you don’t know what to do about it.”
Natasha looked at her.
“You’ve hardly been out of bed the last two days.”
She drew in a breath and then managed to speak, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “I want to be home, that’s all.”
“I really don’t mean anything, you know.”
They sat there without speaking for perhaps a full minute. Anyone walking through would have thought they were simply enjoying the evening light, looking at the other people in the big high-ceilinged room and at the scenes out the window — the several little tableaux of people eating and drinking and being together. Finally, Constance said, “Why don’t you have another vermouth. We could go out on the patio.”
“I don’t want anything else.”
“Okay.”
“I’m grateful to you for the time here.”
“Well, for some of the time here.”
The waiter brought the drinks on a small tray. Constance took the Mount Gay with one swallow, then wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “I swear I’ve never drunk this much.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone about your drinking,” Natasha said.
Sipping her beer, the other woman looked over the lip of the glass at her, then set the glass down, smiling.
“Good night,” said Natasha.
“You probably won’t see me tomorrow.” Constance picked up her glass of beer again, drank from it, and set it down. “My flight’s at seven o’clock in the morning.” She stood as Natasha stood. They embraced. “I’ll miss you, you know.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” Natasha told her, feeling empty and wanting to be shut of her.
“When you make the wedding plans, let me know?”
“Early next month. I know that.”
“Maybe I’ll come? If asked.”
“We both want it small.”
“Let me know? I’d love to be there. I want to be there.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Constance looked at her.
“I will.”
She sighed. “I’ll be in Maine over the Christmas holidays. You and Michael are welcome.”
“I think we’re leaving for France pretty soon after that. Lots of planning to do. But thank you.” Natasha went on up to her room and closed the door and saw that there was a message on the phone. She punched the button and then lay down and let it play, and cried softly, hearing him say, “I can’t wait, babe.”
She replayed it twice, then called the front desk and asked the female voice to put in the return call. There was no answer, and she left her own message. “I’m coming home. Soon, my love.” She heard the frail sound of her own voice.
7
Faulk spent the morning looking at houses and apartments in Midtown. He played the radio, driving from property to property — air conditioner turned up full blast — following a kindly, quiet, elderly gentleman named Rainey, whose thick shoulders, long face, and protruding lengthy ears put him in mind of his father. Rainey stood by while the younger man went through rooms that were being lived in and contained intimations of the lives their occupants led, or toured houses that were vacant, standing in musty, old-wood-smelling parlors, looking down hallways and into closets and walking out onto back lawns in the scorching brightness, moving through the peculiarly depressing silence of abandoned dwellings. All the forenoon they were at it, getting into their respective cars and heading on to the next property. The air had already grown sultry by nine o’clock, laden with dampness and the smell of exhaust — late summer in the city. The ends of tree branches drooped, and the scattered wide shady patches on the lawns made Faulk think of something spilled. He listened to the different voices on the radio talking about the cataclysm, the developing crisis, the new face of war, and all the victims who were missing. Finally he turned it off, unable to bear it anymore.