She interrupted him. “What are you saying?”
He said, “Listen to me.”
“No,” she said. “What are you saying.”
“I’m saying if someone you knew before—”
“Someone I—”
“I’m saying I don’t care. We weren’t married yet. You’re human.”
“I’m—”
“It’s all right,” he said. “Please.”
“But what’s all right. What’re you talking about. Say it to me, Michael.”
Now he spoke in an overly patient, almost-preening voice: “I’m saying — and I think you know quite well what I’m referring to, and I want you to be honest with me about it at last — that if you ran into someone, you know? Someone you used to be with, one of the others, an old lover, or someone completely new”—and with this, his voice took on the tone of an inquisitor, a lawyer prosecuting a case before a judge—“I want you to know that you don’t have to tell me anything about it, because I do, I forgive you. All right? I understand and I forgive you. Whatever it was.”
“You …” she began. But then she was silent. Glaring at him.
“I mean we’re adults. We can work all this out.”
“Work what out,” she sobbed. “No. You tell me.”
“Aren’t you listening? I don’t care who you ran into in Jamaica. I don’t care who you had sex with in Jamaica. There. Is that clear enough? Do you get it now?”
“Oh.” She pushed away from him, and as he stood she was out of the bed and around him, heading to the bathroom. She closed and locked the door. It was as if she were back there on the island, with a door between her and a stranger.
“Natasha?” he said on the other side. “I don’t understand. I’m telling you it’s all right. I’m letting go of it. It was the situation. We’ll go on.”
She took a breath, pressed the flats of her hands against the cool wood surface. “I want you to leave me alone now. Please. Just — leave me alone.” And she was crying, sobbing. “We can talk in the morning. Please?”
Silence.
“Please go.”
Fury rose in him, a hot needle traveling up his spine. So this was how he would be treated now. After the weeks of trying to look past all the signs of her failing love, and after reaching this decision to forgive her and go on, this was what he got for it, this — for his understanding and his care—this was what she repaid him with. He couldn’t speak, standing there shivering with rage.
“Leave me alone,” she moaned from the other side. “Please.”
He slammed himself against the door, hurting his shoulder. Standing back, he raised one leg and kicked at it, and something cracked in the frame. She screamed.
“Stop it,” he said. “Who do you think I am?” He hit the door with the side of his fist.
On the other side, she retreated to the bathtub and shower, pulling the curtain up as if to shield herself. “Please!” she shrieked, but she couldn’t hear her own voice.
“You know what happiness is?” he said. “Does it ever cross your mind to think about that anymore? Happiness? Happiness! Think about it! Nobody’s hurting you. Somebody’s being good to you! Somebody loves you and provides for you and delights in how you laugh and how you talk. Somebody listens to you and thinks about you. You understand? Isn’t that happiness?” He kicked the door again. And then again. “Well? Answer me! Isn’t that happiness? Isn’t it?”
“Oh, God.”
“Who do you think I am?” he shouted. “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m your husband, who doesn’t deserve this! Who has done nothing wrong. you’ve shut him out! You’ve kept things from him and lied to him and let others know about it and made him feel small and nothing and weak! That’s me. That’s who I am. That’s your husband. And you want me to leave!” He kicked the door still again with this last, and it blew open. Pieces of the frame flew everywhere, and it was as though her scream were part of the sound of the splintering wood.
Seeing her cringing against the wall next to the shower, with the curtain pulled up to cover the front of her, he thought she looked pitiable, and yet it did not make him feel for her. It made him angrier. He had the urge to flail at her, strike her. But he held himself back, moving slowly into the room. And now, amazingly, he felt a rush of something weirdly like calm purpose and righteousness. There was no need for any thinking. He would show her now; she would know what kind of man he was now. He watched his hands reach to her face, and gently he took hold, his big hands on either side. She was trembling and crying. Tightening his hold, he pressed harder, feeling the cheekbones. Then he shook her. “Stop it. Be quiet. I love you. Can’t you see that?”
“You’re — hurting—” she got out. The wine on his breath was making her sick. Gradually she began losing balance, was unable to stand, being held up by his hands. His hands trembled, squeezing, pressing.
“Look at me. Will you? This is me. This is me.”
She said, “Let go. Let go of me!”
And he did, and she was leaning against the angle of wall and shower stall, still gripping the shower curtain, holding it just under her chin.
“God,” he said. “You — my God.”
“Get out,” she rasped, and then coughed. “Leave me alone.”
“You have to understand,” he told her. But there was nothing he could find to say, nothing he could explain. “I’m s-sorry about the — door,” he said, controlling himself. “I’m sorry about — this.” She covered her face and turned from him, crying.
He was angry all over again. “But you’ve got to understand me. You listening? I don’t want kindness from you. Understand? I don’t want pity.”
“Oh, God,” she said, “Stop it. Stop it. Leave me alone!”
For a moment, they did not speak, standing close in the too-bright light, the door at its appalling angle and the debris at their feet, the only sounds her sobbing and sniffling and his shaken breathing.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “Everything’s broken. I’m broken. This — you and me. This is broken.”
“No,” she said. “Oh, please! You don’t know. You don’t know!”
He said, “I know. I know.”
She did not move. And she could not stop crying.
“All right,” he said evenly, thinly, his voice rough and straining. “All right. You want me to leave. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, right? So I’ll leave. I will leave.”
Through the blur of her tears, she saw him draw up as if to reach for her again. She cowered back a little more. “I — don’t — know — wh-what you’re — talking about,” she got out through the sobs and gasping.
“Ah, God,” he said. “Go on, then. Go back to whoever you ran into, okay? Just — go. Why should you stay with me out of — out of—kindness. I’m sick and tired of kindness. You go right ahead. You went to Jamaica and had a high old time and you didn’t know where I was and you were lonely—”
She screamed at him, “I was raped!” The word came in the long top of the scream. “Goddamn you! I was raped. I was raped.”