“It’ll be a civil ceremony, but performed by a priest.”
Iris shrugged. “Well, since Michael’s not preaching anymore, I didn’t think going secular was such an outlandish idea.”
“We sent the marriage notification into the church a while ago,” said Natasha. “Before I left for Jamaica.”
7
That afternoon and evening Faulk spent painting the living room of the house. Natasha and Iris bought some art for the walls — prints mostly, though Iris did choose an original that she found in a local gallery, done by an artist she knew when she worked for the mayor’s office. The artist had gone on to New York and was doing very well for herself there. Iris mentioned this and said that Natasha would have her own work to hang, of course, but the idea was to sell it. The painting was of a girl in a white dress holding a guitar and gazing off into shadows. The light in it was very Sargent-like. Natasha liked it, without feeling that anything of its quality was beyond her.
After they bought the art, they went into a little shop to buy something to wear for the wedding. Iris helped her choose a simple pink dress with small white ruffling across the low neckline and a slender, darker pink ribbon slanting from the waist to the hem.
The two women went to a Thai place for dinner, and Faulk joined them there, splotches of the off-white paint on his jeans. He sat across from Natasha and was full of hope and anticipation as Iris went on about the artist friend and the original she had bought. She brought the prints and the painting out of the protective plastic to show him. He admired it all, especially the original. “It’s perfect,” he said. “But not as good as the work of my future wife.”
Natasha waved this off and made a fuss about showing him the dress. He folded his arms on the table and grinned at her. “It’s glorious.”
“We got it for a song,” said Iris.
They did not talk about the impending war with Afghanistan or what was still going on in New York and Washington. They were preoccupied with the house. It would need more furniture, a dining room set, and another bed for the guest room. He had bought the wood for the bookshelves, and he hadn’t done that sort of thing for a long time, so he was looking forward to it. He would spend all day tomorrow on it.
After dinner, they all went to Iris’s house and drank two bottles of Bordeaux. Natasha lay on the couch, drifting in and out of a soft slumber while her grandmother and her fiancé talked. Iris began telling him about raising Natasha, and Natasha, listening, imagined her mother, Laura, also raised by Iris. Laura, the woman in the photographs. Natasha made an effort to picture her in motion, and soon she was having another dream about Jamaica. She was alone on the bright beach, and behind her was the big shadow of a building, one of the imposing temples of democracy in the city where she had lived, though she could not have said which of them it was. There was something threatening and at the same time sad about the vast shadow of the thing, and then she turned into wakefulness, hearing Faulk’s voice, softly saying it was time to go. He stood there, smiling, waiting. She sat up, feeling the wine she had drunk.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You’re so tired,” Iris said.
In the car, with the cool night air coming in the window, she was fully awake, and she looked over at him, at the features she loved in the light from the street. It had been a good day, and she could sense that the trouble was fading, though the memory of it was still fresh, and, maddeningly, thinking about having it behind her had brought it forward again. A little wave of anxiety rushed over her, and she reached and put her hand on his thigh.
“Want to go in and look at what I’ve got done?” he asked.
They were pulling by the street.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
He made the turn and parked in front. There was a big rosebush along the fence across the street. She hadn’t noticed it before.
“Look,” she said. “Roses.”
“Wait here,” he told her, and crossed the street. He picked one of the largest of the blossoms, white and cup-shaped and fragrant. Crossing toward her, he stopped and did a slow turn, as though dancing a waltz, and bowed grandly, holding the rose toward her.
She laughed softly, taking it and holding it to her nose. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said.
They went into the house — again, he had trouble with the key — and he turned the light on to show her the difference the off-white paint had made in the front room. He had draped plastic sheeting over the furniture and the piles of books and on the hardwood floor.
“It’s a different room,” she said. “I love it.” She put her arms around him. “Perfect.”
At his apartment, he helped her undress and then gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She was warm, and sleepy again, and she had a small unhappy feeling of relief that he was apparently not expecting to make love. She experienced the mixture of emotion as a kind of sinking at her abdomen.
He got into the bed with her and turned to put his arm across her middle. “See you in the morning.”
“Yes. My love.”
He turned off the light and lay there at her side, thinking about the picture of her on that street in Chicago. Our State Street. Soon her breathing told him that she was asleep. He moved gingerly a little away from her and tried unsuccessfully to drift off. His mind presented him with images of the last four days, and now and then he would doze, only to be jolted awake, as if he were standing on a high ledge and to let go would mean falling from it. He thought of the people who had jumped from the towers.
Finally he got up and went into the kitchen and poured himself a little whiskey. He turned the small television on with the sound set low and watched the news without really taking it in.
She woke to find him gone and saw the light in the other room. Because she loved him, she rose, put a robe on, and went out there. “Honey?”
“Oh.”
She saw that she’d startled him. “Do you mind if I have a little?”
“Sit,” he said. “I’ll get it.”
She sat on the sofa and looked at the spareness of the room. He came back with the drink and sat next to her. “To us.”
They clinked the glasses. The whiskey was scotch, and it heated her from inside; it was very good. He also felt the warmth of it and enjoyed the peaty finish.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.
“I was gone. I don’t think I’ve slept that deeply in a while.”
“I kept starting to drift off and that woke me.” He remembered similar nights when he was in the seminary, after hours of study. He would be near sleep and then come bolt upright. Pure dread. He started to tell her about it but then stopped himself. That kind of night was always the product of anxiety.
“I didn’t dream this time,” she said. “I was just out and then I was awake and I saw the light in here. I didn’t want to be in there alone.”
“Didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No.” She noted the concern in his face, the slight crease in his brow. It made her heart ache. “You’re my considerate darling.”
He wanted to make love but decided that it should be her decision. And indeed now he did feel his own consideration of her like a virtue.
They sat staring at the shifting images on the television and sipped the whiskey.
She said, “I have to find something to do to make money.”
“But you don’t have to do any such thing. You paint. I’ll take care of you.”
“You’re sweet.”
“No, it’s what you’ve wanted for a long time.”
“All that time I thought I was saving to go back to France, and I didn’t save a penny.”