“No, I haven’t.”
“Shit,” she said, “must you keep lying?”
“I’m telling you I haven’t.”
“Well, I have, okay?”
“No, you haven’t, Molly.”
“What did you expect, David?”
They looked at each other.
“All right,” he said.
“All right,” she said.
“Do you want to know why?”
“No.”
“Because after the accident...”
“I said no!”
“...you became a different person, Molly. You stopped...”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“When will you want to talk about it?”
“Never,” she said.
“Molly...”
“Never!”
Drained, they stared at each other.
“So,” he said, “what now?”
“You tell me.”
“Are you really leaving?”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Do what you want to do,” he said.
“Fine, then. I’ll finish packing...”
“Don’t forget your diaphragm,” he said, and was immediately sorry.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “My clothes, my diaphragm, my passport...”
“Your diaphragm is your passport.”
“Thank you, you prick. I’ll use it at the airport with the first man I see, or on the ferry, or however I get off this fucking...”
He caught her by the wrist.
“Let go of me,” she said.
“Tell me who.”
“Let go of me, damn it!”
“Who?”
“What difference does it make? Oh, Jesus, what difference does it make anymore?” she said, and burst into tears. He let go of her wrist. He watched her helplessly, standing there in the white caftan, her shoulders heaving, her hands covering her face. He went to her. He took her in his arms.
“Molly, Molly,” he said, stroking her hair.
“I’m not a cheap cunt,” she said, sobbing.
“I know you’re not,” he said gently.
“You said I was.”
“Molly, I’m sorry.”
“I’m a person,” she said.
“I know, darling.”
He stood holding her trembling in his arms. He held her close. He touched her face, he stroked her hair, he wiped the tears from her eyes.
“I love you, Molly,” he said.
“I love you, too,” she said, sobbing.
“I loved you from the minute I met you.”
“You didn’t,” she said, sobbing. “Please don’t lie.”
“I did.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Valentine’s Day,” she said.
“I loved you long before then.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she said, and burst into violent tears again.
They made love that night the way they once had, long ago, when they were very young. In the villa next door, someone was playing a mandolin. A dog barked. There was the sound of a speedboat out on the water. Moonlight glanced through the open arched window. On the beach below, they could hear waves lapping the shore.
They left Italy a week later.
Before a month had gone by, it was as if Italy had never happened. Hello, kiddo, I’m back. Not that simple, it was never that simple. Nor did he even know who was to blame this time. Had Molly tirelessly labored over his cock one night, her mouth fruitlessly beseeching while his thoughts were on another blonde, another time, another place? Had he reached around her one night, his cock hard against her ass, his hand exploring, only to find her tight and dry? He knew only that before the end of August, he called the black stenographer one morning and spent four frantic hours in bed with her that afternoon. It had become habit by then. Nothing had changed, everything had changed. They all were Molly, none of them were Molly. Whatever they had known together had effectively ended on the day Stephen died, and there was no going back.
He brought roses home that afternoon. He arranged them in a vase in the living room. When she came in shortly before the dinner hour, she scarcely glanced at them.
“Did you see the roses?” he asked.
“Nice,” she said.
The clock on the wall of his father’s room read two-fifteen.
David carried the paper cup to the sink, kissed his father on the forehead, and left the hospital.
He should not have walked the four blocks from the hospital to the hotel. He had told himself he needed the exercise, but the heat and the humidity were intolerable, and he was soaked with perspiration before he’d walked a block. He showered the moment he got back to his room. It was two-thirty when he ordered the drink from room service. He put on a robe when the waiter knocked on the door. He signed the check and added a tip to it. The moment the waiter was gone, he took off the robe, sat naked in the easy chair facing the blank television screen, picked up the drink and sipped at it.
His mother’s letter was still in the pocket of his jacket. He went to the closet and took the letter from his pocket. He looked at the envelope. He sipped at the drink. He walked to the window and looked down at the pool area. The South American party had not yet arrived. The pool looked empty and deserted. He sat down again. He drank a bit more. Then he looked at the envelope again. To Mom, with love, David. Why had his father put the letter in an envelope that had David’s handwriting on it? So that it would immediately catch David’s eye? Had he wanted him to find the letter? Why had he saved it at all?
He opened the envelope.
His mother’s small delicate hand. The pages browning around the edges, the ink fading. He kept staring at the letter in his hand. Then he began reading.
Dear Morrie,
I am writing this because when I talk I get too excited and of course it stands to reason. I honestly was giving you a fair chance but I guess you did not want it as you are still lying to me. Even this week if I did not ask you about how much money the store made Wednesday, you would not have told me you had taken the day off as you said to go to your brother’s in New Jersey.
So please this is such a simple request. I am asking you please...
He stopped reading exactly where he had stopped yesterday morning, in his father’s apartment. Did he really want to know? Was it really important that he know? He picked up the glass, took a long swallow of whiskey. He put down the glass. He looked at the letter again. He began reading again.
So please this is such a simple request. I am asking you please to sit down and ask yourself if you must continue this lying and cheating and if this is really what you want then please go away as I am getting ill and I don’t think I deserve that, do you? You said last night that what you do is none of my business. That is really not so and you know it. Husband and wife must tell one another everything if they wish to be happy. Oh please I’m asking you in God’s name, if this is what you really want from life then please oh please go away and leave me here to make a happy home for our boy who was away so long. So please again is that what you want? If it really is then good-bye and may God bless you. Please answer this honestly and please don’t tell me that what you do is your own business because that is not what I am asking you.
He thought that was the end of the letter. He had been putting the handwritten pages one behind the other as he’d finished reading them, and her signature seemed to indicate an end. There was yet another page, he realized. It began without a P.S., as though his mother had not quite concluded her thoughts and, despite her closing signature, felt compelled to add to them, to make herself finally and irrevocably clear.