“Hello,” Natasha said to him.
He turned to Faulk. “I congratulate you on your choice of a young wife.”
Faulk heard the slight emphasis on the word young. “Thank you,” he said.
The other man stood close, offering his hand. He smelled of the cigarette he was smoking. “I was just sitting out on my porch over there, you know, and I saw you pull in. Can I interest either of you in a glass of something cold? Orange or grapefruit juice?”
“We’re fine.” Natasha saw the aggravation in Faulk’s face.
“You had some luck, didn’t you,” Baines said to her. “Stuck in paradise for three days like that. I wish somebody would stick me in Jamaica for three days and tell me I can’t leave.” He seemed about to laugh and in the same moment to realize the inappropriateness of the joke. He went on: “Of course it’s just a terrible thing.”
Natasha said nothing.
“Yes,” Faulk said quickly. “Well, excuse us.”
Baines cleared his throat again. “If I could speak with you for just a few seconds.”
“I’ll come back out,” Faulk said. “Let me get Natasha inside.”
“I should have an extra key made?”
“We’ll talk.”
Natasha followed him into the building. When he had gotten the door to the apartment open and turned on the light, she saw the front room — no paintings, no pictures on the walls, books crammed into a makeshift cinder-block-and-pine-plank bookcase. He sensed that she was discouraged by it and moved quickly to get her bags into the bedroom, where there were pictures — photos of him in college, of his mother and Aunt Clara, of Natasha and himself from his summer visits to Washington, and also some prints of famous paintings — Sargent’s Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose with the girls in their pure white dresses and the lovely lit paper lanterns and Vermeer’s Milkmaid and The Music Lesson. They had discovered in their trips to the galleries in Washington that they both prized the way the two artists created the sensation of luminescence, Sargent’s sharp flashes as opposed to Vermeer’s muted glow. Faulk had admired how she accomplished similar effects with her watercolors. Now she walked to the Sargent print and appreciated it while Faulk went into the bathroom. He decided that things weren’t clean enough and ran more water in the sink, making another effort to lessen the rust stain on the porcelain under the faucet. The room smelled like the Ajax he had used to go over it. He opened the window and fanned the air.
She undressed and lay down. On the wall next to the window was a cross, the only sign of his former life. She considered it in that context and then tried to dismiss the idea. It was — emotionally, anyway — the same life.
When he came out of the bathroom, she got up and moved gingerly around him to go in. He stopped her for a moment. “I’m so happy.”
“Me, too,” she told him. “We’re going to be so good together.” She wanted it to be true; she would make it true. In the little room, she saw the open window and breathed in and then out slowly, fully, working to imagine that all the badness of the past few days was being expelled. The white curtain blew inward with a stirring of air from the outside. She heard a train, near sounding. The breeze died, then came back. He had put her makeup bag on the space next to the sink.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she said.
From the other room, he called, “Want me to join you?”
“Not this time, honey. I kind of need to have this one alone.” She waited. “Okay?”
“Sure,” he called. He was sitting on the bed, looking at the door, which she had closed. Her shadow moved in the strand of light at the bottom. He heard the water running and lay back on the bed, hands behind his head. He felt good. Rested. They could begin their lives together, with this warm-feeling domesticity, her calling him honey from the other room, ministering to herself, preparing for this day with him, the first in what seemed such a long time.
There was a knock at the front door. Baines. “I was coming down,” Faulk told him.
“Uh, no need,” the other said, looking past him.
Faulk stepped out and closed the door. “Well?”
“I wondered if you’d met with any progress about subletting.”
“Not yet, no. And I think I might just keep it, for a studio.”
“Oh, well, then,” Baines said, and cleared his throat. “That’s — well, anyway, I wanted to make sure you knew that I could forgive the rest of the lease if it would help.” He gave a small smile. There was something almost pleading about it.
Faulk reached over and patted the side of his arm near the shoulder. Baines made his way back down to the street. When he waved, Faulk waved back.
On her side of the bathroom door, Natasha stood with her back facing the mirror and looked over her shoulder to see if there was any bruising. She could see none. She kept the water running, cleaned her teeth. Then she turned the shower on and got into the hot stream, thinking of Jamaica and the long night there, the hour of running water over herself trying to get clean.
Here, the stream was soft, without much pressure, but it was very hot. In her mind’s eye she saw the crowded veranda at the Ratzibungens’ resort and Mrs. Skinner with that fanatical judgment of poor Mr. Skinner. She saw Constance and Skinner dropping down into the cold water on the beach. And then she saw Duego as he stumbled toward her in the sand under the moon, with his dope and his perfectly enunciated English.
Her hands shook as she turned the water off and reached for a towel. She heard Faulk moving around in the room. She rubbed her hips and felt the slight soreness and searched once more for any sign of a bruise. “Stop it,” she whispered to herself, looking at the face in the mirror, which she did not quite recognize with its glittering eyes and beset look, seeking not to let thoughts come, since thoughts flowed inexorably into all the bad possibilities.
He had come back in and taken his clothes off, and he lay in the bed and watched the little moving shadow at the base of the door. Finally the door opened, and she emerged, wrapped in the towel. She let it drop and got in with him. “Oh,” he said, “you are so beautiful.” He put his mouth on hers. The light was coming in the window, and she recalled that they had both liked making love in the light. But the brightness of it now seemed vulgar to her.
“Can we close the curtain?” she said.
“What?”
“Please?”
“Sure, babe. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s nothing. I just want it to be a little more romantic.”
He got up and went to the window.
“Just — this time,” she told him.
He pulled the curtain shut, and they were in dimness. “Well, this is a little like candlelight.”
She held the soft blanket open for him as he came back to her. Again he was kissing her, and when he moved over onto her, she couldn’t breathe. She waited for him to let up, lift his head to take a breath himself, but he exhaled into her mouth, and now she thought she might choke. She pushed on his shoulders, and he quickly moved off her, lying on his back at her side. “Is something wrong? Was I too heavy?”
“No, I want to come over and be on top.”
“Darling.”
She turned, got herself to her knees, and then straddled him. She was sore; it hurt, and he thrust up into her. “Easy, honey.”
“You’re a little — dry.” Her apparent rush troubled him faintly, but he made himself savor the wealth of her being so close, with her smell of scented soap from the shower. The ends of her hair were wet. “Maybe let’s kiss some more.”